Today is the twentieth of December, and I haven't posted anything since early November. Much has happened though.
We had a lovely Thanksgiving, made more so because we spent it with dear friends. And the day after, we began decorating for Christmas. Given our party is always the first Saturday of the month, we have the perfect excuse to jump in with both feet. I cooked for three days for our Thanksgiving meal, and other than washing so many dishes, I enjoyed every minute of it. The layout of the kitchen and family room is perfect for cooking and watching Hallmark movies, enjoying the fire, and warmth and views from the windows along the southern side of the house.
After having missed a year, the Christmas party was wonderful enough to make up for not having it last year. This house is ideal for that type of gathering. Doug did his best to suggest people head downstairs where it wasn't as crowded, although people seem to always gather where there are the most people, and food (which there was an amazing assortment of). Periodically I'd go downstairs and find him behind the bar, having the kind of conversations with people it would have been difficult to have on the main floor.
A few days later, Frank and I left for Boston, and his Berklee College of Music audition. When we went to Boston in July, everything seemed to fall together easily. We had the same experience on this trip. My dear friend Meredith graciously invited us to stay with her out in Weston. After having spent most of our last trip in the city, getting to spend time on the outskirts gave Frank a glimpse of all the beauty of New England in December.
On our drive to dinner the first night, he said, "look mom, all the houses have your candles." He was referring to the candles I put in every window this December. I explained that it was a Christmas tradition most commonly practiced in New England, but was now more widespread. They were to welcome and guide visitors to one's home, and also to announce good news. My grandmother used to put candles in our windows on Ostrander Road, and when I asked her why, she told me that it meant "there was room at the inn," or welcoming baby Jesus. I prefer her story, and the memories evoked by my candles.
We went to place called the Dudley Chateau for dinner that night, which looked out on a small lake, and could easily have been built on the shore of my beloved Canada Lake in the Adirondacks. I will, without question, write it into an upcoming book!
Frank spent most of the second day practicing for his Saturday morning audition. We had a lovely seafood dinner, with fabulous food, and better company. I so appreciated being able to catch up with Meredith, and having the opportunity to get to know one another again after so many years without seeing each other in person. As it goes with good friends, seventeen years can go by, yet it seems as though we saw each other yesterday.
Sweetheart that she is, Meredith took Frank shopping our first night in town, so he could have all his favorite foods in the house . . . because, as she said, it was just one small thing that would make him feel more relaxed and comfortable. When asked what he would have for breakfast if he could have anything, his response of "cold pizza" didn't surprise me. When we got home Friday night, we baked the pizza, for the next morning's breakfast.
Early Saturday morning Meredith and Millie, her very sweet rescue dog, greeted us with coffee, cold pizza, hugs and best wishes for Frank's audition. We got lost on our way into the city, but thankfully it only put us back five minutes. Frank knew where the building was where the auditions were being held, he'd gone to classes there in July. And I knew where to park for the same reason.
Walking into the audition waiting area was daunting. Frank had already checked in, and I went in and joined him in a small auditorium. There were chairs set up along the back wall, with numbers above them. Names were projected on the screen in groups of ten, indicating which chair those auditioning should take to warm up and wait to be escorted to their audition room.
A film-scoring student presented a very informational slide show and demonstration while I waited. As impressed as I was with Berklee previously, after his presentation, I was exponentially more so. It is an incredible school, and being admitted would afford infinite opportunities.
When Frank finished his audition and interview, he wanted to walk, which afforded him a completely different opportunity—to experience east coast cold, which is vastly different than Colorado cold. We'd walk a few blocks and then duck into a store or coffee house to warm up. We had agreed to celebrate his audition being over at Summer Shack, one of our favorite places from our July trip. The bartender/server was as friendly and welcoming as everyone else we encountered on both trips. It's one thing I really love about Boston.
I've told the story of his audition and interview so many times, I won't bore you with it if you're reading this, but suffice to say I think it went well. Only 35 percent of those who apply are invited to attend, and I go back and forth between I don't knoooow . . . and, of course he's going to get in. He'll find out on January 30, at 10:00pm, when the emails are released (midnight est on January 31). In the meantime, we all try not to think about it too much, other than crossing fingers, saying prayers, and as Frank would say, "not doing anything to jinx it."
The last ten days have been all about enjoying the warmth and comfort of home, and accomplishing projects I usually take on over the boys' Christmas break. Having them done means I can spend that break doing fun things rather than chores. And they won't have to endure my asking for help. For the first time in years and years (maybe ever), I baked and baked Christmas cookies. Yesterday I made a third batch of the orange drop cookies everyone seems to like the best. Doug and I are going to Denver to celebrate my birthday Thursday night, but we'll be home to celebrate with the boys on Friday.
In honor of our time on the east coast, and positive thoughts about spending more time there, we've planned a seafood fest for Christmas dinner . . . beginning with our traditional clam chowder on Christmas Eve, following time with friends and a new tradition . . . taking grandma to see the latest Star Wars movie.
I find myself missing my grandparents, and my mom, which happens more this time of year. At the same time, I'm so appreciative of our little family's time together celebrating old traditions and making new memories in our new home.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Wednesday, November 09, 2016
Just like Frank Slade Would've
A few minutes ago I saw that one of Bethlehem Steel's buildings is on fire. My very first thought was, that wouldn't have happened on Frank Slade's watch. And then, I walked outside to see what Doug was doing. I found him sprinkling a light layer of topsoil on the front lawn.
There have been countless times I've said to Doug, as I did a couple minutes ago, "Yep, that's something Frank Slade would've done." For anyone who hasn't already figured it out, the character of Gus in the Linger series is based on my grandfather.
He was a man who took care of things. He was gruff and crotchety, stubborn, intransigent, and sometimes very, very difficult to get along with. However, even at his worst, he was loving, kind, generous and caring. He would've given the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it, but would have done it in a way that no one knew about it, and also in a way that everyone would've assumed the shirt belonged to the other person all along.
I remember living in my first apartment as an adult, and could not believe how filthy the windowsills were. What most would see as normal, I did not. I've said often, you could eat off the windowsills in my grandparents' house, because it was true. Everything was cared for. Everything worked, if it didn't it was fixed. Everything was "in its place," a blessing and a curse that has followed me all my days.
Things were done a certain way in their house. Dinner was served at the dinner table. So was breakfast and lunch. That table was in the dining room. When he built their house, he told my grandmother that there would never be a table in the kitchen. There were other standards that the two of them were intransigent about. Order was a priority. As much as things were done a certain way, there were also things that were simply not done.
Another story I've told my kids, and often laughed about, was bed making. I was about to crawl into bed one night, I was probably less than ten years old, and I hadn't put the top sheet on the bed when I made it. My grandmother hastily stripped the blankets off, put the top sheet on, and remade the bed. She mumbled the entire time, but I couldn't hear a word she said. Except one, "chaos." To this day I think about the partially made bed, and hear my grandmother saying, "without order, there's chaos." She never said those words, it just makes me laugh.
Doug recently finished redoing the garage. He patched and sanded walls, painted walls and ceilings, hung everything that could be hung, and built a storage loft complete with more implements from which to hang things. But the first thing he did, after he finished painting, was put up the various brackets and shelves for Frank's paddle boards and equipment. First. It's something Frank Slade would've done.
While Doug doesn't care much about whether we have dinner at the dinner table, otherwise, he's very much like Frank Slade. He researches how things should be done, like preparing a lawn for winter, or when trees should be planted, or pruned, or what needed to be done to get the whole-house humidifiers ready for winter. He made sure the fireplaces both lit, and that the furnaces filters were changed, and asked me to double-check the thermostat programming so the the air conditioner doesn't come on once he's covered it for the winter.
In the last few months, I've insisted the kids help with the various projects Doug undertakes, not only because kids should help around the house, but also because they'll learn their father's approach. How he doesn't do things the easiest or fastest way, he does them the right way. Just like Frank Slade would've.
There have been countless times I've said to Doug, as I did a couple minutes ago, "Yep, that's something Frank Slade would've done." For anyone who hasn't already figured it out, the character of Gus in the Linger series is based on my grandfather.
He was a man who took care of things. He was gruff and crotchety, stubborn, intransigent, and sometimes very, very difficult to get along with. However, even at his worst, he was loving, kind, generous and caring. He would've given the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it, but would have done it in a way that no one knew about it, and also in a way that everyone would've assumed the shirt belonged to the other person all along.
I remember living in my first apartment as an adult, and could not believe how filthy the windowsills were. What most would see as normal, I did not. I've said often, you could eat off the windowsills in my grandparents' house, because it was true. Everything was cared for. Everything worked, if it didn't it was fixed. Everything was "in its place," a blessing and a curse that has followed me all my days.
Things were done a certain way in their house. Dinner was served at the dinner table. So was breakfast and lunch. That table was in the dining room. When he built their house, he told my grandmother that there would never be a table in the kitchen. There were other standards that the two of them were intransigent about. Order was a priority. As much as things were done a certain way, there were also things that were simply not done.
Another story I've told my kids, and often laughed about, was bed making. I was about to crawl into bed one night, I was probably less than ten years old, and I hadn't put the top sheet on the bed when I made it. My grandmother hastily stripped the blankets off, put the top sheet on, and remade the bed. She mumbled the entire time, but I couldn't hear a word she said. Except one, "chaos." To this day I think about the partially made bed, and hear my grandmother saying, "without order, there's chaos." She never said those words, it just makes me laugh.
Doug recently finished redoing the garage. He patched and sanded walls, painted walls and ceilings, hung everything that could be hung, and built a storage loft complete with more implements from which to hang things. But the first thing he did, after he finished painting, was put up the various brackets and shelves for Frank's paddle boards and equipment. First. It's something Frank Slade would've done.
While Doug doesn't care much about whether we have dinner at the dinner table, otherwise, he's very much like Frank Slade. He researches how things should be done, like preparing a lawn for winter, or when trees should be planted, or pruned, or what needed to be done to get the whole-house humidifiers ready for winter. He made sure the fireplaces both lit, and that the furnaces filters were changed, and asked me to double-check the thermostat programming so the the air conditioner doesn't come on once he's covered it for the winter.
In the last few months, I've insisted the kids help with the various projects Doug undertakes, not only because kids should help around the house, but also because they'll learn their father's approach. How he doesn't do things the easiest or fastest way, he does them the right way. Just like Frank Slade would've.
Tuesday, November 08, 2016
Vote.
We live in a "mail-in ballot" county, and last week, Doug, Charlotte and I prepared our mail-in ballots, after which Doug and I drove them to the ballot box at Town Hall. I got a letter in the mail a couple days ago, stating my ballot had been rejected because my signature didn't match.
I took the print-out from the El Paso County Voters Bureau to the polling place this morning, and after about a half hour, I was told that I have to go to the county building, located in downtown Colorado Springs, in order to "try to get it resolved."
