Anny Cook's Blog, page 71

Rearrangements

Moving furniture around, rearranging my living space used to be one of the ways I gave myself a new environment to live in. Add in painting and the occasional bit of wallpaper and I was a happy camper for a while. That was back then. Back when I was younger and had more energy.

Now? Leave me alone.

Last week, early one morning, I woke to an incessant beeping. Beep, beep, beep. After a while, I rolled out of bed and set out to hunt down the source. It was my UPS (uninterrupted power supply) for my computer. A little red light flickered. With a sigh I turned it off. And then back on. The light was green and there was no beeping. With a sigh of relief, I concluded some electrical surge had tripped the switch and went about my business.

About an hour later, again the beeping started...first it was spaced out, but soon picked up speed. At that point I summoned the house hunk and inquired what he thought the problem might be.

He noted another red light on the other end of the device that indicated a ground fault in the building wiring. Fabulous. Our apartment building is well over forty years old. And it's for sure the owners are not going to start tearing out walls to redo the wiring.

After some discussion and investigation of the other electrical outlets in the room, we located one that was "good". Unfortunately, using it for my computer would necessitate moving all the furniture in the room. And thus began my week of rearranging. Actually, I'm still putting stuff away.

Prior to moving in the current office, my desk was out in the living room and my granddaughters slept in the room. In an effort to provide a quiet place where I could write while the family watched television in the living room, we swapped places. At the time, it was going to be a temporary solution.

Over time my office also became the place to stash Nanna's stuff that didn't have a home--temporarily. In other words, it became a room-sized closet. That was three years ago.

Now rectifying the situation was on my schedule as a spring project--not a beginning-of-the-year project. But since I had to move everything anyway...

As I said, I'm still organizing and putting stuff away. And in the midst of that, I'm also organizing and putting stuff away in the spare room because my son is coming for a week-long visit at the end of this week.

I freely admit I have a lot of stuff. Yarn, fabric, paint (acrylics, craft and watercolors) brushes, canvases, huge sheets of vellum and other calligraphy supplies, ink, pens, light boxes, clay, beads, frames, and so on. That's not even considering the musical instruments, craft and calligraphy reference books and the drafting table. I'm selfish enough to want to keep my stuff. That's an unlovely admission, but there you are. After rearing four children, I like having stuff. My stuff.

All I have to do is figure out where to put my stuff for the next week or so. Once my son goes home, I'll have time to rearrange the spare room back to it's original craft/art room purpose. And my office can finally return to being an office.

So that's what I've been up to for the first week of 2012. What about you?

anny

Story of Love

Last night I had my monthly chat. We discussed what readers might have on their wishlist for 2012. Are they tired of the paranormal? Do they want less kinky? Do they want fewer participants and longer stories?

It's impossible to gauge reader desires. For one thing, the most vocal are not necessarily the ones plunking down their hard-earned money for books (whatever form they take!) One group will clamor for less sex, more romance, and a standard male/female relationship. But when royalty time rolls around the books that meet that criteria have abysmal sales.

So what do readers want?

Personally, I think the time has finally arrived for a hybrid. No, not a new genre. Erotic romance has always been a wicked step-sister to all the other romances. And it was an either/or situation. Either it was an erotic romance. Or it wasn't. Erotic romances moved closer and closer to erotica. Standard romances inched closer to the erotic. I propose a romance that edges back from the most explicit of the erotic romances with fewer sex scenes, more plot and stronger characters. Genre would not be the defining point for the book. Instead, romance and emotional bonds would set the standard.

Would anyone buy it? I have no idea. Readers say they want just such a book. In my experience, though, they aren't eager to put their money behind their request.

So what do you think? What do you want in your romances in 2012? Less sex? More romance? Or do you want something we haven't even thought of?

anny[image error]

Day by Day

I suspect my kids really don't believe the hunk and I were ever young. The picture was taken when I was seventeen and he was just twenty-one. When I look at it, I can't imagine how I thought I was old enough to get married. I had already graduated from high school and was working full-time as an accounts payable clerk. That doesn't seem possible.

Within two years we had a baby. A year later, we had another. And six years after this picture was taken we lived two thousand miles from our families, alone and on our own with three small children.

