Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 16

Pondering many things

Family is visiting this coming week, looking very much forward to that!

The son of a dear friend has been diagnosed with cancer, which totally sucks.

I'm pleased for how Book 3 of The Enran Chronicles survived an edit. And I came up with a great plot point for much further down that series' road.

I'm trying to maintain a safe distance from my country's upcoming election, but at times find it hard to not fret. And about that, I may post a bit, just a heads-up that this blog could sport some political entries.

I had pizza last night, made with a gluten-free crust, yet today I'm feeling some effects as though the crust wasn't quite gluten-free.

The Eden quilt might take more time than I considered, as I'm not happy with the plethora of blocks made with gray borders. I'm digging those pictured above, and may adjust the borders on a bunch of stars still in need of perimeters.

It's nearly October; where has September gone??? Not that our weather has changed much; no rain, warm temperatures, but lessening daylight signals the season has altered. I should get out my battery candles, putting away seashells that decorate the dining and living room windowsills.

Other than all that.... I can't wait to hang out with relatives, stepping away from my usual routine for the next several days. After their departure, I will.... Maybe read through Book 3 again, doing some plot-fact-checking. Probably pull out the Red Sky at Night machine sewing, hehehe! Or perhaps I'll wait until I finish all the EPP blocks for that quilt. While the quilt-along is scheduled to conclude in December, I've made the mental decision to extend that deadline into March, not wanting to feel rushed, as well as enjoy this project throughout winter. Which seems far away, what with our dry, unseasonably warm weather.

Just some random thoughts on this twenty-eighth day of the ninth month of the year.

Levels of competence

  A Red Sky at Night block in progress.

I've been engrossed in the third novel of my current series, finding it required a good looking-after, lol. The story is fine, mostly, though I need to read it again to confirm when one character is first mentioned by another character to make sure I didn't mess up later events, ahem. That's one level of competence, in that when a novel is written on the fly, occasionally plot points don't meet up at correct angles.

I have also discovered minor examples of prose requiring mild sharpening. That's fine, what revisions are all about. But it was startling to me to read a sentence, then immediately refashion it first within my head, then onto the document. Or deleting a sentence or phrase, making for tighter writing. Again, why edits are important, as well as time away from a manuscript so perspective can play its magical role in the process.

I think of editing as the easy part of writing. Some may not agree, but for my method of crafting a book, it seems that revisions are like candy. Writing isn't hard, but it's the toughest element in the cranking out of the story on a daily basis. In how some people like making quilt tops but find the completion a pain, I feel that writing is the trickiest part of the deal. Now, having said that, I'm currently finishing a quilt top that I sewed together LAST YEAR. So not all quilt tops are golden, and some rewrites are A BIG FAT HASSLE. Life Stories was a bear to wrangle, and a few old manuscripts linger in hard and flash drives because the notion of reworking them is simply more than I can ponder. If that means my skill as a writer is such that edits are less painful than they should be, awesome! If I means my books could use more revisions, well.... Readers can be the judges on that point, insert winking emoji here.

What I'm trying to say is that nearly eighteen years after writing my first book, I kinda know what I'm doing. Which is a marvelous sensation, yet there is always room for improvement, what I have learned in a gentle but telling way in reading Book 3. And that's fine; I don't expect my novels to be perfect, or even mostly perfect. I am one of those writers who can read (MOST OF) their own work for enjoyment as well as how to make it better. I write first for myself, well, mostly for myself. I write due to an inner sense of, "What else are you going to do with this impetus of story, character, theme, and ample time on your hands?" I write, well, let me back up a wee bit. When I write, it's because I have no choice in the matter. I wrote four first drafts last year. In 2024 I haven't written anything but a few chapters of a possible addendum to the current series, but that story's fate remains undecided. 2024 has been a year for revising and publishing, sometimes that's how the calendar months go. Not only The Enran Chronicles, but The Hawk too, so yeah, no slacking here. My level of competence as an author increases with every revision, every novel. Writing is about creating a new world, revisiting an old one, going on a journey. And sometimes that journey revolves around making sure as many i's are dotted and t's crossed as well as confirming when a character enters the fray and who spots them first.

Then reiterating that correctly later in the tale, lol. Lots more happens certainly, but basics are important. Yet the main element has to be a writer's love for what they do. Errors occur, none of us are infallible, but the heart of a writer has to be felt in the yarn they spin. I hope my heart is conveyed appropriately, and well, there's always another round of edits to smooth out what seems awry.

Sunflower quilt

 

Back of the quilt.

Well, I guess I am going to post about this comforter, or at least include a healthy amount of pictures, especially of the back, which I LOVE!

The front is nice too, lol. And having washed it twice, it's not as stiff as previously, although it needs plenteous cuddles (and more laundering) to really become the snuggly quilt I hear it screaming to be.

Binding is scrappy, what I forgot to mention in this post. I REALLY LOVE the vibrancy of the fabrics, front and back.

Screaming might be a little farfetched; it is certainly hollering, what with two layers of batting, which I did because batting is so thin these days. To my joy, and relief, this quilt doesn't feel too heavy. It's a nice weight, the right size for one person, or a grandma and a nieto or nieta. It's definitely long enough for me to drape over myself from chest to feet, complete coverage of shoes. That matters, as I'm a little over five foot seven inches tall, and am not keen on lap quilts that barely cover my lap.

As for the back.... The top is a big hunk of Lorenzo in blue designed by Odile Bailloeul for Free Spirit Fabrics from the Murano collection. I purchased that print in red and green as well, but having used the blue for what I needed, decided to employ the remainder as a quilt back fabric. Along those same lines is the bottom blue, Chicago, by Anna Maria, and the middle is another AM print, Hindsight. Interestingly, the Anna Maria fabrics, also made by Free Spirit, felt less stiff than the the other. But then I find Kaffe Fassett's fabrics even lighter than Anna Maria's, and all are from the same fabric company.

Blue is my fave colour, just wanted to denote that. Pink is too.

But that's a bit of digression, hehehe. The sloths along the side are an Art Gallery print I used on one of my grandson's quilts, separated from the rest by a black binding strip that I'm not keen on using as it's a thick fabric, so better to add it to a quilt back. I feel good using my stash, as I have a lot of fabric, ahem, and I don't want to horde more than treasured prints. The Hindsight piece has been in my possession a few years, like five maybe? Time to get it out and admired, even if on the back of a quilt, than stuck in a closet on a shelf.

