An Eclectic Muse

Reminders

2012-02-06T22:59:00.000-05:00

This week, I'm not going to write a post, I'm just going to share some points that are on my mind:

Stop and smell the roses.
Never underestimate the power of prayer.
Call your mother, father, daughter, son, whoever it is that you've been meaning to call.

I'm dealing with things more important than putting out a new post this week, so please know that the list above is important. Don't wait. Act on the ones that you've been sliding on.

And a huge Thanks to all of you who are praying for my mother. Your prayers are being answered.

For Those Who Provide Maximum Effort

2012-01-28T20:03:00.000-05:00

Maximum Effort. That was the original Hollywood title for the 1949 movie, Twelve O'Clock High. Even though the words "maximum effort" occur in the movie numerous times, the actual title only occurs once, and if you're not alert to the scene, you might miss it. So why did they change the title? Well, just read the two, and I think you can understand.

How do I even know this? Because the training program, Situational Leadership, uses this movie to teach and reinforce the leadership approach introduced during the first day of this course. Every time I teach Situational Leadership, I get to share the movie with a new group of people. I've taught it several times, so I know exactly when Gregory Peck says, "Twelve O'Clock High" -- an amazing in-flight battle scene, with our American bombers fighting Germany's quick agile fighter planes. The battle scenes come from actual footage shot during World War II. I can't watch those scenes without wondering about the gunners. What happened to them?

Whether you watch this movie on your own or seek the opportunity to explore the leadership techniques taught in Situational Leadership while enjoying the movie, I suggest you take the time to watch Twelve O'Clock High. History buff or not, I hope you'll find a new respect for these men, and for the men who stand in harms' way today, protecting our freedom. The people of St. Louis got it, showing up by the thousands to show their appreciation to Iraq war veterans. I hope this is a sign that our country hasn't forgotten the sacrifices made on our behalf by the young men and women serving in our armed forces.

Thanks to all who stand up and accept this responsibility!

Familiar Faces in Strange Places

2012-01-10T15:09:00.000-05:00

I've been doing a lot of traveling lately for work which means that I'm seeing a lot of new people as well as some old friends. Last week, one of my students told me during the first break of the training day that I looked just like her BFF (her words, I swear). The funny thing was that I kept looking at certain people in my training classes trying to figure out exactly who they looked like.

It took me a few hours to realize that the computer tech assigned to assist my students looked like Sean Astin, a point that I used on the second day when I needed someone to find him quickly. They had no problem locating him once I told them to look for the man who resembled Frodo's friend, Sam, in The Lord of The Rings movies. Later, I fessed up, but the guy just smiled knowingly and said, "Most people say I look like Rudy. At least you didn't bring up the Goonies."

There were two women in my second class who looked so familiar, I really thought I might know them. I've finally determined that one of them resembles an actress who I haven't named yet, but she's got the kind of face that looks like a friend as opposed to someone out of Hollywood. The second woman proved a little harder, but I think she resembles a woman who works at my doctor's office.

As a trainer/speaker/writer I meet lots of people. I can go through months without experiencing that flicker or recognition, but then I might see several in one day.

What about the rest of you? Am I the only one who sees familiar faces on strangers all the time or do you walk up to a complete stranger before you realize that this is not the person you expected? (I've done that, too.)

Happy travels. Stay observant.

The Gift of Self Esteem From A Teacher

2011-12-29T21:20:00.000-05:00

Mr. Lesley & me at a high school reunion

The other night, while I was catching up on a week's worth of Facebook, I discovered an announcement that a special teacher of mine passed away on December 16. It broke my heart that I didn't know in time to attend his funeral, but I'm so glad that I found an opportunity a few years ago to thank him and let him know how much he affected my life.

Many people can tell you about the teacher that inspired them to learn. I grew up in a college town and was blessed with many excellent teachers, so if you'd asked me to name my best teacher, I probably wouldn't have said Mr. Lesley. You see, Jerry Lesley was a lot of fun. So much fun that I didn't realize how much I was learning. Over the years, I've probably recalled more from his classes than any other.

Jerry Lesley found a way to touch the lives of each and every one of his students. When he looked out across the classroom he didn't see a group of students. He saw a room full of individuals, and he made an effort to get to know each of us. In his class, he teased anyone and everyone, but it was the kind of teasing that other teachers only did with the very popular kids. Social status disappeared, and we saw each other in the light of acceptance that Mr. Lesley cast over each of us. Because of this, Mr. Lesley gave me, and many others, a special gift, self-esteem and self-confidence. For the first time in my life, my teacher saw a person, not just a quiet kid who made good grades.

Because he treated us so well, he could get away with things that other teachers probably wouldn't dare try. For example, our junior high required students to carry a large, laminated pass if you needed to leave class to go to the restroom. Because adolescents didn't want to be seen with this embarrasing symbol, students folded it and stuffed it into their pockets. Over time, the passes fell apart or mysteriously disappeared. With his usual smile, Mr. Lesley solved that problem. He asked the wood shop to make a miniature wooden toilet seat. It was too large to stuff in a pocket, so fewer people left his class to use the restroom, and if you did, you just laughed about it

I'll never forget my first day in Mr. Lesley's eighth grade history class. He took one look at me and asked, "Do you play basketball?"

I blinked in surprise. That was a first. No one ever asked me about sports. I said, "No."

I was above average in height at the time, and I could dribble and sometimes makes a basket, but I never considered myself a basketball player. Mr. Lesley never convinced me to try out for the team, but I did run on his track team in high school.

In our ninth grade Civics class, Mr. Lesley announced his idea for us to enact a mock murder trial. We cast ballots to select a murderer from our classmates. For some reason I wanted to be the murderer, so I told my friends to vote for me, but someone else won that election. The rest of us who received votes became witnesses. Mr. Lesley took each witness into the hallway to give us our story. I'll never forget the sparkle in his eyes when he told me that I was really the murderer! He knew how much I would love the mystery.

Outside of the classroom, Mr. Lesley made his presence known. He wandered the halls before and after class and talked and joked with the students. While monitoring the locker room, he wandered up to a friend of mine and me and pointed to a large spot on the floor. "Did you do that?" he asked with his typical big grin. Of course, he expected me to say no, but the problem was that I had actually done that a few months earlier when I brought a jar of paint to wood shop to paint a book shelf. I dropped the jar and well...The surprise on his face was hilarious.

Six years ago, my father died, and I only cried once during the visitation--when Mr. Lesley walked through the door. I can't begin to tell you what it meant to me see him standing there. I had thought about him many times over the years. As an adult, I realized that Mr. Lesley taught me more about myself than any other teacher in my youth and beyond that he gave me the gift of confidence. To see him there told me that he really did care about me. He was a rare man among teachers. One who took the job seriously while not taking himself too seriously. I think that was his secret because he didn't let us take ourselves too seriously either. That's an incredible talent! How many people do you know who can keep adolescents focused AND giggling?

God bless you, Mr. Lesley. You lived a powerful life giving confidence and self-esteem and laughter to teenagers.

Finding Christmas Wonder

2011-12-25T08:11:00.000-05:00

Freedigitalphotos.net, link below

Last night I rediscovered the magic and wonder of Christmas. It's not like I lost it, so much as I laid it aside for a few years and didn't have time to come back for it.

As a child, I loved Christmas Eve, but not for obvious reasons. Sure, Santa Claus' arrival lurked in the back of my mind, but Christmas never really began until my parents took us to the Christmas Eve service at church.

The sanctuary of our small church basked in an atmosphere of expectation as the minister lit the last candle in the advent wreath. Beautiful glass lamps hung from the wooden-beamed ceiling, their light glowing on the aged walls. At night, the sanctuary took on a mysterious air, the stained glass windows subdued to darkness, the world outside waiting the light of the world. On Christmas Eve, we waited for the true Light of the world, and the place became magical to me.

We heard the story of Christmas interspersed with songs like The First Noel, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, and O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. I don't know about you, but I always found the experience of the shepherds the most wonderful. Imagine. These hard working men spent an ordinary day tending their flocks. Maybe they fought off a predator or sought out fresh grazing land that day. Did God watch them with glee knowing they would receive the ultimate birth announcement that night? If anyone told them that morning that a multitude of angels would announce the birth of the savior to them that night, what would they have said?

And then, the moment arrived, and there was light all around them.

In our Christmas Eve services, the ushers turned down the church lights, and we focused on the flickering candles at the front of the sanctuary. One by one, we shared our light, voices lifted, singing Silent Night. Candlelight reflected off our upturned faces and the eyes of those around me sparkled with the joy of Christ's birth and the wonder of this special moment.

More than Santa Claus, more than Christmas gifts, more than feasts, this one event still remains my favorite moment of the season. And last night, I slowed down enough to experience it again.

What moment of the season holds that moment of peace, joy, and awe for you?

May you find it all year round. Merry Christmas!

Image: nuchylee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It's Not Christmas Without Nutty Fingers

2011-12-05T20:06:00.000-05:00

Last week I mentioned I might have time to make our family's famous nutty fingers this year since I won't be stuck shopping all season long. Several of you requested the recipe, so I decided to include it in this week's blog post.
Nutty fingers have been a part of Christmas as long as I can remember. When the large red cookie tin with the clipper ship on the lid appears on the side counter, every member of my family knows what's inside. It doesn't take long before someone eases over and pops open the lid. The sound is unmistakeable. Anyone within earshot flocks to the tin, fingers itching to sample this years' batch. Before you know it, you've eaten six or seven or a dozen.
Some of you may take one look at this recipe and decide to not bother because it will look like a wedding cookies recipe. That would be a BIG mistake. If you follow the tips I list below, the nutty fingers will come out light and melt-in-your mouth. If you ignore these tips, the disappointing result will be hard, heavy wedding cookies.

You choose.

Essential Tips
1. Don't refrigerate the dough. Your cookies will become dense. Don't refrigerate!
2. Use a metal cookie tube without a tip. This helps you deliver the perfect quantity and consistency of dough for each cookie.
3. Keep blending after the dough is mixed. This was where I messed up for several years (and had to get my mother's help to figure out the problem). When combining the ingredients (step #2 in the recipe) in the mixer, you want to keep mixing until the dough has a smooth, butter-like texture. This will take several minutes The dough should have enough consistency to not run out of the cookie tube but smooth enough that it slides easily from the tube when you press the plunger.

Enjoy!

Nutty Fingers

Ingredients

2/3 cup butter, softened

1 cup flour

3 T sugar (to triple recipe, 9T = 2/3 cup)

1 cup chopped pecans

1 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 325^o
Combine ingredients, cream in mixer until smooth and butter-like consistency
Separate into cookies:

Use a cookie tube without a tip
Dispense onto cookie sheet, separating into 1 1/2 - 2 inch lengths with a knife

Bake for 20 minutes
Cool on wire rack
Roll in confectioner’s sugar
Store in air-tight container with wax paper between levels

Warning, these cookies are addictive if made properly. Watch them disappear.

Merry Christmas!

The Christmas Gift Buying Frenzy

2011-11-30T07:45:00.000-05:00

Bracing for the cold,

That blew in yesterday.

Feeling crisp and bold.

As I bundle along my way

December is here.

The season of cheer.

Christmas time once more.

Make sure you don't miss it

Rushing from store to store.

Thanksgviing, for me, launches the beginning of the Christmas season (even though several local radio stations try to force it on us in early November). Families gather for Thanksgiving to share their bounty and show thanks for the blessings bestowed on them. What better way to segue into the season that recognizes the greatest gift of all, our savior's birth?

This year, I want to slow down and not get caught up in the bustle. I want to spend time with friends and family, instead of rushing around looking for that perfect gift to check off a lengthy list of recipients.

This non-sensical gift-grabbing is one of the reasons our family agreed to change a holiday tradition this year. We drew names among the adults for gift-giving. Instead of umpteen gifts, I'm buying one. Correction, I've bought one because I got mine on cyber Monday when the price dropped. Now I only need to buy gifts for my three grandchildren. Just thinking about what I'll give them, fills my spirit with joy.

It feels weird, but with our family growing bigger and bigger, we lost focus of the important parts of Christmas: sharing in the birth of Christ and the joy of the season. I'm hoping that this year will be different. Have we begun a new tradition that will give us time to spend together rather than standing in long lines at the mobbed stores? I hope so.

So, this year, I won't stress over what to buy someone who already has everything or whether I spend the same amount of money on each of our children. I can give more to those in need and see the holiday through the eyes of my grandchildren, not my bank balance. Isn't that what the season means? Spreading joy to others?

I might even have time to make nutty fingers, an old family recipe that takes hours to do, but produces the most incredible melt-in-your-mouth cookies.

What about your family? Any new traditions or old ones that you love?

Rejoice After Today

2011-11-24T14:17:00.000-05:00

Today is the day the Lord has made; rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalms 118:24

I'm full. I couldn't eat another bite right now if you paid me to. But in the kitchen, my mother-in-law and daughter are mixing up a batch of caramel nut brownies. Probably by the time they come out of the oven, I'll find room.

The Bible verse I began this post with is my favorite verse; one that has sustained me through many a dark day. For many of us, rejoicing in today isn't difficult. We have family, food, and fun to share. While you enjoy the joys and blessing of this day, I hope you store a bit of those experiences away for one of your less than fortunate days. If today is one of those not-so-great days, I hope you gather some comfort in the simple verse above.

Every day, no matter how exuberant or difficult, is a day to rejoice because the Lord made that day. People say, "God doesn't make junk." When it feels like you just need to get through the day, try stopping, like many people do on Thanksgiving, and giving thanks to the Lord for giving you that day. Find something positive about the day. For me, any day shines brighter with that reminder.

I'll close with some of the things my family is thankful for today (in no particular order):

Football
Apple pie flavored gum
Two days off
Family
Brownies
Pecan pie
Good weather
My Mommy & Daddy
Raked leaves
Seeing family
Seeing Randy race Victoria across the yard
Not having a heart attack (when racing Victoria)
Being able to spend time with family, especially the unexpected opportunity to spend it with Victoria this year

Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I think I smell brownies coming out of the oven.

Short-lived Technology Upgrade Fear

2011-11-16T18:37:00.000-05:00

I need a new phone...well, OK, maybe need is a strong word, but I want one. I got a Droid two years ago because I needed a smartphone in order to stay on top of my contract opportunities. My Droid has worked most of the time, but it's done some really odd things that have left me throwing my hands up in frustration. Sometimes, I dream fondly of my old flip phone. It was so simple to use, but I know I won't be happy without the smartphone features that I've come to rely on. Whatever would I do while stuck waiting somewhere?

I want something new, but I have STUF (Short-lived Technology Upgrade Fear)--that horrible feeling that comes within a few days of buying something new because the next greatest and latest product came out days or weeks later, making your not-so-wonderful-anymore item obsolete.

How did we get so dependent on technology anyway? I taught a Time Management class last week, and one of the topics that we discussed at length was how to effectively and efficiently use email while still getting your work done. In case you're wondering, time management gurus suggest setting a specific time to check your email, for example at 9am and 3pm, while restricting that time to a specific number of minutes. Obviously, people have to work within their job constraints, and so a person whose job requires them to use email continuously can't do this, but this is one method to manage the madness.

As for the internet, Facebook, blogging, Twitter, etc., I've had to let most of those lie dormant this week while I handle a really heavy work schedule. It boggles the mind how many messages now reside in my inbox!

What's your time and technology issue?

Oh, and I still need...er, want a new phone. Any thoughts on that decision?

Rule of 3: Raker's Return to Renaissance

2011-11-05T20:32:00.001-04:00

Good news. Now that the Rule of 3 Blogfest has ended, my four chapters were long-listed. So, for the judges and any other interested parties, here's all four installments in one post.

The Return of Raker
Raker lumbered through the meandering passages of the Kastanes, staying clear of Heriot’s Pass. Even in dragon form, he knew to avoid the hangout of the rebellious youth from the village of Renaissance.

Smoke curled from his large nostrils as he snorted over his old world language. Village. Of course, Renaissance deserved the label, but no matter how hard he tried, he spoke in those ancient words while in dragon form. His purple scales scraped along the tight walls, and the great beast paused to rub back and forth along an outcropping, a low rumble of pleasure rolling up his throat.

He paused mid-scratch, lifting his snout. The scent of lilies tickled his nose. With a thunderous bellow, he rushed forward. “How did you find me, woman?”

Brigit sat on a stone, her bright peasant skirt dipping into the dragon’s accumulated treasures. She regarded him with a cool, blue-green stare, her red hair floating around her face in a fiery haze. “Greetings, Raker.”

Scaly tail slamming against the far wall, Raker edged closer, towering over the woman. “Why are you here?”

“Honestly, Raker,” Brigit said in her no-nonsense voice. “It wasn’t that hard.” She stood, her tone shifting to a sharp reprimand. “Why are you here? The Sons of George don’t forget. No matter how many years it’s been.”

The Sons of George. He’d managed to evade them. The dim-witted traders. He hadn’t expected their return to Renaissance, too.

The slap came as a shock, and he rounded on her, mouth open, fire building in his belly.

“Don’t you dare!” Brigit wagged a finger in his face. “You will not toast me, today. Now change. I can’t talk to you like this.”