Time has passed oh so quickly. As I read through the postings on my Facebook account so many people were writing about how anxious they were to move on to the new year--and how bad the last year was. I wanted to tell them don't wish away your life. One day you'll turn around and discover you're not only not young anymore. You'll discover you're not even middle aged!

Oh, no! You're heading into senior citizen territory! Your children are all approaching middle age. Crawling out of bed in the morning is a feat of courage and bravery. The act of tying your shoes is accompanied by groans and whimpers.

Nope. Live each day to the fullest. That might mean you vacuumed the living room. Or possibly you've run a marathon. But whatever you're capable of doing on that day, make it count. When the picture above was taken, I was in my mid-forties, had just graduated from college and was climbing a mountain every weekend. I'm glad I did those things while I was able to.

Now, in my retirement, I write stories that other people pay to read! Who would have thought my life would take such a detour?

Live, I say. Whatever comes in 2012, make each day count.

anny[image error]

Be One With The Tapestry

Have you ever fallen in love with a work of art or music or location? When you tried to share how you felt, did the other person's eyes start to glaze over? Yeah, I can relate.

There's more going on than terminal boredom on the other fellow's part. The answer finally dawned on me the other night as I sat listening to a favorite piece of music. If you compare music, art, landscape, or writing to a tapestry, the answer is simple. Some people--maybe most people--don't perceive all the strands in the tapestry.

That's all right. I figure all of life is one gigantic tapestry. No one could possibly see the tapestry in it's entirety. Some people see (or hear) certain bits more closely than others. Each person has his or her own bit.

Where the bits overlap, we share the experience. I suspect some fortunate individuals have been given the gift of extra perception. They see colors the rest of us don't. They hear music we don't hear. They fathom the universe in ways we can't imagine. Words dance and flow in a ballet of the senses conveying ideas we can barely grasp.

I know a woman who can knit garments using only the vision she carries in her mind. When finished, they fit perfectly. I am a reasonably proficient knitter. Yet I can barely finish a scarf even with a pattern to follow.

I know a young man who looks at a paper full of numbers (most of them I swear are random) and can tell you in a few seconds where the error is located. Some of these gifts or talents the human race seems to prize and others we have little respect for but all are part of the tapestry.

The next time you try to explain why something particularly touches or excites you, remember... Your friend or family member may not share the same bit of tapestry. Their particular bit may be over a few feet to the right or left. That's probably why you can't understand why they're raving about the hum in the engine or the way that trout leaps into the air. Maybe they have a dancing soul. They might have a healing touch. Whatever they possess, stop for a moment and give thanks for each unique bit of the tapestry--whether or not you understand their part or not.

Be one with the tapestry.

anny[image error]

Reflections

Traditionally, as we reach the end of the year, we pause to reflect. Was it a good year? Bad? What can we do to improve things next year? What goals should we set for the upcoming year? Decisions, decisions.

I suppose the end of a year is a natural time to think about these things though some people do so on their birthdays. Since my birthday is at the end of the year in the midst of the holiday hoopla, consideration of the year gets postponed until after the Christmas rush.

I don't think it's accidental. There is a natural depression after Christmas. We run around, cooking, shopping, decorating...and then with jarring abruptness it's over. Family and friends go home. We're left with the debris and leftovers from Christmas littering our homes and the Mt. Everest of decorations to put away.

In the wind-down from the frenetic pre-holiday rush, we finally have time to think. We look forward--and back--and reflect on our life. Most people heave a sigh of relief for the year's passing while they eagerly look forward to the possibilities of the new year. It seems we're ever positive when looking forward and ever negative when looking back. I wonder why that is?

Perhaps it has something to do with uncompleted goals and unexpected roadblocks in life. Goals are easily adjusted. Sometimes I think we sabotage ourselves by piling too many expectations on the goal pile. Why not set just one? My goal for 2012 is to take better care of myself...whatever form that might be.

As for unexpected roadblocks--why are they unexpected? All of life is a series of unexpected detours leading us down back roads. I've never met anyone who mostly traveled the freeways of life. All of us are on the back roads. Unfortunately, most of us are not taking the time to enjoy the scenic byways we're traveling. We're too busy moaning and groaning about how slow the trip is.