This hobby means a great deal to me, yet I only need so many yards of fabric, LOL. Many totes of projects and scraps live under my work table, is that right? How many projects do I need to have on tap at once? I'm to the age where I do wonder, "How many more EPP quilts can I make in my lifetime?" Which might sound morbid or navel-gazing, but hand-sewn quilts take TIME. And I'm in my late fifties, so....

The sloths are AWESOME! I find Art Gallery fabrics feel cool to the touch, but a slice of them here is find.

So it's best to use pretty fabrics and not hide them away. It's best to make snuggly quilts and gift them or keep them if necessary. It's best to buy prints I like, but once I have employed them appropriately, don't sit on them wondering if I'll want them again. Because there are ALWAYS fabrics being designed and produced. I can't buy more fabric (or I really SHOULDN'T procure more) until I've knocked back some of the collections I already possess. Funny I don't feel that way about writing novels, HAH! Although I do feel that way about conjuring storylines, hmmm.

But space in my brain isn't measured the same way as hording fabrics. Or at least not today....

Easy but intricate

 

Fashioning a mitered corner for the Sunflower Quilt.

I'm almost finished with the Sunflower Quilt, pleased to also be nearly done with one for my husband, in the I can make the binding, attach it, then add to the hand-quilting, then take out the safety pins way. The latter project is still far from landing in the washer, then spread out on my other half's half of the bed, but it's been much longer under construction, and I can't wait to have all my regular safety pins to use!

Not that I have a quilt top in need of basting, merely the sense of not being in the hole when it comes to quilts, ahem. Yet that's not exactly what today's entry concerns, although simple quilt tops lend themselves to piling up, why I'm in this spot in the first place. However, let me return to easy but intricate before this post loses focus.

Hand-quilting once the binding is wholly attached.

Um.... Hmmmm.... I started this draft last night while sitting under the Sunflower Quilt, slumber tickling my toes. I spent a fair amount of time yesterday hand-quilting both of the fabric WIPs, four rows left for Sunflower, which I will get to later today, then throw that comforter in the wash, then.... Onto the laundry line for photographs, but maybe this post will detail its construction, or rather its conclusion. Good grief; sometimes writing a blog entry is easy but intricate.

What I found intricate last night were the fabrics, chosen from a stack that had been piling up, nothing overtly planned other than the colours are bright, a mix of my beloved florals and modern prints, a few aged cottons too. How the machine and hand-quilting seems to mesh well, and how glad I am to be able to hand-stitch, fingers feeling nimble. I was tired, being the end of the day, but not weary from sewing, yet simply unable to muster the necessary mental bandwidth to stitch those last four rows. I wanted to, but it wasn't happening.

The back; I used a beloved Anna Maria fabric, the name of which escapes me. Better for it to be employed in largess here than chopped into bits, lol.

Instead I started this post, merely in giving it a title. That sometimes sewing isn't hard at all, yet it's complex, or the notions associated with it are far weightier than what a patchwork quilt conveys. Or maybe it was the love story I was pondering while stitching, hehehe. A widower takes a co-worker on a date, but it doesn't work out as she isn't interested. Then another co-worker approaches the man, they hit it off and.... I came to the end of what probably won't go any further than my head at the same time as I finished stitching a row. Then I admired my handiwork, pondering what sits underneath a quilt, a plot idea, my life. I write, I sew, I blog about those things. Yet much remains unstated.

Unstated is how happy I am mixing up the futzy (for me) English paper piecing with patchwork squares. How I will probably never run out of story ideas, leaving in the recesses of my gray matter fictional existences that for a couple of hours on any given night proffer enough entertainment that I nearly completed the hand-quilting. That I still lament not getting into the garden more this year, but maybe next year will be different (not to mention that I MUST MUST MUST weed the iris bed once enough rain has fallen to soften the ground). That in avoiding gluten now for well over a week my joints don't ache, and I haven't fallen into a heap not eating bread or pizza. I throw that in merely to note that my hands aren't affected by gluten, but OMG much of my right leg hates it.

More Anna Maria on the right, that upside down moth/butterfly in lawn a delight. Stitch, stitch, stitch....

Perhaps life is easy, but intricate. Simple, yet complex. Straightforward although bordered by landmines that if we veer from the lit path will scatter our peace of mind to the effing winds. Not to downplay the awful hurdles that do appear; the journey is at times beset by catastrophes of varying degrees. But at the heart of my existence is the sense that all is well, even in a maelstrom. As long as I continue to breathe deeply, taking one step at a time, even the worst hurricane won't slam me to the pavement. Yes I'll wobble, even fall to my knees, but in the awareness that a crouched position is the best way to withstand the gale. Getting back to my feet will happen, even if I eat gluten. It won't be easy, but it will occur.

Okay, that feels like enough of a post for this Sunday morning. Easy but intricate. Now, back to my regularly scheduled crafting.

Other nice finishes

Such a joy and relief to have a book released; Life Stories has already made its way to Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Everand (formerly Scribd), and Kobo, pretty cool! Meanwhile, I've formatted the first novel for The Hawk, will probably release that tale in early December. More about that as autumn ticks past, although a few days of summer officially remain. It's a foggy morning here, definitely feeling like a new season has arrived.

Autumnal hues in this Mandolin block probably add to my sense of seasonal alteration.

Maybe that sensation is due to having published a novel, time for summer to give way to more indoorsy pastimes. I've been busy with hand-sewing, completing a Mandolin block (pictured above) this morning, as well as next week's Red Sky at Night block, lol. Bridal Bouquet (pictured below) was a bit fuzty to baste, making sure the directional papers were all going the right way as well as basted so the perimeter pieces fold outwards. The sewing of said pieces was quite enjoyable.

Vibrant primary shades hearken to summer, which according to the weather forecast might return in the next few days.

I used Kaffe Fassett for the posy's flowers, all those prints from a jelly roll. I LOVE Kaffe Fassett's fabrics, both the designs and the minimal weight of the cotton, making for easy English paper piecing. I used Art Gallery for the dark blue in the Mandolin block, and it's not my fave fabric for EPP, sometimes stiff in a strange way for it too is a lightweight cotton. Just how some fabrics play nicely with hand-stitching and some not so much.