He hunched his shoulders but instead rushed toward the abandoned mine shaft at the other end of the chamber. Wings folded, he plummeted downward, but as he soared toward the floor, a sudden weight hit his back. Pain blasted across his shoulders as Brigit’s sharp nails found the spot between his neck scales and dug in.

The pair landed with a thud at the bottom of the shaft.

Unable to resist her pin-pointed attack on his neck, Raker hunched over. Purple scales melted and fused into smooth golden skin. His body folded in on itself. After a few agonizing moments, Raker stood naked before her. A man.

“Why Renaissance?” Brigit advanced on him. “Have you found one?”

“The ancestors lived here.” He rubbed his neck. “I smell her.”

Brigit tilted her head to the left, but then shook it from side to side. “We’ll look elsewhere.”

Fists clinched, Raker bunched his shoulders and took a menacing step toward Brigit. He knew his man-form displayed great power and size. “She’s here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s too risky.”

He unleashed the dragon, heat filling the shaft and revealing a myriad of passages. Skin rippled as scales reclaimed their place amid the swirling scent of ash. The dragon soared upward.

“Raker!” Brigit’s screech echoed from the bottom of the shaft.

Brigit The Brash

Brigit didn’t spend two hundred and forty-seven years as a dragon keeper without gaining a few survival skills. By mid-morning, she stumbled out of the maze of the Kastanes mine, blinking at the sun. The horizon gave no hints to the dragon’s wherabouts. Sunlight glittered off of the rooftops of Renaissance in the distance.

Brigit slapped at the dirt clinging to her clothes. “Another skirt ruined thanks to that no-good lizard.”

Her gaze returned to the town. Raker said he smelled the One. To town, then. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late to save his scaley, purple hide.

She hiked to her truck’s hiding place and dragged a duffel bag from the cab. The water bottles provided luke-warm refreshment, but she didn’t care and stripped down, pouring water over her sweaty body. A leather, wide-brimmed hat concealed her wild, red hair. She donned jeans and a loose-flowing shirt, and then the dragon keeper climbed into the truck’s cab.

“Maybe the Sons of George won’t be looking for Brigit the Brash, yet.”

The engine roared.

A few miles down the Kris Highway, which really was more of a semi-paved dirt road, Brigit passed a young Asian girl walking. Petite with long dark hair, she looked no more than twelve and offered a friendly wave as Brigit drove by.

Brigit eased off the gas and studied the girl in the rearview mirror. She wore jeans and a red T-shirt. A pair of sandals dangled from her fingertips. “What’s a child doing out here alone?”

Brigit backed up. “Need a lift?”

A bright smile returned thanks, and the girl hopped into the cab.

“Where ya headed?”

“To town.” The girl’s rich, alto voice flowed smooth as honey.

Brigit eased back on the road. “It’s not my business, but what are you doing way out here alone?”

The girl shrugged. “The kids from town took me to Heriot’s Pass.”

“And?” Brigit re-evaluated the girl’s age. Heriot’s Pass was teen territory.

“They left me. Some new kid ritual.” The girl rolled down the window, her black hair flying in the breeze.

“Kind of young for that group, aren’t ya?”

The girl dimpled. “I’m sixteen, just small for my age.”

Brigit pondered this fact for a moment, but her thoughts returned to Raker. Of all places to return, but his dragon sense would find the One, no matter how far away. She considered the women of Renaissance—a blond virgin would be hard to find in today’s loose world.

“I’m Jade.” The girl interrupted Brigit’s thoughts. “My Uncle Albert will have a fit if I don’t know who gave me a ride.”

Brigit coughed. “Uncle Albert? As in Albert George?”

“You know him?” Jade wrinkled her nose.

“Of him.”

What fate led the niece of the Sons of George leader to her on the day Raker sensed the One?

“But you’re—” Brigit glanced at the girl.

“Not a big, strapping Viking?” Jade laughed. “I’m adopted. From China.”

“So, Jade George?”

“No! That would be awful. Jade Marshall. My mom’s a George.”

The truck rattled into town. “Just drop me off at the dragon fountain,” Jade said shaking her head in amusement. “This town and their stories. They say my great-great-great granddaddy killed the last dragon.”

“I’d heard,” Jade said, studying the monstrous image of the Viking, a pitch fork shoved into Raker’s gaping maw.

Brigit gripped the wheel tighter when Albert George stepped out of his gas station and watched Jade approach, then studied the truck, his hand shading his eyes. On the corner behind him, Brigit spotted Raker, frozen in motion, hungry eyes tracking Jade.

Albert's Armory

Albert George watched his niece climb down from the dirt-splattered F-150 truck. She flashed a quick smile in his direction and started to stroll on by. The woman in the truck watched them, her body frozen in time.

“Jade?” Albert restrained his voice, seeking a calm tone. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

The girl paused. “I wasn’t.”

A strange tingle ran along Albert’s spine just like his father told him it would. Could it be? Didn’t he have four more years to prepare? He sniffed the air. Sulfur. The woman in the truck stared back at him. “Who’s that?”

Jade squinted at the driver, a look of confusion crossing her face. “She didn’t say.” She shrugged one shoulder. “She knows you.”

Albert clenched his fists and nodded toward the dragon fountain. “That wasn’t the last dragon.”

Jade laughed out loud. “Yeah, right. You’re crazy.” She shook her head and hurried toward Albert’s gas station. Her laughter trailed behind her like an overpowering perfume.

The truck still sat by the fountain, and Albert strode toward it with purpose. The driver couldn’t be Brigit, could it? He got within a few feet of the truck, and the woman startled like a surprised bird, revved the engine, and burned rubber only to screech to a stop at the gas pumps.

Albert’s heart pounded in fear. Jade stood beside the pumps. A dark-haired man hovered over her, his body leaning in close and possessive.

“Jade! Get away from him.”

The man stroked her cheek once. Albert’s stomach churned at the sight.

The dark man glanced at Albert and hopped into the truck. It sped away kicking up dust and gravel.

Albert skidded to a stop next to Jade. “Did he hurt you? What did he say?”

Jade’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled. “What?” A secret smile spread across her face.

Grabbing her arm, Albert dragged her through the store and into his office. Three quick turns of the dial and the old safe door swung open. He hauled out the bag containing his spear gun and cross-bow and slammed it on his desk with a thud.

“I should’ve smelled him sooner.” He strapped on his holster. “There’s a lot you don’t understand.” He jabbed at a faded WANTED poster on the wall. “Is this the woman in the truck?”

Jade rubbed her hands along her arms like she was cold. “Uncle, you’re scaring me. That’s like from the old west or something.”

“Does it look like her?”

She shook her head. “It can’t be her. Is it her grandmother?”

Albert grabbed the duffel bag and shoved past Jade. “This wasn’t supposed to happen now. We thought I’d have four summers to teach you.”

“Four summers?” Jade stiffened. “Here? No thanks.”

“Jade.” He rubbed his face and struggled over what to say in a few short seconds. “You’re here for a reason. My sister adopted you on purpose.”

Jade shook her head. “Because she wanted a child. She loves me.”

He relaxed his grip on the bag. “We all love you,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “But it took a lot of historical research to find you. It had to be you.”

The girl backed up against the wall, looking young, small, and afraid. “What do you mean?”

“Your grandmother’s ancestors honored the dragons of old. The women…” He paused, unwilling to disclose the role her ancestors played. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Albert marched out of the office. Sixteen was too young to learn that you’re dragon bait.

Fire In The Sky

Brigit took her frustration out on the F-150’s gas pedal. “What were you thinking?” The truck fishtailed down the Targe highway heading toward the Schiavona Desert.

As the truck bounced over potholes, Raker shouted above the roar of the engine. “You really have to ask?”

“She’s only sixteen, Raker.” Brigit spun the wheel, tires screeching as she took a dirt road leading into the bush. “And Albert George’s niece. Nice choice.”

Silence greeted that news, and Brigit glanced over at her charge. The desolation on his face drew her back a hundred years to his last attempt to reproduce. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, remembering the destruction his fires wrought on Renaissance that day. The small town never had fully recovered and, from the look of things, neither had Raker.

She stopped at the top of a hill, the truck facing back toward town. Below, dust billowed into a cloud behind two trucks and four motorcycles. The Sons of George wasted no time in pursuit.

Raker scrubbed at his face and groaned. “I don’t know why I smelled her so early. I knew the moment I saw her, but,” he flashed a sardonic grin toward Brigit, “I couldn’t resist.”

The dust cloud drew closer.

Fear and compassion sent bitter adrenaline into Brigit’s soul. “Get out. Change. I’ll distract them and seek you later.”

“No.” He pounded a fist on the dashboard. “I’ll protect you.”

“Fool.” She rounded on him. “You die, I die. Get out.”

Albert scanned the horizon for a sight he’d hoped never to witness in his lifetime. His Harley ate up the road, faster than the horses his predecessors rode to chase dragons, but it still wasn’t fast enough. His niece. They suspected, no, counted on her ancestry, but the accuracy of his sister’s research still tasted bitter on his tongue.

“There.” The shout came from his cousin, Edwin.

A great shadow rose above the horizon, wings flapping in large cumbersome arcs as the purple dragon ascended into the sky.

Albert stared, his hand letting up on the throttle. Around him, the others slowed, too, awe and fear flashing in their faces. That thing. That dragon wheeled in the sky and turned toward them. The shadow plunged from above, the sound a screech like the wind whistling through the tunnels during a sandstorm. The great body blocked out the sun, casting a cool shadow for a moment.

Albert’s mind snapped back into awareness. The cool shadow lulled prey until it was too late. “Duck.”

The dragon’s maw released a blast of fire as the men dove for the ground. The trucks burst into flame as the beast wheeled around for another attack.

Albert scrambled for his crossbow, sighting for the dragon’s heart. His brother, Robert, stepped up beside him, crossbow ready. The dragon swooped down, and they both released. One bolt bounced off of the hard scales. One embedded in the dragon’s wing. An ungodly screech shattered their ears.

Albert and Robert jumped on their bikes and raced after the fleeing dragon. Behind them, a concussive explosion told Albert what he had already accepted. The trucks, and the brothers inside, were gone.

When Albert crested the hill, the dragon had disappeared. In the distance, dust trailed the woman’s truck. Albert gunned his engine, but the truck and dragon were too far away.

Jade rushed out of the gas station as the building shook with thunder. She flung a pack over her shoulder and started hiking. Folk said the Roundeli Mountains were hundreds of miles away. Far wasn't far enough.

Tricks and Treats

2011-11-01T11:56:00.001-04:00

Riley Ladybug

Strange and curious things showed up at my door last night. Maybe yours, too? It started with a ladybug on the arm of a cowboy accompanied by an attractive witch...our granddaughter, son, and daughter-in-law. Riley is too young to trick or treat, so they surprised us with an early evening visit to show off this bewildered little ladybug. Trick AND Treat! She was cute, but you could tell she didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

It wasn't long before Tigger showed up. He was abnormally quiet, but maybe he just needed a nap. Then we had more ladybugs, bumblebees, dragons, Tranformers, and lions, oh my! The most interesting was a vampire kitty. I think she'd had a little too much catnip...er...candy by the time she got to us!

Amari Wiggly Piggly

Halloween brings back fond memories. My mom insisted we had enough things around the house to put a costume together, so I only had a few store-bought costumes as a kid. One memorable year, I wore a skeleton outfit but a clown mask. That's definitely one of my scarier looks. When I was eight, Halloween arrived and I still didn't know what I wanted to be. I'm not sure how it happened, but I decided to be a box of Rice Krispees. I took a large box and covered it in blue paper, and then I drew the characters Snap, Krackle, and Pop on the box and wrote those words all over the place. It was great until Mom made me put on a hat because it was cold...a beret, no less. So, everyone thought I was an artist! Really. I'm not kidding. What artist walks around wearing a square box? Hmmm?


Victoria AKA Spider Girl

What's your most memorable Halloween costume?

I missed seeing my other grandchildren trick or treat since they live out of state, but I hope you enjoy the pictures.

One last treat came for me yesterday...I learned that my essay, Blessed Legs, won an Honorable Mention in the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition. The award certificate came in the mail, and that was the first I knew about it.

Final Chapter Rule of 3: Fire In The Sky

2011-10-26T22:39:00.000-04:00

Come with me as we visit the town of Renaissance one last time. This is the closing chapter of the Rule of 3.

If you haven't read the first three installments of the story of Renaissance, check out the following links:

Week 1: Raker's Return

Week 2: Brigit the Brash

Week 3: Albert’s Armory

Word Count: 593
Prompts Used:
Relationships mend/are torn asunder.
The final event becomes a secret for generations to come.

Fire In The Sky

Brigit took her frustration out on the F-150’s gas pedal. “What were you thinking?” The truck fishtailed down the Targe highway heading toward the Schiavona Desert.

As the truck bounced over potholes, Raker shouted above the roar of the engine. “You really have to ask?”

“She’s only sixteen, Raker.” Brigit spun the wheel, tires screeching as she took a dirt road leading into the bush. “And Albert George’s niece. Nice choice.”

She stopped at the top of a hill, the truck facing back toward town. Below, dust billowed into a cloud behind two trucks and four motorcycles. The Sons of George wasted no time in pursuit.

Raker scrubbed at his face and groaned. “I don’t know why I smelled her so early. I knew the moment I saw her, but,” he flashed a sardonic grin toward Brigit, “I couldn’t resist.”

The dust cloud drew closer.

Fear and compassion sent bitter adrenaline into Brigit’s soul. “Get out. Change. I’ll distract them and seek you later.”

“No.” He pounded a fist on the dashboard. “I’ll protect you.”

“Fool.” She rounded on him. “You die, I die. Get out.”

“There.” The shout came from his cousin, Edwin.

A great shadow rose above the horizon, wings flapping in large cumbersome arcs as the purple dragon ascended into the sky.

Albert’s mind snapped back into awareness. The cool shadow lulled prey until it was too late. “Duck.”

The dragon’s maw released a blast of fire as the men dove for the ground. The trucks burst into flame as the beast wheeled around for another attack.

When Albert crested the hill, the dragon had disappeared. In the distance, dust trailed the woman’s truck. Albert gunned his engine, but the truck and dragon were too far away.

**********
Ok, Ok, before you kill me for not resolving this, please understand I never planned to. This is back-story for my current project. So, someday, you might meet Raker, Brigit, Jade, and Albert again. Until then, time must pass for them and for us.

Spell Fire

2011-10-24T21:19:00.002-04:00

Karen sat forward, then settled back against the canvas beach chair. She slapped at the gritty sand coating her ankles. It clung in desperation to her saltwater-slick skin. Sighing, she tried the “great beach read” again. After two sentences, she dropped the book to her lap and glanced at her husband. Eyes closed, his chest rose and fell with low rumbles. She squinted at the rising sun.

That’s when she got a whiff. A scorched odor wafted on the cool ocean breeze. It drifted in and out, pulled in waves, sometimes overpowering the essence of sunscreen and sweat. She glanced around and lurched forward, yanking her sunglasses off as she twisted in the chair. “What the—”

“Synbatec, wastopaneer, tacise.” A frenetic young man, dressed in coat and tie, boogied behind her. Flames licked upward battling the brilliant white glare of paper grasped in his hand. “Synbatec.” He shoved the papers away from his body, closer to the umbrella.

“Clark.” Karen gagged on bitter vomit surge and slapped her husband. “Fire! Wake up.”

The flames swarmed and crackled. “Wastopaneer.”

“Wha-what?” Clark bolted upright. Clunk! His head banged against Karen’s.

“Oof!” Headache stars splintered her scalp. “Clark! Fire.” Chills swept across her skin. The crazy man stared into her, the conflagration creeping downward to his fingers and upward toward the beach umbrella.

Whoosh. Splat.

An arc of water crashed over the man. Clark leaned over, sucking air, a neon green bucket tumbled at his feet.

The crazy man wailed, his body collapsing to the sand. “No.” He plucked at the papers, a whine rising from the ground with him. He glared at Clark. “You ruined the spell.”

“Spell?” Clark inched backward.

The man plowed fingers through his hair. “Publication. Agent. My last chance. Argh. I’m doomed.” He stalked away.

_______________________________________

This was my Third Campaign Contest entry. The guidelines:

Write a blog post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should show:
that it’s morning,
that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach
that the MC (main character) is bored
that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting
that something surprising happens.
Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: "synbatec," "wastopaneer," and "tacise." (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them).

My entry word count: 298.

You can find the other posts here. I'm # 124

Rule of 3 Blogfest, Part 3: Albert's Armory

2011-10-19T22:09:00.002-04:00

Come with me as we visit the town of Renaissance again. This is part 3 of the Rule of 3, and we're focused on Albert, Jade's uncle. It was a toss up on whether to write from Jade's point of view or Albert's, but through Albert we learn a secret that Jade doesn't know yet.

If you haven't read the first two installments of the story of Renaissance, check out the following links:

Week 1: Raker's Return

Week 2: Brigit the Brash

Albert's Armory

“Jade?” Albert restrained his voice, seeking a calm tone. “It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

The girl paused. “I wasn’t.”

Jade squinted at the driver, a look of confusion crossing her face. “She didn’t say.” She shrugged one shoulder. “She knows you.”

