The World Does Work

For Christmas I received a beautiful quote that I intend to frame. I wanted to share it:

“The same God that placed that star in a precise orbit millennia before it appeared over Bethlehemin celebration of the birth of the Babe has given at least equal attention to the placement of each of us in precise orbits so that we may, if we will, illuminate the landscape of our individual lives.”

Author — Neal A. Maxwell

Some call it synchronicity, karma, coincidence, kismet or a multitude of other words to describe how the world works. One thing I know for certain — the world does work. I have always believed that people come into my life for a reason. And I do not believe it is coincidence. Recently another close friend shared an astounding story with me – a story that most certainly supports my belief.

She has been ill for a few months and has missed a great deal of work; well over her allotted sick days. As her income fell to zero and her savings were eaten up with medical bills, someone she does not know particularly well came to her aid. He presented her with a check for an astounding amount of money to cover her upcoming procedures. She met this person through a mutual friend about a year ago. Their paths, most assuredly, would never have crossed. They do not work in the same profession and definitely don’t socialize in the same circles. But their mutual friend made an introduction that proved to be prophetic.

She has not cashed the check, and she may choose not to do so, but she was shocked that someone she barely knew had entered her life for a reason; someone loving and generous; someone who simply wants to help another human being. No hidden agenda, no care if it’s ever repaid — simply a gift at the right moment in place and time.

Look at the people who surround you, especially individuals you may have recently met. Consider whether you were placed here to help them, or if they were sent with a life lesson or a gift of love for you. In some of my darkest hours when someone has left my circle, I have forgotten to look back and appreciate the many gifts that person brought me during our time together. I’m trying to remember that God placed me in that spot for a very particular reason and that I need to appreciate even the painful memories.

What do you mean it’s 2014?

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I looked at the calendar today and wondered where the past month had gone. It had literally passed me by, and without warning, I realized January was winding down. I convinced myself at first that I had nothing to write these past weeks. Then convinced myself that no one would care anyway. Whether there is truth in either of those statements, it was time to end the hiatus from the computer.

Stepping into my office felt strange. I crossed the threshold and felt my blood pressure rise. I swiped an inch of cat hair off my chair. I finally sat down and pressed the on button. I checked back to my progress with novel submissions. None. I checked the last date on my blog site. Before Christmas. I sat and stared out the window, went to the kitchen for soda and a snack, and returned to once again face a blank gray screen.

Writers are funny creatures. We can block out the world for weeks, causing our friends and family to resent our lack of social contact. Internally we scream, “leave me alone” when the phone rings. We isolate, go internal and create worlds we hope some one will someday want to read. And then… The switch goes off and we have no time to leave our lives to venture into our office, go inside our heads, create anything at all.

But we cannot stay away from it forever. Eventually a muse whispers, an idea calls, our guilt becomes too much to bear and we return to the eternal blank page to fill it. Christmas was simple and wonderful as always, due to my adult children who were kind enough to give up Christmas Eve to take me for cataract surgery and stay with me over night. It was easy to pretend I couldn’t see well enough to prepare Christmas dinner or do much of the cleanup either. I highly recommend it.

In the past weeks I’ve had difficult news from friends with health issues, including the big C. I’ve busied myself with projects around the house, re-planted part of my garden and harvested the rest. I’ve shopped the sales and bought virtually nothing. I’ve seen a few movies and gone to a Broadway show and toured the new Mormon Temple in Gilbert. I’ve been quite busy. Way too busy to write.

But today I completed two submissions for my novel, pulled out a short story to revise, and tried to write a blog, which unfortunately turned into this. (hey, anything is better than nothing, right?) I’ll do better, I promise myself. I will find that muse and wring her neck if she doesn’t appear very soon. In the meantime, if any one reads this boring missive, Happy New Year and may 2014 bring health, hope and love.

Temptation of Technology

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As I waited in the Verizon store for the young man to set up my replacement phone (yes my phone taken on Wednesday – another story), he mentioned a sale on tablets. For one second my heart sort of leaped and then settled down. I shook my head.
I have a Kindle Fire, a laptop, a smart phone and a smart TV. I can barely use any of them. I learn daily. I live with the manuals. I don’t need another tech item sitting in a charger each night.

Every one who has a tablet loves them. iPad, Galaxy —. I looked at the Microsoft tablet a year ago and seriously considered. My son, Mike, loves his Nexus!

It was tempting for about a minute, but I caught myself before I could even ask “how much”. Would I use it? I would try. How often? For what? I don’t even have a DVR on my cable network – the last person (white, middle-class) who doesn’t. The cable company is also having a sale right now, and it’s probably time. It’s great to be able to choose when you want to watch TV and to tape a show you will miss without it. Or so they tell me.

