Amy E. Lilly's Blog: Book signing at Dahlgren General Library, page 2

Magic Pill: An almost true tale of my childhood

I died the summer of 1976. Thank God it didn’t stick. I blamed The Brothers. That’s what I called them. They were a collective rather than singular beings.

I often tattled on them for using me for live target practice with their Daisy Red Ryder. I could have lost an eye. My stuffed polar bear did. He wasn’t ever right in the head after the BB gun incident on April 8,1976.

Eventually, my brothers tired of me tattling, so they stuck me on top of the chicken coop. Five years old and terrified of heights, a drop of six feet made me want to pee my pants. I stayed on the scorching tin roof listening to the chickens squawk for an hour before someone rescued me. My parents said I should have jumped. I think I shouldn’t have been put up there. With that kind of attitude, they guaranteed my eventual death.

Back then, my mother was a homemaker. She ran interference on my brothers’ numerous murder attempts. I didn’t always escape unscathed, but it didn’t amount to much more than a scraped knee or a bruised arm. Everything changed that summer. We finally drove her to get a job. Some moms drank vodka or popped Valium. Ours went to work as a bank teller.

My parents decided my older brother Scotty was responsible enough to babysit. He was eleven, and his voice cracked and squeaked like an overplayed album. They left him in charge of my brother Randall and me. I was an angel. Randall, however, was a dust devil, swirling and destroying everything in his path. They tried to medicate him, but it took the spirit and joy right out of him. I didn’t care. A zombie for a brother was safer. Zombies trudged slow as snail snot, and if you threw raw meat at them, you were home free. Daddy thought giving Randall a pony would hold my brother’s attention. Goldie was untamed like her boy. She refused a saddle and nipped with regularity.

That summer, RC cola appeared on store shelves with 1776 emblazoned on the bottles, and we couldn’t wait for the bicentennial celebrations planned around the Fourth of July. The fireworks promised to be phenomenal. Randall’s hyperactivity reached new levels as his anticipation for the big day grew.

The Saturday morning before the Fourth started bright and glorious. I parked myself in front of the television with a bowl of magically delicious cereal, engrossed in the antics of Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby Doo. Cut Daphne and Fred from the show, and it was still awesome. Scooby Doo was the brains of the operation. The Brothers finished their cereal and pulled out their new boxing gloves. Another brilliant idea to channel a certain brother’s energy. Guess who got to be the punching bag to test if they hurt.

Fifteen minutes later, my mother stomped into the den, her hair still in curlers and housedress in disarray. “Go outside. I have to be at the bank this morning and don’t have time for foolishness.”  

“But I was watching––”

She pointed toward the door. I knew better than to argue. Ten minutes later, dressed in a pair of cutoffs and a yellow t-shirt, I slipped out the back door and whistled for our dog. His name was Jeff, but we all called him Boo. Perhaps because his breath could scare the curl from a poodle’s fur. He and I trotted out to the barn to find my siblings.

“Pinch her nose,” Scotty said.

Randall reached out with one hand to hold Goldie’s nose while his other hand clutched a bridle. “How about helping instead of flapping your lips?” Goldie opened her mouth. Randall slipped in the bit, then tightened the leather straps of the bridle.

“I want to ride her,” I said, scuffing my tennis shoes in the dirt. “I never get to ride her.”

“You’re too little, Amy,” Scotty said. “Go read a book or something.”

I stamped my foot. “I’m telling.” With all the attitude my small body could muster, I spun around, ready to run back to the house.

Randall grabbed my arm and twisted it. “Listen, crybaby. If you narc on us, we’ll get stuck inside cleaning the basement all day.”

I let loose with a dramatic wail guaranteed to draw attention. Scotty stepped forward. “Let her go.”

Randall dropped my arm and whirled to face our older brother. “You always take her side.”

Scotty shook his head. “I just don’t want to listen to her bawl. Take her for a quick ride, and then you can have a turn by yourself.”

In one swift motion, Randall swung up onto Goldie’s back. She nickered, but she didn’t move. Scotty motioned me over, then he stooped down and formed a sling with his hands. “I’ll help you up.”