Albert clenched his fists and nodded toward the dragon fountain. “That wasn’t the last dragon.”

Jade laughed out loud. “Yeah, right. You’re crazy.” She shook her head and hurried toward Albert’s gas station. Her laughter trailed behind her like an overpowering perfume.

Albert’s heart pounded in fear. Jade stood beside the pumps. A dark-haired man hovered over her, his body leaning in close and possessive.

“Jade! Get away from him.”

The man stroked her cheek once. Albert’s stomach churned at the sight.

The dark man glanced at Albert and hopped into the truck. It sped away kicking up dust and gravel.

Albert skidded to a stop next to Jade. “Did he hurt you? What did he say?”

Jade’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled. “What?” A secret smile spread across her face.

“I should’ve smelled him sooner.” He strapped on his holster. “There’s a lot you don’t understand.” He jabbed at a faded WANTED poster on the wall. “Is this the woman in the truck?”

Jade rubbed her hands along her arms like she was cold. “Uncle, you’re scaring me. That’s like from the old west or something.”

“Does it look like her?”

She shook her head. “It can’t be her. Is it her grandmother?”

Albert grabbed the duffel bag and shoved past Jade. “This wasn’t supposed to happen now. We thought I’d have four summers to teach you.”

“Four summers?” Jade stiffened. “Here? No thanks.”

“Jade.” He rubbed his face and struggled over what to say in a few short seconds. “You’re here for a reason. My sister adopted you on purpose.”

Jade shook her head. “Because she wanted a child. She loves me.”

He relaxed his grip on the bag. “We all love you,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “But it took a lot of historical research to find you. It had to be you.”

The girl backed up against the wall, looking young, small, and afraid. “What do you mean?”

Word Count: 591

Prompts Used:

The impending misfortune foreshadowed in the 1st prompt comes to pass, but one or more characters laugh at it.
Betrayal is in the air.
Relationships unravel or strengthen.
A long-kept secret is revealed.

Autumn Rhythm

2011-10-18T19:28:00.000-04:00

My blog vibe isn't working today. For some reason, none of the ideas I wanted to use in my post fit my mental rhythm.

It's Autumn, and the cooler weather might be to blame. I'm serious. This kind of weather makes me feel relaxed and comfortable. Not exactly the kind of mood you need to buckle down and get work done.

Not to say, I've not been productive today. Thirteen baskets for the South Carolina Writers' Workshop conference's silent auction grace my dining room table--sorted, packed, and wrapped today, thanks to the assistance of two writers in our local critique group. I still need to put ribbons on them, but they look amazing. Hopefully, the conference attendees will find them appealing, too.

Everything else I've done today fits into random short tasks on my to do list, and now I just want to relax. I think I will, so instead, let me share some pictures I found and scanned to my computer yesterday. They're a little washed-out because they're from a long time before digital, but they still hint at the beauty of the fall colors.

And for fun, anyone want to guess my age in this picture?

Rule of 3 Blogfest, Part 2: Brigit the Brash

2011-10-12T12:20:00.002-04:00

Come with me as we visit the town of Renaissance again. This is Part 2. If you haven't read Part 1, please do so first. Also, you can find the other writers participating in this challenge here.

Brigit The Brash

Brigit slapped at the dirt clinging to her clothes. “Another skirt ruined thanks to that no-good lizard.”

Her gaze returned to the town. Raker said he smelled the One. To town, then. Hopefully, she wasn’t too late to save his scaley, purple hide.

“Maybe the Sons of George won’t be looking for Brigit the Brash, yet.”

The engine roared.

Brigit eased off the gas and studied the girl in the rearview mirror. She wore jeans and a red T-shirt. A pair of sandals dangled from her fingertips. “What’s a child doing out here alone?”

Brigit backed up. “Need a lift?”

A bright smile returned thanks, and the girl hopped into the cab.

“Where ya headed?”

“To town.” The girl’s rich, alto voice flowed smooth as honey.

Brigit eased back on the road. “It’s not my business, but what are you doing way out here alone?”

The girl shrugged. “The kids from town took me to Heriot’s Pass.”

“And?” Brigit re-evaluated the girl’s age. Heriot’s Pass was teen territory.

“They left me. Some new kid ritual.” The girl rolled down the window, her black hair flying in the breeze.

“Kind of young for that group, aren’t ya?”

The girl dimpled. “I’m sixteen, just small for my age.”

“I’m Jade.” The girl interrupted Brigit’s thoughts. “My Uncle Albert will have a fit if I don’t know who gave me a ride.”

Brigit coughed. “Uncle Albert? As in Albert George?”

“You know him?” Jade wrinkled her nose.

“Of him.”

What fate led the niece of the Sons of George leader to her on the day Raker sensed the One?

“But you’re—” Brigit glanced at the girl.

“Not a big, strapping Viking?” Jade laughed. “I’m adopted. From China.”

“So, Jade George?”

“No! That would be awful. Jade Marshall. My mom’s a George.”

“I’d heard,” Jade said, studying the monstrous image of the Viking, a pitch fork shoved into Raker’s gaping maw.

Word Count: 600
Word Count Last Week (because I didn't tell you): 500
Prompt: One of the characters is revealed to not be who he or she is AND A relationship becomes complicated.

A Walk In The Rain

2011-10-11T11:57:00.000-04:00

I woke to the gentle sound of a steady rain this morning. The soft warmth of my bed tempted me to linger for awhile, but as I lay there considering the day, it occurred to me to take a walk in the rain. I don't remember the last time I took a walk in the rain on purpose. Sure, I've ventured out in rainy weather to get from one place to another, but I might have to go back to my high school days to find a time when I chose to do so.

The weather this week has been perfect for walks-- a crisp, light freshness to the air, the leaves on the cusp of change. So gentle after the long suffocating heat of summer.

I enjoyed my walk. The neighborhood blanketed me with quiet, providing the gurgle of drainpipes on houses and the soft hiss of misting rain as nature's melody. Peace enveloped me, and I found myself remembering a day in my fifteenth year when friends and I walked downtown and got caught in a downpour. Rather than duck for cover, we danced through the streets singing silly songs like:

It's raining, it's pouring

I'm singing in the rain

We laughed out loud and called to people on their porches, announcing the obvious, "It's raining!"

Where did that girl go? Somewhere along the line I began to worry about the delay rain caused in traffic or what it was going to do to my hair. Rain is a blessing from God, and I tend to forget that crucial point, but I'll bet our farmers don't.

I heard a woman speak once about the shifting seasons and the weather. She reminded us that above the rain clouds, the sun still shines. A simple thought, but one I never truly considered before I heard her speak that day. Today, of course, I didn't mind that the sun hides behind the clouds. The cool breezes and tiny droplets of life didn't dampen my spirits but lifted me in joy.

Where have you found joy among the clouds?

Taking Care of Business

2011-10-08T21:55:00.001-04:00

Between work and the Platform Building Campaign and the Rule of 3, I'm running into some serious delays in responding to my new blogging friends. Please forgive me as I try and catch up here.

I've received the Liebster Blog award from a cheese-loving blogger, Crystal Collier . She made me blush with her comment about my blog: "such a motherly heart, and I love, love, LOVE reading her blog."

Thanks Crystal. I appreciate you! Everyone, please drop by Crystal's blog and check out her Compulsive Creations.

Also, Myne Whitman gave me the Versatile Blogger award. This is the second time I've received this one, so I'm going to refer to my earlier post in hopes that Myne won't mind that I let it run double duty. Thank you so much for recognizing me, Myne. Please visit Myne's blog to enjoy her worldly experiences.

Now, in response to the Liebster award, which is reserved for bloggers with less than 200 followers, I must:

1. Show appreciation to the blogger who gave me the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your five picks with 200 or less followers and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the camaraderie of the most supportive people on the internet-- other writers.
5. And best of all have bloggity fun and spread the love.

So, my five picks are blogs I've discovered while participating in the Rule of 3. If you haven't checked out this fun story-building blog-fest out, stop by this link and check out the stories from the 69 participants. Meanwhile, here are my five picks:

Michael R. McDuffee
Beyond the Silver Leaves
Welcome to the Nightmare
Chapter by Chapter
Kenra Daniels

Please check out their blogs and give them your support.

First Installment in the Rule of 3 Blogfest: The Return of Raker

2011-10-05T17:02:00.001-04:00

Welcome to my first installment in The Rule of 3 Blogfest . This week's story line responds to the following writing prompt:

There is an argument

I hope you enjoy it. You can view a trailer about the fictional town of Renaissance here .

The Return of Raker
Raker lumbered through the meandering passages of the Kastanes, staying clear of Heriot’s Pass. Even in dragon form, he knew to avoid the hangout of the rebellious youth from the village of Renaissance.

He paused mid-scratch, lifting his snout. The scent of lilies tickled his nose. With a thunderous bellow, he rushed forward. “How did you find me, woman?”

Scaly tail slamming against the far wall, Raker edged closer, towering over the woman. “Why are you here?”

The Sons of George. He’d managed to evade them. The dim-witted traders. He hadn’t expected their return to Renaissance, too.

The slap came as a shock, and he rounded on her, mouth open, fire building in his belly.

“Don’t you dare!” Brigit wagged a finger in his face. “You will not toast me, today. Now change. I can’t talk to you like this.”

The pair landed with a thud at the bottom of the shaft.

“Why Renaissance?” Brigit advanced on him. “Have you found one?”

“The ancestors lived here.” He rubbed his neck. “I smell her.”

Brigit tilted her head to the left, but then shook it from side to side. “We’ll look elsewhere.”

Fists clinched, Raker bunched his shoulders and took a menacing step toward Brigit. He knew his man-form displayed great power and size. “She’s here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s too risky.”

He unleashed the dragon, heat filling the shaft and revealing a myriad of passages. Skin rippled as scales reclaimed their place amid the swirling scent of ash. The dragon soared upward.

“Raker!” Brigit’s screech echoed from the bottom of the shaft.

The Imperfection of Communication: Part 3

2011-10-04T11:15:00.001-04:00

So What Does It All Mean?

I've tracked your comments to last week’s post with interest. When asked what you thought of, felt, or saw when presented with the word "cat" each of you did exactly what I expected. You saw something different!

In corporate training, communication is one of my favorite topics to teach. Mainly because we spend every moment of the day communicating whether we mean to or not.

I do the cat exercise in my training classes to show people how different our perceptions can be. The different responses amaze participants and serve as a great reminder that, even face-to-face, we need to be clear and specific in our communication. The activity, also, allows people to recognize that misunderstanding each other is part of life. It's not going away.

You might think a simple word like cat would not create a gap in communication but consider the variety of responses:

I usually see a large cat!

What you told me you saw:

Sandy-colored short hair
Striped cat
Stripey-faced, mini-tiger cat with a "cat" smile
Tabby kitten
Halloween cat
Algae eyes blinking from underneath the furniture
17 pound smokey domestic longhair
Ginger and white cat

What you thought:

Allergies--misery, sneezing, itchy, watery eyes, (one person ended up in the hospital)
Adorable
Egyptian regard for cats
The devil
Sneaky and scares my dog
Cleaning up behind them, not favorably
Cats that help you type/write
Catharsis - because this person didn't like cats

Oh and my personal favorite: by day-angelic, by night-chases the German Shepherd

I did have one person who thought I was kidding about the whole thing. It was a tongue-in-cheek kind of post, but I'm serious about the issues of miscommunication and dealing with them.

Another person didn't like cats so felt they weren't qualified to respond with anything. I didn't say you had to like cats to participate, but that was this person's interpretation.

So, there you have it. One three letter word and a multitude of responses, proving that we carry our own baggage into the interpretation window of our mind.

The moral of this little exercise? Try to be clear in your communication, check that your listeners/readers understand your meaning, and accept that people will see things differently than you do!

___________________________________________

I will be participating in the Rule of 3 blogfest during the month of October. Each Wednesday, I will post a portion of a story set in the ficitonal town of Renaissance. Please drop by on Wednesdays and enjoy the story through the end of October.

Six Sentence Sunday

2011-10-02T16:16:00.000-04:00

I've discovered a neat activity that several bloggers on the Platform Campaign Challenge participate in: Six Sentence Sunday. I'm not part of the official group doing this, so I'm like that kid sister who tags along. The concept is simple, on Sunday post six lines from your work in progress. I have to tell you, this wasn't easy for me. Every time I thought I'd found a perfect passage, it ended up being five or seven lines.

Anyway, you can find the official participants here . I'm just copy-catting them. (Maybe next week, I'll get my act together and join the official group in time.)

My six lines:

No one spoke and Adana struggled into the heavier leathers meant to protect her from her enemy’s blade. Several Watchers and Soldiers of the First Sight suffered from the same illness as her mother. The shortage of healthy warriors might help her remain unnoticed in the rush of preparation.

With her head down, she sought to hide the one trait that made her stand out among Monians, her blue eyes.

If she couldn’t control Mammetta’s future, then she would control her own. Eliminate Maligon and maybe the Creator would heal her mother as a reward.

So that's it, a short passage from THE WATCHERS OF MONIAH. What do you think?

The Imperfection of Communication: Is Your Communication Imago? (Part 2)

2011-09-27T22:19:00.002-04:00

Last week’s post celebrated several conflicting interpretations of a flash fiction piece I wrote. Unfortunately, we rarely experience miscommunication issues with joy. When I speak, I want synchronicity of understanding with my audience. Is that hard to achieve? Yep!

An incorrect interpretation creates a miasma that fills in the lacuna in our words.

Did you understand that sentence? You might try to interpret what I meant through context, or maybe your mouth oscitated in shock, while you thought, “Barbara's talking about communication issues, and she tosses difficult words in the mix?”

A simpler version of my sentence above might be:

An incorrect interpretation creates a stinky mess that fills in the gaps in our words.

(FYI, oscitated means gaped .)

Simpler words increase the chance you’ll mirror my meaning, but they don’t guarantee it. We bring our own experiences to the conversation, throwing everything off because the significance of a word for me is different for you.

For fun—when you read the last word in this post, consider it. What image do you see? How do you feel about it? Few people will see or feel exactly the same thing. Post your answer and see.

The
word
is
cat.

_____________________________________________

It's Campaign Challenge time again, so for those of you not involved in this campaign, here's the challenge I tried to meet in the post above:

Write a blog post in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should:

· include the word "imago" in the title

· include the following 4 random words: "miasma," "lacuna," "oscitate," "synchronicity,"

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional and included in the word count), make reference to a mirror in your post.

For those who want an even greater challenge (optional), make your post 200 words EXACTLY!

I've got exactly 200 words. So how did I do? For fellow challengers, I'm number 146 . If you like this, please vote for me.

The Imperfection of Communication...And Some Exciting News

2011-09-20T11:08:00.003-04:00

I have some exciting news, but bear with me a moment, while I chat about communication a little bit.

A few years ago, my husband was going to drop me off for an appointment while he ran an errand. I told him the office was in the same strip shopping center as the Firehouse. He drove straight to the correct intersection but turned into the shopping center across the street.

"Where are you going?" I said. "It's across the street, next to the Firehouse."

He gave me a strange look. "There's the firehouse." He pointed at the real firehouse. The one where firemen hang out until a fire. Me? I meant the Firehouse Deli across the street. Talk about a weird communication coincidence! I had forgotten that a fire station sat on the corner opposite of where I was going, so it never occurred to me to be more specific.

Of course, since I teach communication skills to business people all of the time, I was glad for the mishap. It gave me another example to use in training classes.

We communicate every waking moment, but we bring our own interpretations, expectations, and experiences to the conversation. I've seen this time and again. People think others aren't listening when in actuality, they are only interpreting something differently than the speaker meant.

My big news is related to this issue in a round-about way. I entered a flash fiction blog contest a few weeks back, and my entry generated a lot of responses that I didn't anticipate. Different readers found a variety of meanings in this short form of fiction, many of them poles apart from my original intent. Rather than worry over their different ideas, I embraced the interpretations. What writer doesn't want people to find their own personal meaning in what you write?

Anyway, for my exciting news. Out of 384 entries, I won 3rd place! I'm pretty psyched and I have to thank Rachael Harrie for organizing the whole thing. Please click on her name and check out her blog and all of the amazing winners and prizes. Please follow the links to the participants and give them their congrats, too.

And if you want to read my winning story, click here . I'd love to know how you interpret it!

Trimming the Excess From Your Pitch

2011-09-15T10:59:00.000-04:00

I spent most of yesterday re-working my pitch paragraph and log line. I don't know about the rest of you, but I find the act of condensing a 104,000 word manuscript into a short paragraph of 100-150 words daunting. Not to mention writing a 25 word log line. Ouch! There's a reason my genre is called epic fantasy. There's a lot going on and a lot of characters involved.

The other day it occurred to me that I needed some outside perspective on this. No matter how many agents' blogs I've read about query letters and pitch paragraphs, I kept putting way too much information into my pathetic efforts. I'm too close to the characters to trim it down. So, I asked two of my beta readers to write what they would put on the back cover of my book. They agreed with a lot of enthusiasm and what they came up with was so obvious I laughed out loud. Now I have a log line that I'm almost happy with and I've taken their approaches and created a short pitch paragraph. Well, actually, I have four different paragraphs that I'm going to play around with until it sounds right. Thanks Christina and Sarah!

