Tess Thompson's Blog, page 8

Reinvent Ever After

The day after Christmas, 2014, I sat on the soft blue couch in my townhome, watching the twinkling lights of our tree. Three desolate days without my little girls stretched before me. Echoes of their delighted voices Christmas morning lingered in the shadows of the empty room, bags of torn wrapping-paper the only hint that joy had lived here just twenty-four hours earlier.

There was writing to do and errands and laundry. All the tasks I busied myself with when the girls were gone with their dad. Yet, I was tired and restless at the same time, feeling as if I wanted to crawl out of my own skin, or take a nap for a week, or exhaust myself with hard exercise. Something, anything, that would shift my circumstance. I was lonely. It was the holidays that made it worse, made all that was lost that much more stark. Solitude had settled heavy between my shoulders. It defined me. Divorced. Alone. Perhaps, worst of all, whispered from the darkest of places in my very human heart: unlovable.

I was trying to meet someone. Instead of curling up in my house and watching BBC television, my preferred method of coping with this strange new world I found myself in, I’d ventured out into the world of online dating. I did it like I do everything—all the way in. Go big or go home. I’d been on countless first dates, and had several short relationships, but nothing was right. Nothing was even close to right. The several men I dated for any length of time eventually revealed damage too deep to participate in a healthy relationship. Toss some crazy ex-wives in the mix and anything close to what I was looking for in a partner dissolved before my eyes. Regardless, I refused to settle. I suspected this choice made the possibility of finding someone to share my life with nearly impossible, but I’d spent the last ten years in a fog and I was not about to let it take me down ever again. I was living on my own terms. No compromises. I would write books. I would look for love. I would raise my girls to roar at fear.

And yet, I despaired. As I stared into the lights of my Christmas tree, I wondered if my life would get better or if this was as good as it gets? My forty-fifth birthday was six weeks away. How much longer would I be even remotely attractive? There were wrinkles and extra flesh around my middle and breasts that had seen better days. I feared my longing for love was futile. I was old, used-up, invisible.

But that old friend hope still lived in my chest. She called out from the darkness. Do not give up. Your happy-ever-after is out there somewhere. Maybe at this very moment he’s looking for you and despairing. If you give up, he’ll never find you.

So, I did something a little crazy. I went on yet another online dating sight. I sat on that blue couch and filled out another profile, with Mittens on my lap, the Cascades lit with rare December sun outside my windows. In that action was a decision. I would keep trying. Hope conquered fear.

The evidence is on my Facebook wall.

December 26, 2014.

“I’m going on Tinder, people. Pray for me.”

My friends, bless them all, sent me notes of encouragement, but mostly caution. Tinder is a hook-up site. It’s for young people looking for booty calls.

“Research and fodder, at the very least,” I replied.

Weeks went by. Life moves forward, like it does, with all the losses and gains and things in-between. On a cold day in early February I drove across town to meet a widower and father of two teenaged boys named Cliff. He was forty-four, lived in Sammamish and worked at Microsoft. A pool player and a runner. A Seahawks fan. His profile was clever, and although I couldn’t see exactly what he looked like from his two terrible photographs, I decided to give him a chance, mostly because he made me laugh during our text exchanges.

His first text: “Are you through the six stages of grief over the Super Bowl loss?”

I wasn’t, but that’s another story.

He asked me to dinner, not coffee or drinks. Bold! I like bold.

That night, I shivered as I walked across the parking lot to the restaurant, the cold wind shooting up my skirt, despite the Spanx that wrapped around my middle like a python. When I entered the restaurant, I scanned the foyer, but didn’t see him. I stood near the hostess podium, waiting. He was late. Maybe he wouldn’t show? Why had I gotten out of my warm pajamas and left the house? I could be watching “Downton Abbey” instead of standing in this cold restaurant waiting for some guy I probably wouldn’t like.

I started shaking, like when you’re a kid and you’re either excited or scared. I clamped my teeth together, afraid they would start to chatter. To this day, I cannot explain this strange physical reaction.

Five minutes later, he walked through the doors, apologetic for his tardiness. He’d gone to the wrong restaurant. In hindsight, this is ironic, because he never makes mistakes like that one. I do. A lot. Cliff’s organized and methodical. He makes spreadsheets and lists. He does not fly by the seat of his proverbial pants, as I do.

Almost immediately, he made me laugh. Extremely intelligent, he also seemed unusually forthright. We talked easily, mostly because I kept asking questions, intuiting his introversion. My romantic notion is that sometime during that fateful dinner, I knew in my bones he was the one. The one I’d been waiting for. My person. I often perceive the world with words, like a narrative in my head. That night, the word “home” in old typewriter font appeared before my eyes over and over. That word, home, so close in letters to my old friend hope.