This morning I cut fabrics for the next RSAN block, will probably get around to basting them later. I've decided to stitch all the EPP blocks for this quilt, then break into the machine sewing. Easier to clear off my sewing table for other projects, like quilt bindings, if I don't have heaps of half-square triangles piled all over the place. Kind of like novels stored in hard and flash drives in various states of existence. Some revised, some kind of edited, some in hunks within other novels. And I won't even get into what waits in my brain....

(Like a short story idea I considered yesterday afternoon about a young couple getting together over fish and chips, but trying to maintain a discreet distance so the chap involved doesn't lose his mind wanting to take the young woman to bed. Oh my goodness, like I have time to write a short story these days!)

Anyways.... That's life post-publishing. One project completed, eighteen more clamoring for my attention. Time to wrap up this post, then see what shiny next catches my eye!

Life Stories: The Enran Chronicles Book Two

Such a tremendous thrill, blessing, and accomplishment to announce Life Stories: The Enran Chronicles Book Two! This FREE tale is the result of much heartache, many deep breaths, a LOT of rewrites, and the passion for telling a good story.

In Life Stories, alternate timelines have wreaked havoc on those dwelling in Tia Sorenson Zanetti's home base on California's North Coast: Who is actually dying of cancer? Where are Bobby and Tris? Is Marcus truly a coward, and can Wynn and Shirl find their youngest sons? Most importantly, who is the young woman claiming Tia and Nathan are her parents....

Hah! Heaps of intrigue mesh with differing realities, also aliens, don't forget them. Lucy and Dana can't figure out why the brandy isn't potent while trying to reckon immense personal devastation. And what about the jerk living with Shirl and Marcus? Tama calls Tennyson Dorvuun a creepfest, but is he more than just a sleazeball?

Part women's fiction, part sci-fi, with loads of drama and laughter, Life Stories is about What if? What if a dearly beloved isn't dying of cancer? What if a child thought lost is actually alive? What if the worst possible scenario could be changed? And what if God and aliens both exist, hehehe. Dana's not sure about that, but Tris believes otherwise.

Twenty years have passed since A Love Story: Book One, the island mostly unchanged. Yet those now dwelling in the Sorenson house have aged, sometimes with grace, at other times poorly. And as Tia and Nathan grapple with their declines, might those forgotten Enran reappear?

Sometimes we get the chance to erase mistakes, alter the biggest regrets. I dedicated this novel to my husband; his continued support makes all the words possible. It's also in memory of D.J., Ruthie, and Don, who lost their battles against cancer last year. It's wholly fiction, but directly inspired by what I experienced as my brother-in-law died last January. And it's a love letter to his wife, as if I could alter timelines and return to her those most cherished.

Below is the first chapter. Currently this free novel is only available on Smashwords, but will be released in wide distribution to Apple Books, Barnes & Noble and other retailers soon. In the meantime, thanks for reading the blog of this author, fifteen years in the indie publishing trade!

Chapter1

 

Being a Sunday, Lucy Sorenson hadalready made cocktails. Condensation had collected in the outer crevices of alarge glass pitcher’s fluted edges, ice melting rapidly on a sultry Augustafternoon. Lucy didn’t mind the brandy and lemonade sluicing together, althoughif Dana didn’t arrive soon, another glass of ice would be necessary.

Squinting westward, Lucy saw no sign ofDana Noth. Grumbling softly, Lucy refilled her tumbler. A sudden gust of windcooled her neck, making her shiver. She closed her eyes, quickly permittingsounds from inside the house as a diversion; murmured conversations collidedwith twittering birds, crickets chirping, frogs croaking. Lucy opened her eyes,then sighed; Dana was exiting her house at the end of their shared street,waving as she took her porch steps, her full cotton skirt rising with anothergust of wind, revealing old bike shorts snug on her legs.

Neither spoke, but Lucy waved back,hoisting her glass in the air. Dana nodded, approaching Lucy’s house, whichoverlooked the narrow bay separating their small hamlet from what mostvillagers still considered as the mainland, although what had once been deemedan island hadn’t been so isolated since Lucy was a toddler. Did Dana rememberthe flooding, Lucy mused, sipping her drink as Dana sauntered through the openfront gate, gathering her skirt in front of her as another strong breezethreatened to again swirl the fabric aloft. “Damned wind,” Dana muttered as shereached the front steps. “Thank goodness it’s supposed to die down soon.”

Lucy didn’t flinch from Dana’sobservation. “Pour yourself a drink before it needs more ice.”

“That I shall.” Dana filled a largetumbler, then sat next to Lucy. The wide porch accommodated several chairs, buttheirs were set to the right of the front door, proffering a view not merely ofthe bay. If Lucy wore her glasses, she could make out Dana’s shop two blocksaway on the corner of Main Street. But Lucy had left her specs inside, anduntil the pitcher required topping up, she wouldn’t go back in.

Instead she peered at the bay. “Lowtide,” she said as Dana tucked her skirt under her legs. “Does that affectbusiness?”

“Not really. I shouldn’t have botheredopening today, it’s been so slow lately.”

“It’s a good distraction,” Lucy said,then finished what sat in her glass.

“I guess. Any news?”

“I’m so sick of listening to birds Icould puke.”

Dana laughed abruptly, then placed herdrink carefully in her lap. Removing a scrunchie from her wrist, she twirledwavy gray hair atop her head, then wrapped the scrunchie around it. She sighed,collecting her glass, swirling the contents. Then she chugged the beverage,handing it to Lucy, who sat closest to the pitcher. Lucy needed no direction;she refreshed Dana’s drink, and the women said nothing as Dana ingested whatseemed so necessary, not merely that it was a lazy afternoon. Lucy wasforty-seven, Dana fifty. How many Sundays have we boozed away, Lucy wondered asnoisy wildlife continued to leak from the living room windows.

“Who’s with her now?” Dana asked.

Lucy furrowed her brow. “Everybody Ithink.”

“Shit, that’s a crowd. Surprised all wecan hear are the damned birds.”

“She gave everyone a scare earlier,” Lucysighed. “I almost called you but I figured she was faking.”

“Don’t call unless she’s….” Danauntucked the left edge of her skirt, then tucked it back in again. “Unless youwant the company.”

Lucy patted Dana’s leg. “Got morecompany than brains right now.”

Sipping her drink, Dana nodded. “Anyidea how much time’s left?”

“Nope.”

Dana grasped Lucy’s hand. “That okay?”

“I don’t know. Well, it’s fine with mebut….”