I think the next time, I'll be better at this, but outside help worked for me. What about you? How do you get that pitch paragraph just right?

In other news, Daina Rustin, Mystic Treehouse , tagged me the other day. Hi Daina! So, now I have to share 10 random facts about myself and tag 5 more people. Here goes!

I'm sitting in Barnes & Noble right now trying to make the best of my time between appointments.
I have 5 children and 3 grandchildren but feel free to tell me I look too young for that!
This is the first platform building campaign I've done, and I'm realizing that time management must be forefront in my mind during these two months.
I'm a trained public speaker and typically speak to groups on motivational and/or Christian themes.
I'm certified to teach and administer the Myers Briggs Type Indicator.
I met my husband when I was 17 and dating his older brother. Seventeen years, later I married him.
I have a Bachelor's degree in Zoology and a Master's degree in Professional Communication.
People who knew me while I was growing up thought I was shy...Fooled them!
I'm going to the South Carolina Writers' Workshop writing conference Oct. 21-23 in Myrtle Beach, SC. (info at www.myscww.org)
I love the mountains.

OK, so 5 people to tag (Due to # 3 above, I'm in too much of a hurry to do the proper html, so I'm just typing the URL's here:

Rebekah Loper: http://blackanddarknight.wordpress.com
R. L. Blackhurst: http://rlblackhurst.weebly.com/ (Please support her because she's just getting started on her blog)
Sarah: http://sarahwifestudentcrazyperson.blogspot.com/
Tia Bach: http://depressioncookies.blogspot.com/
Carole St. Laurent: http://www.carolestlaurent.com/romanceandbeyond/Blog/Blog.html

And my work is done.

Have We Forgotten?

2011-09-12T11:01:00.000-04:00

My daughter came to me that night around 11:30. She trembled with fear and crying. I struggled up from a slumber that fought back in blissful ignorance, but a mother can't ignore her child, even if she is twenty-two years old.

I turned on the light. "What's wrong?"

Her unlikely reply made me sigh. "I'm afraid of terrorists."

"Whatever for?" I fell back against my pillow. "The odds of you coming in contact with one is so little."

"But I might," she said, her voice on the edge of hysteria. "What if they ask me if I'm a Christian? If I say yes, they might kill me. I've heard that some kill you if you say no."

I fought exasperation. Every evening, I struggle to get a good night's sleep. Once I've reached the edge that tips me into slumber, interruptions usually ruin the whole night for me.

"I don't think it's worth worrying about," I said, wondering what set her on this train of thought. I had experienced other nights with her like this, nights when a thought ripped into her soul, creating insecurities that multiplied. She sought me at these times, begging for solace. Sometimes, I got frustrated.

It took time, but she finally calmed down and went to bed to sleep in security and confidence.

The next morning, the planes hit the towers.

I waited in trepidation for her to wake up and discover her late night fears transformed into a new reality.

Yes, the account above really did happen on the eve of 9/11, and it rocks me to the core how my daughter's mind went there only hours before the tragedy occurred.

It's amazing to me, still, how much that one morning changed our outlook on life. But yesterday, as I watched the documentary on CBS, I realized we've forgotten. Sure travel became harder, but we grumble about it. For a short while, we turned to God, and churches experienced huge attendance. People extended kindness and looked out for each other. That's what tragedy does to us.

But today, I wonder, have we forgotten? Do we remember, ten years after 9/11, that our world is different? It's hard to maintain that heightened awareness at all times, I get that. Time numbs the pain. We need that to go on, to survive, but seeing those horrific images, again, this past weekend, in graphic detail, narrated by those who survived at Ground Zero, tears at my soul.

Do we really remember the way we should?

And the Winner Is...

2011-09-09T22:09:00.000-04:00

I received The Versatile Blogger award this week from Stuart Nager. Please take a moment and check out his blog, Tale Spinning . This is my first blog award, and to receive it from a fellow blogger who I just met, is pretty exciting. Thanks Stuart!

Of course, as awards go, the recipient has a few responsibilities, one of which is to pass this award on to other bloggers who manage to stay versatile in their blogs while maintaining interesting content. Stuart shared the process with me, so here's the steps (for those of you I'm passing this along to).

Bloggers who accept this award should:

Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to them in your post. (Done and done.)
Share 7 things about yourself (See below)
Pass this Award along to 15 recently discovered blogs and let them know about it! I picked blogs that I enjoy reading. Many of them are in the Platform Building Campaign with me, and I'm enjoying getting to know these writers through the campaign.

OK, so 7 things about me:

I love to drink Vanilla Soy Chai - hot or cold
I'm a corporate trainer, and I love it!
I took my Dad's Physics class when in college. That was different.
I'm a Christian and try to find some way to incorporate faith into my writing, but I prefer to not hit you over the head with it.
I love music and singing.
If I didn't have fibromyalgia, I probably would have auditioned for Survivor.
I collect giraffes and have probably more than 300 in various forms (statues, jewelry, pictures, clothing, etc.)

Now, to recognize some other versatile bloggers. The Versatile Blogger Award goes to:

She's Got Character. A Feast of Fictional Heroines, and other points of writing...
Creation and Compassion
Once Upon a Time: tales of love, magic, and psychopaths
Mystic Treehouse
Off Wi’ the Fairies
Where Fantasy & Love Take Flight
KayKay’s Corner
AE Marling
Bards & Prophets
Compulsive Creator
Anne-Mhairi Simpson
A Haphazard Blog
It Only Happens to Me
Meredith Mansfield’s Blog
A Quid For the Quill

Congratulations to each of you. The choice is yours. If you accept this award, please follow the steps listed above.

Campaign Challenge: Absence

2011-09-08T10:51:00.000-04:00

For those of you looking for my post on National Buy A Book Day, scroll down below this post (after you read it).

In this post, I'm responding to the first challenge in the Platform Building Campaign. Here are the guidelines followed by my story:

Write a short story/flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, including a poem. Begin the story with the words, “The door swung open” These four words will be included in the word count.

If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), use the same beginning words and end with the words: "the door swung shut." (also included in the word count)

Absence

The door swung open, creaking on unused hinges. Rachel leaned forward and studied the man slumped in the chair across the room.

“Sam?” Her voice croaked. She swallowed and tried again, a little louder. “Sam?”

The balding, elderly man jerked awake, snorting.

She giggled at the memory of the sound.

His red-rimmed eyes focused on her. “Rachel?” He rushed to her side. “You’re here.”

Those words used to pain her, but now, she felt thanks for the few times she heard them. “Yes, dear Sam, I’m here.”

Sam knelt beside her and ran a tender, gnarled hand down her cheek.

“How long?” Rachel asked. He looked older than she remembered. She didn’t dare check her own reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall beside her.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sam’s eyes spilled gentle tears, and he swiped at them. “You’re here now.”

Irritation spiked in Rachel’s heart. “No, Sam. How long?”

The haunted look that washed into his gaze gave her a moment’s regret.

“Four months. You missed Christmas.”

“And our anniversary.” Rachel sagged in the chair.

“Fifty-two years.” He leaned in to kiss her.

Rachel shrank back from the old geezer leaning over her, and the door swung shut.

National Buy A Book Day

2011-09-07T17:57:00.000-04:00

Did you know that today is National Buy A Book Day? Yep, it surely is. So, my question to you is what are you waiting for? Go out and buy a book. Or...stay in and buy a book. It doesn't really matter as long as you buy a book.

Why?

Because books, in any form, are worth having. I could go on and discuss the relative merits of this concept, but Philip Athans does a much better job on his blog, Fantasy Author’s Handbook, so check it out and go buy a book!

For those of you who prefer a simple process, these are the steps Philip suggests in his blog:

1. Go to a bookstore (or anywhere that sells books, including online)
2. Pick out a book
3. Buy it

Seriously, how hard can that be? And with that note, my work here is done, but please feel free to comment and tell me what book(s) you bought.

Fantasy Breeds Intelligence

2011-09-03T13:58:00.001-04:00

A few days ago, I joined the Writers' Platform-Building Campaign sponsored by Rach Writes. I've never done this before, so I'm not sure what to expect. So far I've visited several blogs of fellow campaigners and some of them have stopped by mine to say hello. That's pretty cool.

So, I figured I might need to tell these new visitors a little about my writing. I've been writing/creating stories for as long as I can remember. My reading tastes are eclectic, but my favorite genre to read is Fantasy. I love fantasy because it stretches the imagination in ways we haven't considered. For those of you who don't read fantasy, it's not as simple a form of writing as you might think. Reading fantasy takes brain-power. The worlds are complex, the characters involved in numerous problems, and the subplots abound like rabbits multiplying. You've got to keep your wits about you to keep up, and that's what makes it so much fun!

I do read other books on occasion, but I quickly return to fantasy because my mind needs a little more work to do. It keeps me fine-tuned and ready for action.

I didn't start out to write fantasy, but writers don't really choose what they want to write. The characters choose us. Imagine a friend who continually seeks you out and won't leave you alone. The more you avoid them, the more they bug you. Finally, you give in and discover what a wondrous creature this person is.

My favorite fantasy authors, by the way, are Patricia McKillip, Sara Douglass, Elizabeth Haydon, George RR Martin, Robert Jordan, Faith Hunter, CE Murphy, and Sarah Addison Allen (who manages to show up in general fiction, but it's definitely fantasy).

Who and what do you read and/or write? Inquiring minds--remember mine is always seeking knowledge--want to know.

For Me The Help Meant Love

2011-08-23T18:23:00.000-04:00

The old black woman stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in soapy dishwater. Stacks of used plates lay on the counter, surrounded by wadded cocktail napkins and glasses of partially drank punch. She took her time with the dishes, cleaning them slowly, wiping at unseen specks, except when the hostess walked into the kitchen. She then hurried through a few dishes and resumed to her previous pace when the hostess left. Even though the lady told her she could go on home, the black woman continued, insisting, "There's too many dishes to leave for you."

Two hours after the party ended, the front door opened and young voices filtered down the hall. Two teenage girls came giggling into the room. They stopped, looked at the old woman, and ran to hug her.

Smiling, the woman dried her hands. She didn't need to stay any longer. She could leave. She had seen the girls.

I wrote the above paragraphs as an assignment in my high school Creative Writing class years ago. I'd forgotten it until I read The Help by Kathryn Stockett. The old woman I wrote about was Bessie Stevens. She wasn't our maid, but she helped care for the four of us as well as many other kids in the Clemson area. Bessie worked for Clemson University, and in the evenings, she took care of children. When Mom and Dad went out of town for several days, Bessie stayed with us.

I'll never forget her laugh. It filled the house with such joy. It was impossible to be upset or mad when she was there. I remember forcing myself to stay awake until Mom and Dad came home on the evenings Bessie took care of us. If I succeeded, I then begged to ride with Dad as he took Bessie home. Something about curling up in the backseat while returning her home safely, gave me a secure and cozy feeling.

When we got older, we didn't see Bessie very often. She came to our weddings, and we might run into her at some catered event. The story I wrote in high school actually happened. She insisted that Mom needed her help, but once my younger sister and I returned home that evening, Bessie announced she was ready to go home.

I sent Bessie a Christmas card every year well into my adult life, until one year, her granddaughter returned it with the news that Bessie was gone. I still miss her.

I can't explain the love that forms between families and the black women that worked for them, but it's strong. I don't doubt that the uglier accounts in The Help happened in parts of the South, but I'm thankful I didn't live in a household that disrespected the women who gave so much of their love and care to our lives.

The Dreaded, Evil Fitted Sheet

2011-08-11T17:57:00.000-04:00

My Uncle Wayne reads my blog on a regular basis and often leaves amusing comments and anecdotes. When he sent me the following story about trying to follow an instructional video on folding a fitted sheet, I asked him if I could use it for one of my blog posts. He agreed as long as I shared the video that made it look so easy. So without further ado, I offer you the humor of my Uncle Wayne Gladden.

A couple of weeks ago I received an instructional video for the proper folding of a fitted sheet. I thought it was so good that I forwarded it to several friends. First, you should know that I have been fighting a courageous, but losing, battle with the dreaded, evil fitted sheet for several years. As I watched that video I began to smile, smirk and gleefully rub my hands together. I now had the secret weapon to win the war! Oh, it was hard waiting until it was time to change the bed linens, but I told myself that delayed gratification always made the prize sweeter.

The day arrived! My eyes popped open, I leaped out of bed, stripped it, and before the sheets were cool they were in the washer. The washer seemed to take forever. While I waited I put fresh linens on the bed. The washer was still washing. I took my dog, Penny, outside telling her that this was going to be a great day. Came back in. Washer still going. Fixed breakfast. Washer still going. Ate breakfast and cleaned up. Washer stopped!

I threw the linens in the dryer and waited. And waited. I was primed and ready. The second the dryer stopped I yanked open the door and unraveled the fitted sheet from the load. Then I removed everything from those sneaky pockets that all fitted sheets have. You gotta watch em, they like to hide socks and things in those corner pockets. Holding that sheet out still warm and unwrinkled, I raced to the bedroom calling for Penny to come and watch. She obeyed and followed, but I thought I detected an “Oh, this ought to be good!” look on her face.

I remembered the instructions:

Turn the sheet with the outside facing you.

“Got it!”

Find the lengthwise corners and hold one in each hand.

“Got it! Oh yeah, this is good.”

Tuck the right corner into the left corner.

“Got it. Yeah!”

Now tuck the lower right corner into the upper left corner.

“Got it! Hey Penny, is this good or what?"

Next, tuck the lower left corner into the upper left corner.

Lower left corner into....left corner? There’s got be a lower left corner. I know there is. Has to be. Can’t find it. I search, I slide, I turn. Ah! There you are. Nuts! with all that searching and sliding the other three corners have come untucked. I think Penny fell asleep.

SECOND ATTEMPT. Same as the first except I kept a sharp eye on that elusive lower forth corner. It could run, but it couldn’t hide. When the time came I tucked that sucker!

Now with your right hand hold the other end and give it a gentle shake to even it out.

Well, I don’t think that the instructor actually said that, but she did it. At least, I think she did.

Lay it down on the table (I didn’t have a table, so I was using the bed. Same thing, right?) Fold this end over.

"OK, OK, got it."

Now, do a trifold.

"Got it."

Now one last fold and you are done.

"OK, one last fold and......OMG!"

It was then that I remembered something important: Hey, I’m a guy! Nobody expects a guy to be neat. Why bother? I looked at Penny. She had a paw over her eyes. She wasn’t going to tell. I grabbed up that pile of evil fitted sheet, jerked open the linen closet door, shoved it in and slammed the door shut before it could escape.

SCORE: EVIL FITTED SHEET 2. WAYNE G. 0.

As promised, Uncle Wayne, here is the video that made it all sound so simple. If it's any consolation, when the video shifts to laying the sheet on a table, I think she played a switch-a-roo. We don't see her lay the same sheet down that she was holding. We have to assume she did. Hmmmm.

As for the rest of you...What do you think? Does it work?

Kindle a Love for E-Reading

2011-07-26T21:43:00.000-04:00

Last November, I joined the ranks of e-book readers. My unread books still wait for my return, hoping that some day I'll give up on the electronic wonder and return to the tactile pleasures of a hardback or paperback book. Not to say I've only read digital books since November, but that's almost true.

I took my time, researching the Kindle, the Nook, and the IPad before selecting the Kindle. I absolutely love it. Why did I choose Kindle? I like to read outdoors. The other e-readers didn't provide that ability. The IPad tempted me with all of its extras, but I wanted a device for reading books. I didn't want something that provided alternatives to one of my favorite pastimes--reading.

I can vouch for the fact that you CAN read your Kindle outdoors, and, if you buy the cover with a light, you can read in just about any lighting. I've only found one place where I couldn't read the screen--under a red cabana at the beach. It happened by accident. The lifeguard gave our blue cabana to someone else and stuck us with the red one. The sunlight through the red cloth rendered my Kindle screen impossible to read, but I couldn't read my Droid screen or a magazine, either, thanks to the red infusion.

I LOVE my Kindle: it's lightweight, thousands of books lurk just beyond my fingertips waiting to be downloaded, and I can get new releases immediately downloaded to my Kindle. How fantastic is that?

If I complain about anything, it's the loss of excursions to the bookstore. Since childhood, bookstores have tantalized me with the promise of many worlds to explore. I can't browse the e-bookstore the same way. A point a fellow writing friend of mine pointed out in her blog a few weeks ago.

I think e-readers are here to stay. Have you succumbed or are you a hold-out for the pages of a book?

The Mini-Van Race Car

2011-07-13T22:32:00.000-04:00

Picture this: a white mini-van ignoring all traffic rules, roaring along Atlanta's I-285, weaving and zipping between lanes. Who was that stupid driver? Me!

But let me explain:

"Mom, I need you to come. I'm in labor." (Phone call from my pregnant daughter.)

"Are you going to the hospital now?"

"No, I've got time. Just get here as soon as you can. The contractions are too strong for me to drive. I need you to take me."

No problem. Right? Wrong! My daughter lives three hours away. After gaining her promise to call an ambulance if things got too close, I hit the road.

