Rebecca Forster's Blog, page 8

What a Racquet: Short Skirts, Manly Men & Life Lessons from the Australian Open

I love tennis and that means, right now, I am one happy clam watching the Australian Open.  Like a good book, I am taken with the ever-changing characters, the surprise twists, and the satisfying conclusions. The bad boys of my youth - McEnroe and Nastasi and Connors - have been replaced by jokester Djocovick, centerfold, Nadal, and the chic prince of the courts, Federer. The ladies - sexy Kournicova and groundbreaker Billie Jean King - have handed over the game to monster hitters and unapologetic divas like the Williams sisters. The game itself remains what it always has been: fast and furious and strategic. Tonight I realized that everything I need to know about business, love and life I could learn by watching tennis. It's as simple as this: Live like you play. Here are the rules.

1) Practice everyday and come to the court prepared.

2) Be aggressive. Go after what you want not because you think you deserve it but because you're ready to earn it.

3) Manly men know how to shake hands and admit defeat with the same grace they shake hands and accept a win.

4) Women in short skirts are more interesting if they are also smart and powerful.

5) Adjust your strategy. If someone's lobbing you, move away from the net; if someone's feeding you line drives, move in, pick them off, and end the point.

6) Be patient, observant, and set yourself up to win.  No one else is going to do it for you.

7) Keep your eye on the ball and when you have a chance to put it away, take it.

8) Play through pain, the heat and the wind as long as you can but know when to step back to heal and regroup. Timing is everything.

9) The first thing you do when you win is look to the stands and smile at the people who helped you get to center court.

10) Love the game unequivocally. If you don't, find another sport. Same goes for what you do and who you love.

Tennis anyone?

5 RESOLUTIONS: NO DIETING

Statistics tell us that only 8% of people who make a New Years resolution keep it. That’s probably because most people resolve to diet. I like food too much to make that mistake so here’s my list. I can do this. Bet you can, too. Happy New Year.

1.     Flirt more. With a person, a new cuisine, a place, exercise. Flirting is an art, perfect it.

2.     Laugh ‘till you cry. It’s good for the abs, it’s contagious, it doesn’t come around all that often so give in when it does

3.     Cry ‘till you laugh. Why do you think they call it a ‘good cry’? Because it clears the heart and soul and sinuses.

4.     Become a social media expert: Say hello to people, smile, look at them while you talk and talk about something interesting or silly or serious. They might be wary at first but work through it. Put the phone down, move away from the keyboard.

20114 is going to be marvelous. 

A Man Walked Into A Bar. . .

Not me & my husband Actually, the man didn’t walk into a bar. He walked across the street.

To be precise, he ran down the street and just made it across the street before the light changed.

 I was sitting in my car at the stoplight waiting to make a right turn. Because the mind is a funny thing, I was thinking a number of thoughts during the few seconds it took for him cross the street. The process kind of went like this:

1)   I can make the turn after the green car
2)   There’s a man in a suit running down the street (unusual in a beach community - the suit, not the running)
3)   The man in the suit is cute
4)   The man in the suit is smiling
5)   The man in the suit is smiling at me
6)   The man in the suit is my husband, and I can’t believe he is running down the street (he's usually rather reserved)

In a few days my husband and I will celebrate our 37th wedding anniversary. The reason for this longevity is simple: we will both still run down the street and cross it just to get to one another.

Of course, there are a few other reasons this marriage works; here are my top ten:

·  We never make rules about who does what; we both just take care of things.
· When football is on he gets the TV; when tennis is on I get it.
·  We think each other are hilarious.
·  We work like there’s no tomorrow and when we have a tomorrow without work we act like we’re playing hooky.
·  We both will try anything new (movie, restaurant, travel) but always go back to places we both love.
·  I write books that he doesn’t read, so I'm never hurt if he doesn’t like them.
·  He reads books that don’t interest me, but I always listen when he talks about them. I also nod  and ask a few questions.
·  We both really like our kids.
·  We both think the other one is smart. (He's smarter)
·  He has women friends, I have male friends and eventually all of them become our friends.

    Happy anniversary to the man who still smiles and crosses the street to get to me. Next time I see you in your car at a corner, you bet I'll be running your way.

The Toy Closet

Every year I go into manic closet cleaning mode, and this year was no exception. I worked my way up from the first floor to the second. I cleaned out the junk drawer in the kitchen (why did I buy all those wooden skewers?), the wrapping paper closet (a misnomer since it is filled with recycled gift bags that I will stuff with a pouf of tissue paper), the cleaning closet (I need a new mop), and, finally, the toy closet. 

The toy closet is in my oldest son’s room. He has not lived at home for years. but it will always be his.  It is a rather plain room with a bed, a desk, and a television. What makes it special is the paneled door that leads to the toy closet. The door is painted bright white, the knob is brass and the door itself is three feet high. Standing in front of it I feel like the too-tall Alice in Wonderland. Like Alice, I can’t resist opening that little door.