Someone stepped from the house and bothwomen glanced at the front door. Nathan was dressed in shorts, an old t-shirt,and sneakers. “I’m going running,” he said, walking behind them. He firstkissed Dana’s head, then Lucy’s. Then he chuckled softly. “Leave me some forwhen I get back.”

“She okay?” Lucy asked as he took thesteps.

“Just faking,” he said, reaching thefront gate.

“What I thought,” Lucy replied. “You haveyour phone?”

“Nope. If I miss it, sue me.”

“Go on,” Lucy said. “She’s not goinganywhere.”

Nathan nodded, gesturing to the bay. Hestretched briefly, then began to jog slowly along the slope where a concretepath encircled the hamlet. Within seconds he was past where Lucy could haveobserved him even with her glasses.

Dana swigged her drink, then againnestled it in her lap. “Lord, he’s a beautiful man.”

“He is,” Lucy smiled, “and barely knowsit.”

“Oh he knows, but doesn’t give a damn. Iwonder if he ever did.”

“Maybe back east, but not here.”

Dana nodded, retrieved her tumbler, butdidn’t do more than grasp it. “He doesn’t look any older than when I first methim, shit that’s been twenty years.”

“I’ve been thinking the very same.”

“Is that all you’ve been thinking?”

“Sometimes,” Lucy sighed. “Life’s afunny thing, but maybe that goes without saying.”

“Funny isn’t how I’d describe it rightnow.”

“Have another drink, then it won’t seemso depressing.”

“If I do that I’ll need help walkinghome.”

“Nathan can escort you,” Lucy grinned.

“I’m surprised he didn’t take hisphone.”

“Where would he have put it?”

“Maybe in his shoe,” Dana giggled.

“Maybe.” Lucy briefly closed her eyes,allowing sounds from the house back into her head. If Nathan felt comfortablein leaving, the rest would soon start filtering outside. Or maybe the littleboys would go upstairs. Glancing at the depleted pitcher, Lucy stretched herlegs. “Should I make another?”

“Not on my account.” Dana finished herdrink, then set the glass under her chair. “You want more?”

“I want one, but….” Gripping thearmrests, Lucy sat forward, gazing at the nearly empty bay. Glancing past it,she studied houses on the other side of the water, boats tethered to smalldocks, long piers with iron benches affixed. Mainlanders, she sniffed, thensmiled at the outdated term. “You hanging out the rest of the afternoon?”

“I can. You tell me what to do.”

“Shirl’s in charge of dinner, not muchto do but gossip.”

“If I don’t have to think about cooking,you have me the rest of the day.”

Lucy gripped Dana’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Scooting back in her chair, Lucy didn’trelease Dana, but she did take a deep breath. As she exhaled, a wave ofhelplessness flowed from her chest, clearing a slight blockage. Upon inhaling,she immediately noticed the scents of despair mingling with the sweetness oflemonade-tinted brandy, hedged by sodden mud. The fragrance of my adult life,she permitted, squeezing Dana’s hand and not letting go.

 

 

At almost forty years of age NathanZanetti still possessed a graceful body, his thick black hair tinged with grayaround his ears. The wind provided a tousled effect that from afar made himlook more like Lucy’s son than her brother-in-law, yet Nathan possessedwrinkles which if viewed up close aged him severely. He could feel thosephantom years as he ran, trying not to consider why he was there, then hechided himself, no longer any way to separate himself from this place and itspurpose.

Yet in running without a phone a smalldeceit laced his steps and he smiled despite a throbbing ache in his chest.Dana was the point of contact for those not dwelling here, which basicallymeant his family, then he wondered how the locals would be informed. Not thatshe would text any of them; they would learn the news by witnessinggrief-stricken family members tearing through usually quiet streets, bringingtheir cars to screeching stops in front and around the corner of Lucy, Wynn,and Shirl’s place. Well, Shirl’s EV made little noise, but the rest droveregular cars. The remainder of Ian and Tamara’s clan lived where the Sorensonshad called home for generations, not scattered from hell to breakfast likeNathan’s family. Only Nathan represented his side, the rest dead or notemotionally involved enough to care.

No one here held that against him, forthese people had been what he considered his kin for over two decades. TheSorenson house had been teeming with visitors since Nathan’s arrival a monthago, in the thick of the summer season. Maybe Dana’s fabric shop wasn’t busy,but tourists packed other stores and the few restaurants. Main Street profferedtwo coffee shops, a deli that doubled as a micro-convenience store, and someprivate offices, one from which Lucy still worked as a realtor and propertymanager. Those professional buildings gave sightseers the impression thevillage was prosperous, also self-sustaining, although it was neither. ToNathan, it was a calm within the storm of his professional life as though NewYork City didn’t exist.

He ran like nothing bothered him, notthe unusually sultry temperatures or his acute heartache. He ran as though heactually lived here, perhaps on the other side of Main Street or around thecorner from Dana or on the western edge where a channel separated the hamletfrom a two-lane highway, dividing what had at times been an island from thePacific Ocean. Long before Lucy and Dana were born, this area had been cut offfrom the mainland when exceedingly high tides met up with violent storm surgesor the occasional tsunami, although tsunami was a relatively new term for mostof the islanders. Nathan knew this history and despite being a famous dancer,he was treated as though a native, yet at a time like this even the longesttenured villager would have found someplace to stash their phone.

But nowhere on him was room for even thesmallest device; a t-shirt clung to his sweat-covered chest, his shorts tightalong his buttocks, his shoes barely more than enough to cover his feet. He didwear socks and the compression shorts held in place the family jewels, theiroutput negligible. Nathan’s many siblings had produced abundant offspring, butBroadway was his legacy.

Taking another lap past the Sorensonhouse, he pondered that perhaps not having children had exacerbated thedistance between himself and his blood relatives, initially fractured by hischoice of an artistic career as well as marrying far beyond the Zanettis’ EastCoast nucleus. None of his family had joined him, but then not a single Zanettihad ever stepped foot on the island. It rarely bothered Nathan; he still woreIan’s wedding ring and he gazed at his left hand, then winced, clearlyrecalling how Tamara had given it to him. Despite their brief time spenttogether, she had loved him like her own.

And if the tables were turned, withNathan lying in the house on his deathbed, Tamara would be equally heartbroken,her daughter Tia dying of cancer at the tender age of thirty-nine. SomeSorensons didn’t live long, Nathan sighed, blinking away tears, anotherwretched loss for all of them to bear.