I am crestfallen, and while I have every intention of going to the county building (I have seven days to do so) to resolve it, I am still sad that as of today, my vote will not count.
So. Vote. It's one of the most important things you can do if you're a citizen of this country (if not THE MOST important). I've never been in this position before on election day. I am exceedingly uncomfortable, but have to accept the fact that I will get it resolved, it just won't be today.
So, like I said, VOTE. If you haven't voted, go do it now. If you have no intention of voting, change your mind and go do it.
I took the print-out from the El Paso County Voters Bureau to the polling place this morning, and after about a half hour, I was told that I have to go to the county building, located in downtown Colorado Springs, in order to "try to get it resolved."
I am crestfallen, and while I have every intention of going to the county building (I have seven days to do so) to resolve it, I am still sad that as of today, my vote will not count.
So. Vote. It's one of the most important things you can do if you're a citizen of this country (if not THE MOST important). I've never been in this position before on election day. I am exceedingly uncomfortable, but have to accept the fact that I will get it resolved, it just won't be today.
So, like I said, VOTE. If you haven't voted, go do it now. If you have no intention of voting, change your mind and go do it.
Monday, November 07, 2016
Why NaNoWriMo?
I participated in NaNoWriMo in 2012, when I was writing the second LINGER book. I finished the first book in early October, and was excited about having a book ready to write, that would give me the opportunity to participate in National Novel Writing Month.
The next year, 2013, I started the second book in the Crested Butte Cowboy series during NaNoWriMo. I attempted to participate in 2014 and 15, but the timing was off.
It seems as though I've been working on the third book in the LINGER series since 2013, or before, but it wasn't until earlier this year, that I made any real progress.
On October 31, I had written 35,872 words. Since, I've only updated my progress with the words I wrote November 1 and after.
Why, after four years of writing, am I participating in NaNoWriMo again? It was a question I asked myself when I logged in for the first time this year. I wondered if it was silly. I wondered if it would really motivate me.
Today is November 7, and since the first, I've written 11,894 words, and I'm committed to finishing this book by Thanksgiving. I stopped wondering if it would be silly, the second time I logged in to update my word count.
The idea behind NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in a month, the equivalent of a "short" novel. Mine tend to be in the 70,000 word count range. Given that, if I successfully meet my Thanksgiving deadline, I'll probably only hit the 35,000 word marker. That's okay. It doesn't matter. Finishing this book, that's what matters.
I love NaNoWriMo.
The next year, 2013, I started the second book in the Crested Butte Cowboy series during NaNoWriMo. I attempted to participate in 2014 and 15, but the timing was off.
It seems as though I've been working on the third book in the LINGER series since 2013, or before, but it wasn't until earlier this year, that I made any real progress.
On October 31, I had written 35,872 words. Since, I've only updated my progress with the words I wrote November 1 and after.
Why, after four years of writing, am I participating in NaNoWriMo again? It was a question I asked myself when I logged in for the first time this year. I wondered if it was silly. I wondered if it would really motivate me.
Today is November 7, and since the first, I've written 11,894 words, and I'm committed to finishing this book by Thanksgiving. I stopped wondering if it would be silly, the second time I logged in to update my word count.
The idea behind NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words in a month, the equivalent of a "short" novel. Mine tend to be in the 70,000 word count range. Given that, if I successfully meet my Thanksgiving deadline, I'll probably only hit the 35,000 word marker. That's okay. It doesn't matter. Finishing this book, that's what matters.
I love NaNoWriMo.
Sunday, November 06, 2016
I'm Not the Mom
Winding down my Sunday by pinteresting Christmas stuff on my holiday board, and found myself regretting traditions I didn't start with my kiddos when they were little. By the third or fourth guilt-induced self-incriminating regret, I found myself saying "I'm not the mom who . . . "
So what mom am I?
So what mom am I?
- I'm the mom who showed my boys that you can write a book, or a write a song, or achieve what sometimes feels unachievable.
- I'm the mom that pestered them to get something done ahead of time, like college applications, so they could avoid the stress of not having it done.
- I'm the mom that showed them it's okay to cry . . . because you miss someone, or at the national anthem, or a sad movie, or a cheesy commercial, or because you feel powerless or sad or angry, or telling a story, or telling them how much I love them.
- I'm the mom who called them out on their shit, and told them I love them because of and in spite of it.
- I'm the mom who showed them that experiences will mean more than things.
- I'm the mom who prodded them to write their papers, practice their speeches, do their homework, and showed them they could feel good about it when they were done, and then be able to have fun.
- I'm the mom who let go when I felt they had it figured out, and them let them learn from their mistakes.
- I'm the mom who refused to sign off on homework I really didn't think they'd done, so they know it isn't okay just to get the sign off.
- I'm the mom who insisted they honor their commitments.
- I'm the mom who showed them the importance of relationships, and being part of a community.
- I'm the mom who showed them that if you do what you say you're going to do, when you say you're going to do it, you'll be ten steps ahead of most.
- I'm the mom who showed them, by example, that they'll make mistakes, sometimes big, giant mistakes, and life will still go on.
- I'm the mom who showed them that we all need forgiveness sometimes, and that you won't lose a part of your soul if you say you're sorry.
- I'm the mom who bitched, and told it like it was, when I thought they needed to hear it, and sometimes when I just needed to say it.
- I'm the mom who proved that if you don't make scrapbooks, or remember all the traditions, or decide not to bother, it'll still be Christmas, and Easter, and every other holiday.
- I'm the mom who decided it's okay if they get mad at me.
- I'm the mom who insisted they learn to take a joke.
- I'm the mom who made two loaves of pumpkin bread this morning, one with cranberries for Frank, and the other without, for Beck, because they asked me to.
There are a lot of things other moms do that I don't. I do my best. I've made mistakes along the way, and I'll continue to make them. But at the end of the day, I hope they learned some things from me, and that they'll continue to learn and grow the rest of their lives.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Best-Ever Spiced Pumpkin Bread
I've tried four different pumpkin bread recipes this year . . . and this one is by far the best. What I like about the recipe is that the crust of the pumpkin bread was crisp, but it was very light and airy. The cranberries were the perfect addition. We liked this so well, it's gone, and I'm making a second loaf tomorrow.
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
1 cup real pumpkin
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup dried cranberries
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°
Beat sugar and oil to blend.
Mix in eggs and pumpkin.
Sift flour, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, baking soda, baking powder.
Gradually add flour mixture to pumpkin mixture.
Gently mix in dried cranberries.
Bake 60 minutes.
Cool on wire rack for ten minutes; turn loaf out on wire rack to finish cooling.
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
1 cup real pumpkin
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup dried cranberries
Preparation
Preheat oven to 350°
Beat sugar and oil to blend.
Mix in eggs and pumpkin.
Sift flour, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, salt, baking soda, baking powder.
Gradually add flour mixture to pumpkin mixture.
Gently mix in dried cranberries.
Bake 60 minutes.
Cool on wire rack for ten minutes; turn loaf out on wire rack to finish cooling.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Wish I'd Realized Sooner
As far back as I can remember, I begged my grandmother to tell me family stories. While she almost always obliged, I think there were times she grew weary of telling me the same story for the umpteenth time.
The other thing I used to do was pour through my mother's high school yearbooks. I'd read what people wrote to her, I'd read the senior quotes. I'd figure out which students had been or were couples at the time of graduation, or friends. I'd spin a theory about so many things . . . who became what later in life, who ended up married to whom.
So here's what I wish I'd realized sooner . . . my epiphany over the weekend . . . what I was doing was piecing together stories. I'd take bits of information, and piece them together, my imagination filling in the blanks. I was, in essence, writing.
Every once in awhile I get into a conversation about home-schooling. It may work for some families, but I've never been a proponent of it for ours. First of all, what business do I have trying to educate my child? I'm sure there's a response to that question, but that really isn't why I'm not a proponent. The reason I'm not is because I've seen how teachers have impacted the lives of both my sons. They've seen something I didn't, encouraged my kids to pursue those areas of interest, or areas of talent. Where would my kids be without the influence of teachers? Where would they find their mentors and role models?
How does this relate to the subject of this post? I wish someone had encouraged me to write more than they did. I wish I had learned to channel my fascination with family history, with piecing together stories, into writing. I used to write a lot. So much. I wrote poetry, song lyrics, and stories. I can vividly remember sitting in my bedroom on Ostrander Road, the house warm and cozy, snow blanketing the outside world . . . and writing.
It wasn't until I turned fifty that I seriously undertook writing a fictional "book." It's been an interesting process, particularly given how many books I've read, edited, designed both content and covers for. I read a post the other day written by an author who had just finished the first draft of her first book. She is ready to publish, meaning ready to find a publisher for her book. I remember those days. Very heady ones indeed. I read the comments her post received, and wanted to chuckle. I briefly considered responding, but decided to let her figure it out on her own.
My experience was mixed. I'm sure there were countless people following my journey who held their tongue at my naivete. Others shared their opinions with me freely, and prolifically.
I miss those days of utter excitement, endless possibilities from just that first book. I am overwhelmed by what it takes to effectively market a book, or books. It is a full-time job in and of itself. It's damn hard work, made harder by the push and pull of writing versus marketing . . . or even writing versus editing.
Doug has just let me know that the treadmill is free, so off I go. And while I'm on it, I'll likely read, get lost in the possibilities of yet another story, or series, as I usually do. And wish, again, that I'd realized what I am capable of sooner.
The other thing I used to do was pour through my mother's high school yearbooks. I'd read what people wrote to her, I'd read the senior quotes. I'd figure out which students had been or were couples at the time of graduation, or friends. I'd spin a theory about so many things . . . who became what later in life, who ended up married to whom.
So here's what I wish I'd realized sooner . . . my epiphany over the weekend . . . what I was doing was piecing together stories. I'd take bits of information, and piece them together, my imagination filling in the blanks. I was, in essence, writing.
Every once in awhile I get into a conversation about home-schooling. It may work for some families, but I've never been a proponent of it for ours. First of all, what business do I have trying to educate my child? I'm sure there's a response to that question, but that really isn't why I'm not a proponent. The reason I'm not is because I've seen how teachers have impacted the lives of both my sons. They've seen something I didn't, encouraged my kids to pursue those areas of interest, or areas of talent. Where would my kids be without the influence of teachers? Where would they find their mentors and role models?
How does this relate to the subject of this post? I wish someone had encouraged me to write more than they did. I wish I had learned to channel my fascination with family history, with piecing together stories, into writing. I used to write a lot. So much. I wrote poetry, song lyrics, and stories. I can vividly remember sitting in my bedroom on Ostrander Road, the house warm and cozy, snow blanketing the outside world . . . and writing.
It wasn't until I turned fifty that I seriously undertook writing a fictional "book." It's been an interesting process, particularly given how many books I've read, edited, designed both content and covers for. I read a post the other day written by an author who had just finished the first draft of her first book. She is ready to publish, meaning ready to find a publisher for her book. I remember those days. Very heady ones indeed. I read the comments her post received, and wanted to chuckle. I briefly considered responding, but decided to let her figure it out on her own.