I lifted my foot into his hands, and he boosted me until I could swing my leg over Goldie’s broad back. “Don’t go fast,” I pleaded with Randall. I closed my eyes as I hugged my brother as tightly as I could.

Randall loosened the reins, and the pony ambled toward the open field. “I’m taking it slow, but you’re squeezing my guts. Let go.”

I released my death grip and tried to enjoy the ride. We had moved about ten feet when Randall kicked his heels into Goldie’s sides. Fast as an arrow loosed from a bow, she shot forward and galloped down the path.

I screamed. Scotty cursed. Randall laughed, and Goldie didn’t stop. Maybe she thought she was at the races. Randall yanked the reins back as hard as he could, causing Goldie to rear. With a shake of her head, she bucked, and I flew off the back end of that pony like a cannonball. I landed on a pear cactus, and my head struck a sharp rock. As my world turned black, an object in the shape of a boy landed on top of me with an “oomph.”

***

The swinging woke me. Hands grasped my ankles while another set held my wrists.

“Where are we going to bury her?” Randall asked.

“I don’t know. In an old ditch at the edge of the field. It’ll take them longer to find her body,” Scotty answered.

I struggled to open my eyes. Spots danced and pirouetted. I opened my mouth, but only a small gasp escaped, not loud enough to hear.

“If Daddy finds out, we’ll get a whipping. You should’ve grabbed another shovel. We need to bury her deep,” Randall said. His grip tightened on my legs. I could tell it was him because my feet were lower than my head. He was short and wiry. Scotty, two years older, towered over him.

The world spun and turned black again. When I regained consciousness, sharp rocks poked into my back. A shovel bit into the ground near my head, followed by the sound of falling dirt.

“That ought to be deep enough. She’s little.” Scotty dropped the shovel, and the handle hit my leg.

Fighting unconsciousness, I blinked my eyes open. They felt crusty, like my tears had evaporated and left behind all their salt and dirt. “I’m alive,” I croaked. It came out whisper quiet. I tried again. “I’m not dead.”

“Did you hear that?” Scotty asked. He dropped to his knees beside my formerly lifeless body. He reached down and held his hand beneath my nostrils. “Yep. She’s breathing. She’s alive.”

“Great. Now we’re really going to get our butts whipped when Mama finds out. We should kill her again since we’ve already dug the grave,” Randall said.

I struggled to sit up, and a horrible pounding started in my skull. Scotty brushed my tangled hair out of my face. My eyes focused. I squinted at Randall, who stood with his arms crossed. Two trails tracked down his dirty face. He must have cried when he thought I was dead. The Brothers love me. The thought surprised me.

“I won’t tell Mama,” I said, pulling a twig from my hair.

Randall frowned. He squatted down and looked me in the eye. I leaned back since the swift movement caused him to multiply into two. “Pinky swear?” He held out his little finger.

I blinked my eyes and stared hard back at him. “Pinky swear,” I said, hooking my pinky around his.

After I died that summer, my brothers sometimes let me tag along with them on their adventures. I still drove them crazy, but I learned the less I tattled, the more fun I had with them. Now and then, Randall’s ornery nature still came out. I would look him dead in his eyes and say, “Remember that one time when you killed me?” It worked so much better than any pill the doctor prescribed.

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Researching Recipes

I love reading old recipes, particularly from the 1920s. It’s fascinating to see food preparation through the years change. Today, we have a surplus of food, even though recent trips to the grocery store before a snowstorm might give you a moment of doubt.

When I write a historical piece, I try to find menus from restaurants and cookbooks from that era. I know my character in my 1922 novel wouldn’t eat macaroni and cheese made with Velveeta. Kraft did not invent it until 1928. Kraft initially wrapped Velveeta in tin foil and sold in wooden boxes. Key details that help place the reader in the story are important.

As much as I would love to collect hundreds of recipe books throughout the late 1800s and early 1900s, my bookshelves would groan under the weight of them all. Besides, they are full enough already with hundreds of novels. No room on my shelves! I have two great resources for writers and people who love to find unique recipes and foods.