 

 

It was Wynn who had insisted Tia comehome, Wynn to arrange for hospice care. Wynn was usually the last to kiss Tia’scheek at night and the first or second to wish her a good morning as anotherday dawned. On that Sunday afternoon, Wynn sat on Tia’s left, Marcus on Tia’sright. Nathan was still running, or maybe he was cooling down, Wynn pondered,checking her phone, the stopwatch having reached forty minutes.

“He’ll be back soon,” Marcus said, alsoglancing at his phone. “But I’m sure he’ll wanna shower afterwards.”

Wynn smiled, Shirl’s green eyes vibrantin their son’s face. “Go ask Mom when dinner will be ready. I wanna be able totell him when he returns.”

Marcus tucked his phone in a pocket ofhis shorts, then went to his feet. He kissed Tia’s forehead, then walked towhere Wynn sat, also kissing her brow. She grasped his hand, larger than hers,and he stroked her shoulder. “I love you Ma,” he whispered in Wynn’s ear. Shenodded, tears tumbling down her face as he released her. Then he headed towardthe kitchen, allowing Wynn to wipe her cheeks privately.

As Marcus questioned his mother aboutsupper, Wynn clasped her sister’s hand, wondering if Tia was aware of thisaction. It had been two days since any physical response had been observed froma woman clearly near the end of her life. All were amazed at how little painmedication Tia required; a fentanyl patch adorned her left shoulder, liquidmorphine used when Tia was turned from one side to the other. Tamara’s suddendeath twenty years ago hadn’t prepared any of her daughters for thiscatastrophe and now Wynn was keenly aware of too many elements she dearly hopedto never again consider. Yet this information was essential, sparing Nathanfrom having to deal with it. Wynn, Lucy, and Shirl had agreed theirbrother-in-law should be freed from as much of Tia’s care as they couldfacilitate. All Nathan needed to contemplate was accepting this asinine realityto the best of his abilities.

Wynn caressed Tia’s hand, then strokedher sister’s face. “He’s okay,” she murmured. “Still running or walking. He’llbe back soon, so will Bobby. To be honest, I don’t know which of them’s havinga harder time with this. Women deal better with death, maybe it’s thecaregiver’s aspect of….” Wynn choked back a sob, then chuckled. “Bobby’s justlike his father, but don’t tell Lucy I said that. I wanna say he’s like Daddy,but who the hell knows. He’s also a lot like you, maybe someday I can tell himand he won’t lose his shit. Shit Tia,” Wynn huffed, still tenderly grasping hersister’s cool hand. “When you’re gone, I’m gonna tie one on to last the ages.Or maybe I’ll see if Lucy and Dana finished the pitcher.” Carefully Wynn placedTia’s hand on the mattress. Stroking Tia’s forehead, Wynn then stood, glancingat the far corner of the large living room. The hospice nurse on duty, whosename Wynn had forgotten, looked up, then nodded, going to her feet.

“I’ll be right back,” Wynn said as thewoman approached. “Forgive me, but what’s your name again?”

“Caroline,” the woman smiled, joiningWynn at the hospital bed.

“Nice to meet you Caroline, if I haven’talready said that today.”

“No worries. I’ll be here all week.”

But will my sister, Wynn didn’t say asshe stepped from Tia’s side, then headed to the front door. Before exiting thehouse, Wynn took a deep breath, Lucy and Dana’s soft laughter an invitation.Wynn accepted it, joining them on the porch, the breeze like gentle kissesalong her sweaty temple. “Anything left to drink?” she asked.

“Just the dregs. You want a propercocktail?” Dana stood, offering a quick embrace.

Wynn hugged her hard, shaking her head.“Just told Tia I’d hold out till….” Wynn cleared her throat as Dana releasedher. “The dregs are fine for now.”

“Barely gonna wet your whistle,” Lucysaid as Dana poured what remained of the pitcher into a glass.

“Maybe I’ll have something strongerafter dinner.” Wynn took the tumbler from Dana, then chugged her drink. “Anysign of Nathan?”

“Nope,” Lucy said. “But he’ll be backsoon. When’s supper?”

“Marcus was just checking for me.” Wynnglanced at the front door, then stared at the bay. “Is the nurse new?”

“Caroline?” Lucy said.

Wynn nodded, then finished her drink.“She said she’ll be here all week.”

“Jeannie will be here later. They worktwelve-hour shifts.”

“I knew that,” Wynn sighed. “Christ,can’t keep a damned thing in my head.”

Dana took the empty glass from Wynn,placing it on the side table. Then she hugged Wynn. “You’re allowed a seniormoment,” Dana smiled. “Be grateful they’re far and few between.”

“Not that far or few,” Wynn muttered.

“It’ll get better till it doesn’t.” Lucystood, then joined them, grasping Wynn’s hand. “I’ll sit with her, you take mychair.”

“You sure?” Wynn asked.

“Yup, happy hour’s over.” Lucy squeezedWynn’s shoulder, then went inside. Wynn glanced at the empty pitcher, then satin her sister’s chair, leaning over her legs, breathing deeply.

Dana returned to her seat, randomlydrumming her fingers on the armrest, her breaths matching Wynn’s. The womenthen gazed at each other, breaking into giggles. “I find myself breathing likethat all the time now,” Wynn said.

“Tris noticed me doing it last night,”Dana smiled. “Some weird involuntary reaction I guess.”

“Where is he?”

“At work, someone called in sick.” Danapulled out her phone, tapping the screen. “Should take this off silent, hewrote ten minutes ago, wondering if we were eating here.”

“Tell him to come out, Shirl’s fixingplenty.”

Dana nodded, writing the text. Then shepocketed her phone. “Bobby still inside? I didn’t see him leave.”

“He took Jon and Luiz upstairs, I thinkthey mentioned Legos.”

“They doing okay with all this?”

Wynn nodded. “Maybe for kids to see thisis better than we think. It’s shitty, but it’s real too.”

“Do you remember your dad’s passing?”

Wynn shook her head. “Was talking aboutthat with Shirl last night. But I was much younger than Luiz. Mom probably keptus outta the house.”

“She did,” Dana said. “You and Tia wereat our place most of the time.”

Wynn nodded to be polite, not that sherecalled anything related to her father’s death. Then she grimaced. “Where wasLucy?”

“She was here till Tamara…. Hey Nathan,how was the run?” Dana stood from her chair as Nathan entered the expansivefront yard.