But- I sort of enjoy looking forward to watching The Voice on Monday and Tuesday night and my Wednesday sitcoms – The Middle and Modern Family. My daughter and I text back and forth – What is she wearing? What a horrible song choice. Man, he is good!

Last year Sunday evenings meant Downton Abby on PBS and Hell on Wheels on AMC. My son and I bet on whether or not one of the main characters really died in the car crash at the end of the season. Part of the enjoyment for me is the anticipation. Turn off the phone, grab a snack, curl onto the couch.

Would the shows be less entertaining if I could simply push a button and watch one or two episodes whenever I wanted? Would it just be tempting to watch even more TV? Of course it never fails. Seven o’clock on the dot, friends and family seem to always call! Then I have to choose – guilt if I ignore the call; irritation if I take the call and listen distractedly with the show rolling in my peripheral vision!

Most of this new technology allows us to look at a screen non-stop for hours. Netflix, you tube, cable TV, movies and games. Instead of what? I ask. Well – a walk outside in nature, neighbors, phone calls, visits, even socializing in the aisles of the Walgreen’s on the corner. Hiking, playing a board game. Reading! – ah, my favorite past time.

No, I don’t need a tablet, thank you. Not this year. Now the DVR? I’ll have to consider that one. I’m rather tired of the guilt I endure each week.

In bookstores now

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An anthology of short stories, essays and poetry titled Grandfather, Father and Me is now in bookstores and on Amazon. An essay I wrote about my dad was chosen for this publication last spring. The piece also won a second place creative writing award at MCC last year.

Since many of you have mentioned that you enjoy reading short pieces, I wanted to let you know that the publication is now on bookshelves.

Also still available are the anthologies Grandmother, Mother and Me as well as Celebrating Christmas with: memories, poetry and good food. I have enjoyed writing for these anthologies and hope you will enjoy reading them.

Yikes, I’m how old??

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Birthdays are something I’d prefer to forget these days. I reached the age of “dread” many years back. I know that the alternative isn’t great and I’m the first to admit that I am fortunate to feel and look younger than my years. My health is good; my hair is colored (and always will be); I’m only a few pounds over weight at the moment; and I have only one pill bottle in my medicine cabinet. So I “get” how fortunate I am.

However, my age is right there on my driver’s license and it bugs me every time I look at it. Plus my oldest turns 40 tomorrow and if I’d had her at sixteen that wouldn’t be a big deal but I had her when I was 28! So… That being said …

I sort of dreaded waking up to another birthday this morning but I got dressed and headed to the elementary school where I volunteer each week. Low and behold, when I walked into the room, I was greeted with a Happy Birthday, cha cha cha! that raised the roof, cookies, and eighteen of the most wonderful hand-made birthday cards I’ve ever seen.

Being a year older was worth it at that moment. Seeing their excitement and their big grins made me feel it inside as well. Excited… to be here, to have a birthday, to be recognized and appreciated. Kids are so good at appreciating life. I was thrilled to be reminded of that. And I guess one more year isn’t so awful. But please I refuse to have one in two more years, ok??!!

Inspired or Intimidated?

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Two weeks ago I was fortunate to attend a reception in honor of Amy Tan given by the Virginia Piper Center for Creative Writing/A.S.U. The first book of Tan’s I ever read was The Joy Luck Club. I remember reading her characters and dialogue and being in awe of her writing. I was in awe as I stepped forward to be introduced to her as well. I made small talk for a moment asking where she had flown into Phoenix from, admiring her lovely dress that she remarked was her air conditioning dress. We laughed and I told her how she inspired me to keep writing and shared my few recent publishing accomplishments. She seemed genuinely pleased and told me to keep writing and submitting. As I listened to her presentation later that evening, I sat in the audience and knew I would never be able to write as Amy Tan writes. She began writing years ago; she is accomplished; her characters live on the page. Tan says that every story is initially about the author; that is how we get to the deep feelings in our characters. The next step is to turn it into fiction. Questions raced through my mind. Do my stories get to the depth of feelings? Do I put enough of myself into each one before turning it to fiction? Could I possibly be fortunate enough to be published? The inspiration she had given me just an hour before, seemed to melt into intimidation and self doubt. When she signed my copy of The Joy Luck Club and smiled up at me, I chose to hang on to her words of inspiration. “Good for you. Keep writing; keep submitting.”