The first one is the Library of Congress. Yes, that enormous library in Washington, D.C. I can hear what you’re saying. “Amy, I can’t travel to D.C. to look at recipes!” No worries. You don’t need to travel anywhere but to your couch with your computer. The Library of Congress has cataloged thousands of resources and either created a digital resource themselves or linked to the Internet Archives or Hathi Trust. Both have digital copies of cookbooks, which is phenomenal. I’ll include the link below to the Library of Congress’s Community Cookbook Collection.

For restaurant menus, I use the New York Public Library’s menu collection. They are looking for volunteers to transcribe dishes from their menu collection if you’re interested. I’ll include a link to their collection below, too.

Image courtesy of LOC; 1921 Book of Recipes by Detroit’s Brewster Congregational

This morning, I perused a cookbook from 1921 and decided I have been too timid in my cooking. I found this little gem for farina balls to try. (Not really. Who needs that many carbs?) What about you? Any old family recipes that you love or hate? Share them in the comments!

http://menus.nypl.org/

https://guides.loc.gov/community-cookbooks/introduction

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Monkey mind

I don’t know about you, but I have a monkey mind. If you’ve known me for awhile, you’ll have seen the monkey mind in action. A random thought will manifest itself into words, and I’ll leave you scratching your head thinking, “Where did that come from?” My husband tends to sigh and say, “What in the heck are you talking about?”

The term “monkey mind” has both negative and positive denotations. In Buddhist philosophy, it can mean unsettled or confused, but it can also mean fanciful or whimsical. I’m easily distracted which is why I rely on a quiet house to help me achieve a quiet mind when I write. I can’t abide music or a television blaring in the background because I will jump from where I should be focusing (my novel or short story) to whatever shiny object attracts the monkey.

One of the ways I’ve learned to focus and hone my attention skills is through spinning. The craft, not the exercise on a bike like a hamster since I’m a firm believer if my legs work that hard they need to carry my body from Point A to Point B. Spinning a beautiful yarn requires your complete attention. Look away and oops! you have an uneven mess. It focus on the fleece and brainstorm ideas for a story. Whenever I’m stuck in a manuscript, I find a walk in nature or a short session with the spinning wheel refreshes my mind and energizes me for the next word sprint.

My favorite colors spun into a lovely sock yarn.

Do you have a monkey mind? If so, what do you to calm and focus your thoughts?

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Breaking Bad (habits)

I finally started the book Atomic Habits by James Clear. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it even if you don’t have any bad habits you need to break or good habits you’d like to incorporate. Of course, if you have neither than you might not be human and that’s a whole different conversation and self-help book.

I chose this book because I wanted to have a productive year. Not a busy year. A productive year. I can find ways to be busy all day long, but if there are no fruits to my labor, it’s wasted time. My goal is to produce at least two books this year. They might be first drafts, but the task of putting fingers to keyboard is daunting. One of the ways to create a daily good habit of writing is to make it easy to do and tie a reward to it. I’m making it easy by clearing my writing space on Sunday evenings so there is no impediment to sitting down and getting some words on the page. If I complete my word count for the day, I can watch an episode of a favorite British mystery or other guilty TV pleasure. I’m addicted to Around the World in 80 Days right now.

I’m listening to it on Audible while I wash dishes (another good habit I’m trying to incorporate.) I used to wait and wash dishes the following morning, but I realized it started every morning with a mess. Not a great way for anyone to start the day. Now, I make sure the kitchen is clean and the coffee ready to go before relaxing in the evening. The author narrates the book, and he does an excellent job. Honestly, a bad narrator makes me immediately stop listening even if I love the story.

My other big take away was strive to be 1% better every day. Day one. Show up. Day two. Write a sentence. Day three. Write a paragraph. The math isn’t there, but you get the idea. Now, I wake up and think “How can I be 1% better today?” What a great idea that can be applied to so many areas of your life. So I’ll ask you, how will you be 1% better today?

This post contains affiliate links. That means that if you make a purchase after clicking on a link I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. 

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Playing a part

Playing opera singer Arianna Altamonte

In addition to writing, I act in online (and pre-COVID in person) mystery theater events. Each event brings a new opportunity to step into a new character’s shoes. For the month of February, I’ll play Italian opera singer Arianna Altamonte in a 1930s train mystery. I don the clothes, wig, and the voice of my character and state my alibi to the audience. When questioned by the online detectives, I answer in the persona of Arianna, trying hard to never falter.