Wynn also went to her feet, but remainedon the porch as Dana joined Nathan on the concrete path that intersected themostly dead grass. Dana spoke softly to Nathan, grasping his hand. He nodded,then sighed, then stared at Wynn. She trembled, her brother-in-law’s disheveledface a rare sight despite their circumstances. But she didn’t move to jointhem, allowing Dana to proffer the necessary embrace. Wynn cleared her throat,then spoke. “I’ll check about dinner, but I’m sure there’s time for you toshower.”

Wrapped against Dana, Nathan gesturedtoward Wynn. She didn’t respond but walked into the house, the familiar soundof chirping birds and tender sentiments like invisible daggers piercing herskin.

 

 

According to the medical community,those approaching death retained their hearing until nearly the end of life.Nathan and the rest had been briefed on that detail, as well as otherspertaining to Tia’s situation. Tia knew this too, having wished to be as fullyinformed as possible to her final days. Now those days had arrived and whileshe couldn’t communicate with her beloveds, Tia Sorenson Zanetti remainedaudibly cognizant of what occurred around her.

She knew none of Nathan’s family hadtraveled west, but all of her relatives flitted in and out of the living room,though initially her hospital bed had been installed on the second floor in herchildhood bedroom, a small space with ocean views. Lucy thought that would havebeen best, but immediately it was deemed too constricted for those who wantedto visit. Dana’s son Tris had carried Tia into the guest room, then he, Bobby,and Marcus had dismantled the bedframe, toting the pieces downstairs. Withinhalf an hour Tia had been ferried to where she now lay unconscious but notoblivious, unless she was asleep. Her family could tell when she was napping,her shallow pants changed to steady, deep breathing.

But no longer was Tia aware of thedifference; she merely knew the presence of familiar voices and the comfortingsound of nature. Before losing the awareness of life experienced in a normalmanner, she had verbally expressed how much she liked the birds and cricketsand frogs. So dissimilar to living in a big city, she had smiled, grippingNathan’s hand, tears rolling down his cheeks. His immense sorrow was the worstof her sufferings, she had confided to her sisters and Dana. Make sure he runsdaily, she’d admonished them. And that he doesn’t witness me in any pain.

Shirl had taken notes while Lucy noddedand Wynn shook her head, Dana standing behind them. Tia had then closed hereyes, wishing she’d had the strength to grasp Wynnie’s hand, not wanting to beparted from this group of women, nor from her husband, or the collection ofyoung and not so young males that made up her family. One of the few things Tiaactively recalled was how amid the older generation, Nathan was the only manand that someone was missing from her sisters’ children, a feminine influenceto balance all that testosterone. Had Bobby or Marcus recently broken up with agirlfriend? Tia didn’t include Dana’s older daughters; Collette and Laura livedon the mainland with their partners and offspring. But Tris, who still lived athome, was single, so were Tia’s oldest nephews. Maybe she had imagined a youngwoman among them or maybe….

Tia’s cognitive processes had then begunto fail, her life turning into wave of sounds buffered by the hum of nature.Then again returned the voices, those she still recognized; Nathan’s baritonewas unimpeded by his East Coast accent. Lucy’s at times sharp tenor was nowtamed by grief and copious amounts of alcohol. Wynnie’s teary voice wasbolstered by Shirl’s relative serenity. When Tia could still reason, she firstgave thanks for Nathan. Lucy, Wynn, and Shirl were always considered together,Tia couldn’t separate her love for them. Yet a pecking order remained; Danafollowed, then Bobby and Marcus. Wynn and Shirl’s youngest sons Jon and Luiz werenext, then Tris…. Tris had suggested that Tia should be moved downstairs. LaterTia thanked him, noting it was probably easier for Tris to have made thearrangements than two young men for whom she had cared since the days theyentered the world.

Tia hadn’t known to what Tris was privywhen thanking him for getting her out of a room that despite the beautiful viewfelt claustrophobic and not at all conducive to a peaceful death. The livingroom was far better, not merely for its size but it wasn’t near where everyoneslept, what she told Tris, finding in his gray eyes Dana’s compassion andunderstanding.

These and other facts had swirled inTia’s mind once Nathan brought her home to die. They had waited until the lastpossible moment to fly west, seated in first class with a nurse accompanying.Arriving in San Francisco, they were driven north by a private ambulance, thelast time Tia would meander up the coast. She had been taken upstairs on agurney, too frail to walk, but not so debilitated to seek a change in herlocation. She hadn’t cared about the ocean, more concerned with the comfort ofthose who would surround her. And now all that planning and moving about, evenfrom one side of the country to the other, was fodder for her relatives toponder. Tia merely noted their voices, the chirping birds, the hospice nurses.One was named Caroline. The other would arrive later for the night shift.

Those details were spoken to Tiadirectly, then discussed around her as family gathered with paper plates heapedwith chicken parmesan, egg noodles, salad, and garlic bread. Tia recognizedthose scents, Shirl had probably cooked. The smells were as soothing as thehappy banter; Tia wasn’t so close to death that all conversation was muted. Butdeath wasn’t far away; Tia knew that from how previously her relatives’mealtimes weren’t spent beside her. They usually ate at the table expanded toits full complement of seating. Yet with each passing day fewer had gatheredthere. Now chairs were staggered around the hospital bed so every person couldsee the woman for whom all these requirements had been necessary. The oldernephews often sat in outer ring, allowing their mothers, Jon, and Luiz theinner chairs. Nathan alternated from his wife’s side to occasionally standingnext to Bobby or Marcus, offering them not a paternal presence but that ofanother man attempting to fathom what the hell had happened.

What Tia now discerned was a delicious supper,innocuous chit-chat, plans for the week brewing; despite slow foot traffic,Dana’s fabric shop would remain open. Lucy’s minions might request her presencein the office, but they would have to come here, no way was she leaving thehouse. Wynn had illustrations in need of revising, maybe a Zoom call with heragent. Shirl would be teaching on Thursday, but her superiors knew thesituation and substitutes were already lined up in case…. The chatter ceased,frogs and birds filling the awkward silence. Tia wanted to tell them thank you,she wished to let them know she could still hear them. But despite her openeyes, voluntary muscles no longer responded to her requests. Only involuntaryorgans worked, yet she tried, straining uselessly to smile. Someone grasped herhand, probably Nathan, for how soft was the person’s skin and how sensuous werethe caresses. “You’re in charge Sorenson,” he murmured. “Whatever you want,we’ll do.”