A little over a year later, he proposed to me as we sat on a blanket in his backyard. He said that falling in love with me almost made him believe in soulmates. I do believe in soulmates and I know he is mine. We fit together in that way that’s inexplicable. It just is.

Fast-forward to now. It’s Christmas again, but this year I do not sit alone on a blue couch with loneliness as my companion. On my wedding finger, diamonds outshine the Christmas lights. We have twice as much torn wrapping-paper because we have four kids and five cats between us. Our house is chaotic, bursting with the energy and activities of three teenagers and one adorable ten-year-old. And Cliff? He’s, quite simply, remarkable in every way. My wounds have healed with the touch of his gentle hands. And, I’m in love. Crazy in love like the characters in my books. I have the bond I knew existed for others, but that I didn’t think I would ever experience. I got my happy-ever-after. I’ve been in love before, but not like this. Not where I feel seen, understood and loved for exactly who I am. I no longer feel unlovable.

My father said after meeting him. “How is it possible you found a man like a character from one of your books?”

Against all odds, we found one another. I still have nightmares where there is no Cliff and the future is dark and desolate. When I wake, and see his sleeping form next to me, I cannot believe my fortune. He is there: solid, steady, strong. I hope we have another forty years together, but when you meet in your mid-forties, the reality is that we might not. Regardless of how many days we have left together, it will not be enough. I will always want just one more.

I write novels about people getting a second chance in love, or career, or the pursuit of a dormant dream. I suppose all writers have a recurring theme, and this is certainly mine. Ultimately, no matter the number of disappointments I’ve had in love and career, a word called hope wriggles its way into my heart and pushes me to try again.

Our aspirations morph as years unfold. What we wanted in our youth does not always follow into middle-age as the years bring both joy and defeat. I once thought that a life in the theatre was all I wanted, but I know now that I am a writer. So simple, yet so evasive—finding this connection to your soul’s work. I believe the way to find great love and great work, is to remain connected to the part of ourselves that chooses extraordinary over good-enough and to take risks and continue to hope, instead of curling up in our comfortable pajamas because it feels too hard to be out there fighting. What I know from my own experiences is that it is never too late to try again, to remain optimistic, to dream of a day when your burdens are lessoned, or to long for something or someone that conventional wisdom says will never come. Those voices lie. Second chances do arrive. Sometimes they show up five minutes late, but they eventually come. In those five minutes, do not despair, do not let fear trump hope.

Love is always worth waiting for.

During these tumultuous times, sharing hopeful stories is more important than ever. I’m interested in your stories of second chances, whether in love or career or family. Please write to me so I can share them with my readers.

#ReInventEverAfter

A Military Christmas Story

Kara Roberts Photography

Have you ever met someone and immediately felt a deep connection? This happened to me last year when I met photographer and writer, Kara Roberts. She was visiting Seattle to take photographs of a writer friend. I was invited to brunch so we could meet. According to our mutual friend, we would really like one another. Well, we did. By the end of our meal, I wished she lived next door, not Colorado.

The second time I met her in person I witnessed her ‘mothering’ in action, and friends, she’s awesome. Honestly, she’s the mother we all wished we either had or were. This mother gig can be tough, and it’s even more so for Kara because her husband’s deployed overseas. She makes it look easy, but I know, having spent four years as a single parent – it isn’t. On bad days it’s soul-robbing, no matter how much you love your kids. Even on good days, you’re mentally and physically exhausted by the time bedtime finally comes. I don’t know for sure, having never been there, but I imagine the difficulty is tripled when your husband is serving in Afghanistan.

Kara Roberts Photography

Kara’s been on my mind a lot lately, suspecting the holidays must be lonely and hard, even though she makes everything special for her kids. I asked if she’d write a piece so that we might have insight into the sacrifice brave men and women of our armed forces make for our country, but also the price their families here at home pay.

Kara possesses a combination of fierce intelligence, a curious mind, quick wit, and self-deprecating humor. She’s also mega-talented, as you can see by the photographs I’ve included. Please drop a line in the comment section to let her know she and her family are in your thoughts and prayers, and to thank them for their sacrifice.

Enjoy.