When I sit in front of my computer to write the latest scene in my novel, I step into each character’s life. One of the most difficult things to do as a writer is to keep true to your character’s voice. Would my 1920s heroine, Evie, react that way or am I writing as I would think and feel? When you write a novel, you live many lives on your pages. It’s important to keep them straight!

As part of my writing process, I fill out a character sketch for each major player in the novel. I include not only appearance but personality traits, too. If I struggle getting a character right, I place them in a scene outside of the novel and write how they would react.

In the summers, I’ve taught writing bootcamps for teens. One of the exercises I give them is this – Your main character discovers your best friend has betrayed you. Write a scene where your character confronts them. The teens always have difficulty staying true to how they’ve initially described their character and write the scene as they would react. Once they realize their error, it becomes easier for them to create authentic characters and scenes for their story.

If you’re a writer or thinking of writing, try out the exercise above. Imagine a scenario for your character and write how they would react. Not a story. Just a scene from “action” to “cut.” When you’re done, set it aside. A week later, read what your wrote with fresh eyes and decide if you stayed true to your character or not. Good luck and happy writing and reading!

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A Picture-Perfect Life

A short story for the annual NYC Midnight Short Story contest. I was assigned comedy/out-of-body experience/landscape architect. I think I ended up writing a satire which is a form of comedy, so I don’t know what the judges will think; however, I am happy with the result.

Picture-perfect island life

A Picture Perfect Life

Captain Billy eased back on the throttle, and the boat slowed. I craned my neck and peered through the salt-smeared window. “Is that it?”

            “It doesn’t look like much, but the island stretches five miles to the east. A narrow spit of land in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.” Captain Billy cleared his throat and hawked a gob of phlegm on the deck of the boat. My stomach churned, but I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to piss off the man I’d paid in advance to bring me back to civilization when I finished the job. “Best be going. It’s getting late.”

            He guided his fishing boat to the dock. Two men the size of linebackers stood sentry in matching pink Bermuda shorts and mint green t-shirts. Black wraparound sunglasses completed their ensembles. Watermelons on steroids.

            I barely had time to hoist myself and my bag onto the dock before Captain Billy tipped his hat and said he would see me soon. I must have misheard, but I thought he mumbled “hopefully” under his breath. Had I made a poor choice coming to this island in the middle of nowhere? Too late to rethink. Good thing I’d packed cash, a bottle of gin, and an extra bikini. I could bribe my way back to the city.

            “I’m Regina McQueen,” I said, holding my hand out to Summer Fruit Number One. He lowered his head but didn’t acknowledge my attempt at civility. Instead, he picked up my bag and indicated with a nod of his neckless head to follow.

            In unison, they spun on their mint green Crocs and goosestepped down the dock to the beach. A golf cart parked at the edge of the sand mimicked my escorts with its pink and green paint. The roof was a jarring shade of lemon yellow. Was the owner of this place color blind or a hungry toddler wanting ice cream? A lump of lard-filled dread rolled around in my stomach. I traveled hundreds of miles to the island of poor taste. I journeyed to not only another land, but a place of bright pinks and limes. A place where my landscape designs might stretch my imagination and my skill. I had entered the bizarre zone.

            The cart bumped its way down a small path that cut through the jungle. I heard what I hoped were cute monkeys rather than screaming jungle cats ready to pounce and eat my liver. Go to a tropical island and relax. It’ll be great. These were the lies my social media friends told me. What did they know sitting in their airconditioned basements in their parents’ homes? I could have turned on a reality show and drank a pina colada in my jimjams. Instead, I took a job to design an extremely rich dude’s garden. The money would be nice if I survived the trip. I could buy myself those cute shoes with the red soles that were sure to turn a married man’s head.

            The cart stopped in front of a villa painted a painful ivy green. It was a sad attempt to complement the jungle surroundings. The only redeeming thing about the monstrosity before me was the size. It screamed money. Tropical paradises aren’t cheap.