When I say I hit the road, you have to realize that it was Friday, July 1, the first day of the Independence Day weekend. Highway patrol lurked in hidden spots along I-85 ready to nab drivers stupid enough to speed on a holiday weekend.

My body strained to fly, but I squashed that urge for the first two hours. Once I hit Atlanta, I floored it, weaving in and out of traffic like a crazed race car driver.

4th of July holiday traffic clogged the six lanes ignoring my hazard lights, horn blowing, and flashing headlights. I swerved into the far right lane only to get stuck behind a little old lady driving a Chrysler 3000 well below the speed limit. I honked and flashed and beeped to no avail. The drivers in the lane to my right flew by, unwilling to make way. When I finally did get over, I ended up behind another Chrysler 3000. What's the deal Atlanta grannies? Drive 50 mph in the right lane, or better yet, get off the interstate.

After a quick stop to pick up the baby's father, the trip went a little better. We approached the exit stuck in the far left lane. He hung out the window flagging people aside. This is the part that really terrifies me when I think about it. I have no idea how I got to the exit ramp. None of the cars would let us over, and I know I overshot the exit, but I got over somehow. I'm pretty sure I blacked out during that part.

After running several red lights, we reached the house. My daughter's partner scooped her up and carried her to the car. I grabbed my four-year-old granddaughter and her car seat.

My car screeched up to the Labor and Delivery entrance at 12:55pm. My grandson, Amari, entered the world just 32 minutes later!

So, if you happened to have spotted a crazy lady racing a white mini-van like a deranged soccer mom on Friday, July 1, I make no apologies, just the admonishment that you don't mess with this grandmother!

Pitch Perfect Pain: The Battle of the Query Letter

2011-06-28T12:05:00.001-04:00

I write for a living. I possess a graduate degree in professional communication. If you need a training manual, marketing copy, business letter, or resume written, I'm your woman.

BUT...there's one aspect of writing that jerks me to a halt. Like a towering concrete wall, I struggle to surmount the task of writing that perfect query letter to an agent.

Now for some of my readers, the term query means setting criteria to retrieve a subset of data from a database. Those are easy, let me tell you.

The queries I refer to are letters written to agents persuading them to say, "Yes! Send me your wonderful novel. I'm dying to read it."

I got most of my job interviews by artfully spinning words in a cover letter, so you would think the query letter would be no problem. Alas, I wish it were so. Writers spend their precious free moments toiling at the keyboard, creating worlds of wonder and imagination. The minimum length of a novel is 75,000 words. My fantasy novel is around 104,000 words, but in the query letter, I have to give a persuasive taste of that world in one short 100-200 word paragraph. One short, punchy paragraph that seizes the agent with excitement and interest.

Argh! It plagues me. It frustrates me. If only they could see my pages...If only they would let me send the actual manuscript. Gone are those days when writers printed pages, boxed it up, and mailed it to a potential agent. We get one short email to grab the agent's attention and make them say yes.

And still I try...

One day, I WILL succeed. Meanwhile, I know other writers suffer and fight the same battle.

Query on, dear friends, query on!

The Compelling Power of Nature

2011-06-16T22:45:00.001-04:00

Decapitated tree

Thunder droned in the distance. Heavy clouds darkened the horizon, and neon-bright streaks of lightning cracked the sky. We urged the dog to hurry up with his business, so we could seek comfort and shelter inside. The rising storm distracted him, but we did get him inside before the monster hit.

Monster might sound strong for a thunderstorm, but this storm struck with vicious fury. Wind shoved trees into horizontal bows, and I peered out the window praying the pine tree's shallow roots would cling to the earth. Towering above the house, the pine tree struggled against the onslaught, bending further than imaginable. A loud crack threatened disaster and I dashed away from the window, bracing for the impact on our house. Remarkably the tree didn't fall, but later we discovered another tree in our back yard sheared in half, maybe struck by lightning.

That's NOT snow...it's hail!

Not to be outdone by the gusting wind, hail pummeled the yard and house. Parts of our yard disappeared under a white coating, the clatter of stones against the house deafening. I couldn't help but stand at the window and stare in astonished wonder at nature's furious power. The houses across the street disappeared in the heavy downpour of rain and hail.

After the worst of the storm subsided, we ventured outside to view the damage and snap pictures. As incredible a storm as it was, the local news later reported that no one was injured.

A few hours later, piles of hail remain

I've never experienced a tornado or hurricane, and I find it hard to fathom a stronger storm than this one, but the power behind this storm gave me a taste of the adrenaline rush that compels storm chasers to risk their lives. I get it now...I think.

April Showers Bring May ... Surprises

2011-05-31T18:18:00.000-04:00

We entered May with one major event on the calendar: our youngest son's, college graduation. Aside from Mother's Day and the dog's annual veterinarian visit, Nathan's graduation stood as the sole event of the month. Graduation went off without a hitch, and Nathan entered the world of the hopefully soon-to-be employed.

But, our dog's vet exam turned into two, the second one an overnighter. Doggie medicated (think $$$$), we looked forward to a relaxing Mother's Day weekend with my daughter, Tisha, and granddaughter, Victoria. During that weekend, we visited our son and daughter-in-law, Chris and Haley. The girls wanted to compare their pregnant tummies: Haley due June 9 and Tisha due June 27. On Monday, Tisha returned home.

Three days later, Tisha headed for the hospital in premature labor. Thankfully, the doctors managed to stop her labor. June 27 was too many WEEKS away.

All of this paled in comparison to the next event:

Haley's water broke!

Why were our grandchildren in such a hurry to see the world? I wonder what Victoria whispered to them on Mother's Day to get them so excited?

Our granddaughter arrived 3.5 weeks early. We hung on to every report and tried not to hover as the days in the neonatal unit dragged by. On day ten, our adorable little trooper passed her tests and headed for home. Yay, for Riley, already an overachiever according to her doctor.

It's the last day of May. June 27 is still 4 weeks away, so I'm holding my breath. We've had enough for May 2011.

Congratulations to Nathan (who's looking for a PE teaching job if any of you know of one) and to Chris and Haley and their beautiful new family!

Stay tuned for more news next month...hopefully near the END of the month, not the beginning!

Facebook's Effort to Save Your Friends

2011-05-18T22:19:00.001-04:00

I just found this status posted on a friend's Facebook page:

URGENT WARNING! Facebook now automatically scans your brain through your monitor. To block the scan, go to the kitchen, get aluminum foil, and wrap it around your head. Stay calm and breathe through your left nostril ONLY. This is a SERIOUS problem and has been confirmed by a friends cousin's girlfriend's neighbor's son's baby's mama and her pet chihuahua. Copy and paste as your status to SAVE YOUR FRIENDS!

As I read this post, I began to giggle. Why? I SAW my friend actually doing this. Yes! The image of her sitting at a kitchen table, exhibiting her quiet demeanor while she patted in place the aluminum foil wrapped around her head like a conehead. Then I hit the line about breathing through your left nostril only. My friend, head covered like a 1960's style aluminum beehive, laid a finger aside her right nostril and breathed as directed through the left one. (Yes, Valerie, dear friend, I pictured you doing this!)

Please understand, the only way Valerie might do this would be to tease us or entertain her grandchildren, but she has such a great sense of humor that it tickled me to imagine it. Maybe it's because she writes hilarious stories about characters who do and say silly things and take it seriously. Maybe it's because Facebook provides a forum for such imaginings.

I guess that's the real draw with Facebook. You read a friend's post and your imagination drops them in the room with you. I've reconnected with many friends from high school (and some who were nowhere close to being my friend) and it's been great. I've met my cousins, some who I've never met in person, but I feel close to them now. I keep up with other trainers and writers, learning what they are up to.

And rest assured, when my friend Valerie's book is published--and I believe it will happen for her--I will post about her success on my Facebook page, my blog, my Twitter page...You get the picture!

PS The link through her name above will take you to her blog.

When I Grow Up...

2011-05-04T22:44:00.001-04:00

The circus, under the big top, three rings of adventure...I gazed upward in awe, enthralled by the young woman sailing above me on the largest swingset I had ever seen. I wanted to be her. I was ten.

Time stopped for me during that trapeze act. She performed stunts and acrobatics with ease and grace. Her body flew forward and back, accelerating, until she flung herself into the air, reaching toward her partner. I wanted that freedom.

When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, most of my answers were typical--school teacher, nurse, model--but for a few years I told them a trapeze artist. That fixation usually turned a few adults' heads.

I still love high thrill adventure (see this previous post: She Flies Through the Air ). I'll never fly on the trapeze, and I'm OK with that. I found other dreams to pursue.

The one dream I never gave up on was to be a writer. I work on this every week. It will happen. I believe it. I refuse to accept anything different. I might not get rich doing it (few authors live on their writing income alone), but it's not about the money. It's about writing because I must.

I'm sure the trapeze artist of my childhood felt a similar passion for sailing through the air. Let's face it, you don't fling yourself thirty feet above the ground because it pays the bills. You do it because you must.

Many of our dreams fade as we grow. Others stay with us. What are yours? Any surprises out there?

All He Wanted Was A Muffin

2011-04-26T14:41:00.000-04:00

My husband, Bruce, gestured toward his meal and asked, "Isn't there supposed to be a muffin with this?''

The waiter had just delivered our four-year-old granddaughter's meal ten minutes after everyone else's. She looked at Bruce and said, "Raspberry or strawberry."

He frowned. "Is that all you have?"

"Yes. We're out of raspberry, so strawberry or apple," she said.

His frown became a look of confusion. "The menu mentioned blueberry."

"We're out of blueberry. You can have raspberry or apple."

Fighting laughter, I glanced at my daugher. Amusement danced in her eyes. I looked away and bit my lip.

Bruce tried again. "What do you have?"

"Raspberry, apple, or blueberry."

I fought back a chuckle and forced a bland look on my face.

"Blueberry," he said.

"Ok," she said and walked away.

She returned with a blueberry muffin that she handed to me and asked me to pass down the table to Bruce. I have no clue why she didn't bring it to his side of the table, but I wasn't going to ask any questions.

I'm not kidding, this really happened.

I teach communication and customer service skills on a regular basis, but I'm hard-pressed to explain what happened here. Often, miscommunciation occurs because the words or phrases we use carry a different significance to the other person in the conversation. I don't see how that would apply here. As for listening, she answered him everytime, but she gave him a different answer with each breath. Was she senile?

If I hadn't known better, I'd have said we were being punked. The waiter really seemed to want to give us good service. She didn't, and this example is just the tip of the iceberg, but you could tell she wanted to. It could be a job-training issue, but how hard is it to remember what types of muffins you serve?

So, since logic doesn't apply in this situation, I've come up with a writer's explanation:

Aliens abducted our real waiter right after she took our drink order. That's why we waited fifteen minutes for her to return with said drinks and take our food order. The alien replacing the waiter struggled to adjust to her new role- or maybe its new role. The alien could be gender-neutral, I guess. That's why so many things went wrong during this meal. And boy did they!

Anyone else want to take a stab at it? Let's have fun and create the best story to go with this.

The Case of the Crazed Cursor

2011-04-20T09:09:00.000-04:00

I stared in horror as my words sprinted off the screen. They flew toward the cursor with mindless abandon. Like lemmings they dashed for the cliff and plunged into the abyss. Was my writing really that bad?

I spared only a second for that thought and jumped into action. The Escape key didn't halt the steady climb of words blurring in their rush toward the cannibalistic cursor. The screen refused to recognize my mouse commands. Nothing worked it seemed ... even shrieking in frustration. I allowed a second or two of panic while I fought the surge of letters, but finally determined that this file wanted to sacrifice itself and turned to save the other three open on my desktop.

I hesitated. What if the mad cursor demon jumped the tracks and followed me? Two of the four files represented years of labor, my blood sweat and tears. But, what if it had already invaded? Raping and pillaging my work? I donned my cape of goodness and plunged in to rescue them.

I right-clicked on the first file in the status bar and the window popped open pure and untouched. My mouse flew to the close button, and I prayed as the file closed without a hitch. The next file closed, and then the next. That left my crazed file. I accessed the window, relieved to find its feasting over. Two pages gone, but forty-nine still there. The only problem? I had spent the last two hours refining all fifty-one pages. If I closed without saving, how many of the changes would evaporate just like those last death-bent pages? I Saved As and hoped for the best. Maybe I could merge the original file with the final and recover the stolen text.

Now, before my techie friends berate me, I am a software trainer, so YES! of course I saved and saved often. I practice what I teach, but was my last save five minutes or fifteen minutes ago? And YES! I have a backup of these files, but it's from last week. Inspiration struck with a vengence over the last few days and the new material wasn't backed up yet.

Which brings me to my dilemma. What happened? My virus scanners (yes, I'm paranoid and have two) claim no threats exist on my computer. My only clues are that I recently upgraded to the newest Internet Explorer version--which I detest by the way--and I accessed the internet from a hotel on Sunday, but I used the high risk settings on my security software.

FYI, I still don't trust the crazed machine, so I'm writing this from a different computer.

Any ideas, my friends? Or similar experiences?

Baby Eaglets: Fascinating Glimpse of Nature

2011-04-12T10:37:00.000-04:00

Imagine if you could watch the growth and development of three baby eaglets--just a few days old, nesting eighty feet above the ground, with very attentive parents feeding them aged rabbit, squirrel, or fish.

You can, but I must warn you, it's addictive. The Decorah Eagles Ustream provides a bird's eye view of the life of these lovely birds. but if you're not careful, you won't get anything done because of this video stream. Still, how cool is it that we can watch nature in action and not disturb the natural progress of things?

Here are a few of the FAQs from the website. I'll save you the time by listing them here, so you can go to the stream and watch instead of read. FYI, though, there are extended lengths of time where you only see one of the parents sitting on the nest, keeping the eaglets warm. When they feed, though, it's amazing.

How high is the nest?

About 80 feet.

How big is the nest?

about 6 feet across, about 4 feet deep; it weighs about 1000 lb.

How old is the nest?

The eagles built it in 2007. A previous nest close by fell when a windstorm broke one of the branches.

Are these eagles banded?

No.

Which is the male and which is the female?

It is hard to tell the difference unless they are both on the nest. The female is larger than the male. This female has a ridge above her eyes that goes further back than on the male, and her eyes are surrounded by a greyish shadow; the male has a line around his eyes that makes them look “beadier.” Some think that the male’s head is “sleeker” than the female’s.

What is the history of this pair?

They have been together since the winter of 2007-2008. Her markings at that time indicated that she was about 4 years old. They successfully hatched and fledged 2 eaglets in 2008, then 3 in 2009, and 3 more in 2010.

What is the area around the nest like?

The nest is in a cottonwood tree on private property near the Decorah Fish Hatchery (operated by the Iowa Department of Natural Resources), on the banks of the babbling waters of Trout Run in extreme northeast Iowa. The nest can be seen from the hatchery, but visitors to the hatchery should keep their distance from the nest tree, both to respect the private property where the tree is located and to avoid disturbing the eagles.

The site tells you how many people are watching (I've seen over 14,000) at a given time and there is a live chat onscreen, too. During one of the quiet times, scroll down and see the videos of the eggs hatching and other details and facts.

Let me know how long you end up watching. I've got it in bookmarked.

When Easy Cheese Isn't Easy

2011-04-06T21:10:00.000-04:00

Last night I ordered take out pizza. I don't do this often because I'm allergic to cheese, but white cheese is not as bad for me as yellow cheese, so I splurge every now and then.

I placed the order: two toppings with easy cheese. I thought about asking for easy cheese on only half, but the girl on the phone didn't sound too swift, so I didn't try to confuse her more than necessary. When I called my husband to tell him the price and how long it would take, I felt guilty about making him eat pizza with easy cheese. Afterall, he loves cheese. Why should he suffer because of my crazy digestive issues? He said not to bother, but I called the pizza place again.

After I identified myself to the girl I had spoken to only two minutes earlier, the conversation went like this:

Me: "I'd like to change my order to easy cheese on half, regular cheese on the other half."
Girl: "Wait. Is this the Texas pizza? With onions?"
Me: "No. Two topping, with--"
Girl: "With beef and tomatoes."
Me: "Yes."
Girl: "And you want regular cheese?"
Me: "Only on half. I still want easy cheese on the other half."
Girl: (long pause) "Ok. So which half?"

Yep. I felt real solid about that pizza coming out right. I texted Bruce to tell him what happened. His response? "You should have told her the top half."

Sadly, I think she wouldn't have gotten that either. Poor thing.

Of course, when we got the pizza, I didn't see any evidence of easy cheese at all. Oh well.

Celebrating Milestones

2011-03-29T14:18:00.000-04:00

This week, I celebrate two milestones. They're listed below, but not in order of importance!

I started An Eclectic Muse blog on March 30, 2010. Today I'm writing my forty-seventh post, and I'm twenty-five page views from hitting the 3000 pageviews mark. Not too shabby for the first year of my blog.

People in Suriname, Russia, and China have read my blog. Not to mention the UK, Netherlands, Canada, Hong Kong, South Korea, and Germany! Kind of humbling, if you ask me.

Some of the search phrases that led people to me are fascinating. For example, six people found me with the search phrase, "I hate Bob Evers." I have no idea who Bob Evers is, but I don't hate him since his infamy(?) led them to this blog. Four people searched "Scrooge Diary Phil Arnold" to find me. I know Phil (he writes Elvis Blog ), and it's exciting to get traffic through my friendship with him.