Kara Roberts Photography

**

The holidays are about being with family. When yours is a military family, being together for the holidays isn’t a given. This year, there will be over 7,000 miles between my husband, and our three young children and I. While we are settled in our gorgeous Colorado home, fire in the fireplace, Christmas tree lit and decorated, freshly fallen snow outside, my husband is in a CHU in a cold, semi-arid region of Afghanistan.  His absence is felt acutely – especially by our children. Most days, my job is a smoke and mirrors act, to make up for his absence. It’s an exhausting job.

Parenting solo is tough; even on the good days, not having your partner there to co-parent is challenging. During the holiday season, as well as winter, it’s especially difficult. The days are cold and short – and finding ways to occupy three kids of different ages – one boy and two girls – is tough. We do a lot of movie nights, I drink a fair amount of wine, and somehow we get through. If my kids were younger and didn’t know how to tell time, you can bet that at least a few times, I’d be turning the clocks ahead an hour and declaring it bedtime.

Kara Roberts Photography

My husband is a loving and involved father. We have holiday traditions that, though we’ll carry on while he’s gone, won’t be the same without him. Every year when we decorate our tree, he hangs the star at the top. Every Christmas Eve, he reads Twas the Night Before Christmas to our kids. Each year, as we sit down to Christmas Day dinner, he reads Luke 2:1-14, about the birth of Jesus. Of course, we will continue these traditions, but it’s just not the same without him.

Being apart is tough, and nothing can really bridge the gap when a family member is so far away. But we are a generation blessed with technology. My kids will never know what their ancestors went through during their deployments overseas. Letters could take months to show up, if at all. Communication was sparse, and by the time it arrived, outdated. My kids are fortunate to Skype with their dad a few days a week. They get to see him, hear his voice, and they get to tell him about their day. Making the basketball team, getting a 100% on a spelling test, and how their birthday party went. The little things are big things to kids, and I’m so grateful for the technology that allows them to be much more connected to him than they’d otherwise be able.

We do not live on a military base, so we don’t have the support of fellow military families close by. We also do not live near family – our closest family is over a thousand miles away. In addition, we have only lived in our current community for just over a year. I’m a strong believer in building your “village” – villages can save a single mom’s life – but they take time to build. I’ve learned a lot of things during this deployment, the most important of which is asking for help. Being a type-A, super driven, “I can do it all myself” type doesn’t lend itself to asking for help, but I’ve definitely learned how to do it. And it’s saved me, and will definitely save me during the holidays.

Kara Roberts Photography

I’m grateful for little things, like the neighbors taking my kids sledding so I can get a break. The local fire station having Santa come visit, so we could see him without waiting in a huge line. Parents and in-laws who are loving and supportive and helpful. Hobbies that keep me feeling alive and creative, such as photography and writing. You don’t make it through tough times with a magic silver bullet – you make it through by stringing together pieces and parts of life, and people, and help, and love, and somehow it all comes together in a mismatched, patchwork quilt that, though sometimes not pretty, does its job. I’m grateful for my quilt.

So, my kids and I will have a wonderful holiday, but there will be a piece of us missing. I’m immensely proud of my husband’s service to our country – a tradition of service long steeped in his family. My father in law closes each prayer with “for the 18 year old standing the watch tonight.” I know my kids are proud of him too, but that pride doesn’t fill the gap when daddy isn’t there on birthdays, Christmas and other special events. To them, daddy just isn’t there, and it’s hard. And I’ll be there to love on them, pick up the pieces, dry their tears and put on our happy faces for when we get to Skype with daddy.

 

 

Stuffed Mushrooms – Nicki Lewis

Laughing Time!

Our third installment in our holiday recipe series comes from reader Nicki Lewis. She shares a stuffed mushroom recipe she found on the Pioneer Woman’s blog. I have not made this particular recipe, but in my experience, the Pioneer Woman’s recipes are delicious and fairly easy to make.

Nicki also shared some photos of her beautiful family. She’s obviously doing a  great job with them, with or without the  stuffed mushrooms.

Holiday love and hugs to the Lewis Family.

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Stuffed Mushrooms

by Nicki Lewis

September 7th, 2016 marked the 14th anniversary of being married to my wonderful husband. We planned to make a nice dinner at home and celebrate with our 3 children. This year we planned to make buffalo steaks and asparagus. A couple days before our dinner, I felt like something was missing from the menu so I started to look up recipes. I stumbled across Stuffed Mushrooms from Ree Drummond- The Pioneer Woman. We love mushrooms and have loved all of Ms. Drummond’s recipes that we’ve tried. The mushrooms were added to the menu!