            “Miss McQueen, how nice of you to come to my island.” A thin man dressed in a linen suit with a straw canotier stretched his arms wide. “Welcome to Todosobremi.”

            I gave him what I hoped was my most professional smile. “I’m excited to be here. You

must be Mr. MacGuffin.”  

            “Call me Mismo, and I shall call you Regina, my queen.” He grinned at me.

            “Regina is just fine.” My smile stretched wider to hide my discomfort. “Captain Billy said the island was called Mount Basura.”

            Mismo waved his hand. “That was then, this is now. I’m creating a new country and needed a more fitting name.”

            “Can you do that?”

            “Do what?”

            “Create a new country in the middle of the ocean?” I asked.

            “I can do what I want. I have money, and I control the world’s social media. My world. My rules.” Mismo laughed. “Don’t you know who I am?”

            I shook my head. I should have researched my new employer, but his cash bought my time and my soul. A forty-something woman in a beige suit had interviewed me a few weeks ago and asked to see my portfolio. With the pandemic, jobs designing green space for new offices and homes had slowed to a trickle. I was hungry for work, so when the contract arrived in my email, I’d signed without reading the fine print other than the pay.

            “I own Vltra, the parent company of—”

            I slapped my forehead. “OMG! I use you every single day. This is so exciting. You’re like the godfather of F—”

            “I know.” He clapped his hands, and a gorgeous brunette who resembled someone famous for being famous appeared. “I want to take you on a tour of the grounds you’ll need to transform. Kym, show Regina to her room and then bring her back to me.”

            Kym bobbed her head. As we walked up the grand curving stairway, I didn’t know where to look first. Every surface was an explosion of color. Paintings with swirls of magenta fought with ivory diamonds for wall space. It made me dizzy. Kym stopped at the first door and let me into a bedroom fit more for a harem girl than an up-and-coming landscape architect. Without a word, she plopped my bag on the bed.

“Have you worked for Mismo long?”

            Kym shook her head and gave me a condescending smile. “A person doesn’t simply work for Mismo. You participate in his vision.”

            I arched my brow. “What do you mean? I won’t get paid? In that case, I’m out of here.” I picked up my bag, but she put out her hand to stop me.

            “Don’t worry. You’ll get paid, but you’ll also get likes and follows. This will lead to advertising, and the next thing you know, you won’t have to design another garden in your life.”

            “Waiting for likes doesn’t pay my rent. Cold, hard cash makes my landlord happy.”

            “You’ll see. Mismo knows what he’s doing.” She walked to a large screen mounted on the wall. With a tap of her finger, it came to life. “Look. This is your arrival at the island. It’s already been viewed and liked a thousand times.”

            I stepped over to the monitor. “Wait a minute. This is the page for my business. I didn’t post this.” I squinted at the screen. “I look amazing. My cheekbones are to die for, and my butt looks like I did squats every day for a month.”

            Kim smiled. “It’s the newest filter. It makes you look like you should if you had money, time, and a trainer. Like you’re somebody important.”

            I pulled my phone out and opened my social media. She wasn’t joking. The comments under the picture weren’t just from friends and family that I’d bribed to like my page. These were actual fans. “I’d better get downstairs and start designing. I don’t want to disappoint my followers.”

            I found Mismo reclining on a chaise lounge next to a swimming pool. Compared to the villa, the color scheme was sedate. A simple Mediterranean blue with snow white furniture placed around the perimeter created a soothing oasis in a sea of color. “Ah, Regina. You look happy.”

            “I am. Kim showed me the new filter. I can’t wait to download it.”

            “It takes ten years and twenty pounds off, doesn’t it?” Mismo chuckled. “At least, that’s what I hope. You’re the beta for the project. The first release into the virtual wild, so to speak.”

            Self-conscious, I sucked in my stomach. Too many glasses of wine washing down pizza while binging on sitcoms had added on pounds, but no need to comment. “Is this the space you want me to transform?”

            “No.” He stood up and smoothed his pants. He stepped one foot six inches in front of the other and stopped. “Look up. I want to capture this moment.”