If Tia could have smirked, grinned,flinched…. Inwardly she sighed: I’m so sorry Zanetti, but I’m grateful to behere, to be home, to be…. A few tears inadvertently leaked from her eyes,making those around her gasp, then break into sobs. Chairs were shuffled asrelatives moved away, then some returned as Tia sensed hands upon her, kissesproffered, her husband still clutching her fingers.

Yet for all these familiar persons,someone was missing. Wracking what little cognitive thought remained, Tiapondered who it might be. Then as quickly as tears had emerged, sleep engulfedher. And in her dreams, Tia still wondered who was absent.

Pre-publishing excitement

 

This week's RSAN EPP block; Baton Rouge. I have completed it, but felt this picture was more apropos for today's post.

Tomorrow I plan to release the second novel of The Enran Chronicles! Amid many sewing projects, the writing never stops, well, the prep for what writing produces. I've also (mostly) come to terms with the notion that actual WRITING might not happen again until 2025. Small sigh taken, then the thrill of releasing a new book overwhelms! Let's see if I can properly explain all that is currently on the creative bill....

Publishing a novel is a little like having a baby, just a little. The gestation ranges from months to years, yet the sense of nurturing a new life, or many of them, is similar to a human's nine-month gestation. A couple makes a baby, akin to how a story emerges from an author's experiences, but usually one person writes said book, just as one person carries that new life all those weeks. The process veers off once the first draft emerges due to all who are necessary to take a manuscript to the next level, but sidestepping that, it's up to the author to make the biggest decisions, especially in the independent publishing routine. The how's and when's and even a few why's need to be answered, then of course all the dotting of i's and crossing of t's and read-throughs that never seem to weed out every typo, lol. But once that happens, and a book cover is ready, ahem, (And don't forget synopses and tags and genres choices, oi!) then it's time for a novelist to add another child to the family.

I just sat back in my chair, pulled my hair into a momentary ponytail, then peered out the east-facing window. Light is barely hinting over the hills, a few clouds along the horizon, a clear morning currently in view. Fog might roll in soon, or not, always a surprise how the day will start along California's North Coast. It's currently 6.18 a.m. as I write this post, some mildly caffeinated tea fueling an early start to my day. I have one chapter left to read of what is the final absorption of Book Two in this series, strange to think how this all evolved in February of last year after I came home from bidding farewell to a beloved member of my family. Yet some babies are conceived in manners similar, not outwardly planned but just as necessary to the framework of our lives. These types of progeny are even more spectacular for the ease in which they seamlessly weave into our corporeal tapestry, their strands adding sparkles and depth not even the most comprehensive planning could display.

That unexpected beauty adds to the thrill, as well as reminding that even in the most dismal moments, good emerges. I realize I'm veering away from the whole publishing is like giving birth theme, but bear with me a few sentences. This novel began the whole dang series, assisted by a solitary chapter written a few years ago then summarily forgotten in hard and flash drives. I certainly didn't return from the Midwest last winter, my heart in tatters, assuming I was going to start another long, involved writing project. Crafting this story was merely to assuage my grief. But my firmest belief in why I write is this: To proffer restoration so another's heart can do the same for someone else. Brokenness healed allows a larger heart to beat within one's chest, enabling that person to do the same for whoever approaches with an equally aching muscle.

So.... Yeah, that's why I do this, not because I want to have three dozen kids, but that seems to be one of the outcomes. Thankfully these babies require scant attention once they leave the nest, lol. Just the occasional read-through to make sure they are doing okay, what I've been up to recently with The Hawk. Yet that novel needs to scoot over, for this week it's about Book Two of The Enran Chronicles, title to be revealed as soon as that book goes live!

Endings

The Hawk, placemats, finishing a lap quilt.... These are the endings I'm pondering today.

First, the book: The Hawk. All 266 chapters of it. LOL. So I completed my read-through/revisions/edits yesterday afternoon after a marathon session that has lasted a few days. I really wanted to finish it, wanted to know how I'd reached The End, wanted to.... I wanted to savor and inundate myself with a cast of many that seriously eased the transition from wife/mum/daughter to wife/mum/grandmother/both parents passing away in the course of nearly five years. I started writing The Hawk in October of 2013, finished it in April of 2018, released it in parts (thirteen of them) as I wrote it, then unpublished those and re-released it in three volumes in 2020, then unpublished that early this year. I began the latest edits on 10 January, noting in my journal the temperature at 8 p.m. that night was 44 degrees Fahrenheit (Brrr!), hoping that by the end of this year I'd have read through the entire book. Which I have, with three months to spare.

Maybe most of this post is going to be about that series, or what is now a collection of ten novel-length books. Quickly I'll mention the placemats; four of six are completely finished, two left in need of bindings attached. Wrapping up the lap quilt requires me to sew together the back, make the sandwich, baste it, etc. That etcetera might include some machine quilting because I want to get this lap quilt SORTED, and running it under the presser foot is far faster than hand-quilting it. We shall see, and by we I mean Present and Future Me.

This isn't an actual Eden block, but it's the same size. Eden blocks have a hexagon in the center, surrounded by jewels, then diamonds. But you get the idea.

Anyway.... So yeah, I'm in a mood to tie loose ends. Those placemats have been floating around the office for months, the lap quilt nearly that long. I'm also considering diving deeply into my Eden EPP quilt; it needs a dozen and a half more blocks, like the one pictured above, eight half-blocks, then for me to decide if I'm going to make my own papers for edge pieces or use what came with the kit, but are small and would require me to slice off edges of the blocks used along the sides. Future Me is leaning toward making the papers, probably out of poster board, which I did for the Cherish quilt I made for my youngest daughter about five years ago. I'm with Future Me on this, although that task is not one which I'll consider immediately.

Immediately.... Immediately is how I've felt the last few days when reading The Hawk. Immediately I was drawn into that last book, #10. Immediately I recalled how the end of the story had been in my mind for a good long while, but when writing a tale with heaps of characters, everyone deserves a send-off, so the story lengthens, and.... And over those five years, 2013-2018, I became a grandmother four times over, nursed my dad and mom, then bid them adieu. I learned to sew along the way, hehehe, which enabled me to feel productive when I wasn't writing, because I was busy with adorable grandbabies as well as grasping how life changes due to new family inclusions and deaths of long-beloved members.