Gorgeous Couple of 14 Years

I did make a few changes to the recipe. I used Cremini mushrooms instead of white button mushrooms, mild Italian sausage in place of spicy, and chicken stock in place of dry white wine (sadly, I had no wine on hand). Everything else remained as Ms. Drummond intended and the mushrooms turned out fabulous! They completed our meal and even the kids enjoyed them.

I’ve made them a few times since and we had leftovers on one occasion (miracles do happen!). I must tell you that these mushrooms even reheat well! We popped them in the microwave a couple days later and they were

The Whole Gang

just as good as the first time. Give the mushrooms a try and enjoy!

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Nicki and I thought it best to share the link with you from The Pioneer Woman’s site. She does such a fantastic job explaining her recipes. Love, love, love her!

Recipe here:

STUFFED MUSHROOMS

 

World’s Fair Cake – Tamsen Schultz

Happy Birthday Boy and His Cake

 

You had me at cake!

Continuing my delectable holiday treats series, we have author Tamsen Schultz sharing a family recipe. This is a cake with a history dating back to the World’s Fair of 1915. Read on to learn how it came to be, along with the ‘easy’ recipe. I know I’m not the only one who appreciates Tamsen sharing with us the most time efficient and simple way to make this for our loved ones. Emerson and I will be making this one later in the month. I know our family will love it as much as Tamsen’s.

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World’s Fair Cake

by Tamsen Schultz

In 1915, San Francisco hosted the Panama Pacific International Expo – also known as the World’s Fair. At that fair, the cake that has defined every family gathering since as far back as I can remember, was launched into the world. Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but the truth is that some family member, and I don’t know who—some long lost aunt or perhaps even my great, great grandmother—entered a chocolate cake in one of the baking contests and won. I don’t know if she took home the grand prize or just some honorable mention, but the important thing is she won something and ever since then, this cake has always just been referred to by the family as World’s Fair Cake.

I now make the World’s Fair Cake for pretty much every holiday and for my boys’ birthdays each year. And I’m just one woman in a long line of family women to do the same—my great grandmother used to make it with my grandmother, then, when my grandmother had her own kids and grandkids, she did the same and this three layer cake made an appearance at every family gathering she hosted. My mom used to make it for me and my brother for our birthdays and over at my aunt’s house—well, she used to make it for her boys’ birthdays but now those boys, who are great cooks, make it for her.

Over the years we’ve played with it a little bit, but in the end, we keep coming back to the original recipe which, with one exception, I’ve included below. It isn’t a typical super moist, spongy cake; it has more of a velvety texture—this sometimes surprises people so I thought I’d give you all a heads up. I will also mention that because I’m a working mom, and I value “simple,” I have reduced the steps a bit in a way that doesn’t affect the outcome but does reduce the dishes that need to be washed when you’re done. So without further ado, I give you our family recipe for the World’s Fair Cake.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, grease and flour three round cake tins.

Ingredients

6 TBS Ghirardelli Sweet Ground Chocolate

3 TBS Evaporated Milk*

1 TBS Sugar

2/3 Cup Crisco

1 Cup Sugar

4 Eggs, room temperature

1 ½ TSP Vanilla

3 TSP of Baking Power (generous TSPs)

½ TSP Salt

2 Cups Cake Flour

1 Cup Evaporated Milk

Combine first three ingredients into a small sauce pan and heat until chocolate is dissolved. Set aside and let cool (you can also do this in a cup in the microwave if you like)
Mix Crisco and Sugar until light and fluffy (I use a standing mixer and usually mix for about 8 mins…really, you can’t mix this too much and the more you mix the better)
Add eggs one at a time and keep mixing (Again, I like to err on the side of too much mixing at this point)
Add vanilla, salt, and baking powder (this is one my simplicity decisions – the salt and baking powder were originally sifted with the flour, but honestly, I have tasted NO difference by adding these two ingredients at this stage and then not bothering to sift the flour)
Add the flour and evaporated milk, alternating between the two, starting and ending with the flour (again, you can sift the flour or not, whatever works for you)
Once blended, add the melted chocolate mix from step 1
Divide amongst the three cake pans
Bake for 25 mins at 350

Now, we all agree that the cake is good, with a subtle chocolate flavor to it, but we all also agree that the magic is in the frosting which has a little espresso in it (not enough to keep you up, just enough to give the frosting a bit of an extra flavor layer).

Frosting

1 box powdered sugar

4 TBS butter

4 TBS Ghirardelli Sweet Ground Chocolate

1 TSP Vanilla

Enough espresso and evaporated milk to give you the right consistency (I keep a small jar of instant espresso and then I “make” it by using a little coffee that we always seem to have left over (i.e. I add the espresso powder to the coffee). I do this because I like the coffee flavor, but you can play with it as you like).