            I looked around and saw that Summer Fruit Number Two was on a raised platform and pointing a cell phone in our direction. I sucked in my cheeks and tried to think thin thoughts. When Mismo moved forward, I released the breath I’d been holding. He pushed his way through a gate, and we stepped into a proper English formal garden. Unfortunately, the hedges had grown uncontrolled, and the flowers drooped from neglect. A good gardener could transform this place in a month. Why hire a landscape architect when the space is already amazing?

            “This is beautiful,” I said.

            Mismo turned to me, disappointment etched on his face. “Is it? This space says I’m forty to fifty years old and getting ready to send my kids to college. My target demographic is the twenty-five to thirty-year-old who lives in an overpriced apartment in the city but longs to escape to the countryside. They miss the raves and parties of their recent youth and long to escape the tedium of having to work an actual job.”

            “I’m your target audience.”

            “I know. It’s why you got the job. All the other applicants were old.”

            “Aren’t you thirty-eight?” I remembered an online article I’d read that announced one of his latest wranglings with a government agency.

            “Yes, but that’s not relevant. I have a launch party planned for my closest friends. I want their virtual OOB to be transformative, and this garden will be part of it.”

            “OOB?” I pronounced it like boob.

            “Out of body experience. My parents used to trip on mushrooms so they could leave their reality behind. OOBs were the first step to transcend the mundane. You observe your surroundings out of your physical body. Leaving the reality of this blah blah world for a new one. I’ve taken the concept and made it better using new virtual reality glasses. Everyone will be beautiful. No one will have bad hair days. Experience without the truth. It will be my crowning achievement. And you can help make it happen.”

            “This sounds New Age unbelievable.” I didn’t consider myself a woo woo crystal girl. I loved the material world, not the spiritual.

            “It’s an augmented life to create the world as it should be rather than how it is,” Mismo corrected me. “New Age leaves things to chance. Todosobremi will be a bespoke island nation. Every experience curated.”

            It sounded controlling, but the zeroes behind the five on my contract silenced me. I took a step back and surveyed the space. “What do you envision?”

            “I want it to look natural, but I don’t want it to be natural. No bugs. No butterflies. Nothing alive.”

            I shook my head not sure I’d heard him correctly. “But you hired me to design your landscape. I use plants.”

            “Plastic and silk plants will be perfect. You can paint the concrete green. Consider it contouring for nature.”

            I looked at the garden. A paperwhite butterfly chose that moment to flutter down and land on a lavender tea rose. Mismo’s nose wrinkled in disgust. He waved his hand, and it flew away.

            “What about the trees?” A plethora of palms surrounded a large fountain in the center.

            “Make them go away. I want my outer home to reflect my inner home. I want bright, happy colors. No beiges or browns anywhere. Nothing can get old, wrinkled, or turn brown.”

            I pulled a small notebook and pencil out of my pocket and jotted notes. Fake plants, fake animals, fake life. Check. “When is your launch?”

            “Three months. I assume you can complete the job. I have a team at your disposal. You ask and it will happen.”

            “In that case, I’ll get some preliminary sketches together for your approval by tomorrow.” I put my plans of sitting by the pool with a margarita on the back burner. Three months might sound like a long time, but it would take at least two weeks to rip out nature to make way for the concrete and Astroturf I planned to install. Such a pity to kill the real to make way for the fake, but it is what it is.

            “Let me show you the rest of the island.” He turned on his expensive Italian loafers and beckoned.

***

Three months later.

“This is incredible,” Kym said. She held a handblown wine glass filled with water tinted to resemble chardonnay. When I asked her why she didn’t just have a glass of wine, she laughed and said it had too many carbs, but not drinking with the guests would shatter the illusion.

I peered through my VR glasses at the guests in a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos in carefully chosen colors. Each dress complemented the surrounding landscape. No sandaled heel higher than prescribed by Mismo’s curator of social media posts. “I finished it with only days to spare. The Vltra team worked around the clock to complete it.”

“You look amazing, too,” Kym said. She gave me an appraising look. Her hand reached up and she pulled off the diamond-crusted glasses. “Which filter did you choose?”