Inside this room under the eaves, the floor is carpeted and a bare bulb hangs from the slanted ceiling. The room is horrendously hot in the summer and incredibly cool in the winter. There are no windows.  You can’t hear anything when you are inside.

Against the front wall are a chest of drawers and a steamer trunk that accompanied me to college. Both pieces explode with fabric. I have carted fabric back from Hong Kong and England and Hungary. I have bought out every fabric sale I have come across. In my next life I will be a designer. In this life I am simply a woman who thinks she will eventually stitch together an evening gown made of a piece of iridescent silk laced with peacock feathers. In my mind that dress is a beautiful creation; in reality I would have no place to wear it and would look a little bit like a colorful dust bunny if I did.

To the right are suitcases. Battered and bruised, airline tags still hang from the handles to remind me of a hundred adventures and millions miles traveled. Behind those cases are the crutches, boots, and canes that I’ve kept just in case any of us ever break anything again. In our family, the only one who ever breaks anything is Eric. Even as a kid he jumped without looking. The crutches, boots and canes belong to him. He hasn’t needed them in years. He still jumps without looking but seems to have learned how to land solidly on his two feet.

On the left are boxes of toys that I keep for the grandchildren I hope to have one day. I will give them boxes of Hot Wheels and Legos that my son, Alex, favored. He was a methodical child, lining up cars, clipping together the oddly bubbled pieces of plastic until he made cities and castles. He quietly figured things out, moving forward with such great determination, focus and intelligence that his father and I marveled. Today, he is an incredible man, lining up his life with an enviable precision and vision, unafraid of what may come because he has planned for every contingency.

And behind all of this are the big, blue, plastic containers full of my books. Twenty-eight years ago I put six copies of my first book inside one of them. Now I have two big containers: six copies of each of the twenty-eight books I’ve published. Inevitably, I spend an hour rearranging these books. I keep them in the hopes that my children will take them to their house someday when I’m no longer here and share them with their children. I entertain the thought that a few will survive the years and be passed down to my great-grandchildren. I like to think that someone will read them and know who I was through the words I’ve written. I like to think that those books will end up in someone’s toy closet, too precious to put in the trash and too curious to give away.

As you can imagine, this closet is never really cleaned out. Everything inside it is touched and looked at. It is the rabbit hole where I fall into memories, reassess the path I’ve taken in life, indulge in a moment to be a little proud of it all – the children, the travels, the books. I am lucky and I am grateful and the best thing I could wish for anyone is that somewhere in the house there is a tiny door that leads to a closet where they can hide away with the things that matter to them. 

Mom Goes The Extra Mile

Walking for ABILITY FIRST*    It's Mothers Day - almost.  This is not a modern celebration. The ancient Greeks and Romans beat us to it.
    But this isn’t about history nor is it about my boys and me. This is about my mom because she is a unique celebration of  life no matter what day of the month it is.
    Take last Tuesday. I had forgotten the name of a store I wanted to visit. Since the last time I was there I was with her, I gave her a call. As usual, she answered the phone breathlessly. I have long ago given up asking if she is rushing somewhere – she is always rushing somewhere. At 88 I think that is pretty cool.  I usually ask what she's up to. Tuesday I just wanted to know the name of the store I was trying to locate.

Me:  Mom, do you remember the name of the fabric store that’s in that giant warehouse?

Mom: Oh. Oh. Ummm. (breathless) No. (giggle) Senior moment.

Me:  Was it Home Fabrics?

Mom:  I don’t know.

Me:   Couldn’t we see it from the freeway? Which freeway?

Mom: Yes we could see it, but I don’t remember which freeway.

Me: Okay. Thanks. So, what are you up to?

Mom:  Oh, I just got home. I was at Universal Studios. I walked three miles for a charity event. My feet hurt.

Me:  Wow, that’s fabulous. Put your feet up. You must be tired.

Mom:  Oh, no. I’m going to paint a wall in the garage.

Me: Put your feet up, mom.

Mom: Okay. I ‘m sorry I don’t remember the name of the store.

Me: Tha’s okay. You should rest.

Mom: I have to paint the garage wall.

Me:  That can wait.