This year, I plan to take the time to enjoy the scenic byways. Who knows what life will bring? None of us live in a vacuum, though. Perhaps we should pause to absorb whatever each new day brings to us. It might be grief or sadness, but those things are part of life just as joy and happiness are. We should embrace each new bit of life--the peaks and the valleys.

Without the valleys, I suspect we would fail to appreciate the peaks. Blessings for the forthcoming year.

anny[image error]

Help Wanted: Bicycle Mechanic

Christmas 1979. That was the year we stretched the budget to get the kids' bicycles. At our house, Santa always brings a stuffed animal. It was my feeling that Santa bringing tons of presents sets up kids for unrealistic expectations. No matter how the year goes, a stuffed animal is always doable. And after that, whatever Mom and Dad can come up with is great.

My kids had a realistic idea of our money situation from the time we sat them down and let them pay the bills with real money. My house hunk had his check cashed at the bank in $1 bills. Then we sat down with the kids and let them count out the money for each bill. We did that for six weeks. If there was any money left over after the bills we let them do the grocery shopping with a calculator and count out the money for the food.

After that when we said there was no money, they understood that reality. To this day, they're all very good managers. This particular Christmas was important to us as a family as the previous Christmas had been very, very bad. We didn't have a lot of money, but there was a bit more than usual so we decided that we could afford to buy bicycles.

Of course when your kids are pre-teen age, hiding bicycles is a pretty tricky proposition. Finally, we simply made the garage off-limits. Late Christmas Eve the house hunk and I were out there trying to assemble three bicycles. The store would have assembled them, but that cost money that we couldn't afford. One needed training wheels. Things did not go well.

Around 2 AM, the door opened and my second son trotted out there with his hands in his pockets. First of all, I was startled that he was still dressed. And then of course I demanded to know why he was awake.

"Well," he said, "I thought I would see how long it took you to put them together. But it's late. I'm tired. And I would like to ride my bike tomorrow. So I gave up. Do you want me to put them together?"

His father handed him the wrenches. "If you think you can do better than we are, go for it." Thirty minutes later all three bikes were assembled and parked by the tree.

My son was nine years old that Christmas. Until he left for the Navy, it was always his responsibility to assemble all the gifts marked "Some Assembly Required."

That year Santa brought the kids stuffed Safari animals—lions, tigers, and such. Up until a few years ago, they still had them. And then they decided to donate them to a kid's program. As I recall, that was the sum total of Christmas gifts that year, except for the perennial favorite… new underwear. To this day, that's a family in-joke. Every Christmas the kids receive new underwear. Now of course, it's pretty fancy stuff.[image error]

The Christmas Mouse

It was two days before Christmas and Herald, the Christmas Mouse was too tired to move. When humans started the Christmas Shopping Season, they didn't think about how hazardous all those busy shoppers were for the mice. Why, a mouse could barely scurry across the wide hallways in the mall without someone stepping on his tail--or worse! It was up to Herald to take care of all the tiny mouselets while their harried parents shopped.
Some of the mouse children didn't want to stay in the nursery. Some pulled on Herald's tail because they wanted to shop with their Mamas. There were fifteen children from the Snow family and they all wanted something to eat! Little Angela Tree sucked her paws and bawled for her Mama.
Herald ran from child to child, wiping whiskers, offering cheese crumbs and toys, and refereeing arguments between the two oldest boys in the Star family, Twinkle and Shiny. Herald desperately wanted a few minutes of quiet.
Then he heard a beautiful sound drift through the nursery door. It was the sound of someone singing. One by one the mouse children grew silent. As the singing grew louder, the mouselets all gathered on the rug in the center of the room and they sat down in small groups, listening carefully to the music. Soon Herald realized that some of them were humming the melody.
In the still, quiet nursery, Herald crept to the door and peeked out into the corridor. A young human woman sat on a bench in the center of the mall, singing all alone. People were smiling and stopping to listen. Cranky children who had been crying, grew quiet and leaned against their weary parents as the young woman continued to sing. Slowly, peace fell over the mall to the strains of a Christmas song. Then Herald recognized the music. She was singing the Christmas Lullaby--Silent Night.
Herald turned to look at the mouse children and saw that they were all asleep. Twinkle Star was even snoring!
Softly, Herald crept out to the young woman and stood near her foot with his whiskers twitching and his beady little eyes shining, listening to the beautiful song. And then, wonder of wonders, she bent and offered him a perch on her fingers. It seemed to him that she even perhaps invited him to sing with her.
Suddenly, Herald wasn't so tired. He opened his tiny mouth and began to sing. And as he sang with all his heart, the Christmas Spirit swelled within him so that when the song was finished, he roared out, "Merry Christmas Everybody! And a Happy New Year!"