I don't know whether any of this data fascinates you or not, but it intrigues me. I'd love to see my page views hit 3000 this week. So, if you have a moment, help me out and share my blog! Either this post or one of your favorites.

As for the other, more important milestone, Bruce and I had something to celebrate this past weekend:

Seventeen glorious years of marriage.

It's gone by fast, and each day brings new joys. We started with five children between us, and told everyone who suggested we needed a sixth child to bite their tongue. We had our hands full with the five of them!

Now, we have a beautiful granddaughter and two more grandchildren on the way. Grandchildren are way better than having more kids of your own!

We've been blessed in many ways.

Not that it's always been easy. You can't imagine what Bruce has had to put up with to last this long! I came out with the better deal here, but he doesn't complain. That's one of the many reasons why I love him!

Spring Has Sprung

2011-03-22T22:53:00.000-04:00

Spring has sprung, at least where I live, although, it likes to play tricks on us, like this past Sunday when it turned cold for the day.

I love this time of year, although I must admit that autumn still holds first place in my heart. But spring, yes, spring holds a close second place--so close that if it was a race, you would need a photo finish to see the winner.

Every year when the weather turns warmer and the air feels cleaner, even lighter, I find myself repeating the following lines in a silly, sing-song voice:

Spring has sprung, the grass is green,

I wonder where the birdie is.

The only problem? I can't recall the rest of the poem. So, I googled it. Wonder of all wonders, I don't even have the first line correct! The only website I found with a semblance of this poem stated the first lines as:

Spring has sprung, the grass has ris',

I wonder where the birdie is?

It goes on to complain about a bird flying overhead, leaving white droppings in the poet's eye. It finishes with gratitude that cows can't fly. I swear that's not the poem I recall. Am I wrong? Have I repeated the wrong lines for, well...forever? As far back as I can remember (and that's longer than I care to admit), I've recited the lines the other way.

Do you recall my version of this poem? One where the grass is green rather than ris'? Please, someone out there tell me that my memory hasn't completely failed me.

NOTE: I didn't find any reference to the poet's name, so if you know it, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due.

Springing Forward

2011-03-16T21:19:00.000-04:00

Wake up!

Thanks to the crazy idea that we save power by changing the clocks, we sprang forward this past weekend. I don't know about you, but spring doesn't describe how I feel about the whole process. I try to get to bed early on the Saturday night when we lose that hour, but it never seems to help. For one thing, my body doesn't think it's time to sleep, so, I'm wide awake. I drag around the next day, and often, for several days.

It didn't help this week when I had several earlier than normal mornings. Just something else to add to the fun of confusing my internal clock. It's now Wednesday, and I'm still tired. I've noticed over the last few years that I struggle with the time change more now than when I was younger. Anothe

r great benefit of growing older.

Oh, and don't forget the dog. He knows when he gets up, when he gets fed, when he goes out. He can't read a clock, but you can tell time by his anxious begging at the appropriate hour. Except, now he's confused. What? You want to feed me? Now? Yippee! He loves this change, but just wait until we fall back. Then he'll be anxiously begging an hour too soon. Poor puppy. At least I know why it's different, even if I don't like it.

There is a silver lining, thank goodness. I love the long daylight evenings. Once I adjust to the new time, that is.

What about you? Do you love the time change or hate it?

An Apprentice, Survivor, and American Idol Walk Into a Bar

2011-03-10T14:49:00.000-05:00

Nope. I don't have a punch line to my title, but it felt appropriate since so many reality shows are in full swing this month. You may or may not watch them, but I find certain ones enthralling. Keep in mind, I'm a professional trainer, so human dynamics and team work are my bread and butter. And, as a writer, I study how people interact and think. It fascinates me!

First of all, there's Survivor. I don't think I've ever missed more than two episodes since the show first aired twenty-two seasons ago. I'm so glad I didn't miss the defeat of Russell, the ultimate bad guy, last night!

Then there is The Apprentice. I prefer the show without the celebrity cast, but it still fascinates me. Professionalism and business savvy require certain skills, and I often wonder how the candidates manage to get selected. Granted, we only see what the TV editors think will make for a good show. What hits the cutting room floor in any of these shows probably sheds truer light on the situations. Still, as a trainer, I get so many good ideas from this show, and I use them in my training classes. Even with the celebrity casts, I find nuggets to use. I haven't decided yet whether I'm glad Richard Hatch, the first ever winner of Survivor, is on this season, but it does make for interesting TV. I hated him in Survivor, and I'm pretty sure I won't like him on The Apprentice, either.

What else rounds out my reality likes? The Amazing Race and American Idol. I don't get into Dancing With the Stars or any of the other dance-related shows. I can't take the judge who adds her shrill squeals to her evaluations of the dancers. For a true confession, I did get sucked into The Bachelor this season. I don't typically watch it, but the publicity prior to this season intrigued me. Bring back a bachelor who didn't pick anyone last time? Hmm, interesting. To be honest, I've found Brad Womack a bit annoying this season, but thanks to Michelle, the show entertained me. Seriously ladies, this is NOT the way to meet your future spouse!

OK, so an Apprentice, a Survivor, and an American Idol walk into a bar? What's the punch line? Anybody?

Lessons From a Four Year Old

2011-03-02T14:48:00.002-05:00

Kids say the darnedest things. Art Linkletter knew it, and, years later, Bill Cosby followed up with an updated version of the same amusing and charming television show. The truth is kids do say things that make you stop and think or chuckle.

Last week, my four-year-old granddaughter spent several days with us. I had to laugh when she walked through my bedroom, glanced at the skirt I was deciding whether or not to wear, and said, "That's cute." She sailed right on out the door. Where did she get that from? FYI, the skirt is cute, but I didn't wear it.

But the funniest thing she said came during bathtime. Every time she takes a bath at our house, she likes to pretend she's a coffee shop barista. One night last week, it went like this:

Victoria: What drink would you like?
Me: Grande vanilla soy chai.
Victoria: Hmm. We don't have that. How about a big apple juice?
Me: Ok.

She began "mixing" the drink scooping water or soapy foam into the cup.

Victoria: It needs lots of sugar may.
Me: What's sugar may?
Victoria: I don't know... I work here.

Just before she said that final priceless sentence, I found myself thinking, yep, that's what a lot of employees would say: "Don't know and don't care." Then, she added that last, perfect jewel. Wow! Even a four-year-old gets it.

I teach customer service classes to a variety of businesses, and when we discuss our own customer service horror stories, someone usually mentions getting this kind of response. It's unfortunate, but even in today's business climate, you will find employees who just follow procedure and don't ask questions. As trainers and employers, we need to make sure the employees know the what and why behind their tasks.

Writers, we can use this tidbit, too. Our characters sometimes do things that they don't understand. They just do it, and, as in real life, it often gets them into trouble. As writers, we must make sure that we know the what and why even if our characters haven't figured it out yet.

Victoria is just four, and I may be biased, but I think my granddaughter is very bright to have picked up on this problem easily enough to integrate it into her play. Kids don't pull punches, they tell it the way it is.

Legacy

2011-02-16T15:47:00.000-05:00

Images from yesterday roll through my mind on a continuous loop. I can't press the Escape key and stop them. All I can do is recall past memories, the ones beyond yesterday, to soften the difficult images in my mind and remind me of the truth and blessings of knowing such a special person.

A life well-lived, is a gift to us all.

What is your legacy? Whose lives have you made better?

Can you answer these questions?

I witnessed one special woman's answer to these in vivid detail yesterday. In just a few short years, her grace and compassion touched people from many different walks of life. She extended so much to everyone she knew when, she herself, had very little in worldly gains. She gave riches beyond compare, and no one will ever say she wasted her days.

So, I ask you again:

What is your legacy?

Whose lives have you made better?

If you don't know the answers, then I hope you will begin a journey to discover them.

Watch Out, Barracuda!

2011-02-08T10:58:00.000-05:00

Last week I did something that many of you will not understand. I paid a dentist to put braces on my teeth. I must admit, it took a lot of soul searching and mouth pain to go there again. These days, you don't end up with a mouth full of chrome, but you do still have a mouth full of hardware.

One day into wearing them, I wanted to go back and say, "Take them off!" Of course, I didn't. I've already paid for the six months of treatment, so that would be pretty stupid. Plus, I haven't forgotten why I decided to do this at my age either.

Funny, when we're kids, we have little choice. We get braces because our parents say so. I was excited when I got them at age 11. My best friend had them, and I felt like I was joining a special club. Over the two years I wore those braces, many of my classmates joined that club. At an age where being different frightened us, braces were NOT different.

At my age, wearing braces ARE different.

I keep telling myself, it's only for six months. Once they're off, I'll get a permanent retainer behind my teeth, and I won't find myself in this boat again. I just wish that the orthodontist of my youth had had told me to continue to wear my retainer at night. But who am I kidding? Wearing a retainer, even if it is just at night, is not attractive. I probably would have ignored the advice.

So, once again, I'm barracuda or barbwire, whichever nickname floats your boat. I heard both of them alot as a kid.

How about you? What have you done in your adult years, that you can't believe you agreed to, much less paid for?

Unexpected ... Again

2011-02-01T17:14:00.000-05:00

With our announcement of two new grandchildren arriving in June, my thoughts kept returning to my essay, Unexpected, published in Child of My Child: Poems and Stories for Grandparents. (Incidentally, the journal appeared regularly in Amazon's Bestsellers list through December.)

This week, we learned that one of my daughters might be carrying a baby with Downs Syndrome. We're a couple of weeks from knowing the test results, but I keep lingering on the title of my essay. This possibility is unexpected, and even though the circumstances in this situation are far different from the ones in the essay, I'm going to post that essay in this week's blog to remind us of the blessing of a child in all circumstances.

Unexpected
I hoped that my daughter misread the symptoms, that she wasn’t pregnant. Not because I didn’t want grandchildren, but because of her circumstances. This cherished daughter of mine stumbled onto the wrong path in life in her early twenties and had wandered down a rugged, pot-holed overgrown trail from her misguided choices. She was not ready to be a mother, and I was not ready to handle the responsibility if and when she fell apart.

Her pregnancy forced me to wave good-bye to the freedom my husband and I had come to love and enjoy. Our marriage started with five children, so we greeted our empty nest years with great anticipation.

What I forgot is the power that a baby carries with it. The overpowering, inexplicable surge of unconditional love that I felt with my children was now my daughter’s due. I saw it form in her as her due date drew near. Not to say that she did an about-face in her behavior, but her life picked its way back towards a better, more traversable path.

Still I feared her ability to make the right decisions. I grieved over the few medical options available to an unemployed mother-to-be. I cringed when I took her to appointments, afraid to touch anything that came in contact with these people who obviously did not understand the responsibility that their actions required of them.

Then, my granddaughter entered the world.

I could not believe it. I stood by my daughter’s bedside while she labored and watched this tiny little girl emerge into the uncertain world of a single parent home.

All parents know that the love we experience prior to parenthood holds a small flame to the force and the power of the love that sweeps into your soul at the birth of your own child. Believe it or not, the birth of your grandchild carries a stronger, more potent love.

This is the child of my child.

You know more of what the world can do to harm her, and you want to protect her from all of it. The knowledge that you can’t frustrates you even more, building a stronger will to protect and love.

Because of her mother’s circumstances, they lived with us for the first 16 months of my granddaughter’s life. This prevented me from spoiling her like most grandparents do with their grandchildren, but I gained something greater. In her world, I became part of the foundation of her life. Her home held Mommy, Babbie (her name for me), and Granddad. Besides her Mommy, we became her favorite people in the world.

She is now three years old. When I greet her, her grin stretches from ear to ear and she breathes out my name with joy, “Babbie.”

When my children were little, I couldn’t wait for them to grow up and walk and talk and meet the milestones of childhood. The time flies by even faster now, but this time I beg it to slow down. I want to hang on to those days where she seeks out joy and comfort in us. I hope to be that grandmother who will always be cool and worthwhile to the growing teenager that she will quickly become. I want to be the shoulder she cries on when love lets her down.

But most of all, I want her life to take its time getting us there. I want my sweet, precocious grandchild to have a lifetime of childhood first.

__________________________________________

No matter the circumstances, a baby brings love into a home. That's why I keep returning to the words I wrote a year ago. My heart is full.

As a sidenote, a few people have asked how to obtain a copy of Child of My Child. I have a few copies available, or you can order it from Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

Fighting the Battle

2011-01-25T10:11:00.000-05:00

When warriors gather the enemy becomes anxious and plots a counter-strike. The strategy might be to beat them to the punch, infiltrate the troops, or even attack while they sleep. I experienced this first-hand at the Christian Communicators Conference this past weekend, a gathering designed to equip women to provide encouragement to others through the gifts of speaking and writing.

On the second night, our facilitators, Vonda Skelton and Carolyn Knefely , danced off to bed in excited triumph. The day's sessions proved that the women assembled in this lovely lakeside home held the power of the Spirit in their hearts and could truly minister to other women.

Then the enemy struck.

He chose to sneak into our camp at night and destroy with doubt and fear.

I struggled with my own shortcomings, uncomfortable with my abilities when measured against the phenomenal women gathered in this house. In no way did I believe I could stand up and share my love of the Lord with the same knowledge and passion that they demonstrated.

But wait, I wasn't alone.

The next morning, Vonda called us together to begin the next session, and the truth began to flow. One after another, we heard of the late night battles fought by these holy warriors and the brink of defeat that Satan drew each of us toward. Story after story tumbled from our mouths.

"I can't do this."

"Who am I to think that I can lead others in their love of the Lord?"

"My life doesn't reflect Him well enough to stand before others and proclaim Him."

The Spirit moved in that beautiful sun-drenched living room that morning and we shared, confessed, laughed, and cried. The truth is that Satan saw the strength behind our testimonies and conviction and fought back in the way he does best, with stealth attacking each of us one at a time.

The victory is not Satan's though. The Holy Spirit prompted us to speak of our fears the next morning. Imagine our amazement when the truth revealed itself in our simple sharing. We are the army of the Lord, and when we put on the holy armor of God, we can do anything!

To God be the glory, great things he has done!

Brief and To The Point

2011-01-18T22:14:00.000-05:00

Tuesday only has a couple of hours left, so I'm getting this post in under the wire. I'll be off the internet grid for the next five days, so I've been getting ready for the lack of technology. Should be a good thing. Really!

Anyway, I'm headed for the Christian Communicators Conference tomorrow morning. I'll spend five days with other like-minded women, working on my writing and presentation skills, and learning how to develop the business side of public speaking.

I know it's ironic that I'm leaving for a communications conference and submitting a very brief post this week, but that's how it goes sometimes. Hopefully, next week, I can enlighten all of you with the wonderful new knowledge I will most assuredly obtain this week.

Until then...

Breaking News

2011-01-11T11:13:00.000-05:00

The snow storm of the south made big news around here yesterday, but I have bigger news to share. So forgive me if I ignore the wintry white beauty outside my window while I tell you about one of God's other great blessings.

In June, Bruce and I will become grandparents again ... twice! No, not twins, even thought that was a possibility. Our daughter-in-law, Haley, is due in early June. This is a first baby for Haley and our son, Chris, so it's pretty exciting. They told us at Christmas, then put us under gag order until this past week so they could tell the rest of the family and friends. We're excited, but I must admit a few years ago, I couldn't imagine Chris as a father. He avoided holding babies like the plague! Luckily for him, Haley works as a nanny and has tons of experience with babies... which means, he now has a lot of experience, too.

But that's only one baby, right?

Our daughter, Tisha is due in late June! How about that? Two in the same month. Several of my blogs feature our granddaughter Victoria. She even graces the blog page picture with me. Victoria turns four next month, and in June will become an older sister. I can't believe it! She says the baby can't be a girl, though. Hmm, we'll see how that goes.

So, this summer, if you see Bruce and me walking around with goofy grins, you can decide whether to ask a grandparents' favorite question: "Do you have pictures?"

And, so you snow bunnies don't feel slighted, yes, we had a snow storm this week. "Huge" in South Carolina terms since it was truly snow and not sleet and we got 7 1/2" here in Greer. People say we don't get this kind of snow around here, and that's true ... now. Am I the only one who remembers the huge snows we had in the early 1970's? Schools closed for a week and the snow (and eventually ice) stayed on the ground and roads for days. Fun times!

I close with a photo taken from our front porch yesterday. Stay warm everyone!

Bragging Rights Anyone?

2011-01-04T17:02:00.000-05:00

If you’re like me, you received a few end-of-the-year letters from your friends. You know the kind. The one where they tell you about the past year. In my experience, there are three categories for these letters: fascinating, fun, or full of oneself.

My uncle used to write one that entertained while it informed. His sense of humor made it easier to swallow the cheesy parts. One of my cousins took up this practice a few years ago. Bonus! Her letters are NOT cheesy, just filled with fascinating information. A friend of mine writes this type of letter, too. I chuckle through it because she doesn’t take herself seriously.

Another friend sends us an end-of-year poem. In one page, he contrives to give us a quick update on everyone while exercising creative wordplay. I fail miserably as a poet, so I admire this imaginative approach.