“The forties pinup girl,” I said and twirled around. “I’m a bombshell with blonde hair.” I pulled my phone from my silver evening bag. “I have over fifty thousand followers since the pictures of the garden went viral. Everyone wants to hire me.”

“The colors are so vibrant,” a passing guest said. “I can almost smell the flowers.”

“Thank goodness you can’t. Pollen makes my eyes puffy.” Her friend fluffed her hair and struck a pose. “Come closer. Make sure you lean forward and show your best assets.”

***

Two days later

“Linda, did you read the headline on today’s paper?” Mitch scratched his large belly and settled down in his old brown recliner.

“What’s it say?” Linda popped her head out of the bathroom. Her gray hair was damp from the shower. She patted moisturizer into her crow’s feet.

“A bunch of them influencers at the party Regina yammered on about got hurt.” Mitch read the article aloud. “‘The group of fifteen guests was posing next to a statue of a jaguar in a garden designed by Regina McQueen when one of the women suggested they move back for a better angle. Unfortunately, a cliff was directly behind them and four of the guests tumbled into the ocean. Captain Billy Wells, a local fisherman, rescued the uninjured guests.’ At least they mentioned the garden designed by Regina. It’ll get her some exposure.”

“Not really. No one gets their news from a paper anymore, Mitch. It’s too real,” Linda said. “Hold on while I post the apple pie I made.”

“Tag your sister. Her pies always look like crap. That new filter will make yours look picture perfect.”

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Nostalgia

I’m deep in the winter doldrums as we brace for another round of storms here in Virginia. My husband and I spent yesterday afternoon getting firewood for the woodstove in the event we lost power again. I made a mental note that any farmhouse we purchase when he retires must have a large, working fireplace in a central location. I’ve grown soft in my old age and don’t relish the cold.

As a child, I didn’t spend hours outside like my friends. The heat and cold didn’t play nice with my wonky nervous system, so I stayed inside enjoying the company of Nancy, George, and Bess. When I did play in the snow, the brothers loved to hurtle down the hills of our farm on our old, wooden sled with me clinging to their backs like a Capuchin monkey, praying I would survive.

We lived at the base of Grand Mesa outside the small town of Cedaredge. It was the 1970s, and parents let their children run feral. We certainly did. Snow often reached depths of several feet, and in the cold, winter days, a crust would form allowing children to walk across the top, our feet barely denting the surface. The brothers rolled giant snowballs that they carved out into their version of igloos. We didn’t know it could collapse and smother us. The hindsight of parenthood made me realize we lived on the edge back then. It was so much fun.

On snowy days, we donned snow pants, parkas, and gloves. My mother slipped bread bags she saved over our sock-covered feet. Our feet stayed dry inside our boots, and those bags dotted with red, yellow, and blue dots made colorful fashion statements. When we finished playing, we trekked to the house, red-cheeked and tired, to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate made by whisking powdered Nesquick into a cup of milk heated in a saucepan. No microwaves and instant gratification back then. The three of us would sit on the hearth of our fireplace waiting for our faces and fingers to thaw.

Six-year-old me getting ready to slide down the slope with a big push from Daddy as the brothers wait their turn.

In the evening, exhausted from play, we would climb into our pajamas, drag our sleeping bags out to the living room floor, and settle in to watch whatever show the antenna would pick up. Three channels and the pickings were slim, but we were never bored.

Today, I have hundreds of channels, unlimited access to information, but few things keep my attention. It’s sad, but we are starving from our gluttony of choice. Things weren’t always wonderful back then, but some things, like a snowy winters day spent sledding on a hillside, were truly magical.

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Snow days ≠ slow days

On Monday, the Fredericksburg region received a foot of heavy, wet snow. It caused trees to snap and a fifty-mile backup on I-95. People were trapped in their cars overnight in plummeting temperatures. Here on our little homestead, we didn’t have power for two days, but the dogs and cats snuggled with us and became personal heating pads until electricity was restored. Our access to cellular service was limited due to tower damage. The world was silent and the few noises from the birds and neighbors’ dogs barking were muffled by the heavy snow.