©2007 Anny Cook [image error]

Love

Many men are totally inarticulate when it comes to talking about their emotions--especially love. If the woman says "I love you" they give her a hasty pat on the butt and say "me, too" and that's it! I'm married to one of those men. A friend once asked me how I could live with that. I said you get used to it. And she countered that she wanted it all.

Articulation is fine, but words aren't enough, are they? Women know there is a certain class of men who are as suave and debonair as they can be, incredibly articulate with their fine lines, but absolutely no follow up with their actions. I'll take the guy that demonstrates love everyday over the one who just is talk, but no action.

What is love?

Love is getting up and going to work everyday through rain, snow, fatigue, bad bosses, and all those other irritations in the workforce. Love is taking responsibilities seriously for over thirty-seven years through thick and thin.

Love is coming home from work, passing me in the hall as I rushed off to work, and taking care of three small tired children--bath, supper, and reading a story before bed--even though he's ready to drop and would rather sit in front of the TV with a beer.

Love is packing me off to my parents when I'd reached the end of my endurance--and spending Thanksgiving alone with four kids. I don't know what he told my parents, but when I arrived they ushered me into a bedroom and told me to let them know when I was hungry. Otherwise, they wouldn't bother me. I spent a week sleeping.

Love is supporting me in every possible endeavor I could think up to try. Genealogy? We traveled literally thousands of mile to research in remote libraries. Calligraphy? He learned how to mat and frame my work so I could afford to display it. Writing? He provided time, space, and computer. College? Oh, yes, he pitched in at home after commuting four hours a day so I could spend my evenings in classes.

Love is pulling together. It's crawling under the house through cold mud and spiderwebs so we could repair a water pipe. It's lying side by side underneath a car during an ice storm in February to fix the muffler so one of us could go to work. It's standing side-by-side as each of our children graduated from high school. It's holding hands while we watch fireworks on the fourth of July.

Love is having sex almost everyday, even though we're both wrinkled and saggy. Love is accepting all the little irritations in our mate, shrugging off the toilet tissue turned the wrong way, accepting the absolute refusal to load the dishwasher because he makes the bed.

Words? Anyone can say words. Give me a man of action. Fourty-four years ago we stood in church and vowed to stick together through thick and thin. And did. That is love.

anny[image error]

Long Road Home--1989

Christmas 1989. "Please come if you can. Uncle Charles has terminal cancer and probably won't be with us next Christmas."

For many years in my family, holidays (Christmas and Thanksgiving) have been alternated with the in-laws. This year was not a our family Christmas, but the family was trying to get together anyway. It wasn't a great year for us. My husband was on disability because of an accident at work. I was on unemployment because my company, Waldenbooks, had moved their warehouse operation from New York to Tennessee. The boys, recently graduated from high school, were out of work, since they had also been employed there. Jobs were scarce with 700 unemployed warehouse workers suddenly in the job market. I was attending school as a dislocated worker, hoping to obtain the skills for a new job.

"Please come." Our car was shot. There was barely enough for a gift for each of the kids. Friends had provided Christmas dinner components for us. The trip from New York to Indiana was out of the question. Reluctantly, I called my parents with the news.

The kids asked us if we could talk for a few minutes. "Suppose we give up our present money…would we have enough gas money to get there?" one of them asked.
My younger son offered to change the oil and do a quick check up on the car. The older one pointed out that we could take turns driving. The car had very little heat…but my older daughter suggested that we could take extra blankets.

Slowly, one objection at a time, they showed us that we could make the trip. I called my parents in LaPorte, Indiana and suggested that they make some extra beds.