Then there is the “my kid’s better than your kid” letter. The whole family excels at work, school, play, and volunteering. Watch out, one of these days they will walk on water.

Most of us don’t send an end-of-year letter because we can’t find enough positive things to tell. Afterall, aren't these letters supposed to make us feel better? Maybe they would if they told the ugly truth, just once.

Here's what it might look like:

In January, Jimmy closed a major deal with a big client. With his bonus we bought a new house and enrolled Susie in private school.

In March, the big client went out of business. Jimmy’s employer cut his salary and, in April, laid him off. In June, we moved into a tiny apartment which is OK since the lenders took all of our furniture along with the house.

In July, we found a way to deal with rising gas prices—let the bank repossess your cars! I found a job as a housekeeper at the Holiday Inn Express, where I can walk to work.

Susie started a new school in August. We told her it was nice to see how the other half lives. She qualified for the free lunch program since we’re now on food stamps. We’ve all lost weight and look very slim and trim!

Jimmy still couldn't find a job, so, in October, he solved our money woes! Now he resides at the state penitentiary and gets three meals a day. Since Susie was in the car when he held up the convenience store, she now lives with her foster family in a nice home in a great school district. They let me visit her on the weekends.

In November, the Holiday Inn Express let me move into an onsite efficiency, and I started working the front desk.

In December, Social Services decided that Jimmy acted without my knowledge, so Susie came home. Thanks to Angel Tree, and Jimmy’s foresight, we had a great Christmas!

Hope you did too! Happy New Year!

Katie, Jimmy, & Susie

Fine Print: All persons in this letter are fictitious and used for the pure purpose of entertainment.

I don't know about you, but I might feel better about my shortcomings after reading this letter. Wouldn't you?

Silliness aside, Happy New Year everyone!

Only Six Shopping Days Left: The Third Blog of Christmas

2010-12-19T17:11:00.000-05:00

This year I still have Christmas shopping to do. A lot of it! It's frustrating because I like to finish at least a week before Christmas, but events conspired against me this month. Oh well. It is what it is.

Yesterday, I rushed to the post office to mail my daughter's Christmas presents to California. She's not coming home this year, which makes me sad, but I wanted to be sure that her presents got to her in time. Normally, I send them UPS and let them do the packing for me, but this year Heidi explained that the UPS package pick-up spot is a long way from where she lives. She asked me to use the US postal service. Ugh!

The line ran through the door when I got there, gifts in tow. At home, I could not find a suitable shipping box, so I needed to find a box there. Of course, none of the often-advertised flat-rate boxes fit, so I had to go with something a little more pricey.

As I struggled to find the right box, I discovered the true nature of this season. One elderly gentleman assisted me with the box. Another person helped me find a smaller box that still worked. A third person loaned me her packing tape (yes, I forgot to take that with me), and the elderly gentleman that helped me before held the flaps down so I could tape it all up. And on top of it all, the postal clerk was helpful and smiling when I finally struggled up to the counter at my turn.

It did cost more, but it's nice to know that people still lend a helping hand when they don't need to. So, as you hurry to and fro with your last minute efforts, remember those kind people in the post office, of all places, and extend some comfort and joy to those around you.

Merry Christmas to all!

Tis the Season For Santa and Scrooge

2010-12-12T18:41:00.000-05:00

OK. So I'm going to let you in on my guilty little pleasure ... at least the one I enjoy at Christmas time. Once we hit December on the calendar, the TV stations start running Christmas movies. Yep. That's right, Christmas movies. Believe it or not, I love to watch these movies, no matter how sappy or corny they may be, I love them.

Of course, there are some great classics out there - A Christmas Carol, Miracle on 34th Street, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, It's a Wonderful Life - but the movie doesn't have to be a classic for me to watch it. What can I say? I just love to watch these movies.

A few years ago, I spent a large portion of December fighting off a nasty virus that laid me low for several weeks. During that time, I discovered not only how many Christmas movies there are, but, also, the limited number of themes present in the made-for-TV Christmas movie. There are two main types. One category focuses on a Santa Claus replacement or relative. The other finds its roots in A Christmas Carol, following a peron who doesn't realize how miserable their life is until someone or something divine interrupts their normal life. All of these movies end with a feel-good, happily ever after kind of ending. I'm embarrassed to admit that I often shed a tear during those touching moments.

If you've missed out on these amazing offerings, then just tune into Lifetime, Hallmark, or ABCFamily to find them. I rarely watch these channels the rest of the year, but that's where the Christmas movies live. And never fear, if you miss one, it will repeat, often immediately after it ends. Right now, I'm watching one of those Scrooge knock-off movies with Nancy McKeon. It's not great, but I'm still watching.

So, in December, I turn off my corny TV censor and let all of the sappy, feel good movies in. That's my guilty Christmas pleasure. What's yours?

Christmas Wish List (Barbara's First Blog of Christmas)

2010-11-30T11:34:00.001-05:00

7:55AM. My fingers hovered over the keyboard waiting. Tension hunched my shoulders and adrenaline rattled my arms. I felt like a horse in the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby.

All I want for Christmas is an agent, and for one lucky writer, The Knight Agency wants to grant that wish. To enter, I had to be one of the first 125 people to post a comment on their blog starting at 8:00AM.

I refreshed the window every few seconds, waiting for the entry blog to appear at 8. I set my cell phone alarm, so I wouldn't miss the time. At 8, the blog appeared. I scrolled to the Comments link, amazed to find that no comments had posted yet. Did I really have a chance?

By the time the comment window popped up, sixteen comments showed up on the blog. Don't panic, just type.

I typed it short and sweet and hit publish.

Oh no! An error! (Basically, too many people clicking on Publish Comment at the same time.)

I hit the back button, prepared to type again. There were already 93 comments. Yikes! An even shorter, to the point post. I hit publish and it went through as number ... 143.

Deflated, I started to put my laptop away, but I couldn't stop checking the totals. Plus, hope still bloomed since one lucky non-winner gets a chance to submit their first chapter for a critique. It could be me, right? I keep going back to the website. Curiosity beckons me like a wrapped present under the tree.

And I learn that this morning's response overwhelmed Deidre Knight and her staff, and one more person will get a shot at sending Diedre a query today. Someone drawn from non-winners posting before 8:30. My post went in at 8:02, so maybe ...

Of course, I'll pursue the more normal routes, but Santa, really, all I want for Christmas is an agent!

Michael Connelly, Steve Berry ... and Bob Strother

2010-11-16T17:48:00.000-05:00

In August 2007, I discovered a state-wide, non-profit writing community, South Carolina Writers' Workshop (SCWW), and quickly became involved in the organization. Since then, I've rubbed elbows with agents, editors, and authors including Michael Connelly and Steve Berry. I can't list everyone I've met. Several of them are not household names, yet, but one name you should learn is Bob Strother.

Bob Strother's work has appeared in a number of literary journals and magazines, and he was recently nominated for the Small Press Pushcart Prize. His stories explore our innocence and our dark sides, always making the reader stop, think ... and often cringe. I've enjoyed listening to Bob read his forays into the world of human nature, lulled by his voice which sounds like Dick Estell of NPR Radio Reader fame.

That’s why I’m thrilled to tell you about his upcoming print collection of short stories: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered.

Here's a taste of what you will find in Bob's book:

From "Madison 2-Forever"

Roger Dougherty caught a glimpse of his humped shadow on the hallway wall and immediately looked away. Gnome, he thought. And then he smiled. Not at his grotesque, arthritic image, which had sent more than one Trick-or-Treater scurrying wide-eyed back to mommy, but because he had remembered an appropriate word. He said the word aloud: "Gnome," then, "troll," then … that was as far as he got. Arthritis and Alzheimer's--another big double "A" battery that kept going and going and going. He could recall the propeller beanie he'd worn as a child but not where he'd hung his hat the previous evening.

From "Hungry"

The eight-pound sledgehammer connected with McConnell's forehead at a velocity of almost ten feet per second. He dropped like a cow in a slaughterhouse.

From "Flying Jenny"

The summer of 1935 was as hot and dry as any I could remember. Sixty-two years later, I can still feel the peculiar tickle of that harsh season's sweat snaking its way down over my ribcage as though it were something alive and seeking escape. I can see the sun-parched grass and the initials "A" and "J" etched with a finger on the toes of my dusty Buster Browns. It was the summer I was forced to abandon forever all my eleven-year-old certainties.

Intrigued? Scattered, Smothered, and Covered is scheduled for release in February 2011, and you can pre-order a copy now at a discount price of $9.

Congratulations Bob!

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-09T12:16:00.000-05:00

My blog title violates one of the basic tenets of good communication I cover in most every training class: don't use jargon if your audience might not know the meaning of the term. Still, I broke the rule. Any idea why? I'll explain at the end of this blog, but for now, I'd like to tell you what NaNoWriMo means.

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) began in 1999 with a group of writers in the San Francisco Bay area. NaNoWriMo draws writers and would-be writers together in November to each write a 50,000 word novel. It's a no-holds-barred approach to writing. Just write! Get it down and dirty, but get it down.

Most writers know that first drafts never look pretty anyway, so the goal of NaNoWriMo isn't as far-fetched as it seems. Even so, this is my first year trying to do it. Why? November ain't the easiest month for me to commit to writing 50,000 words. November has elections, my birthday, several friends' birthdays, and Thanksgiving, not to mention the onset of Christmas shopping and craziness.

Last year, a friend of mine did NaNoWriMo. It gave her a huge jumpstart on her novel. She's doing it again this year, and four days into the month, I decided to jump on the band wagon. Yes, you heard me correctly, with all the barriers November presents, I still signed up 4 days late. I hope to hit the 50,000 mark, but even if I don't, I'll have something to show for it. I tend to be very goal-oriented, so the numbers I generate will drive me forward.

And the NaNoWriMo website generates a chart that tells me how I'm doing on my goal. That's pretty cool. How many words do I need to write to catch up today? It tells me. (By the way, the answer is 1929 words per day, not as easy as it sounds.)

So, this month, my blogs may be shorter since my writing time needs to focus on the 50,000 word goal. The blog can't count toward my goal, so there you have it.

Oh, and why did I break the rules of good communication in my blog title? Simple. Blog traffic. Other writers might find this blog by searching for NaNoWriMo. They know what it means!

Vote for Your Rights

2010-11-02T17:20:00.001-04:00

It took twenty-two minutes total—from my house, to the polling place, to vote and return to my house. That's it. I did choose the middle of the morning, but with all the media talking about the impact of this election, I thought I might have to stand in line for a little while. Nope. I waited three minutes before the volunteer escorted me to a booth.

I hate politics, so I'm not going to riff on who I voted for or who should win, but I can't help but feel a little put out when I'm the 77th person in my precinct to vote at 10:45 am. Seriously? My husband went a couple hours later and he was 98th. What a turn out.

My parents raised me to vote in every election. It's a right that so many people take for granted. I realize with the negative media, it can be confusing, and a little overwhelming, to decide who to vote for, but with a little research you should be able to make a decision.

No, the candidates aren't perfect. Last I checked, I wasn't perfect either. I make my decision on their overall stance. Do their positions on the issues align with mine? Once I weed out the negative press, this makes it a little easier to decide. Beyond that, I do look at why the candidates are running for office. If I smell a rat, I don't vote for them. But, then again, most of them have an unpleasant odor about them, don't they?

Enough said. If you didn't vote, you can't complain about what happens next. By the way, none of us know what will happen, but at least voters try to influence that outcome.

Did you vote?

You Might Be A Writer If ...

2010-10-27T18:19:00.002-04:00

View of sunrise from my hotel room at SCWW conference

I spent last weekend at the South Carolina Writers' Workshop (SCWW) 20th Annual Conference in Myrtle Beach.

Conferences give writers the chance to rub elbows with the powerful in the publishing world--agents, editors, and published authors. We pitch our work and commiserate with other would-be published authors while learning more about the craft and industry.

This year's keynote speaker, Joshilyn Jackson, shared her circuitous, and humorous, route to publication with us on Saturday night.

She reminded us that only crazy people try to write. Why? Well, if you're a writer, you:

Spend most of your day alone, typing (or staring) at a keyboard
Examine mundane objects trying to create a new and exciting way to describe them
Venture out in public to analyze the behavior of normal people (you do this everywhere you go, actually)
Wake up in the middle of the night with the most amazing prose running through your brain
Get up and write down those musings in the middle of the night or pray that you'll remember them by morning
Do not remember those musings by morning, of course, because you're awake
Live in an imaginary world where everyone behaves as you expect them to ... well, sort of
Love your characters more when they do something you didn't expect and hijack your story for a while (see point above)
Wonder what other people do with all the free time they must have
Try not to act like a crazy person when you finally get to talk to an agent about your work
Read books noticing all of the mistakes in point of view and adverb over usage, wondering why that author got published anyway

I created this list in a short period of time, but it can go on and on. What makes us writers? The desire to share, to tell. The pressure of words bubbling up in our brains, yearning for release into the world of print.

What makes you a writer? Or if you're normal, what makes you what you are?

No Texting, Email, or Babies

2010-10-20T22:11:00.000-04:00

Picture from: http://romain-levesque.com/page/12/

I have a ground rule for my training classes that I call Electronic Etiquette. I ask participants to turn their phones off or put them on vibrate or silent mode. Any calls must be taken out of the room. About a year ago, I had to expand this rule to include texting, email, and the internet. Sometimes, I just have to shake my head at the inability of people to recognize what is or isn’t acceptable.

Not all training disruptions involve a lack of courtesy. Sometimes, people show up without pen or pencil. Really? You’re going to spend all day in class, and it didn’t occur to you that you might need to write something down? I carry extra pens and pencils, now. It’s just easier that way.

But, sometimes, an unexpected challenge comes along that you just can’t anticipate.

This week, a woman in my class kept shifting in her seat, taking deep breaths, and rubbing her very pregnant belly, I asked her when she was due.

She smiled and said, “Three weeks.”

I nodded and asked the obvious question, “Are you OK?”

Her hand paused on her belly, and she gave me a sideways glance. “I might be in labor.”

I immediately suggested she head for the hospital, but she told me she’d been having contractions off and on for months. She did admit these pains felt different. She was waiting for a call from her husband.

I asked how long she’d been having contractions. She told me since 4 a.m. In other words, seven hours!

Not long after that, she left and did not return. I’ve never been so glad to see a student go!

During the mid-afternoon break, we learned the doctor sent her home. She planned to return to work the next day.

Wow! I guess I need a new ground rule. What should I call it? Gestational Etiquette?

Miner Success Is Major

2010-10-13T19:23:00.001-04:00

The world stops to participate in very few events. Drama and crises dominate our news, but how often do they grab everyone’s attention? It’s rare. Even rarer are the success stories that the media deems newsworthy.

Today, the world did stop for a drama that promises a feel-good success. As I type this, people still watch and wait. Why? The rescue of the thirty-three miners in Chile. What an amazing story! Over two months underground in a small space—limited supplies, no true sanitation, crowded together whether you like each other or not.

It’s a nightmare. One initially estimated to last until December.

Nightmares bring us together. The miners’ nightmare ends well. Better than well, it ends successfully. Of course, I’m jumping ahead because five are still underground at this moment.

Remember when you first heard of this catastrophe? Then we heard how long the rescue effort would take—four months!. Who would have thought these miners had any chance or that rescue would come this soon?

But today, we celebrate life, we celebrate ingenuity, we celebrate the unquenchable spirit of the miners and the team focused on this outcome. Our hearts go out to their families, and if you’re like me, you choke up at the sight of the little boy hugging his father, you smile at the miner hugging everyone and leading cheers after reaching the surface.

And at the end of the day, you appreciate your loved ones a little more.

Photo from: http://www.nydailynews.com/news/world/2010/10/12/2010-10-12_chilean_miners_rescued_after_69_days_underground.html

That Thing I Do

2010-10-05T22:52:00.000-04:00

Do you know that I love the word that? In fact, I love the word that so much that I use it in every possible situation that presents itself to use that. That’s right!

Thanks to great feedback from a friend who read my work in progress, I discovered my overuse of the word that. In fact, without her feedback, I would have written the last sentence to say: I now know that I love the word that.

Thanks to the Find feature in Word, I resolved to correct this problem. After two hours, I was up to page fifty! Two hours later, I had made it all the way to page eighty. Woohoo!

What? How long was this going to take?

Like any good writer, I still had a copy of my original file, so I opened it and ran a Find All. It counted 1241 occurrences!

Yep. That’s right.

One thousand ...

Two hundred ...

AND Forty-one ...

Do the math. If I spent an average of sixty seconds on each occurrence, trying to decide whether to delete, edit or change the word, it would take me twenty hours.

Luckily for me, it only took me twelve hours. Ouch!

Now, my novel has a lot fewer occurrences of “that.”

And that’s the truth.

At least, I know what word to watch for. Do you?

PS Thanks Valerie!

Silver Linings

2010-09-29T21:29:00.000-04:00

Ever have one of those weeks? The kind that you want to toss away and pretend it never happened? I’ll spare you the details, but last week I began trying to figure out what went wrong with the math. Bad things happen in three’s. The only problem was that I was looking at multiples of threes!