    For as long as I can remember my mom has been figuratively painting the garage wall after walking 3 miles. She raised six children, sewed our clothes, volunteered at church, helped my dad in his practice, wallpapered the house, gardened, cooked and cleaned. 
    I remember her in dungarees, disheveled from all her chores, but at five o’clock she would disappear into her room. Thirty minutes later she would reappear, make-up on, hair just so, slacks and shirt. 
    “I want to look nice when your father gets home,” she would say. 
     Even then I knew this was her way of showing she loved my dad. The love was mutual because every time he saw her, he told my mother how beautiful she looked no matter what she was wearing. 
     My mom read books and cried at old movies and dreamed of being a missionary doctor and of seeing the world. She is still seeing the world but didn’t become a missionary doctor. The world’s loss.
    Any given day in my mother’s life is a poem, a short story, a novel filled with new adventures. She is my creative template, my inspiration and my muse. She will read this and not believe it. She is like that. Unaware of how amazing she is.
    When we hung up the phone on Tuesday I still didn’t know the name of that store. What I did know was that mom wasn’t going to put her feet up. She was going to paint the garage wall.


Happy Mothers Day to every woman who goes the extra mile but especially to my mom!


Check out Ability First.  

GROUP HUG: 10 Reasons Why I Love Book Clubs

Attending book club meetings used to be one of my favorite things to do, but with the advent of e-books, discussions are now often conducted online by members of groups that are, at times, far-flung.  


Recently, though, a group in Wisconsin asked me to participate in their meeting by sending bookmarks and discussion guidelines for Hostile Witness, the first book in The Witness Series. 

I did not have discussion guidelines for any of my books.* I also did not have bookmarks since most of my readers were choosing digital files. But the request was so nice that I immediately wrote discussion questions to send along with a Hostile Witness Book Club Box:  jars of sand from Hermosa Beach (the location of all the witness books), candles to put in the sand, and tiny plastic mermaids that are always attached to drinks at the legendary Mermaid Restaurant where Josie Bates met with Linda Rayburn in Hostile Witness.

Not only did the Wisconsin group inspire me to revisit the themes of my novels, they got me to thinking about why I liked book clubs so much. Here are the top reasons why I’m sending out big hugs to book clubs:

1)   Book clubbers not only think about what they want to read but what they do read.

2)   Book clubbers are curious.  They want to know why a book was written, what inspired it, and who wrote it.

3)    Book clubbers are articulate. They explain in detail why they did or did not like a book and even reference specific words and passages.

4)    Book clubbers are considerate. They listen to authors and one another. Sometimes they even raise their hands before they talk.

5)   Book clubbers don’t judge a book by its cover. They may not like a cover, but they don’t judge until they read what’s inside.

6)   Book clubbers are reliable. They read the assigned book and show up on time. Okay, sometimes they don’t read the whole book, but they pretty  much show up on time.

7)  Book clubbers are law abiding. They make the rules so that means they can happily live with them.

8)  Book clubbers feed authors. Enough said on that point.

9)   Book clubbers do not discriminate so they are a diverse group. If you love books you can join the club. 

10)  Book clubbers give big hugs to authors every time they read a book.

So next time your group meets, don’t forget – Group Hug. You are way cool.

*Discussion Guidelines/ The Witness Series.

 Hostile Witness is always free for digital

Find a Penny. . .

. . .pick it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.

I doubt there is anyone under 50 who knows that rhyme; I am positive there is no one outside of myself who will pick up a penny. I know this because when my son was in grade school he entered the science contest. In our entire family there is not one person who has any understanding of science whatsoever.  We couldn’t even do justice to the traditional paper mache volcano that spewed stuff if you put enough baking soda in it. So, we got creative and made up our own experiment.  My son and I headed to the neighborhood village armed with twenty-five pennies. We wanted to know how long it would take for people to pick up a penny on the sidewalk.

 Armed with notepads to record our observations, we parked, put a penny on the sidewalk, and watched.  Time passed.  We waited. People went by. No one picked up the penny.

“Maybe there aren’t enough people on this street,” I said.

“Maybe they don’t see the penny,” he said.

“I’m hungry,” I said.

He got out of the car and picked up the penny. We went to the big shopping center where there were plenty of people. We had hamburgers at the food court, and then took our notebooks and pennies and started again.

Still no one picked up a penny. I gave him a nickel. People walked around it and over it. One person kicked it. We put down a quarter. Nothing. We counted 97 people who had by-passed our coins. I was frustrated; my son was disappointed. I had one more trick up my sleeve. I put a dollar on the ground.  The first person to came upon it pocketed it.

“Let’s do it again,” my son said, excited that something had finally happened.

“Let’s not,” I suggested, not wanting to give my dollars to anyone who wouldn’t have my pennies.

We went home. He made a chart about the experiment. I still puzzled over the fact that so many people ignored our pennies. Even if there was little value in them, didn’t they know that picking one up was good luck? Then I realized what was really bothering me: I believed in the magic and no one else did. Compared to finding out that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny didn’t exist, this was a small disappointment but it still left a definite ding in my spirit.

Three weeks later, my son brought home first prize in the science competition for his 'behavioral study'.  I smiled, gave him a hug, and made cookies. I think of that day every time I see a glint of copper on the street, every time I bend down to pick up that seemingly valueless coin. You see, I now know something all those other people don't. I know that recognizing the worth of one small thing can lead to something bigger and more important than you ever dreamed of.