If you give this a try, I do hope you enjoy it!

Happy Holidays!!

 

*I only recently started using evaporated milk and I really like that it has made the cake just a tad more moist without changing the texture. I also find that one 15 oz can is just about perfect for the entire recipe, including the frosting. You can, if you like, use whole milk as well.

**

Tamsen Schultz is the author of the romantic suspense Windsor Series and American Kin, a short story published in Line Zero magazine. She’s a three time finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association annual contest and has also been a finalist in the RWA Daphne Du Maurier contest for Excellence in Mystery. In addition to being a writer, she has a background in the field of international conflict resolution, has co-founded a non-profit, and currently works in corporate America. Like most lawyers, she spends a disproportionate amount of time thinking (and writing) about what it might be like to do something else. She lives in Northern California in a house full of males including her husband, two teenage sons, four cats, a dog, and a gender-neutral, but well-stocked, wine rack.

 

Cheese Cake Recipe – Susan Griscom

The holidays are the perfect time to share family recipes with friends, and that’s just what we’re going here on my blog. For the next few weeks, I’ll feature holiday recipes from readers and authors. My ten-year-old, Emerson, and I will be making as many of these tasty treats as we have time and sharing a full report on social media.

For the first in my series, author Susan Griscom generously agreed to share her mother’s secret recipe for cheese cake. Although it’s my favorite dessert, I’ve only made is a handful of times. Let’s face it, home made cheese cake? Intimidating. Susan assures me this is the best cheese cake ever. After we make it, Emerson and I will be sure to share photos. IF it turns out.

**

SUSAN’S SECRET CHEESE CAKE

This is my mom’s cheese cake recipe, however, she is 91 now and cannot remember where she got it, but it is the best cheese cake I’ve ever had. No lie. It is fluffy and yummy and creamy, and out of this world delicious! It tastes exactly like the recipe I loved when I was a child.

When I was a little girl of around ten, we used to get cheese cake delivered to our door along with bread and potato chips. We lived in Pennsylvania, and I guess in the 60’s that was a normal thing my stepmother did. I suppose we could do it now with internet shopping and Amazon’s Prime one-hour delivery service, which I should try one of these days. But these cheese cakes were a rarity and didn’t get ordered often. This one particular time, I think I got home from school before anyone else and discovered the cheese cake on the front porch. I took it inside and opened it. I believe I ate a third or more all by myself before anyone else got home. Funny thing though, no one ever mentioned or asked what had happened to part of the cheese cake and I don’t remember ever mentioning that I ate it. It was so good and I’d never had anything like it again, until my mom found this recipe and shared it with me. She didn’t even know about the cheese cake from when I was a child. Now I’m sharing it with you. This cheese cake is to die for. IMHO of course.

CHEESE CAKE

Ingredients

16 ounces of Cream Cheese

16 ounces of Ricotta Cheese

4 Eggs

2 Teaspoons Lemon Juice

1 Teaspoon Vanilla

1 ½ cups Sugar

1/3 cups Corn Starch

½ cup of butter melted and cooled.

16 ounces sour cream

Graham Cracker Crust

Directions:

Grease (I use butter) 10-inch spring-form pan and press graham cracker crust (recipe on the box) onto bottom and sides of pan.

Cream the cream cheese and ricotta cheese. Add eggs, lemon juice, vanilla, sugar, corn starch and mix. Then add in melted and cooled butter and sour cream; mix until everything is smooth.

Pour into pan over graham cracker crust and bake 1 hour and 10 minutes at 325º. Let stand in oven 1 and ½ hours longer with the oven door slightly open about 2 to 3 inches. Cool for about 15 minutes then place in refrigerator.

**

Susan Griscom is an Amazon-Bestselling Author and a Silver Medal winner in the 2016 Readers Favorites International Book Awards as well as 1st runner up in The 2015 Roné Awards. She writes paranormal and contemporary romance and is hooked on sexy romances. She’s a huge fan of superheroes and bad boys confronted with extraordinary forces of nature, powers, and abilities beyond the norm mixed with steamy romance, of course.

She loves those days when she gets to sit around in her sweat pants, doing nothing but writing emotionally charged stories about love and romance.

She lives in Northern California in wine country and one of her favorite weekend excursions is wine tasting with the love of her life. Together, she and her husband have five great superhero kids and eight mini-superhero grand kids, so far.