Hide the Candy

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Ok, so it’s the day after Halloween. Dio de los muertos, I believe. It will definitely be the day of my death if I continue eating from the bucket of candy left over from Trick or Treat. I’m new to the neighborhood this year so I had no idea how many munchkins would hit my door. But I did up the front porch with electric jack-o-lanterns, strings of tiny candy corn shaped lights, and our family witch. Witchy has been with us for many years. I asked recently but my kids can’t remember not having her. I don’t really think she’s more than oh, say 12-15 years. But she’s no worse for wear and still has this haunting – totally obnoxious – music that plays as she gyrates and her green eyes flash and the skull she is holding lights up. A year ago I moved from an age restricted neighborhood without kids. This year I was going to make the most of it!

I waited impatiently on the front porch around 5:30; glancing in each direction until one of my neighbors waved a hello with a look of concern. At 5:45 I went back inside and made myself a hamburger patty and some rice, figuring I’d be called to the door any minute so keep it simple. Nothing. 5:50. Nothing. It was now quite dark, well past sunset. We are the last block; perhaps no kids this year after all. I went inside and turned on TV with one ear tuned to the doorbell.

And then it began – the stream of little bodies weaving in and out across the street and down the sidewalks. The first was a little Princess Leia. I nearly cried. I had made my daughter’s Princess Leia costume thirty -five years ago. How did she even know about Star Wars, I wondered. Someone in the family must be a fan – probably Dad. I pretended not to know it was Halloween already and said I’d have to check to see if I had any candy in the house. She and her friends looked at me like I was nuts – adults are all nuts! And I reached inside the front door and offered the bucket of candy.

I don’t love Halloween per se. But I love kids. And thankfully my new neighborhood has plenty. They came from blocks away; parents smiling and encouraging – “ring the bell” – from the sidewalk. Captain Hook, zombies, Snow White, Sponge Bob – they all came.

At 8:00 the streets were empty and silent, and I walked to the mailbox at the corner and praised the guy on the end who had spent a month creating a movie set of his house. As I walked back home along the darkened sidewalks, I picked up candy that had spilled from over-full containers. And I smiled.

The last little girl wanted to take Witchy home, and I was pleased when her mother said, “oh, no, she’ll be here next year.” Yes, she will. I will be here next year and the porch decorations will grow. Which reminds me, I need to hit the stores for the after Halloween sales today. And I have to hide the candy before I begin planning the feast for Thanksgiving.

Raised on Red Meat and Sunday Chicken

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Gourmet food was not a known quantity in the 1900’s. At least not in the plains of Oklahomaor anywhere in the Midwest for that matter.

Somewhere between 2000 and today – 2013 – it arrived on our plates in fancy restaurants, appeared on live television chef show-downs, and filled magazine stands. I’d have to research the exact progression, but Julia Childs didn’t hit mainstream households until Emeril and Cupcake Wars took center stage. All I know is it didn’t show up in my home until recently. And what I cook still doesn’t qualify. I get recipes from Cooking Light and an occasional newspaper article, and I call it gourmet.

I’m still shocked when I open my pantry and find it lined with coconut milk, EVOO, gourmet wine vinegars, sea salt crystals, beans of every variety, and herbs I still can’t pronounce. I have hummus in the refrigerator and pita chips on the shelf. I eat pomegranates and kumquats. I know how to blend, dice, sauté and puree. I still have not tried infusion – whatever the heck that is.

I left for college in 1963. My mother never taught me to cook. And as far as memory can take me back, a good pot roast with carrots, potatoes and onions was about as fancy as it got in my kitchen. My mother handed down some recipes for desserts “baked from scratch.” Interpreted, this means “not a mix added to water, two eggs and a half cup of vegetable oil.”

Maybe because my daddy and his brothers always quartered a cow each fall and had it butchered into hamburger, steaks, and rump roasts, we lived on beef. Fried, broiled, baked. Grills did not exist. The dinner plate was complete with potatoes (boiled and mashed), vegetables (usually canned green beans), bread slices (soft white packaged), and a glass of milk. Dessert was probably a layer cake (chocolate) that my mother had spent the afternoon baking and frosting (packaged cake mix, home-made frosting). And that was it – Monday through Saturday. Occasionally we celebrated Saturday night eating out at the 12 for a dollar hamburger stand. Juicy (make that greasy) and topped with fried onions. That was gourmet.

Sundays were special. First of all, as Southern Baptists we lived at church that day. Sunday school followed by church service; back at five o’clock for choir practice, Bible study, and evening church service. So that was the day my dad cooked. It was always fried chicken – sometimes purchased at the grocery store, but for several years, head-severed hens from our back yard chicken coop. Dad’s fried chicken was world famous in our house. Mother’s cooking couldn’t touch it. He’d come home from church, remove his tie and good dress shirt, slide one of mother’s aprons over his head and get out the cutting board, large can of Crisco and a mound of salt and peppered white flour.