We traveled to LaPorte, stopping only for restrooms and coffee. Our car was a tight squeeze for five small people. We had six large people. The kids said that was a good thing as we all stayed warmer that way. Meals were sandwiches eaten in the car. In Ohio, we ran into snow. The car heater didn't work well enough to defrost the windows so they began to freeze over. There were frequent stops to clear them, but we made it. After eighteen hours on the road we arrived in LaPorte. There was close to a foot of snow on the ground.

 It was a great Christmas, rendered more poignant because of Uncle Charles' illness. There were more family members there than at anytime before or since. Two came from Guam. Others came from all over the United States. Close to 70 people sat down for Christmas dinner. Afterwards there were games, carols, and visiting.

A couple of days later the trip home was longer as there was more snow to contend with. In Pennsylvania, the snow was so heavy that it melted on the headlights, creating a sheet of ice that coated them. We stopped frequently to clear them just so we had light. Cars were sliding off the road. It was night. Plows couldn't keep up with the storm. The rest areas were closed. We had no money to stay anywhere so we kept moving. Twenty-six hours later, we arrived safely home.

Anyone who has traveled with teenagers knows that it's impossible to travel far without petty squabbles and picking. However, our entire trip, bad weather, extremely uncomfortable conditions, with limited money, there wasn't a cross word from anyone.

A miracle. Several, in fact.

anny
© 2007 Anny Cook[image error]

Christmas Surprise--1964

The end of that year was an incredibly turbulent time. In November on my fourteenth birthday, President Kennedy was assassinated. It was in the beginning years of the Vietnam War. The Cuban Missile crisis was not long before that. Uncertainty was everywhere. So herewith, the story of Christmas 1964.

Christmas 1964 . That was the year that Christmas wasn't going to bring even one gift…we thought. It was a poor financial year. I didn't exactly know that we were poor. We had plenty to eat. We had clean, warm clothes. We had a warm, sheltering apartment in Chicago that my stepmother, Maxine, worked hard to make a haven for us.
Now that I am a parent and grandparent I realize how difficult it must have been for her to sit us down a few weeks before Christmas and explain that there wasn't any money for gifts. If all the money she had managed to save was pooled, we could have a special Christmas dinner. Back then there were no such things as food banks or church assistance.
Soberly, we considered the dilemma, and then one by one, we agreed that a special dinner was the best use for the money we had. Once that was settled, we put it behind us and life went on.
Then, a couple weeks before Christmas, Mum told all of us to hurry home immediately after school, as there would be a surprise. Friends of the family planned to bring each of us a gift and wished to be present when we opened them. So on this day, I slung my books into my locker at school and rushed home. Pounding up the stairs to our second floor apartment, I eagerly flung open the door—and froze in my tracks.
Every level surface in both the dining and living rooms was covered with gifts. Piles of beautifully, lovingly decorated boxes with bows and trinkets. A tree twinkled merrily in the corner. The melodies of familiar Christmas carols filled the air. Unexpectedly, Christmas had come to our home.
As I stood in the open doorway, I could not imagine what had happened. Certainly, we didn't get rich overnight. I shut the door before walking around the rooms gently touching the lovely boxes. Mum, more excited than I had ever seen her, urged me to look in the kitchen where two boxes of groceries, a ten-pound ham, fifty pounds of potatoes, and a five pound box of chocolates sat on the table. A special Christmas dinner indeed!
In a little while, when my brothers came home from school and my dad arrived from work, we opened the gifts. Of all the Christmases in my life, this is the one I can remember every single thing I received--not because I was a greedy kid, but because they were all gifts of sacrifice from strangers.

Our family friends were a minister and his wife with a church in Indiana. One of their church families approached them, seeking a family that wasn't going to have any gifts for Christmas. The parents and children of this church family voted to give up their Christmas gifts so that a family, unknown to them, would have a special Christmas.
The minister and his wife undertook the responsibility of obtaining clothing sizes and special needs, plus transportation and delivery of the gifts. And they delivered our heartfelt thank you letter to the anonymous family.
As Christmas grows closer, whether we are rich or poor, I look back on that Christmas and know that we are blessed because we are together. Every year I remember the blessing of being loved unconditionally by strangers.
A miracle.

anny [image error]