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Nostalgia, Food and the Holidays

The perfect holiday pie!

My father always says good cooks are defined by two things: their pies and their gravy. His mother, Lucille, did both well. Lucille and my grandfather, William, originated from Oklahoma, and although they lived in San Diego for many years, they never lost their southern traditions, especially when it came to food. As a child I remember going to their house for ‘dinner’ which was usually served more like mid-afternoon, and always included biscuits and sweet tea. They had a small house, but we all managed to sit around that table and eat like there was no tomorrow. Ham or fried chicken, mounds of creamy mashed potatoes, plus pecan and lemon pie for dessert. At Thanksgiving, it was cornbread stuffing, not bread. That was non-negotiable.

When my parents were first married, my mother said the only thing she knew how to cook were chocolate chip cookies, which she learned from her Home Economics class during high school. I don’t know if my grandmother, Lucille, taught her to make her signature dishes, or if my clever mother just figured out how to follow a recipe book. Regardless, pies, biscuits and gravy were conquered. No one’s pie tastes as good as my mother’s.

My little daughter is a Thompson when it comes to eating. The girl lives for food. We love to watch the cooking shows together, and for a ten-year-old, the girl can cook. My older daughter learned how to make our family biscuits years ago. She spent this last Thanksgiving with her dad, and decided to make our traditional homemade yeast rolls and pies (gasp) for the dinner they were attending. Her dad texted me around ten Thanksgiving morning. “Can you call Ella? She’s in tears over the pie crust.” I wrote back: “It’s made lesser women than Ella cry.” We all know, pie crusts are not for sissies. She conquered that crust, though, like a Thompson. Even if she did have to use four pounds of butter to do it!

I passed along food traditions that originated with Lucille, or more likely, Lucille’s mother, to my girls, just as my mother did to me. During the holidays, especially, I think of my mother and grandmother. My mother’s voice is still in my head when I make certain dishes – add a little extra sugar to the yeast, spread butter on the top of the rolls if you want them to brown. Her notes are also in the margins of photocopied recipes with hints of things to do or not. By the way, I don’t know why recipe books don’t have more hints, but I digress.

I’m fascinated by food traditions and what they say about families, cultures, and times. As a history geek, I’m interested, always, in what people were eating during the time period. I’m also interested in other’s traditions. What does your family have to have for Christmas dinner? Do you have your feast on Christmas Eve or Christmas? What is your favorite holiday treat to make?

During the month of December, send me your recipes to share with my readers. Tell us stories of your traditions. I’ll post them on my blog and maybe, just maybe, try one out on my new blended family of #4kids5cats.

This recipe for Pecan pie from the Sweet Southern Blue blog is the same recipe I’ve used for years. She said she got in from her old Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have the same edition. I love her blog. You should check it out if you’re interested in making some good southern grub.

And now, I must go. My oldest bonus son found a recipe for ‘fancy’ chili dogs on the internet and I promised him I’d make them tonight. Cheers.

 

 

Holiday Lights

When I was a child, the lights strung on houses and businesses in my little town were some of my favorite events of the holiday season. My father was a teacher, and one of my first memories is driving the eight miles from our home in the woods to ‘town’ for his school’s holiday concert. I sat in the back seat, my forehead pressed against the cold window and searched for lights. Each display, no matter how modest, filled me with joy. The lights on those dark December nights made everything shiny, special. The dreariness of short days were no match for the sparkle of a dime store package of lights.

My love affair with holiday lights has not diminished. In my new neighborhood, lights are hung with wild abandon. The more the better. My new husband spent this cold afternoon, fighting hail, to hang our lights. They’re flashing outside my office window as I write this. Later, a kid’s face will press against a cold window, taking in each display with a joyous heart.

Last evening, after I dropped Ella at a party, I drove over to one of my favorite little towns, and looked at the lights decorating the park and businesses. The delight I felt as a kid has not changed. I found myself snapping photos on my phone, until my hands grew too cold to push the button. My photos did not do the beauty of the displays justice, but a few I found on Pinterest sure do. I’ve included some of them here. I would love to see some from your town! Send them over, and I’ll post them on my Facebook page.

Wishing you joy in the next few weeks. Remember to look up and see the lights, despite the stress this time of year can bring.

 

Great American Melting Pot

During this time of upheaval, hostility and name-calling, I find myself saddened by the state of our great union. As a writer of historical fiction, however, I’m aware that this is not the only time we’ve been a nation divided. Studying history makes one wonder if there is any hope for humanity. We fight over the same things, century after century, with the underlying current of scarcity and fear. We must take before our neighbor does. We must hate those who are different because they are trying to hurt us, take our money, our land, our future.