My experience was mixed. I'm sure there were countless people following my journey who held their tongue at my naivete. Others shared their opinions with me freely, and prolifically.
I miss those days of utter excitement, endless possibilities from just that first book. I am overwhelmed by what it takes to effectively market a book, or books. It is a full-time job in and of itself. It's damn hard work, made harder by the push and pull of writing versus marketing . . . or even writing versus editing.
Doug has just let me know that the treadmill is free, so off I go. And while I'm on it, I'll likely read, get lost in the possibilities of yet another story, or series, as I usually do. And wish, again, that I'd realized what I am capable of sooner.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
The End of Canning
I finished my season of canning today, with tomatoes. It was a good way to finish. A giant box of tomatoes yielded ten quart-size jars. I'm happy.
I'm putting down some notes here so next year when I do this again, and yes, I am going to do it again, I won't have to remember what worked and what didn't.
Setting up with everything near the stove worked great. It is a VERY messy activity so I went through too many paper towels. Jars sanitizing in the big canner, water boiling to blanch tomatoes and lids and bands in small saucepan.
I'm putting down some notes here so next year when I do this again, and yes, I am going to do it again, I won't have to remember what worked and what didn't.
Setting up with everything near the stove worked great. It is a VERY messy activity so I went through too many paper towels. Jars sanitizing in the big canner, water boiling to blanch tomatoes and lids and bands in small saucepan.
From the hot water to a cold water bath makes easier peeling, although there is a fine line between easy peeling and stewed tomatoes.
And . . . done. Felt as though I was putting too much in each jar, but now, I'm happy with how full they look.
Very Sad News. My Friend Micki.
I got an email today letting me know a very, very dear friend had passed away. My heart is so heavy. Her name was Marilyn "Micki" Beckman, and she was one of my very first friends here in Monument.
When we opened our gallery, Micki applied for a job with us. We hired her immediately, and soon she became my mentor, compatriot, and confidant. Not long after I met Micki, my mother died. I needed to fly to California immediately, so I called Micki's house. Her husband, Rod, answered and said she was playing mahjong, but he'd let her know. Not more than twenty minutes later, she walked in the front door of the gallery. Rod had gone to get her, and she came straight to me, offering her condolences and her love.
Micki and Rod celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary shortly thereafter. They had a big shindig at the Falcon Club at USAFA, and they invited us. It was wonderful to meet their friends and family. We felt so honored to be included.
When Micki decided to retire (she was in her seventies), Doug and I took her and Rod out for dinner. They told us that night that she had worked for someone else for years, and they'd never done anything so nice for her. All Doug and I could think was that she was a person who should have nice things done for her all the time.
We ran into the two of them in Costco a few weeks ago. Prior to that we hadn't seen them since our 2014 Christmas party. We were on our way to see Doug's cardiologist, and after a few minutes of conversation, Rod and Doug realized they shared the same doctor. He asked us to say hello for him. It was Dr. Sherry who told us how hard a time Micki had been having. She was in a wheelchair in Costco, and Rod said she'd had a stroke. She said, "I feel better than I look." We learned from Doug's doctor that she had been in a rehab facility, and he hoped she was back home.
She told Doug and me how good we looked, and shook her finger at Doug, telling him to keep it up. When we said goodbye, I leaned down to hug her. "I love you so much," she whispered and held on tight. Those were the last words we said to each other. I feel blessed that I can remember her words, and find comfort that she knew how much I loved her too.
Micki helped me at a time I really needed her. She was a true and dear friend, with a kind heart and generous spirit. I will miss her so.
When we opened our gallery, Micki applied for a job with us. We hired her immediately, and soon she became my mentor, compatriot, and confidant. Not long after I met Micki, my mother died. I needed to fly to California immediately, so I called Micki's house. Her husband, Rod, answered and said she was playing mahjong, but he'd let her know. Not more than twenty minutes later, she walked in the front door of the gallery. Rod had gone to get her, and she came straight to me, offering her condolences and her love.
Micki and Rod celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary shortly thereafter. They had a big shindig at the Falcon Club at USAFA, and they invited us. It was wonderful to meet their friends and family. We felt so honored to be included.
When Micki decided to retire (she was in her seventies), Doug and I took her and Rod out for dinner. They told us that night that she had worked for someone else for years, and they'd never done anything so nice for her. All Doug and I could think was that she was a person who should have nice things done for her all the time.
We ran into the two of them in Costco a few weeks ago. Prior to that we hadn't seen them since our 2014 Christmas party. We were on our way to see Doug's cardiologist, and after a few minutes of conversation, Rod and Doug realized they shared the same doctor. He asked us to say hello for him. It was Dr. Sherry who told us how hard a time Micki had been having. She was in a wheelchair in Costco, and Rod said she'd had a stroke. She said, "I feel better than I look." We learned from Doug's doctor that she had been in a rehab facility, and he hoped she was back home.
She told Doug and me how good we looked, and shook her finger at Doug, telling him to keep it up. When we said goodbye, I leaned down to hug her. "I love you so much," she whispered and held on tight. Those were the last words we said to each other. I feel blessed that I can remember her words, and find comfort that she knew how much I loved her too.
Micki helped me at a time I really needed her. She was a true and dear friend, with a kind heart and generous spirit. I will miss her so.
Monday, September 12, 2016
They've Watched Me Grow Up
Frank said those words to me last night as we walked from the roped-off seating area in front of the stage over to the door that would lead us backstage at the OAR concert. On our way we chatted with one of Red Rock's security guys, who has also watched Frank grow up. We talked about it a little. Eric, who is the front-of-the-stage security supervisor asked about all the concerts Frank has been to at the venue, what his favorites have been. They talked about Twenty One Pilots a few weeks ago, and Dirty Heads, who played the night before the first day of school.
Frank was talking about OAR when he first spoke those words. We had just come from the meet and greet, which is always quick, but the guys are so gracious. Last night was no different. Having done the meet and greet as many times as we have, we've started thinking ahead of time whether there is something specific we want to say to the band.
I remember one year telling them that Frank was thinking about going to Ohio State. I've also talked about Frank being a musician. This year I didn't talk about Frank. I had something more specific I wanted to say. When I shook Richard On's hand, I stopped for a minute, and took the time to tell him how much I admire him as a guitar player. On several of their recordings, particularly the live recordings, I stop talking and turn the volume way up when he is playing certain riffs. I didn't get that specific with what I told him, but just having that moment to recognize a guy who is typically one of the most quiet, was just that . . . a moment.
Frank isn't that talkative of a kid, he's kind of like his dad that way. So when he talks, I listen, intently. Earlier, as we waited in the meet and greet line, he talked about his future, and how music will play a role in that future. He dreamt out loud about how we'd look back at the days when we waited in line to go backstage, and how one day, he'd just be backstage. And he'd make sure I was too, along with his father and brother. It was another moment.
I've written before about the influence this band has had on my son. When Frank's band was still together, they'd talked about how they'd treat their fans. He'd reference OAR in those pie-in-the-sky conversations. Not just them, other bands too, but he's learned so much from OAR's professionalism, fan appreciation, and sincerity.
We had the great opportunity to sit on the side of the stage last night. We weren't really sure what to expect from seeing the show from that vantage point, but as it was happening, it was amazing. It was a dream. I had so much fun. At the very end of the show, Jerry came over to where we stood for the second time that night. He shook hands and hugged those of us sitting in that area. He shook Frank's hand last. He looked Frank in the eye and said, "Did you have a good time?" Frank smiled and said he did. And Jerry smiled too.
It's important to this band that their fans have a good time. They appreciate their fanbase, they appreciate the people who have watched them grow up, from a high school band, a college band, and now a band that sells out venues like Red Rocks.
Just as fans have watched OAR grow up, the band has watched Frank grow up. So much more is in store for them . . . all of them. Life is a grand and adventurous journey of figuring out who you are while living the best life you can, and having the most fun you can along the way. That never ends, regardless of age or stage of life.
Frank was talking about OAR when he first spoke those words. We had just come from the meet and greet, which is always quick, but the guys are so gracious. Last night was no different. Having done the meet and greet as many times as we have, we've started thinking ahead of time whether there is something specific we want to say to the band.
I remember one year telling them that Frank was thinking about going to Ohio State. I've also talked about Frank being a musician. This year I didn't talk about Frank. I had something more specific I wanted to say. When I shook Richard On's hand, I stopped for a minute, and took the time to tell him how much I admire him as a guitar player. On several of their recordings, particularly the live recordings, I stop talking and turn the volume way up when he is playing certain riffs. I didn't get that specific with what I told him, but just having that moment to recognize a guy who is typically one of the most quiet, was just that . . . a moment.
Frank isn't that talkative of a kid, he's kind of like his dad that way. So when he talks, I listen, intently. Earlier, as we waited in the meet and greet line, he talked about his future, and how music will play a role in that future. He dreamt out loud about how we'd look back at the days when we waited in line to go backstage, and how one day, he'd just be backstage. And he'd make sure I was too, along with his father and brother. It was another moment.
I've written before about the influence this band has had on my son. When Frank's band was still together, they'd talked about how they'd treat their fans. He'd reference OAR in those pie-in-the-sky conversations. Not just them, other bands too, but he's learned so much from OAR's professionalism, fan appreciation, and sincerity.
We had the great opportunity to sit on the side of the stage last night. We weren't really sure what to expect from seeing the show from that vantage point, but as it was happening, it was amazing. It was a dream. I had so much fun. At the very end of the show, Jerry came over to where we stood for the second time that night. He shook hands and hugged those of us sitting in that area. He shook Frank's hand last. He looked Frank in the eye and said, "Did you have a good time?" Frank smiled and said he did. And Jerry smiled too.
It's important to this band that their fans have a good time. They appreciate their fanbase, they appreciate the people who have watched them grow up, from a high school band, a college band, and now a band that sells out venues like Red Rocks.
Just as fans have watched OAR grow up, the band has watched Frank grow up. So much more is in store for them . . . all of them. Life is a grand and adventurous journey of figuring out who you are while living the best life you can, and having the most fun you can along the way. That never ends, regardless of age or stage of life.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Okra and Saratoga Pickles
In the last two days I canned smoky, spicy okra and Saratoga pickles. The pickles are similar to bread and butter, but with some other spices added.
With the okra, I forgot to add a garlic clove to each jar. I noticed once the jars were processing, so way too late. I'm a little bummed about that. And instead of adding red pepper flakes, I added a tablespoon-plus of sriracha. Since I won't be tasting the okra, Doug will have to tell me if it (along with the brussel sprouts) are spicy enough.
Three pecks of pickling cucumbers (about fifty pickles) yielded only four pints of pickles. I would've liked to make twice that amount. I suppose my grandmother's recipe that called for twenty-five cucumbers, was for full-size cucumbers rather than pickling. Although twice as many small should've yielded about the same amount of jars.