The Hawk became for me a test of sorts; could I truly work up the gumption to complete it? Would I eternally regret starting to publish it if I didn't finish it? That was an underlying...not fear but certainly an impetus to make damn sure I found The End. I found The End two months before my mom died unexpectedly of cancer, and I will always be grateful that I finished it before she passed, because I can't honestly say if I would have had the guts or sense or heart to write it once she was gone.

Now I have some decisions to make about said series, in when to start releasing it, and will I attempt a print version. I have steered clear of print versions of my books for a while, because inevitably I tinker with them, which isn't a big deal with ebooks, just upload the new version. Yet with print novels, there's a process that requires, well, work. Okay, more work than ebooks need. Draft2Digital has print novels as an option, but I am not yet transitioned to D2D, so.... So buttons. Yup, that about sums up that.

Past Me urges print versions, but she's still writing The Hawk, or she's hand-stitching the initial EPP hexie quilt, so she's full of enthusiasm. While Future Me hints toward those homemade papers for the Eden quilt, she's very tight-lipped about turning The Hawk into printed books. Some aspect of tangible creative output seems to be okay is the vibe she's currently exhibiting, so I smile, not pressing for her opinion further. Honestly, it's enough to have the revisions completed, because I still need to format all those books, perhaps think up additional titles for each one. Each one is how I can now consider them, ten books' worth of story written in four and a half years amid massive personal change and familial upheaval. Part of me wishes I could link to the story, all this blah blah blah about an endeavor that has no viable footprint other than my own musings. This is a longer than normal post, guess I needed to get my Hawk ya-ya's out.

It was a big deal writing that book, may I say. And (lol) it's not over yet. Someday, certainly. (Or not, in the case of print versions.) But for now The End has been found. Thanks be to God indeed.

Favourites

I only have a few holdovers from my eleven years lived in Yorkshire, England. The spelling of favourite is one, drinking British teas, and calling gas petrol. I used to employ the British pronunciation of tomato, but now tomato has the long A, yet it has been seventeen years since we left the United Kingdom.

I thought about favourites, not the spelling but the meaning, as I got up from my computer earlier today, taking a quick break from The Hawk, then passing the fabric stack pictured above. That swan, from Anna Maria Horner, makes me giddy, makes me want to include it in every EPP project I have currently underway, not to mention in machine-pieced shinies. Returning to my PC, I began a new post, typed the title, then went about whatever I was doing, probably reading The Hawk. What had been a couple of chapters a day has morphed into like five, perhaps more. I could look it up in my journal, but suffice to say, with just a couple dozen chapters left, I am ripping through that story, wanting to reach The End, even if I know what will happen. Because, as I've found in the last couple of days, I've forgotten some of the nuances, and OMG, I love what I did there.

Isn't that a funny notion, reading an old story and still being thrilled by it? Especially one you wrote yourself, LOL! I don't feel that way for all my novels, haha, but this one has grabbed my heart, and I can't help but keep reading. I've given up trying to write until I complete these revisions, there's only room within me at the moment for one novel. Okay, two, as I'm still editing the next Enran book, although I didn't get to that today. Tomorrow, sure! Tomorrow I'll read a few chapters of that tale, but my focus is on what's going to happen to Lynne and Eric! 

And will I manage to squeeze that adorable swan into yet one more EPP creation....

I wish I felt this in love with Red Sky at Night. I'm just not digging the small paper pieces of the EPP, sadly enough. I'm not even certain if I'll push through the rest of the paper-pieced blocks; perhaps I'll focus on those half-square triangles. The QAL begins tomorrow, not that I'm locked into the schedule, yet I've kind of mentally committed myself to it. It's not a fave, but then not everything I do stirs my heart at the same level. I'd be an emotionally overwrought mess if that was the case.

Favorites became FAVOURITES just a few years into living in England, a place so dear to my heart, a slice of time that continues to dwell within me, even if in small slivers. I'll probably not read The Hawk again once it's completely released, but I'm loving it now. And once I run out of Swanmore, by Anna Maria Horner, well, I'll drool over it in the snippets I'm placing hither and thither. Such is the way of things, because I only have two hands and so many active brain cells. And how many other priceless treasures are waiting to be discovered, prose and cotton-like in nature?

Many, I'm sure. New favourites will be embraced, once they find me.

Essential honesty

 

Today I gave away the quilt pictured above. Recently our postmistress went above and beyond the call of duty, and I wanted to gift her with a token of my deepest esteem. She was thrilled, mentioned that she LOVED quilts, and as autumn is slowly approaching here in Humboldt County, also said this comforter would get a lot of love. I'm so pleased she liked it, and now the quilt queue lessens, lol.

That's not what today's post is mostly about, other than explaining the photo. I started revisions on the last installment of The Hawk, ten outta ten books, DUDE! The other day, noting this to my husband, I remarked that despite this story being about a guy who actually turns into a hawk (with no superhero overtones), it's also a series steeped in real life. Later on faith in Christ becomes a main theme, but not at the beginning. In the beginning it's a slice of life between two married couples in the early 1960s dealing with infertility, PTSD, as well as one woman's agony as her husband takes off for days, then weeks at a time, trying to keep the truth of such an unreal occurrence under wraps. Essential honesty is absolutely necessary to balance the magical realism, but then faith in God could also be viewed as a questionable endeavor.

I smile in writing that last bit, because Christianity is another theme within the novel. Life on Earth is full of absolutes (death and taxes just to mention a couple), as well as being hedged by so many gray areas. This saga touches on lots of different notions; survivors of Nazi terrorism, Korean War veterans, LGBTQ rights. A few kitchen sinks too, in that no one has a dishwasher, so.... You get the drift, in that this tale was the gift of prose that kept on giving. And part of the reason why was making it real. 

A guy might turn into a hawk, but his wife still works for a living.

And now I'm approaching THE END. The conclusion of over eight months' worth of edits, probably wrapping it up by the end of this month. I'm still undecided when to start releasing these books, as I thought by now my Smashwords account would have been migrated to Draft2Digital. However, that has yet to occur. In the meantime, I'm still plugging away on the LAST MINUTE TOUCHES of The Enran Chronicles Book 2, so there's plenty of authorial stuff happening. Not any writing, ahem, but now I'm of the mood to conclude The Hawk, then start another Enran novel. Yeah, that's a good plan!

Because when I am done reading The Hawk, my heart is going to need something to distract it from a cast that has been with me for over a decade, easing my entrance into grandmotherhood as well as saying goodbye to both of my parents. That's some magical realism if I ever I heard it!