Internet took five days to come back online, and I thought it would prove to be a productive few days. Faced with limited access to social media, I had big plans to write and use the time to organize my life. It didn’t happen. I felt strangely untethered from the world without the constant fix from Facebook and Instagram. I’m an introvert and don’t feel the need for face-to-face contact, so I thought this would be my time to shine. It surprised me how much I still craved access to the outside world even if it wasn’t true interaction. I experienced anxiety not knowing when service would be restored. Ridiculous and such a first world problem that I’m embarrassed to even write the words. So many people in the world have limited access to clean water, food, and education, and I’m here jonesing for social media and web surfing.

Now that I’m back online, I want to work on a healthier relationship with the internet and social media. They are tools for us, and they do have their purpose, but for those few days, I realized I was a tool for Meta (the company formerly known as Facebook) and other giants. I don’t have it figured out yet, but I think it’s important for us to remember that our lives don’t need to be ruled by algorithms. For now, I’m signing off for the week to finish The French Paradox by one of my favorite Virginia authors, Ellen Crosby.

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Losing a piece of history

We laid to rest one of the world’s best storytellers, and the world is a little less bright with his passing. My father-in-law was born back in the early 1930s long before there were televisions in every room, YouTube at your fingertips, and books with digital ink. As a boy, he filled his time planting beans, potatoes, and other crops to help feed his family. He grew up in the rocky hills of southern West Virginia. Families were big and money wasn’t always plentiful. Richard’s father was a preacher, but I’ve heard tales that he might make a bit of moonshine if the mood struck him.

The lessons he learned in his youth sustained him throughout his life. Richard raised the best garden in the neighborhood and would share his bounty with friends and family. Many people received the gift of his bright red tomatoes or home canned green beans. Too bad his preacher didn’t like green beans. At his funeral service, Pastor Tim Dixon told the story that Richard would never call him by his first name. He would always say, “Preacher, how are you?” Never Tim, always Preacher. My father-in-law was old school like that. As we followed the hearse to the small cemetery hidden on a back country road, cars pulled over and waited for us to pass like they used to do. I guess Tennessee is old school, too. I guess that’s why Richard liked living there so much.

When his four children gathered together to mourn Richard’s passing, they also celebrated his life. They learned that their father kept meticulous records. Every day, he wrote the temperature, if there was rain or frost, and what crops he planted on a wall calendar in his kitchen. In a small box in his woodworking space, there was a box of carved wooden toys. I looked them up and they are called gee-haw whammy diddles. I doubt that’s what he called them, but they are simple toys guaranteed to bring a smile. Simple things for a man who appreciated the simple things in life. He had no need for a mansion on the hill during his lifetime because he knew one waited for him after his death.

Richard’s meticulous recordkeeping!

Richard was a generous man, too. He didn’t have much, but he and his wife, Linda, shared anything they had to help other’s in need. He never asked for money. He did it because he knew it was the Christian thing to do.

Richard loved to tell his children and grandchildren about his days growing up in West Virginia. Although I am sure he experienced heartbreak and pain in his 87 years here on the big, blue marble, his stories were never sad, and they were guaranteed to make you smile. Now, those stories are lost except in the memories of his family and friends who were fortunate to pass a few minutes listening to him tell them.

Richard Lilly & Noel

As you gather around your holiday table this year, when your parents and grandparents tell the same story they may have told last year and the year before, don’t tune them out. Lean in closer and pull each word into your heart and memory. When the storyteller is gone, pull those memories and stories out of the dusty reaches of your mind and retell them to yourself, your children, and your friends so the stories may continue to live.

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Betelgeuse/Beetlejuice!

Today is very important. On December 13, 1920, Albert Michelson uses Francis G. Pease’s interferometer to measure the diameter of a star – Betelgeuse. This is the first time a star’s diameter is measured, aside from our own Sun. Of course, the star made me think of one of my favorite movies, Beetlejuice. I’m a big Winona Ryder and Geena Davis fan. Some interesting facts about Betelgeuse the star — in fluctuates in brightness and is 1,000 times brighter than our Sun. Interesting fact about Beetlejuice the movie – Sammy Davis, Jr. was Tim Burton’s first choice to play Beetlejuice.

[image error] Image: Beetlejuice

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