Thinking I had twice as many cucumbers, I made one-and-a-half batches of the syrup. I only needed about half what I made. I do think this batch of canning looks better in terms of how full the jars are.
Yesterday at the farmers' market, there was a woman selling canned items. Most of what she was selling didn't look quite right. There was too much liquid in the jars versus "stuff." She was also selling jam. I tasted the blackberry jam, which tasted far too much like sugar, and nowhere near enough fruit. I wonder how much she actually sells. I may or may not try jam this year. Probably not, but if I do, I'll read up on how to reduce the sugar significantly. Perhaps by adding pineapple juice rather than sugar, which is often suggested.
I'm canning tomatoes later this week. My plan is to can some whole, and some crushed, maybe with the garlic since I have three heads of garlic sitting in my kitchen.
I've found canning to be pretty easy. The most important things are being organized, and getting everything on the cooktop to boil quickly on the front end. Before I set anything up, I get the jars into the canning pot, and the lids and bands into a sauce pan. Then I start to prep whatever is being canned.
With the pickles, they had to sit overnight in pickling salt, so they were already prepped. Given that, the canning process went really fast. Once the jars were sterilized, I waited less than five minutes for the syrup to boil. In the meantime I had thoroughly rinsed the pickles, and spun them in the salad spinner, to get the moisture out. The recipe says to press it out, which I did after spinning them, but it didn't feel as though there was much moisture left.
Organization and timing are the main things I want to remember for next year. Also, when I can the tomatoes, I'll take a photo of my setup, so I remember it for next year too. In less than two hours I was finished with the entire process, including washing, drying and putting everything away. A significant difference from the day-long beet canning.
With the okra, I forgot to add a garlic clove to each jar. I noticed once the jars were processing, so way too late. I'm a little bummed about that. And instead of adding red pepper flakes, I added a tablespoon-plus of sriracha. Since I won't be tasting the okra, Doug will have to tell me if it (along with the brussel sprouts) are spicy enough.
Three pecks of pickling cucumbers (about fifty pickles) yielded only four pints of pickles. I would've liked to make twice that amount. I suppose my grandmother's recipe that called for twenty-five cucumbers, was for full-size cucumbers rather than pickling. Although twice as many small should've yielded about the same amount of jars.
Thinking I had twice as many cucumbers, I made one-and-a-half batches of the syrup. I only needed about half what I made. I do think this batch of canning looks better in terms of how full the jars are.
Yesterday at the farmers' market, there was a woman selling canned items. Most of what she was selling didn't look quite right. There was too much liquid in the jars versus "stuff." She was also selling jam. I tasted the blackberry jam, which tasted far too much like sugar, and nowhere near enough fruit. I wonder how much she actually sells. I may or may not try jam this year. Probably not, but if I do, I'll read up on how to reduce the sugar significantly. Perhaps by adding pineapple juice rather than sugar, which is often suggested.
I'm canning tomatoes later this week. My plan is to can some whole, and some crushed, maybe with the garlic since I have three heads of garlic sitting in my kitchen.
I've found canning to be pretty easy. The most important things are being organized, and getting everything on the cooktop to boil quickly on the front end. Before I set anything up, I get the jars into the canning pot, and the lids and bands into a sauce pan. Then I start to prep whatever is being canned.
With the pickles, they had to sit overnight in pickling salt, so they were already prepped. Given that, the canning process went really fast. Once the jars were sterilized, I waited less than five minutes for the syrup to boil. In the meantime I had thoroughly rinsed the pickles, and spun them in the salad spinner, to get the moisture out. The recipe says to press it out, which I did after spinning them, but it didn't feel as though there was much moisture left.
Organization and timing are the main things I want to remember for next year. Also, when I can the tomatoes, I'll take a photo of my setup, so I remember it for next year too. In less than two hours I was finished with the entire process, including washing, drying and putting everything away. A significant difference from the day-long beet canning.
Thursday, September 08, 2016
Beckett's Burgeoning
The other thing that happened yesterday was Beckett’s first football game. Beck has explored a number of sports: soccer, swimming, basketball, and lacrosse, all with mixed outcomes. He’s a big kid, who had the same struggles with not quite fitting into his body that many kids have at his age. If his coaches had one common complaint about him, it would likely be that he didn’t try as hard as they’d like him to. He’s done better with basketball than any of the other sports, but it never reached passion-status.
When he came to me this summer and said he wanted to attend football camp, I was skeptical. That fact that I asked him if he was sure probably won’t earn me any parent-of-the-year awards. Frank never played football, and up until Beck asked to go to camp, it wasn’t something we encouraged. With good reason. Doug’s brother played football in high school, and broke his neck. That he told the coach he was injured, and the coach sent him back in, and yet you wouldn’t know today by looking at him that he’d ever experienced such an injury is by the grace of God.
When Doug and I discussed Beck attending the camp, we both predicted it would be a short-lived experiment. Once he got hit, or tackled, Beck would likely want to quit. That didn’t happen. He got hit, but he certainly didn’t want to quit. His only visible injury was a swollen hand due to a jammed finger, and he went to grandma for help with that, rather than bringing it to my attention.
We weren’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the game yesterday afternoon. We couldn’t remember what his game jersey number was, we knew it was sixty-something. We looked on the sidelines for sixty-something jerseys, and didn’t see Beck. We looked at the field, and sure enough, there he was. When he was still in the game at the end of the first quarter, we were surprised. At the end of the first half, we predicted he wouldn’t be sent in for the second half. It wasn’t because he didn’t play well, it was more that there were forty-plus other kids on the sidelines. The middle school has a no-cut policy so every one of the fifty-five boys who tried out, made the team. Eighth grade has sixty.
Beck played the second half too. All of it. He plays both offense and defense, so he was in the entire game. The score remained tied until the last second (literally), when the opposition scored. Heartbreaking, but part of the game. He walked from the field to the school building with us, excited about the game, and the experience. He said his stomach hurt “a little” from one of the hits he took, but otherwise, he was fine. I asked him later how he liked football in general, and whether he thought he’d like to continue playing. His answer was an emphatic yes.
Two days ago Beck walked into the bedroom with an envelope and said, “This is going to make you really happy.” I opened the envelope and read that he was accepted into student council. The letter went on to say that many more students had applied than could be accepted, the competition was fierce, but he’d made the cut. He is thrilled.
I may have written about this in an earlier post, but after his first oral presentation of the year, his language arts teacher told him they needed him on the speech team.
Beck is the kid who always talked too much, hurried through his assignments, acted out when he was forced to do something he didn’t want to do, or couldn’t do things he wanted to do. He took things way too personally, responded in an overly emotional way, and was a “challenge” in general to his teachers. Until last year. When I went in for his first parent-teacher conference, the three teachers on his sixth-grade team talked up the good stuff about Beck. And there’s a lot of it.
His sixth grade year was his best ever. His language arts teacher encouraged him to join their equivalent of student council, and his peers voted him vice president. His grades were good, his missing assignments were few, and he walked with his head held higher.
After his sixth-grade continuation ceremony, the school’s principal asked me to stop in and see his fifth grade teacher before we left. When I did, she told me with tears in her eyes how proud she was of him, how much he’d matured, and what a great kid he is. By the end of our conversation, she waved her hand in front of her face, and apologized that she was crying so hard.
I give a lot of credit to his sixth-grade team of teachers for emphasizing the positive with Beck, and giving him the opportunity to shine. When I ran into the district’s superintendent and vice superintendent at back-to-school night, they asked how Beck was doing. “He’s great,” I told them. “And that is as much to the credit of Carrie Locke, Jeanette Cole, and Peter Wise, as it is to Beck himself.” I went on to say that the three of them changed Beck’s perception of himself, and that if they didn’t already know it, Aileen Finnegan had put together the strongest team of sixth grade teachers there could be.
I ran into Carrie at the grocery store before the beginning of the school year. “Be sure Beckett joins student council,” she told me. She also said she’d complete his recommendation form if I sent it to her. As it turned out, he needed two recommendations, so I also asked Jeanette if she would be willing.
After he showed us the letter the other night, I sent an email to the two of them, and to Peter, telling them he made it, and thanking them for their support. I reiterated my appreciation for the impact they had in his life. I received emails back thanking me for letting them know how well he’s doing and asking that I tell him how proud they are of him. They also asked me to keep telling them, that they didn't get to hear enough how "their kids" did after they left them for middle school. They are great teachers, and better human beings.
I have said time and time again that last year was “Beck’s year,” but maybe his “years” are just beginning. One of the most exciting things we get to experience as parents is how our kids turn out: what their personalities morph into, what their interests and passions are, the choices they make in friends, and classes, and their future. When you have two or more kids, the other exciting thing to watch is how different one sibling is from another. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for both our boys. There was a meme on facebook the other day that said, “A mother’s job is to teach her children to not need her anymore. The hardest part of that job is accepting success.” Not just mothers, but fathers too. It is so our life right now.
Tuesday, September 06, 2016
Generally Late to the Party
When it comes to technology, I'm either way ahead, or really, really behind. Today I discovered I'm so behind, I've almost missed the boat. And truthfully, I don't know that this necessarily relates to technology.
I spent the morning setting a few things up for Charlotte in her study. One of the things I did was type up an instruction list for accessing things on her tv. The impetus for the exercise was showing her how to use the DVD player, so she can do yoga (and that is another post entirely . . . my amazing eighty-seven-year-old mother-in-law).
Charlotte has three main options. She can watch Xfinity cable tv, use her DVD player (and she has countless DVDs to watch), or access a plethora of options on Apple tv. While reminding her of the Apple tv options, it occurred to me that while the Sony in the master bedroom is not connected to a DVD player or Apple tv, it does have wifi. Lightbulb: on.
Once she was set up, our to-do list free of further to-dos, I came into the bedroom to explore the options available on the Sony. I logged on to Netflix, and then Amazon Prime Video (or whatever it's called now), and their app menu.
And . . . I have now arrived at the party.
I'm not a big tv watcher, that is probably evident. When Doug popped his head in to see what I was doing, I explained that we could watch seasons of shows we like or are interested in on Netflix and/or Amazon-whatever. Yes, he nodded his head, he knew that. Oh, I said out loud.
Not sure if this is a blessing or a curse, but what I do know is we will likely not have to wonder what to watch when we feel like watching tv . . . for five years or so.
I spent the morning setting a few things up for Charlotte in her study. One of the things I did was type up an instruction list for accessing things on her tv. The impetus for the exercise was showing her how to use the DVD player, so she can do yoga (and that is another post entirely . . . my amazing eighty-seven-year-old mother-in-law).
Charlotte has three main options. She can watch Xfinity cable tv, use her DVD player (and she has countless DVDs to watch), or access a plethora of options on Apple tv. While reminding her of the Apple tv options, it occurred to me that while the Sony in the master bedroom is not connected to a DVD player or Apple tv, it does have wifi. Lightbulb: on.