For those of us who crave peace, love and understanding, it can be particularly overwhelming to see our friends, family and neighbors turning against one another. Especially when, as President Obama said in his speech the day after the election, “We are all on the same team.”

I believe diversity has always made this great country great. No matter the current climate of fear and scarcity, I still believe this. As a grade school student, I learned about the Great American Melting Pot, along with the idea that cultural differences make our experiences as humans richer. As a young woman attending a diverse college, after growing up in an almost all white, rural community, I was delighted to become friends with students of all races and religions.

I remember particularly poignantly the first time I went to dinner at my Korean-American roommate’s home. Her grandmother spoke no English, having immigrated late in life. She stared at me across the table, then said something in Korean to the others.

“She’s hardly ever seen a white person,” said Joanne. The entire table laughed, including me. “We think you all look the same.” They continued to laugh when I excitedly dug into what I thought were the appetizers, only to learn they were more like condiments. “Think ketchup,” said Joanne. To this day Kimchi is one of my favorite things.

I never had the opportunity to take Joanne to my family’s home in Oregon, but I know she would have gotten as much delight from a trip to the river and sitting on my parents’ back patio watching the stars dance across the sky as I did meeting her family.

During that dinner, I was struck by their gratefulness to be in America, their incredible work ethic and hospitality. Her parents were both doctors educated in their homeland, but her mother could no longer practice once they moved to America. Her brothers were ambitious and smart, with big dreams for an abundant life. I was in awe of their achievements and what they had given up to come to America.

That said, they were remarkably like my family. They loved one another, cared about education, and were dedicated to making their communities thrive. The origins of my family goes back to before the civil war, mostly Irish and English immigrants. And yet, in 1987 and in 2016, we wanted the same as Joanne’s family: to earn our abundance, to live in freedom, to give our children better than we had, to be better at our work than the day before. We all gathered around the dinner table. Whether it’s ketchup or Kimchi on our table – our love of family and friends, God and country, is the same.

This morning, I took my usual Monday Zumba class. The community I live in is diverse. Represented in dance class were Whites, Chinese, Korean, Indian, Mexican; different religions, sexual orientation, ages…the list goes on and on. The women gathered in clumps, gravitating to those who sound and look the same. Their diverse languages and accents were a music of their own – a symbol of this great American melting pot. However, when the music began, we all danced as one. We moved through Latin, American, and Bollywood style music, all dancing to the same rhythm. Language did not matter. Country of origin did not matter. Music and movement have no prejudice. We were women of the same community, smiling, perspiring and getting our groove thing on. We all love our children. We wonder what to cook for dinner. We wish we could lose five pounds. Alike, but different.

And I thought – if only we could all dance as one in this country. We would not dance exactly the same, because our cultures and backgrounds have influenced how we move, and that is just fine. This white girl, for example, does not have the same moves as the Latin woman next to me this morning. Regardless, we danced side by side. We danced with our left foot leading, then we danced with our right foot leading.

So, today, I am thankful for the diversity of my local YMCA, for the former ballerina take teaches us without prejudice every Monday morning, and for my sisters who dance beside me. I am thankful, especially, because they are a reminder that there is hope for reconciliation and peace, for understanding and compassion. We are a melting pot. Immigrants founded this country. New and old will continue to merge. Our diversity is one of the things that makes us great. Where else in the world can you stand peacefully in a room with that many cultures represented? I know many disagree with me, afraid the new will take away from what they have worked hard to build. I respectfully disagree. Fear and prejudice do not make America great. Love and understanding do. We are all on the same team.

My teacher, Jesus, taught that to love our neighbor is to love ourselves. So today, I am thankful for my diverse neighbors, for my Latin-American Zumba teacher, and for this great country where I am free to speak my mind with the words on this page.

May God Bless America.

Sacred Work

On Sunday, I planned on writing for several hours. I’m about 60,000 words into a new novel and am at the obsessed stage, where I can think of little else but the next plot point and getting it on paper. However, after boot camp with Cliff, we came home to a hungry Emerson. She’s ten, growing by the minute, and hungrier than usual, which is saying something. I made eggs for the three of us. Cliff fried up bacon. As we were sitting down to eat, the other three kids appeared. I made more eggs. They joined us at the table. An hour and a half later, we were all still sitting there, laughing and telling stories. The morning disappeared.

It occurred to me, at some point, that I must let go and be in that moment. This was where I was meant to be, right then. Not writing, but living. Soaking it in. Loving them all so much.