The splatter of grease when he dropped the breaded chicken pieces into the three inches of melted Crisco could be heard from the street. The hotter the oil, the crispier the chicken crust; then down to a slow simmer once the lid was placed onto the cast iron skillet to finish cooking. The smell wafted through the house and into the back yard where I was usually playing with my good friend Sue-Sue. On Sundays we did not have to be called to the table more than once. Dad standing at the stove, looking silly in mom’s apron, tongs in hand to turn the crackling chicken before it burned. It became a family tradition and a wonderful memory.

I sometimes wonder what memories my children will have of me in the kitchen. I raised them on pot roast and fried chicken as well. And my mom’s Texas Sheet Cake and chocolate chip cookies. And each July 4^th, my dad’s hand cranked home-made ice cream.

My daughter was the first (and probably the only) gourmet in the family. She has taught me the ingredients and the terms. The outcome is usually edible though it never looks like the picture. And often I have to substitute some strange thing I’ve never heard of with something I happen to have. But I figure if I follow the recipe 90% that counts.

My son now has us on a GMO free diet so it’s becoming more complicated. Now I not only have to purchase expensive ingredients from the gourmet aisles at the grocery store, I have to purchase grass fed beef, organic vegetables and fruits, and local eggs and poultry. I may have to take out a loan to prepare Thanksgiving dinner this year.

Hmm. I haven’t fried chicken in ages. Maybe I’ll make it tonight in honor of dad.

Life’s Warning Labels

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first posted 10/2012

Today I thought I’d share with you a quote from a book I revisited this weekend.

The book title: The way of transition (embracing life’s most difficult moments)

“Whatever it is that you intend to achieve by whatever you do isn’t likely to be the thing you actually accomplish by doing it.

The attraction is just the window dressing. The bargain specials which do not (it turns out) come in your size.

It’s the bone the burglar gives your watch –dog as he robs you blind.

The actual result – lesson – pay off – is discovered only over time, and often in ways that you could not have known in advance.

If our lives were pharmaceuticals, they’d require warning labels.”

By William Bridges, author of Transitions.

A warning label for our lives – in retrospect it is so easy to see what they might have looked like in large bold 24 font text. And yet, I am thankful they were written in invisible ink.

For without a marriage there would be no precious children; without a lover there would be no memories of love; without a few disastrous jobs there would be no retirement; without the bad and the ugly, there would be no good.

If everything were white, there would be no contrast. Life requires black to give balance, shadow, and reflection. So today I will relish the black times and say a prayer of thanks. For without them, my life would be like a blank page of paper waiting for something to be written.

Fall Cleaning

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originally posted 9/2012

Is every woman in Americacleaning house this week? It seems that every friend I called this weekend had her head stuck in a cabinet or drawer. Closets were being emptied into large shopping bags that quickly filled with unworn shoes and flip flops, too tight jeans and too large slacks and dresses. There were items with price tags still attached and items that had hung in the closet for at least eight years, and items they had no idea where they had come from.

Today when I called my daughter we were both cleaning out make-up, hair products and cosmetics that had built up in our bathroom drawers over the past year. I swear that I just did this last spring, but somehow more had arrived. We compared – lipsticks, lip glosses, hair spray, perfume samples, moisturizers that didn’t work, self-tanning products that turned our skin orange…. Our trash cans runneth over.

A friend called while I was rummaging, folding and removing towels and sheets in the guest-bath linen closet. We both laughed. She had just done the same.

My sister has been cleaning kitchen cupboards, drawers, and her side-board while I just completed my china hutch. My garage now houses three boxes of dishes; the set of china is headed to my daughter’s. The hutch is nearly empty. There are white linen tablecloths and napkins… who uses linen these days? You have to iron them or send them to the dry cleaners every time you use them and a red cloth and napkins we always used for Christmas. Now we’re lucky if we haul out the place mats. I try to buy something festive at least. And paper napkins seem to work just fine.

I love watching the tops of shelves re-appear from under piles. Wiping them clean is so cathartic. My sister swears she will not go to another estate sale or antique store this year. I just shake my head…. sure, sis. My daughter says she’s going to get rid of everything and sell the house. I shake my head again. My good friend who actually is selling her home says she’s just going to set fire to the darned thing. Now that I agree with!

Anyway, it must be fall, even though today’s temp in Phoenixwill be over 100 degrees by kick-off for the Cardinals game at one o’clock. It seems that whether you’re in Oklahoma at 85 degrees, Phoenix at 100, or Oregon at 70, our internal clock says it is fall and it is time to clean house!

And yes, I got rid of my too large clothes so the diet comes next….