Once she was set up, our to-do list free of further to-dos, I came into the bedroom to explore the options available on the Sony. I logged on to Netflix, and then Amazon Prime Video (or whatever it's called now), and their app menu.
And . . . I have now arrived at the party.
I'm not a big tv watcher, that is probably evident. When Doug popped his head in to see what I was doing, I explained that we could watch seasons of shows we like or are interested in on Netflix and/or Amazon-whatever. Yes, he nodded his head, he knew that. Oh, I said out loud.
Not sure if this is a blessing or a curse, but what I do know is we will likely not have to wonder what to watch when we feel like watching tv . . . for five years or so.
Monday, September 05, 2016
Laboring on Labor Day
I don't really have to labor today, except when it comes to organizing the next week. My current project is helping Beck better prioritize his time. He has boy scouts on Tuesday, his first football game on Wednesday, which means he has to get the bulk of his weekly school projects (all due Wednesday or Thursday), done today.
He is a world-class procrastinator, but then, who isn't? The only time it becomes an issue is when he's down to the eleventh hour and asks to stay up late because he has so much to do. And then I get frustrated with him for not planning better. In order to crush the vicious circle, I am helping him plan better. If he gets it in seventh grade, it should stick through high school and college . . . at least the fundamentals.
But the reality of what he's doing today actually annoys the crap out of me. I really don't like that he has to spend weekend time on school projects. The truth is that I abhor having to remember to go on the school team website and check. The projects for the next week are loaded on the website on Friday. Many of them are due Monday. I'm fairly certain they're assigned prior to Friday, it's just that I can't find them on the website . . . so I don't know when they're scheduled.
This means every weekend has to become a homework argument. I want to put a stop to it now. I think I've got most of it on iCalendar, so he is reminded that he cannot play PS4 or watch tv on the nights he has homework. But regardless, it's an argument.
Beck and I argue. Almost all the time. I can't remember if Frank and I argued this much when he was Beck's age. Probably. At least I hope so. Because Frank and I don't argue very much now. I spend more time suggesting he consider a different approach, because the approach he took didn't work. Teaching, not arguing. When Beck and I are in the midst of wanting to pull each other's hair out, I long for the time that I can make suggestions rather than arguing with him. I confess I have a lingering fear that time will never come. And if it doesn't, I hope I can find my way to easier communication with him, even if it never gets to the communication methodologies that work with Frank.
Parenting is laboring. I suppose it all begins with birth labor. And it never really ends.
He is a world-class procrastinator, but then, who isn't? The only time it becomes an issue is when he's down to the eleventh hour and asks to stay up late because he has so much to do. And then I get frustrated with him for not planning better. In order to crush the vicious circle, I am helping him plan better. If he gets it in seventh grade, it should stick through high school and college . . . at least the fundamentals.
But the reality of what he's doing today actually annoys the crap out of me. I really don't like that he has to spend weekend time on school projects. The truth is that I abhor having to remember to go on the school team website and check. The projects for the next week are loaded on the website on Friday. Many of them are due Monday. I'm fairly certain they're assigned prior to Friday, it's just that I can't find them on the website . . . so I don't know when they're scheduled.
This means every weekend has to become a homework argument. I want to put a stop to it now. I think I've got most of it on iCalendar, so he is reminded that he cannot play PS4 or watch tv on the nights he has homework. But regardless, it's an argument.
Beck and I argue. Almost all the time. I can't remember if Frank and I argued this much when he was Beck's age. Probably. At least I hope so. Because Frank and I don't argue very much now. I spend more time suggesting he consider a different approach, because the approach he took didn't work. Teaching, not arguing. When Beck and I are in the midst of wanting to pull each other's hair out, I long for the time that I can make suggestions rather than arguing with him. I confess I have a lingering fear that time will never come. And if it doesn't, I hope I can find my way to easier communication with him, even if it never gets to the communication methodologies that work with Frank.
Parenting is laboring. I suppose it all begins with birth labor. And it never really ends.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
OAR Pre-Red Rocks
Frank and I are going to Red Rocks on September 11 to see OAR. It'll be the fifth time in four years that we've seen them at this venue. It's our thing. He's promised me that once he's away at college, he'll fly home to see them with me, no matter the month, or the day of the week. We're sitting side stage for the show. It's a big deal. But then, it's Frank's senior year; he's chosen music business/production as his intended major/minor; and someday, when he plays his first show at Red Rocks, he'll remember the night he was on the side of the stage, watching a band who influenced him as much or more than any other.
I've written about OAR before. Several times in fact. We've met them a couple times, pre-show photo op stuff. All nice guys. Polite. Authentically appreciative of their fans. Professional. Great music-biz role models. They probably have a lot to do with Frank pursuing music business over production as his major.
I asked Frank after he told his dad and me that he wanted to pursue music in college, whether all the concerts we've attended in the last five years (so many we lost count long ago, but definitely in the triple digits), had any influence on his intended career choice. Obviously was the word I think he used. While there are a few bands we've seen more than once, even twice, we haven't seen another as many times as we've seen these guys.
I'd love to tell them the influence they've had on him the night of the show, but there probably won't be time, or the opportunity. And if I did, Frank would probably be embarrassed. Maybe he'll tell them himself. That would mean the most. And maybe someday he'll have an opportunity to work with them. And tell them then.
He's at music lessons right now. Voice, music theory, and piano. He's too busy with school and work during the week, so he scheduled it all on Sunday. Earlier today I heard him practicing guitar. I don't hear him as often in the new house, the acoustics are different. He also practices at school. He isn't in band at Palmer Ridge, but asked the music teacher if he could practice in the band room during lunch. He agreed to let him. I so admire his tenacity, commitment and determination. At the end of September the two online classes he's taking at Berklee start. I just hope he remembers to have FUN this year . . .
Writing this afternoon and listening to OAR's latest album, XX. I just added Follow You, Follow Me to the WIP Inspiration Board for the third book in the LINGER series. It's perfect really. Doesn't matter how many books I write, there will always be a soundtrack by the time I reach the end. I think this is the first OAR song to make the cut for one of my books. Surprising really, that it's the first. Not likely it'll be the last.
One friend who has three boys already in college told me to invest in kleenex this year. Senior sunrise almost did me in. Afterwards, I cried the whole way home. When I walked in the house I cried again. When Doug asked me what was wrong, I cried again. Frank called to ask if he could participate in senior ditch day, and I cried again. When I called the attendance secretary to say he wouldn't be at school, I cried again.
A few minutes later I heard the back door open. Frank walked in and hugged me. "As much as you don't want me to go is as much as I don't want to," he told me. Part of life, I told him. A necessary one. If we did our job as parents well, he'll go off to college, graduate, have a career, make a life. A happy, independent life. Because that's what our job was, to prepare him for all of that.
He asked then if I wanted pancakes, because a few of his friends were on their way to the house, to make pancakes. I made the pancakes, and listened as they excitedly shared sunrise photos. I listened as they talked about how far behind they were in figuring out colleges to visit, or how bad their score on the ACT was, and when they were retaking it. I listened as they talked about friends I've known since they were in second grade, and friends I haven't yet met. I listened as they talked about how their parents embarrassed them at their baseball games, and lacrosse, and track. And while the subject was how they were embarrassed, what I heard in their voices was pride.
Sometimes it's okay to embarrass them, because it illustrates exactly how much we love them. We love them enough to lose ourselves cheering for them, or bragging about them, or crying because we're just so damn proud of them, and we're going to miss them so much, it almost hurts to breathe.
OAR. September 11. Another last. The last time we'll see them before he graduates from high school. The next time we see them, it'll be a first. The first time we see them after he goes to college. Maybe it should be in Boston. (And then again in Colorado.)
I've written about OAR before. Several times in fact. We've met them a couple times, pre-show photo op stuff. All nice guys. Polite. Authentically appreciative of their fans. Professional. Great music-biz role models. They probably have a lot to do with Frank pursuing music business over production as his major.
I asked Frank after he told his dad and me that he wanted to pursue music in college, whether all the concerts we've attended in the last five years (so many we lost count long ago, but definitely in the triple digits), had any influence on his intended career choice. Obviously was the word I think he used. While there are a few bands we've seen more than once, even twice, we haven't seen another as many times as we've seen these guys.
I'd love to tell them the influence they've had on him the night of the show, but there probably won't be time, or the opportunity. And if I did, Frank would probably be embarrassed. Maybe he'll tell them himself. That would mean the most. And maybe someday he'll have an opportunity to work with them. And tell them then.
He's at music lessons right now. Voice, music theory, and piano. He's too busy with school and work during the week, so he scheduled it all on Sunday. Earlier today I heard him practicing guitar. I don't hear him as often in the new house, the acoustics are different. He also practices at school. He isn't in band at Palmer Ridge, but asked the music teacher if he could practice in the band room during lunch. He agreed to let him. I so admire his tenacity, commitment and determination. At the end of September the two online classes he's taking at Berklee start. I just hope he remembers to have FUN this year . . .
Writing this afternoon and listening to OAR's latest album, XX. I just added Follow You, Follow Me to the WIP Inspiration Board for the third book in the LINGER series. It's perfect really. Doesn't matter how many books I write, there will always be a soundtrack by the time I reach the end. I think this is the first OAR song to make the cut for one of my books. Surprising really, that it's the first. Not likely it'll be the last.
One friend who has three boys already in college told me to invest in kleenex this year. Senior sunrise almost did me in. Afterwards, I cried the whole way home. When I walked in the house I cried again. When Doug asked me what was wrong, I cried again. Frank called to ask if he could participate in senior ditch day, and I cried again. When I called the attendance secretary to say he wouldn't be at school, I cried again.
A few minutes later I heard the back door open. Frank walked in and hugged me. "As much as you don't want me to go is as much as I don't want to," he told me. Part of life, I told him. A necessary one. If we did our job as parents well, he'll go off to college, graduate, have a career, make a life. A happy, independent life. Because that's what our job was, to prepare him for all of that.
He asked then if I wanted pancakes, because a few of his friends were on their way to the house, to make pancakes. I made the pancakes, and listened as they excitedly shared sunrise photos. I listened as they talked about how far behind they were in figuring out colleges to visit, or how bad their score on the ACT was, and when they were retaking it. I listened as they talked about friends I've known since they were in second grade, and friends I haven't yet met. I listened as they talked about how their parents embarrassed them at their baseball games, and lacrosse, and track. And while the subject was how they were embarrassed, what I heard in their voices was pride.
Sometimes it's okay to embarrass them, because it illustrates exactly how much we love them. We love them enough to lose ourselves cheering for them, or bragging about them, or crying because we're just so damn proud of them, and we're going to miss them so much, it almost hurts to breathe.
OAR. September 11. Another last. The last time we'll see them before he graduates from high school. The next time we see them, it'll be a first. The first time we see them after he goes to college. Maybe it should be in Boston. (And then again in Colorado.)