The truth is, I haven’t written as much since I met Cliff. My lonely weekends when the girls would leave for their dad’s, and I would fill the hours writing, are no longer. Now I have two extra kids and a soon-to-be husband, all of whom want to spend time with me. All of whom need me, despite the obscure ways teenagers have of expressing that need. There are the practical things as well. Cooking and shopping and chores and figuring out how to get everyone the places they want to go. Merging two households includes not only the emotional adjustment, but many trips to Goodwill and negotiations about whether or not plastic plants stay or go. It’s time consuming and emotionally exhausting. Like my mother said months ago when I expressed worry about how slow the new book was coming: “You need to concentrate on your new family and not worry if you don’t have another book out right away.” Wise words from a woman who has already been there, done that.

Some other wise person said that we’re all right where we need to be for whatever reason, regardless if we think otherwise. Despite our yearnings, we have lessons to learn, or lessons to give others, exactly from the vantage point of now. Given this line of thinking, my job right now is to be really present for four young people who need a mother. Therefore, I am right where I need to be. Mothering. Learning how to partner with another person. Loving all of them in ways that will surely inform my work in the days and years to come.

I am learning to let go of my ambition, even though it’s hard. For some reason, the success I want has not come. I’ll keep writing and taking care of my family until it does. Life is short. Love matters most, not fame or money or the trappings of our egos. Perhaps this is the lesson God thinks I still need to learn? Perhaps spending time with these young people, listening to them, being really present, is a gift I’m uniquely made for? I don’t know. All I know is that I will do my best and give of myself because being their mother is sacred work. Being their mother is more important than the bestseller list. That’s just the truth.

Whatever your work is, whether it’s what you think it should be or not, embrace it. This is where you need to be. Right now. In this moment.

 

Grifter or Reality Star Wannabe?

On June 17th, my fiancé and I are merging households. Between us we have four kids and five cats, and a whole lot of junk. Since the girls and I will be moving into his home, I’ve been going though all my possessions and donating or selling items of which we have duplicates.

I’m not sure selling on Craigslist is good for my writer imagination. Every time someone comes to the house, I’m certain they’re going to rob us, murder us, or both. Last night I had a woman contact me about my dining room table. She asked so many questions and was so eager to come over right away, I was convinced she was a serial killer.

It turned out she was young and newly engaged. She was pretty, with thick makeup that reminded me of one of the Real Housewives, as did her super thin physique and fake boobs. Dressed in the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen, and a low t-shirt, very little was left to the imagination. Emerson’s eyes were popping out of her head! Anyway, she seemed more like a reality star wannabe than a serial killer, and they were actually kind of endearing. She was clearly the boss of him and this was obviously husband 1.0 for her, given their ages, as opposed to my upcoming 2.0 marriage. As she was looking at the table, I could see her planning future dinner parties in her head.

“Her man” (her words not mine) proceeded to take the legs off of the table, and with my help, load the tabletop onto the roof of his car. They were both pleasant, although she was fiercely focused on getting the table for the best price she could, which is fine. I’ve come to expect this when you sell things online.

However, for some reason, the entire time they were here, I felt suspicious. I counted the bills she gave me twice, to make sure she hadn’t tricked me when she asked for change. You know, that whole “do you have change for a twenty,” thing, which happened to me once when I worked the counter at CPK back in my actress days.

But here’s where it got weird. I had my cell phone on the counter. As we were talking about the price and whether or not she wanted to buy my set of pans, she picked up my cell phone and put it in her wallet. I said, “I think that’s my phone.”

She immediately gave it to me, apologizing right away, and laughing. “I have the same one. I thought I put it down on the counter. Mine must be in the car.”

So, they left. I checked to make sure my computer was still where I’d put it, which it was. I made sure the door and garage were locked, twice. I counted the money again.

I still don’t know if it was a legitimate mistake or if she was trying to steal my phone. Were they grifters who do this kind of thing? Was the fact that the girls and I both had our hawk-like eyes on them the whole time the reason they didn’t make away with anything?

Or, was the fact that she picked up my phone a simple mistake? I would love for you guys to weigh-in. I am not by nature a suspicious person. I lean way the other way, but after being on the planet this long, I’ve changed. Is it just my writer imagination? Am I just channeling my dad, who is suspicious of everyone?

You tell me.

Completely as an aside, “Duet for Three Hands” and the “River Valley” series will be re-released in the next several weeks. Sign up for my newsletter to make sure you don’t miss any of my news!

Cheers everyone!