I’m no stranger to difficulty. Years ago, I found a Bible verse that’s carried me through much darker times, Psalm 118:24:

“This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

Even before I learned that verse, I discovered the saying:

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

Both of these resonated with me from a young age, and no matter what happens, I’ve tried to apply them to my life.

By last Sunday, I had completely forgotten this outlook. Thankfully, the women of my church had a special plan in place for the Ladies’ Breakfast that morning. They gave each of us a journal… An Attitude of Gratitude Journal.

Our speaker, Vonda Skelton , reminded us that no matter what’s happening, we are blessed in so many ways. The challenge? Each day, for ninety days, write down five things we’re thankful for. The catch? Don’t repeat the same thing for thirty days.

Wow! This was just what I needed. Something to force me to focus on the good things, find the silver lining again.

Do you think you could do this? It’s really helped me.

What a blessing!

Mom, The Powerhouse of Our Family

2010-09-17T12:57:00.000-04:00

My mother celebrates her eightieth birthday this week. As I pondered this milestone in my mother's life, I decided to write about my childhood memories of her.

Shocked, I realized that specific memories escaped me. Instead I found a general feeling of presence. And I asked myself, "Why?"

The answer was obvious. Mom permeates everything about my youth. She gave birth to me, rocked me, and sang lullabies to me, even if I was too old when I asked. She cared for us, cooked, and cleaned. On rainy days, she popped popcorn. On snowy days, hot chocolate and a warm fire waited to thaw us out when we tumbled back inside. Mom, the powerhouse that fueled every moment of her family's life, provided the threads that knitted us together. Better than the cotton that claims to be the fabric of our

lives, there is Mom.

My specific memories focus on points where she stepped out of the solid background of our family and showed a different side than I was used to: the day she took me out of school early because my best friend's mother had committed suicide and my friend wanted me by her side; the afternoon after my oldest sister's wedding when Mom disappeared to a quiet part of the house to cry; a tumble down the stairs that left my formidable mother lying in the floor, my younger sister and I hovering, unsure what to do. She even taught me where to kick when a very large girl began bullying me in the seventh grade (luckily I never had to try that kick). Each of these stand out because of the contrast with the smooth world she created for us.

Of course, there are other memories that stand out. Unlike my siblings and father, Mom and I are not afraid of heights. She's the one who rode the Ferris Wheel or Roundup with me. She danced us around the kitchen, the tango typically her favorite, ending with a dip at the end. And in Putt Putt, Mom usually got the hole in one and the best score.

She's there morning, noon, and night. Not overpowering, just contributing to our lives in the way that mothers do. Thank God for Mom.

Happy birthday Mom. I love you.

The Mental State of My GPS

2010-09-07T18:07:00.001-04:00

I think my GPS suffered a nervous breakdown this morning. That's the only explanation I have. I turned it on when I got in my car and keyed in my destination address. Once he (yes, my GPS is a he) found the satellite, he showed my car four-wheeling through fields. He kept telling me to turn on to the road that I was already driving on! When that didn't work, he told me to turn on a road that was two streets over. According to him, it was three hundred yards ahead on the left.

I guess the symptoms have been there. Last January I nicknamed him Bossy Aussie for the way he kept yelling at me:

"Recalculating."

"In 300 yards, make a U turn."

"Make a U turn NOW!"

"Recalculating."

Then when I passed his point of no return, he demanded:

"Make a U turn Now!"

"Make a U turn Right NOW!"

"Don't make me come out of this box! Make a U turn RIGHT NOW!"

Ok, maybe he didn't say that last one, but he did start making imperious demands. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. All I did was make a detour to Starbucks, sheesh!

Then, a month later, he started taking his time finding the satellite. How hard can it be? Clear sky, familiar territory, but he just can't find the stinking thing. Good grief. By the time he deigns to find our location, we're not there anymore.

Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I shouldn't ask him for directions and then ignore him. But let's face it, he doesn't always choose the best route. Sometimes, he sends me through lots of traffic. Or off on some strange road. Gotta ignore that, right?

I guess it might be because he doesn't know where he lives. What can I say? My husband pointed out that it's not smart to save our actual home address in the GPS, so I saved a spot nearby, so any would-be car thieves will only find a field, not my home. So poor Bossie might be confused. Why do I wake him up somewhere else? Does he think I'm a bad influence, not sleeping where he KNOWS our home must be?

Maybe it's an ego thing. I did use the GPS on my cell phone once or twice, but only because of Bossie's "locating satellite" issues. It's nice to get the directions before you've gone too far out of your way, right?

But I came back to Bossie Aussie. I like his voice. His screen has a little meat on it, as opposed to my skinnier-than-thou phone with its small print. Bossie and I have traveled so many roads together.

I guess I should probably stand by him during his darkest hours. Maybe tomorrow I'll let him make a few U turns, too.

Anyone know a good GPS shrink?

She Flies Through the Air

2010-09-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

Imagine spending forty-five minutes riding an old school bus to the top of a mountain in Icy Strait, Alaska only to be pushed off the mountain top and hit the bottom ninety seconds later. That’s what happened to me exactly one year ago today.

Now before you start wondering who pushed me, let me clear up the confusion.

I chose to do this.

I even paid to do this.

What’s missing? That Icy Strait hosts the ZipRider, the longest and highest zip line in North America. It’s 5330 feet long with a 1300 foot vertical drop that accelerates riders to sixty miles per hour within seconds of their release.

The zip line has six lines, so six of us took the plunge at the same time. The launch structure looks like the gates used during the start of a horse race. You strap yourself in, brace your feet on the gate, and wait for the operator to release the gate and brake. For a split second, I felt a rush of fear while the operator counted off our launch, “One, two, three, go!” Except he didn’t launch us. We all laughed, and , surprise, that’s when he let us go.

Woohoo! What a rush! We plunged down the mountainside, wind rushing through our hair, trees flashing by. If I spread out my arms, the line slowed … a little. At the bottom, the line leveled out within seconds of hitting a humongous spring. No danger of not stopping, by the way. These springs were heavy duty.

My husband and I zipped down at the same time, so we don’t have video of our ride. We could have taken the camera with us, but we decided to enjoy the full experience rather than focusing on recording it.

You can visit the Icy Strait website to see the information on this zip line and watch a video shot by someone during their ride.

This year, they've started taking pictures for the riders. Now, why couldn't they do that last year? Oh well, I guess I'll just have to go back!

Sneaky Subscriptions

2010-08-25T22:08:00.000-04:00

Quick, check your magazine labels. Or better yet, if you have elderly family members, check their magazine subscription labels.

Even though we canceled my Dad’s subscriptions when he passed away five years ago , my Mom recently told me that US News and World Report is still sending their magazine to my Dad. The first thing I did was check the mailing label. My mind spiraled in shock when I read the expiration: “FEB40.”

My Dad was an extremely smart man, but as he got older, his health declined, and he would get confused. Telemarketers assured him they were saving him money with each renewal. They just never bothered to tell him when his subscriptions expired.

Of course, I made an immediate call to US News & World Report. The customer service representative apologized and offered to stop delivery, which I accepted. Then, she proceeded to give me phone numbers for three different telemarketing companies.

Three!

Each company sold him several renewals. Thirty plus years of renewals!

So, I called the next company, locating five different renewals. BUT this company was only a data processing center, and NOT the agency that sold the renewals. That representative gave me three more phone numbers to call.

Are you counting? Now I had six numbers to call!

After an hour of calls to nine different companies, I managed to cancel six years of the subscription. And those six years were through the same company. Another company never answered the phone. It just rang and rang. Not a good sign.

The last company I called shed some light on how a subscription might be renewed for over thirty years—an unconscionable act in my book. A few years ago, US News & World Report switched from a weekly to a monthly publication, changing a one year subscription of fifty-two issues to over four years worth of magazines. I did the math. A six year subscription became a twenty-six year subscription with that one decision.

The question is whether the six years that I managed to cancel today was six years of a weekly or monthly? I’m guessing that I’ll never know.

So, go check your labels. Let me know if you find any surprises.

The Magic of a Toy Story

2010-08-17T23:08:00.000-04:00

Magic lingers within the confines of a movie theatre. Anything can happen. Love is lost and found, families deal with struggles, ridiculous events shape people’s lives, and various structures might explode. It’s incredible!

I love movies, if you haven’t figured that point out yet. I love selecting that perfect seat, settling in with a bag of popcorn and a Coke, and allowing the story to absorb me for a few hours. Luckily, for me, my husband enjoys the experience as much as I do.

This summer, we’ve checked out several of Hollywood’s contributions to the big screen. I won’t bore you with the details of each movie. I want to talk about my favorite from this summer.

I usually don’t expect much from a sequel, and even less if it’s the third in the series, but this summer’s Toy Story 3 challenged that opinion. I recommend this movie to everyone who has not seen it.

The idea of toys seeking their childhood friend in college-bound Andy broke my heart. I’ve watched my granddaughter play with some of my old toys this summer, thrilling over the places that her imagination takes her. The very toys that sparked my creativity years ago still have it! As do Woody, Buzz, and all of their playmates. They’re not fancy, based on today’s standards, but true imagination doesn’t need a lot of extras.

I challenge anyone to watch Toy Story 3 and NOT shed a tear or recall some of their own forgotten toys. I found myself wondering about a wind-up bartender that I had when I was five. He poured a drink, took a sip, and smoke came out of his ears. Now today that’s not an appropriate toy for a child, but I loved it! I guess he broke, because I know I never sent him to the curb for the trashman, the horrible fate that frightens the Toy Story 3 characters.

I won’t spoil the movie for those who have not seen it, but I will say that you might not look at your cast-off toys quite the same way again. It’s well worth the price of a movie ticket … and a bag of popcorn…and a drink… and maybe some Twizzlers! Just don’t forget the tissues.

A Taste of Success

2010-08-11T21:38:00.000-04:00

Writers write because they have to. You may have heard that before, and I can tell you it’s true. Not all writers care whether they are published or not. I do care.

This past Sunday, while returning from a movie, I decided to check my email on my phone. An email's subject line, “Greer writer featured,” jumped out at me. I wondered who I knew that had sent out this notice of their achievement. With a small twinge of envy, I opened the email.

I was the Greer writer mentioned in the email!

Last February, I submitted an essay to an anthology for grandparents, and in March, I learned that it had been accepted. The anthology would be published in September.

The email I received on Sunday was the book’s press release featuring me. How cool was that? Open up an email only to discover my own press release? But the excitement didn’t stop there. After I closed out of my email, I got to thinking about the book’s title, Child of My Child. It sounded so familiar. I was almost positive that my essay had that same line in it. As soon as I got home, I looked at my essay, and sure enough, there was the line.

The press release provided a website, so I checked it out and found validation there. It said:

“That title, by the way, is borrowed from a wonderfully resonant image offered up, in slightly different forms, by two contributors to this volume: Barbara Evers and Karen Neuberg. It is both a powerful image in its own right and a fitting umbrella for the wide range of experience and emotion contained in this book.”

It doesn’t get much better than that!

You can check out the website and order the book here:
Child of My Child: Poems and Stories for Grandparents

My essay is titled, Unexpected.

See you in the book store!

Trainers Just Want to Have Fun

2010-08-04T21:15:00.000-04:00

Sometimes training participants come back from break or lunch a few minutes late. Well, OK, this happens a lot of times. Years ago, I decided to create a fun penalty for tardiness. If you were late, you had to tell a joke, BUT it had to be a clean joke. If you couldn’t think of a clean joke, you had to sing a song … of my choosing: My Bologna Has a First Name or I’m a Little Teacup. My classes embraced this idea, and the number of late arrivals went way down. When students were late, we heard a good joke or had a musical interlude. If the participant sang Teacup, my students insisted that they act it out, too. Who knew?

One day, a student screeched through the doorway, just seconds before the deadline. She smiled at me and said, “Someone tried to stop me, but I told them I had Barbara, and they had to tell me a joke to stop.” The person didn’t offer a joke, and she didn’t stop. The class loved it.

One note to keep in mind, this tactic does NOT work with sales people. I tried it once, and only once. Several of my students lingered just outside the door until they were late. They all had a joke to tell!

And then there was the class that turned the game on me. I always returned from lunch at least five minutes early. But on this day, I walked into a room full of waiting students. They shook their heads and pointed at the clock. I was late! Confused, I checked my watch. It said I was early. I shook my wrist and tapped the watch dial, deciding the battery must be dying. I shrugged my shoulders and told a joke. Then, they took the clock off of the wall and reset it to the correct time. Bazinga! They got me.

Although I rarely use this method these days, it started my journey of finding wacky ways to liven up the day and keep us laughing while learning. A little fun never hurt anyone.

Blood Hounds

2010-07-27T17:30:00.001-04:00

Imagine taking your four-legged tail-wagger on a car trip…to the canine blood bank! Believe it or not, these facilities do exist. Rover just hops up on the table, rolls up his cuff—er—flips out his paw, and the donation begins. It makes sense. Dogs suffering from diseases, anemia, and injuries need blood transfusions.

Last night, while I drove home from my local writers’ group, this story on John Tesh's radio show caught my attention.

Tesh cited CNN and Dr. Ann Schneider of the Eastern Veterinary Blood Bank (EVBB) in Maryland with most of his information. It turns out that dogs have six major blood types, but depending on the breed or mix they might have a dozen! Wow. Talk about some intricate DNA.

And some large breeds are universal blood donors—greyhounds, retrievers, labs, boxers, pit bulls, german shephards.

Abraham

Of course, my first thought was of our lab mix, Abraham. How would he react to regular visits to donate blood? According to Dr. Schneider of EVBB, ideal donors are laid back (check), healthy (check), and weigh over 35 pounds (double-check). EVBB screens the pups before the process, hugs them throughout the event, and gives them treats. If a treat came afterward, I know that Abe would get the hang of this over time. The main road block to Abraham is his age. He’s seven. Or is he eight? Dogs should retire from donating blood at the age of 8 ½.

A few other points worth mentioning:

• Dogs can’t give or receive blood from humans or cats. The protein in their blood is different from ours and felines'.

• Veterinarians deal with a shortage of canine blood year round, but the worst times are spring, summer and fall.

• Some veterinarians handle the shortage by keeping dogs on hand just to donate blood. A dog can donate about every two months, but vets prefer to use an animal who goes home to a loving family afterward.

For more information, you can check the following websites:

Your Pet Can Help Save Lives By Donating Blood

Blood Bank Helps Four-Legged Patients

Or call the Animal Blood Bank Hotline at 800-243-5759.

Save the Pandas

2010-07-20T23:31:00.001-04:00

Don’t let my blog title fool you today. Yes, I care about the environment and animal welfare, but the pandas I refer to currently reside on my dresser.

Last night I dreamed that I was contributing to two donation circles. I’m not sure why the items needed to fall into the circles, but they did. Anyway, I dropped a wedding gown in one and firewood in the other. I felt nothing during those two decisions. Note, it was NOT my wedding gown since it was white and mine was peach, so don’t start analyzing that part.

Anyway, the next thing I grabbed to drop into the donation circles was my two stuffed pandas. The smaller one, Teddy, has been with me as long as I can remember. It belonged to my sister first, and she gave it to me when I was small. Teddy doesn’t have any fur left, but I think that’s my sister’s fault, not mine. Over the years, he’s been re-sewn and washed many times. I asked for the larger panda a few years ago at Christmas. He came from the Bombay Company store in the mall and reminded me of Teddy. The two live together on my dresser.

So, the moment I dropped the two bears into the circle, a great remorse swept over me. I stepped forward to save them and something fell from the sky and exploded on the ground in front of me. I jumped back wondering if the explosion meant something. Was it judgment for depositing my pandas? Was it an attempt to prevent me from saving the pandas? Did my decision to pull the pandas out of the circle save me from being hit by the explosion?

I rarely remember my dreams and the details of this one are fading quickly from my memory. I don’t believe in dream interpretation, but this one stuck with me throughout the day. Why? I’m guessing sometime in the near future I’ll find a way to use it in a story. Many of my stories do come from my sleep-infused brain. In fact the main plot of the novel that I’m trying to get published appeared to me first in a dream. The story itself is far different than that dream, but it provided the seeds to what eventually became a 103,000 word novel.

Now if I can just get an agent and editor to agree that it needs to be published!

The Best Laid Plans

2010-07-08T15:27:00.000-04:00

For the last two months, I looked forward to this week. With Greenville Tech closed for the holiday, I planned to get some things done around the house, work on my writing, and read some good books. Maybe even get together with friends for lunch. The thought of this week got me through a demanding schedule in May and June.

It's Thursday now, and how have I spent my week? Bouncing balls on the front porch, playing with Fisher Price toys (a circus and train from my childhood) and coloring. I have read some books--Curious George, The Ugly Duckling, If You Give a Cat a Cupcake, If You Give a Pig a Party--just not the ones I planned to read.

So what happened? My daughter is a single parent and suddenly got transferred out of town. She started work this week in the new location, but she still doesn't have a place to live. So...my beautiful, three-year-old granddaughter is staying with us.

A fun week, but definitely not the week I planned. Gotta go now. She's tired of finger painting after ten whole minutes! Too bad it's too hot for the park.

Oh well, I guess I need another vacation!