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Canning Notes for Next Year
After my first attempt at canning in forty years, I have some notes that I hope I'll remember to look at before I get started next year.
Overall
Beets
Make sure the beets are ripe. Start cooking them about an hour before you set everything else up. That's what you'll be waiting on. Don't forget to wear rubber gloves. Try pickling them next year for some variety.
Chili Sauce
Don't chop all the veggies. Use a food processor. Make sure the tomatoes are ripe. Dice the tomatoes after they're peeled. Don't tie spices in cheesecloth. Okay to tie whole cloves and cinnamon stick; put other spices directly in with veggies. Use half-pint jars rather than whole pints.
Sriracha Brussel Sprouts
You probably won't have to wait until next year to make more. So next year, make more.
Pickles
Make three times as much pickling stuff as you think you need. And if you think you need three, make four. Try bread and butter pickles and maybe mustard pickles next year.
Peaches
For ten quarts of peaches, you'll need a triple batch of honey-syrup. Use Plan Bee honey again because it's the best ever. Make sure the peaches are ripe. If they're ripe, the skin DOES fall off like your grandmother told you. If they aren't ripe, they're a PITA. You were waiting on the honey-syrup to boil.
Oh, and by the way, you really love doing this. Even if it seems like a ton of work, as long as you decide what you're going to try to do in a given day, it all goes fine. If you try to do too much in a day, it sucks.
Overall
- Put lids and rings in the small saucepan and simmer.
- Get the jars in the canner and start the boiling process FIRST thing. That's what you're ALWAYS waiting on.
- Put paper towels under everything. You'll ruin regular towels and there is a ocean of water in the fruits and vegetables you're canning.
- Don't fill the canning pot with as much water when you're processing quarts.
- Buy whatever canning stuff you need as soon as you see it, because by the time you need it, it is sold out.
Beets
Make sure the beets are ripe. Start cooking them about an hour before you set everything else up. That's what you'll be waiting on. Don't forget to wear rubber gloves. Try pickling them next year for some variety.
Chili Sauce
Don't chop all the veggies. Use a food processor. Make sure the tomatoes are ripe. Dice the tomatoes after they're peeled. Don't tie spices in cheesecloth. Okay to tie whole cloves and cinnamon stick; put other spices directly in with veggies. Use half-pint jars rather than whole pints.
Sriracha Brussel Sprouts
You probably won't have to wait until next year to make more. So next year, make more.
Pickles
Make three times as much pickling stuff as you think you need. And if you think you need three, make four. Try bread and butter pickles and maybe mustard pickles next year.
Peaches
For ten quarts of peaches, you'll need a triple batch of honey-syrup. Use Plan Bee honey again because it's the best ever. Make sure the peaches are ripe. If they're ripe, the skin DOES fall off like your grandmother told you. If they aren't ripe, they're a PITA. You were waiting on the honey-syrup to boil.
Oh, and by the way, you really love doing this. Even if it seems like a ton of work, as long as you decide what you're going to try to do in a given day, it all goes fine. If you try to do too much in a day, it sucks.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Sriracha Brussel Sprouts, Chili Sauce and Feeding the Birds
This is my six-hundredth blog post. And in its honor, its subject is one that makes me very happy. Anyone who has read LINGER knows my grandparents were very important people in my life. Not just LINGER, if you read this blog you know too.
The property on which my grandfather built our family home was spectacular. At the time you couldn't see any other houses from it. It's very different now, sadly. The house was built on the eastern side of the multi-acre property. To the west there was a big hill, known as Slade's Hill in the neighborhood, my grandparents called it Heather's Hill. Again sadly, there is a house built into that hill now. It breaks my heart whenever I go home and drive by it. Last year I was saddened that there were now houses where the woods behind our house used to be, along with houses on Baker's corn field.
But this is a happy blog post.
My grandfather installed a bird feeder right outside the bay windows of the dining room. There was another built into a tree on the eastern side of the driveway, and on the western side, above the rock garden, there were two more affixed to the big old trees that also held a rope swing. He would nail suet into the tree as well. Every season would bring different birds, squirrels and chipmunks. He greased the metal pole that held the bird feeder that was closest to the dining room table, to prevent the squirrels from invading the feeder.
I have wanted a bird feeder outside our front window not only in this house, but every other house we've lived in. We haven't had one until now. Yesterday, Charlotte and I found one we liked, bought it, and Doug hung it. Doug often reminds me of my grandfather. More and more the older he gets.
A couple weeks ago, he reorganized the garage, moved garden tools and other things he liked to have handy, in order to put up racks for Frank's two paddle boards. He hung shelves with hooks so Frank could easily hang his wetsuit, booties, etc. When he was doing it, I thought back to how my grandfather rearranged things in the garage for me, and everywhere else in the house. He saw I needed a place to hang necklaces and he made me a necklace hanger in the shape of two hearts with pegs coming out of it. I don't know what happened to it, but it was the kind of thing he'd do. It's the kind of thing Doug would do too.
Doug had me come outside yesterday before he tied everything off on the bird feeder. He wanted to be sure I could reach the clip to disconnect it from its spring-loaded wire. If I couldn't, he would've lowered it. He doesn't want me to have to climb up on anything in order to get it down to fill it. Just like my grandfather.
This morning a blue jay was enjoying the new feeder when we let Ballou out for his morning break. The jay flew away, but we could hear him alerting the birds in the neighborhood either about the bird feeder, or the dog, or both.
Every year I am determined to make my grandfather's old-fashioned chili sauce. It involves canning, something I haven't done since I was a pre-teen. Every year I miss getting fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, chili peppers and onions from the farmers' market, and making it from grocery store produce just never appealed to me.
It was an excuse, like so many other things I just wasn't ready to do. Similar to writing. When you're ready, you'll do it. So this year, I was ready.
My first attempt at canning was beets, sweet riesling beets. It took me most of Friday afternoon to cook the beets and prepare the canning jars, bands and lids. For my efforts, I yielded five half-pints of beets. It was a good warmup exercise.
Yesterday, I made the chili sauce. It was a mess, but I learned a lot. Five out of six cans processed correctly, so the other we have to eat now. The good news is that it tastes right. It doesn't look exactly like his used to look, but I think I figured out why. The other thing is, after I was finished, it dawned on me that he did half-pints, I did pints. Next time I'll do half-pints.
Today I made sriracha brussel sprouts and kosher dill pickles. It sounds as though the three pints of brussels sprouts processed correctly since two of the three have already popped. The dill pickles are processing now. I learned a lot today too, particularly about the pickles.
In the next few days I'll be canning peaches, another project that I anticipate being very messy. I told myself that I'm going to stop there, but unless the peaches do me in, I may continue and do some tomatoes and tomato sauce.
This morning Doug asked me what other "lost arts," I was going to undertake. Quilting? Uh, no. No sewing either, although Doug did ask me yesterday if I was going to start making him some clothes (again, no, thankfully he was joking). Knitting, possibly, but unlikely. It just seems too complicated. Although that's what I said about canning. I could crochet. My grandmother and I made a couple afghans together, by taking turns doing several rows at a time. When it was her turn she'd "fix" my rows by getting the correct number of stitches and evening it back out. Without her help, I'm not sure I'll crochet either. But maybe.
I posted photos on Facebook yesterday, one of the bird feeder, one of the canned chili sauce. In the post I wrote that between the two, I feel as though I'm home. The land around our house, which aren't really yards, are looking more and more beautiful with each passing day. We decided at the beginning of spring, that we'd only tackle the front area this year. The plants are growing, looking healthy, and flowers are blooming. My garden has yielded cherry tomatoes, tomatoes, cucumber, peas, onions and lots of herbs. Zucchini will be ready soon. Because of the toads (yes, toads), my lettuce and spinach were devoured almost immediately. I now have three pots of lettuce up on the deck, to see if that will work better. If it does, I'll just go that route next year.
I'm thankful we found this house, that reminds me so much of home. And that it has inspired me to practice the lost arts of my grandparents, which fills me with such a sense of love and peace.
The property on which my grandfather built our family home was spectacular. At the time you couldn't see any other houses from it. It's very different now, sadly. The house was built on the eastern side of the multi-acre property. To the west there was a big hill, known as Slade's Hill in the neighborhood, my grandparents called it Heather's Hill. Again sadly, there is a house built into that hill now. It breaks my heart whenever I go home and drive by it. Last year I was saddened that there were now houses where the woods behind our house used to be, along with houses on Baker's corn field.
But this is a happy blog post.
My grandfather installed a bird feeder right outside the bay windows of the dining room. There was another built into a tree on the eastern side of the driveway, and on the western side, above the rock garden, there were two more affixed to the big old trees that also held a rope swing. He would nail suet into the tree as well. Every season would bring different birds, squirrels and chipmunks. He greased the metal pole that held the bird feeder that was closest to the dining room table, to prevent the squirrels from invading the feeder.
I have wanted a bird feeder outside our front window not only in this house, but every other house we've lived in. We haven't had one until now. Yesterday, Charlotte and I found one we liked, bought it, and Doug hung it. Doug often reminds me of my grandfather. More and more the older he gets.
A couple weeks ago, he reorganized the garage, moved garden tools and other things he liked to have handy, in order to put up racks for Frank's two paddle boards. He hung shelves with hooks so Frank could easily hang his wetsuit, booties, etc. When he was doing it, I thought back to how my grandfather rearranged things in the garage for me, and everywhere else in the house. He saw I needed a place to hang necklaces and he made me a necklace hanger in the shape of two hearts with pegs coming out of it. I don't know what happened to it, but it was the kind of thing he'd do. It's the kind of thing Doug would do too.
Doug had me come outside yesterday before he tied everything off on the bird feeder. He wanted to be sure I could reach the clip to disconnect it from its spring-loaded wire. If I couldn't, he would've lowered it. He doesn't want me to have to climb up on anything in order to get it down to fill it. Just like my grandfather.
This morning a blue jay was enjoying the new feeder when we let Ballou out for his morning break. The jay flew away, but we could hear him alerting the birds in the neighborhood either about the bird feeder, or the dog, or both.
Every year I am determined to make my grandfather's old-fashioned chili sauce. It involves canning, something I haven't done since I was a pre-teen. Every year I miss getting fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, chili peppers and onions from the farmers' market, and making it from grocery store produce just never appealed to me.
It was an excuse, like so many other things I just wasn't ready to do. Similar to writing. When you're ready, you'll do it. So this year, I was ready.
My first attempt at canning was beets, sweet riesling beets. It took me most of Friday afternoon to cook the beets and prepare the canning jars, bands and lids. For my efforts, I yielded five half-pints of beets. It was a good warmup exercise.
Yesterday, I made the chili sauce. It was a mess, but I learned a lot. Five out of six cans processed correctly, so the other we have to eat now. The good news is that it tastes right. It doesn't look exactly like his used to look, but I think I figured out why. The other thing is, after I was finished, it dawned on me that he did half-pints, I did pints. Next time I'll do half-pints.