Look down. I bet you find a penny. When you do, look up again because something good is coming your way. 

The Open Heart: A Valentine to Helen

1921-2013 My mother-in-law, Helen, was ninety-one years old when she had open heart surgery. A few months later, the doctor implanted a new pacemaker. It was then that he showed us the video of the actual operation. It was then he kindly told us he had done everything he could. I barely heard him because on that screen was Helen's beating heart. I was awestruck by the strength and beauty of it.

Hers, I suppose, was no different than yours or mine. If we’re as lucky, as she was, our hearts will beat for almost a century. If we are as smart, as she was, we will fill ours to bursting with love of family, learning, nature, and faith in something greater than ourselves.  My mother-in-law wrote poetry and read novels, she covered the walls of her home with paintings and photographs, she listened to music while the sun set. She loved the peace she found in the local mountains, she loved the beach, she loved to travel and she loved a glass of good wine. 

That heart of hers had known pain and fear and joy and pride. It was filled up with memories of the small farm town where she grew up and rode a horse to school, a career in medicine, a family that was built one child at a time until it was big and busy, and the loss of one baby who was always remembered in the deepest, most personal part of her strong heart. And still there was room for me.

I was embraced as a daughter, I was championed as a writer, we shared hours and days and years disagreeing about politics and agreeing about everything else. My heart will miss her but it is stronger because of her.  

I finally understand why on Valentine’s Day we celebrate the heart. It is an amazing vessel that each of us can fill as we like, and, like Helen’s heart, is never so full that there isn’t room for one more person to love and one more day to cherish.

December 30th, 2012

A local realtor left a package on my doorstep. In anticipation of the new year, she had stashed goodies inside a reusable shopping bag: noise makers, a paper crown, a plastic fish that would tell my fortune if I put it in the palm of my hand, and a notepad on which she had penned: Write Your New Year’s Resolutions Here!

Talk about pressure. That little bag brought up a rash of  memories. Resolutions I hadn’t kept; resolutions I hadn’t even tried to keep. What a failure! What a miserable excuse for a human being! What a disappointment!

No body likes to admit they couldn’t accomplish what they set out to do, so I decided to resolve to do things I could. This is what I wrote.

                 1)Always try hard
    (then you won't have to try harder)

                    2)Smile often
        (at strangers and friends)

       3)Learn something every day 
                 (and put it to use)

When you see me in 2013, I'll be the one smiling. Happy New Year!

Have a Wabi Sabi Christmas

 Recently, having just committed a bizarre faux pas (the details of which I won’t bore you with), my son dubbed me a wabi sabi mom.  Wabi sabi, he explained, is the philosophy of  the beauty of imperfection. 

Good grief! Who knew!? I’ve been living wabi sabi my entire life but never so eloquently as I do during the Christmas season.  So in the spirit of giving, I want to share ten perfectly imperfect holiday memories in the hopes that they will inspire you to embrace your wabi sabi.

1) Made Beef Wellington for holiday guests. Fabulous looking pastry, but the beef was a bloody mess. Oops, someone didn’t defrost the roast completely. It was a vegetarian Christmas.

2) Wished for a fancy coat; Santa brought a sewing machine.

3) Wished for jewelry; got sparkly new vacuum cleaner.

4) Husband entranced by beautiful girls at the cosmetic counter results in a pile of presents – all make-up. Spent Christmas day imperfectly trying out 36 shades of eye shadow, ten tubes of lipstick and some cream that smelled suspiciously like spinach.

5) Husband becomes entranced by beautiful lingerie sales girl and scores a size large nightgown for a size small wife.

6) Got husband Pong, state of the art cool thing way back when.  Most boring game in the world; cost of which sorely tests our new marriage.

7) Gifted my husband a latte machine. He doesn’t drink lattes, but I just couldn’t bear buying one more white dress shirt. He returns latte machine for 3 white dress shirts.

8) Made him a pair of pants (the year after I got the sewing machine) that didn’t come close to fitting.

9) Enlisted a friend to call our kids and say he was Santa. Santa promises to bring the MOST EXPENSIVE video game on the market. Choice? Confess our subterfuge or get the game. Kids got the game.  

10) Got one pre-teen child a piece of art (sort of) and another a cell phone.  Mocked about it to this day. Best ever wabi sabi moment ever. 

Immediate results: Imperfectly gauged gift giving, gift getting, and merry making.

Long Term results: Perfectly wonderful memories, good laughs, appreciation that the right gift can be as simple as the good intentions of someone you love, like, would like to love, or love to like.

So don’t sweat it. Be creative. Do your best. Put it out there. In every imperfect moment of a holiday – as in life or work - I guarantee there are a hundred perfect ones waiting.

Wishing you all a very merry, very wabi sabi, Christmas