Today I made sriracha brussel sprouts and kosher dill pickles. It sounds as though the three pints of brussels sprouts processed correctly since two of the three have already popped. The dill pickles are processing now. I learned a lot today too, particularly about the pickles.
In the next few days I'll be canning peaches, another project that I anticipate being very messy. I told myself that I'm going to stop there, but unless the peaches do me in, I may continue and do some tomatoes and tomato sauce.
This morning Doug asked me what other "lost arts," I was going to undertake. Quilting? Uh, no. No sewing either, although Doug did ask me yesterday if I was going to start making him some clothes (again, no, thankfully he was joking). Knitting, possibly, but unlikely. It just seems too complicated. Although that's what I said about canning. I could crochet. My grandmother and I made a couple afghans together, by taking turns doing several rows at a time. When it was her turn she'd "fix" my rows by getting the correct number of stitches and evening it back out. Without her help, I'm not sure I'll crochet either. But maybe.
I posted photos on Facebook yesterday, one of the bird feeder, one of the canned chili sauce. In the post I wrote that between the two, I feel as though I'm home. The land around our house, which aren't really yards, are looking more and more beautiful with each passing day. We decided at the beginning of spring, that we'd only tackle the front area this year. The plants are growing, looking healthy, and flowers are blooming. My garden has yielded cherry tomatoes, tomatoes, cucumber, peas, onions and lots of herbs. Zucchini will be ready soon. Because of the toads (yes, toads), my lettuce and spinach were devoured almost immediately. I now have three pots of lettuce up on the deck, to see if that will work better. If it does, I'll just go that route next year.
I'm thankful we found this house, that reminds me so much of home. And that it has inspired me to practice the lost arts of my grandparents, which fills me with such a sense of love and peace.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
First First and Last First
There were a lot of firsts for Beckett today. First day he got up on his own using an alarm clock (yeah I know, but he's a REALLY sound sleeper), first day of school, first day of middle school, first time to ride the bus, and later he'll have his first official day of football practice. He's embarking on a new chapter of his life, while Frank is closing one out.
Today is Frank's last first day of high school. It's likely to be the last first day of school that he'll wake up in this house, and I'll coerce him into letting me take his photo. As much as I'd like to be there and take his photo on his first day of college, that might be pushing it more than a little.*
I'm grateful that Beck has five more years before he starts his senior year of high school. It gives me more time to prepare for the next last first day.
Everyone says it, but where does the time go? How can it be my babies are this old? While in Boston I spent time with a friend whose daughter I will always think of as being six years old. She's thirty. How can this be? It seems as though realizing how old our friends' kids are makes us feel older. When it's our own, it doesn't really seem to age us, it just ages them. Right?
Doug and I used to talk about what I'd do when I retired. We joked that I'd last about fifteen minutes, and then I'd find something else to do. I'm not really retired, but I sort of am. I still do marketing work, I still do freelance work writing grants (which will start up again tomorrow), and I still write books. But day-to-day scheduled work, not so much. There isn't any way I could with all the things that need to be done here. Although, everyone says this after they retire, when did I ever have time to work?
New chapters everywhere we look. With us, our kids, our friends. It'll be okay . . . at least I hope it will. A friend wrote on Facebook this morning, "someone tell me it's all going to be okay." It's easier to tell her it will be than it is to tell myself.
*Frank just came in and we talked about the "last first day photo," and how it's likely to be the last one I take. He said, "maybe." Then he told me I could take his photo on the day we drop him at college, and count that as the first first-day-of-college picture. He's so sweet, thinkin' of his mama like that.
Today is Frank's last first day of high school. It's likely to be the last first day of school that he'll wake up in this house, and I'll coerce him into letting me take his photo. As much as I'd like to be there and take his photo on his first day of college, that might be pushing it more than a little.*
I'm grateful that Beck has five more years before he starts his senior year of high school. It gives me more time to prepare for the next last first day.
Everyone says it, but where does the time go? How can it be my babies are this old? While in Boston I spent time with a friend whose daughter I will always think of as being six years old. She's thirty. How can this be? It seems as though realizing how old our friends' kids are makes us feel older. When it's our own, it doesn't really seem to age us, it just ages them. Right?
Doug and I used to talk about what I'd do when I retired. We joked that I'd last about fifteen minutes, and then I'd find something else to do. I'm not really retired, but I sort of am. I still do marketing work, I still do freelance work writing grants (which will start up again tomorrow), and I still write books. But day-to-day scheduled work, not so much. There isn't any way I could with all the things that need to be done here. Although, everyone says this after they retire, when did I ever have time to work?
New chapters everywhere we look. With us, our kids, our friends. It'll be okay . . . at least I hope it will. A friend wrote on Facebook this morning, "someone tell me it's all going to be okay." It's easier to tell her it will be than it is to tell myself.
*Frank just came in and we talked about the "last first day photo," and how it's likely to be the last one I take. He said, "maybe." Then he told me I could take his photo on the day we drop him at college, and count that as the first first-day-of-college picture. He's so sweet, thinkin' of his mama like that.
Friday, August 05, 2016
What year is it?
I didn't write at all yesterday. I intended to, but then found myself struggling with timeline issues. I looked through my working files and discovered I'd never done a timeline for the LINGER series. I hadn't remembered doing one, but I still looked with hope. I thought, optimistically, that it would take me an hour or so to complete it. By seven last night I was just finishing up.
Different writers have different styles, from start to finish. I don't outline my books. I have a basic idea of where the story is going to go, usually HEA (happily ever after), but other than that, and the "big ideas," of the story, I let it take me where it wants to go. I find it so much more FUN to write that way. I don't necessarily know what is going to happen when I sit down to write, and I LOVE that.
I try to get into the heads and hearts of my characters. I know what they look like, I know who they are, I know what drives them. I don't write it down anywhere, I just know. Sometimes I forget to tell my readers what they look like, because in my head I see them so clearly. At one point I attempted going back and doing character outlines for the Crested Butte Cowboy series. There are so many heroes and heroines across that book series, and they reappear throughout, I thought it might help. I did one, maybe two. For me it was a waste of time. I don't need to document how I see them or who they are . . . I just know.
Timelines are harder. When I am in the midst of writing a particular book, I don't need a timeline because I am there, present, in the story. It's when there are subsequent books in the series that the timeline becomes more important. I have one beta reader who is GREAT at noticing timeline issues. Particularly as it relates to weather. I love that about her.
Anyway, as I worked on the timeline yesterday, I realized I was in better shape than I thought. I had very, very little to change because of timing. I started to think that maybe I'd wasted an entire day doing something I didn't really need to do, but then I read through book three. I've written 14,080 words, which is a little over fifty pages in book form. Instead of being confused about timing, I just looked back at the timeline. I have a better sense of where we are in the trilogy, and in the long run I believe it will save me an enormous amount of time.
I won't be able to write much today either. I have two appointments that will take up most of my day. After I get back I doubt I'll feel like jumping into it. But maybe I will.
I used to sit at my desk, in the bedroom, and write. If I needed quiet, I'd close the door. It was okay, but I didn't get up as often as I should, and then I'd be stiff . . . anyone who works at a desk knows what I'm talking about. When I started working on this book, I transferred everything to my laptop. I can write anywhere. I've posted photos of what I call my "summer office" which is out on our deck, complete with a fabulous view of Pikes Peak and the front range, all the way down to Cheyenne Mountain. I still write in the bedroom sometimes, but I sit in more comfortable chairs, or on the bed. It's freeing. I can pick up my computer and go wherever I want. As long as the weather is nice, I'll write outside as often as I can.
I guess my point is I'll do the things I need to do to write. And I won't waste my time on things I don't need. At a meeting of the first book club I visited after they read AND THEN YOU FALL, we had a conversation about characters. Most everyone at the table complimented me on the characters in that book. Not that the characters didn't drive them crazy from time to time, but hello, that's kind of the point. Anyway, I talked about receiving emails from Writers' Digest primarily offering online workshops for everything from opening paragraphs to writing queries. I told them that sometimes I thought perhaps I was missing something . . . perhaps I should take one of those online classes. The biggest compliment the group gave me that day was telling me not to. They told me not to change anything in the way I write. If it isn't broken, don't fix it.
Timeline done. As soon as I can I'll be writing again . . .
Different writers have different styles, from start to finish. I don't outline my books. I have a basic idea of where the story is going to go, usually HEA (happily ever after), but other than that, and the "big ideas," of the story, I let it take me where it wants to go. I find it so much more FUN to write that way. I don't necessarily know what is going to happen when I sit down to write, and I LOVE that.
I try to get into the heads and hearts of my characters. I know what they look like, I know who they are, I know what drives them. I don't write it down anywhere, I just know. Sometimes I forget to tell my readers what they look like, because in my head I see them so clearly. At one point I attempted going back and doing character outlines for the Crested Butte Cowboy series. There are so many heroes and heroines across that book series, and they reappear throughout, I thought it might help. I did one, maybe two. For me it was a waste of time. I don't need to document how I see them or who they are . . . I just know.
Timelines are harder. When I am in the midst of writing a particular book, I don't need a timeline because I am there, present, in the story. It's when there are subsequent books in the series that the timeline becomes more important. I have one beta reader who is GREAT at noticing timeline issues. Particularly as it relates to weather. I love that about her.
Anyway, as I worked on the timeline yesterday, I realized I was in better shape than I thought. I had very, very little to change because of timing. I started to think that maybe I'd wasted an entire day doing something I didn't really need to do, but then I read through book three. I've written 14,080 words, which is a little over fifty pages in book form. Instead of being confused about timing, I just looked back at the timeline. I have a better sense of where we are in the trilogy, and in the long run I believe it will save me an enormous amount of time.
I won't be able to write much today either. I have two appointments that will take up most of my day. After I get back I doubt I'll feel like jumping into it. But maybe I will.
I used to sit at my desk, in the bedroom, and write. If I needed quiet, I'd close the door. It was okay, but I didn't get up as often as I should, and then I'd be stiff . . . anyone who works at a desk knows what I'm talking about. When I started working on this book, I transferred everything to my laptop. I can write anywhere. I've posted photos of what I call my "summer office" which is out on our deck, complete with a fabulous view of Pikes Peak and the front range, all the way down to Cheyenne Mountain. I still write in the bedroom sometimes, but I sit in more comfortable chairs, or on the bed. It's freeing. I can pick up my computer and go wherever I want. As long as the weather is nice, I'll write outside as often as I can.
I guess my point is I'll do the things I need to do to write. And I won't waste my time on things I don't need. At a meeting of the first book club I visited after they read AND THEN YOU FALL, we had a conversation about characters. Most everyone at the table complimented me on the characters in that book. Not that the characters didn't drive them crazy from time to time, but hello, that's kind of the point. Anyway, I talked about receiving emails from Writers' Digest primarily offering online workshops for everything from opening paragraphs to writing queries. I told them that sometimes I thought perhaps I was missing something . . . perhaps I should take one of those online classes. The biggest compliment the group gave me that day was telling me not to. They told me not to change anything in the way I write. If it isn't broken, don't fix it.
Timeline done. As soon as I can I'll be writing again . . .
Thursday, August 04, 2016
Nostalgic Regret
I was looking through some of the "Forgotten" sites I follow on Facebook this morning. You know, Forgotten Buffalo, Vintage LA, You Know You're from East Aurora When . . .
Whenever I scroll through posts like these I am filled with nostalgic regret. I find myself wishing things were the way they used to be. I wish Crystal Beach was still open, and still as idyllic as it is in my memory. Same way with Sherman's on Caroga Lake, open air markets, bustling downtowns full of department stores with exciting window displays and crowds of shoppers, the way banks used to be (when all the tellers greeted you by name) . . . and on and on and on. So often I find myself wishing it was still the way I remember.
And then something struck me. So many people have told me how much they miss our wine bar. But I don't. Sure there are things I miss about it, mainly the customers and how much I enjoyed getting to know them . . . but the truth is, that business didn't work. It didn't work from a business model standpoint (maybe it would've somewhere other than Monument), and it certainly didn't work for our family.
If something isn't working, it needs to change. As nostalgic as I get, there were reasons these businesses or amusement parks, or whole towns, changed. I am as guilty as anyone of shopping online, particularly when I'm busy, or I've looked for something in a brick and mortar and can't find it. It's likely the brick and mortar stopped carrying whatever it was because there wasn't enough demand for it.
There are lots of "Shop Local," "Shop Small," campaigns. A particularly successful one is Shop Small Saturday, on the Saturday following Black Friday. I have seen so many marketing statistics about how spending $50 (or whatever) once a week (or whatever) means that 500 people stay employed (or whatever). I don't know how accurate or realistic any of those stated statistics are, but it doesn't matter. The bottom line is if you want a store to stay in business, shop there. Great case in point, Vidler's on Main Street in the East Aurora. Or Charlie's Diner, also on Main Street. Both have changed somewhat, but they're still there.
Working on the LINGER series drives these points home (pun intended). Since I'm spending time "at home," I am particularly homesick, and nostalgic, and find myself wishing I could go back in time to the way things used to be. Would I really given the chance? Only to see the people I love and miss I suppose.
Whenever I scroll through posts like these I am filled with nostalgic regret. I find myself wishing things were the way they used to be. I wish Crystal Beach was still open, and still as idyllic as it is in my memory. Same way with Sherman's on Caroga Lake, open air markets, bustling downtowns full of department stores with exciting window displays and crowds of shoppers, the way banks used to be (when all the tellers greeted you by name) . . . and on and on and on. So often I find myself wishing it was still the way I remember.
And then something struck me. So many people have told me how much they miss our wine bar. But I don't. Sure there are things I miss about it, mainly the customers and how much I enjoyed getting to know them . . . but the truth is, that business didn't work. It didn't work from a business model standpoint (maybe it would've somewhere other than Monument), and it certainly didn't work for our family.
If something isn't working, it needs to change. As nostalgic as I get, there were reasons these businesses or amusement parks, or whole towns, changed. I am as guilty as anyone of shopping online, particularly when I'm busy, or I've looked for something in a brick and mortar and can't find it. It's likely the brick and mortar stopped carrying whatever it was because there wasn't enough demand for it.
There are lots of "Shop Local," "Shop Small," campaigns. A particularly successful one is Shop Small Saturday, on the Saturday following Black Friday. I have seen so many marketing statistics about how spending $50 (or whatever) once a week (or whatever) means that 500 people stay employed (or whatever). I don't know how accurate or realistic any of those stated statistics are, but it doesn't matter. The bottom line is if you want a store to stay in business, shop there. Great case in point, Vidler's on Main Street in the East Aurora. Or Charlie's Diner, also on Main Street. Both have changed somewhat, but they're still there.
Working on the LINGER series drives these points home (pun intended). Since I'm spending time "at home," I am particularly homesick, and nostalgic, and find myself wishing I could go back in time to the way things used to be. Would I really given the chance? Only to see the people I love and miss I suppose.
Wednesday, August 03, 2016
The Challenge of Little Time
I've had two back-to-back great writing days. Today's challenge is how I'll handle all the other things I have to do, but manage to write too. I have places I have to be this morning, things I have to do, which means I might not be back until after noon. Once I am back, I have to leave again at 3:30, and will likely not return until after 5:00. Tough to fit writing in given that schedule.
So what will I do? Take the whole day off? Probably not wise. Finish this blog post and write until 9:45 when I have to leave? Probably a better idea.
Between Monday and Tuesday I've written over 11,000 words . . . a huge accomplishment given I haven't written in over a year.
I didn't really pay attention to the date, but given I started writing again on Monday means I'll be tracking from August 1. Being a full-time writer means doing it every day, at least five days a week, as any other full-time job. So what would I do if it was any other job? I'd probably make up the time, especially if I was on a deadline . . . self-imposed or otherwise.
Time to LINGER . . . book three . . . I'm writing.
Tuesday, August 02, 2016
Be Ready
I am reminded both when I sit down to write and it doesn't work, and when I sit down to write and it does, that if I'm not ready to write, I can't. How many times in the last four years have I said it, acknowledged it, felt it?
There are times that I just can't get into a story. I want to, but I can't. I long for the feeling of having the words flow out of me, of being "in" the story with the characters. It's magic. And you can't rush magic. You can't force it. You can't will it to be when it just isn't.
The good news? I'm in it. Fully. I am surrounded by the magic of a story when it clicks. I love these two main characters. They were introduced in the first and second books in the LINGER series, but getting to write them more completely, build their story while I finish the story that is driving the trilogy is . . . overwhelmingly wonderful.
In the same way I don't want a book I love to end when I'm reading it, I don't want this series to end. Now that I am FINALLY finishing this book, I don't want to. Don't panic if you've been waiting for LINGER THREE. I will finish it, probably very soon. I just don't want it to end. To assuage my sadness, I've told myself I can simply write another book in this series. The ongoing cliffhanger will END with this book, I promise.
But what about after? Are there more characters that I can bring in so we can spend more time with Kate and Michael, Gabbi and Scotty, and all the rest? For now I'll tell myself there are. Even if it doesn't ultimately come to pass.
In the meantime . . . I LOVE this feeling. Love it. So much.
There are times that I just can't get into a story. I want to, but I can't. I long for the feeling of having the words flow out of me, of being "in" the story with the characters. It's magic. And you can't rush magic. You can't force it. You can't will it to be when it just isn't.
The good news? I'm in it. Fully. I am surrounded by the magic of a story when it clicks. I love these two main characters. They were introduced in the first and second books in the LINGER series, but getting to write them more completely, build their story while I finish the story that is driving the trilogy is . . . overwhelmingly wonderful.
In the same way I don't want a book I love to end when I'm reading it, I don't want this series to end. Now that I am FINALLY finishing this book, I don't want to. Don't panic if you've been waiting for LINGER THREE. I will finish it, probably very soon. I just don't want it to end. To assuage my sadness, I've told myself I can simply write another book in this series. The ongoing cliffhanger will END with this book, I promise.
But what about after? Are there more characters that I can bring in so we can spend more time with Kate and Michael, Gabbi and Scotty, and all the rest? For now I'll tell myself there are. Even if it doesn't ultimately come to pass.
In the meantime . . . I LOVE this feeling. Love it. So much.
Monday, August 01, 2016
Back to the Beginning
Sometimes you have to start over. If what you're doing isn't working, you can change it, or go all the way back and begin again. I'm opting for the latter. I came to that decision this morning, and now, sitting on the deck, what I consider my summer office, I feel it's the right one.Four years ago, on August 20 of 2012, I started writing my first novel. I'd written before, non-fiction, but fiction wasn't something I'd considered until then. The impetus was a trip home, to East Aurora, a gift I gave myself for my fiftieth birthday. As far as celebrations go, it wasn't the best I'd experienced. Even in hindsight I cannot really say whether that weekend was serendipitously bad, or good. I lost something that weekend, something I never really had, and that was a relationship with my half-sister. Relationships that are forced, or feel that way, rarely work. And this one didn't. I believe she was looking for someone I wasn't. And I had no idea what I was looking for. Until she initially contacted me, a couple years prior to that ill-fated weekend, I believed I knew who I was, where I came from, who I belonged to . . . what my life meant. After seeing my father through her eyes, her life, what I believed began to erode.
And thus, the main character of my first book was born. She's a lot like me, and nothing whatsoever like me. Her life is partly based on mine, but very little of it. It's a different story than mine, a different set of circumstances, with a tiny bit of reality mixed in. Her grandparents are my grandparents. Her parents are not. Many others she's close to are not based on anyone in my life at her age. Her home is like the one I grew up in, and nothing whatsoever like the it.
The biggest similarity is that she knows who she is, and so do I. Maybe for the first time in my life. Writing that initial book, that turned into two books, and now three, was cathartic. When I got off the plane in Denver, I told Doug I was going to write a book. And I did. Since, I've rewritten that first book countless times, written the second in what would become a trilogy, and written five books in a completely different series.
Today I am starting over on the third book. It's been a long time coming. I initially promised this book would release at the beginning of this year. It may now be the beginning of next year, but I'm not making promises this time. Instead, I'm simply going to write it.
My struggle is based primarily on the fact that I took stuff out of the second book, and plopped it into the third. When I began I wasn't writing that book, I was editing what I'd written before thinking it would turn into a book I was already part way through. Re-working, re-writing, deleting, adding . . . it's a nightmare. I won't throw away what I've got; I'll put it in another file, called outtakes, and then I'll start over. At the beginning. The way it should be.
I've written several posts along this same line over the course of the last year. I beat myself up regularly for not writing. I give excuses, and sometimes I fear that everything I was supposed to write I already have, and I'm forcing something that isn't going to work.
What I must do, is push through that fear, and see if there is something in me that still needs to be said. I have ideas jotted down about so many other books. I even have two other series I want to delve into. But can I find that spark? Can I find that passion, that need to write that is so overwhelming I cannot ignore it? I don't know.
Four years ago I didn't know whether I could write a book. I thought I could, but I was so afraid I wouldn't finish it. I was afraid that I wouldn't get past those first few pages, that I wouldn't have a whole story to write. I discovered I did. And several others.
I'm terrified as I write this, that I don't have another story in me. What if I can't get past those first few pages? What if I can't get past where I am right now? What if I can't finish? Do all writers feel this way when they sit down to pour a story out of their heart that their fingers can't type fast enough?
I didn't go home this summer, but I got close. I went to Boston. I was hoping for inspiration. I can't say yet whether I got any. We'll see if it turns up in the next thing I write. Maybe it'll be a book about three very strong women, and where life took them. But then again, maybe that's the story I'm already writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)