Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 8

Juggling the joy

Youngest grandson's hexie shirt; more about that at the end of the post.

This morning as I watched the moon rise and Venus emerge, I was grateful for clear skies and warm tea and the quiet moments in which to appreciate these blessings.

A few hours later I learned one my beloveds is in hospital with a serious ailment. The trajectory of how I wanted to present the above treasures now takes a sharp twist, as sweet meets bitter, yet I am undaunted to recount the good while praying for the lesser element. Because this is often how life goes, joys hand in hand with sorrows. How we balance that is another issue altogether.

I'm nearing the end of Letters & Papers From Prison, Dietrich Bonhoeffer's last two years of life documented in correspondence between him and those he loved. After the failed assassination attempt on Hitler, the letters dwindle, and I'm reaching that point in the book, but the truths exchanged between Bonhoeffer and his best friend Eberhard Bethge detail how life's richness depends on the way we absorb the good and bad, melding those into our existences, not merely steeping ourselves wholly in either. Bonhoeffer has been imprisoned for over a year while Bethge is now a solider in the German army, his wife and new baby left behind. The men discuss the necessary acceptance of distinct opposites within the human condition; Dietrich writes that many of his fellow inmates are consumed by their momentary moods - all happy, all greedy, all dejected, all despairing. Bethge notes the single-mindedness of those in his corps, and that a few view him with extreme disdain, perhaps thinking his pastoral background a hindrance, or some other aspect of his character that seems out of step with the Fuhrer's edicts. Bonhoeffer counsels Bethge, as he returns to his unit, to keep the joy of his wife and new baby within his grasp, and that the rancor he feels in leaving them will add to a greater appreciation for life in general, as Bonhoeffer himself attempts to make sense of being locked away from his family and fiancee, to whom he became betrothed just weeks before being arrested.

Moon rises and planet sightings vs hospitalizations and governmental coups; the framework of life cannot be completely slanted this or that way, instead spinning on a constantly rotating axis that knows the sun's light and the cool of darkness. I was also pleased this morning that for the first time in a long time I didn't lament watching the day begin, that I could observe nature and not fret what wasn't being written. This is a serious....problem or habit, I suppose, that I as a writer cling to unnecessarily. That it's been ages since I wrote a story grates on me, but not this morning, thank you Jesus! And in the light of my loved one in hospital, crafting fiction is far down the To Do list. More to matter was sending out prayer requests, making those prayers myself, then taking a shower finding my tingling upper back didn't appreciate hot water, so maybe the aftereffects of shingles remain.

The last few days my right shoulder has been niggly when I sew, but I haven't wanted to acknowledge it. I should completely stop hand-sewing for a few days (not the one day I managed on Monday, ahem), but there's SO MUCH I have going on in the stitching realm! Okay, that's fine, Future Me snorts, but how are you going to heal completely if you keep overdoing it?

Yeah, Past Me adds. I didn't sew AT ALL when we first had the shingles.

I grimace, because they are spot-on. For a month in spring 2019, I didn't do ANY hand sewing. My first case of shingles, while not TERRIBLE, was pretty acute, and I simply COULD NOT sew without pain. This go-round was barely a blip, except it's not fully healed. I just need to finish the hand-quilting aspect of one hexie shirt for our eldest grandson, I want to say. Or I have just said, not meeting the eyes of either part of who I was or will become.

Both are glaring at me, I can feel it like the niggles along my upper shoulders. I peer out, finding wide smirks. Fine, do what you like, Past Me huffs.

Future Me crosses her arms over herself. Well, I ask, what's your opinion?

You spent the morning lamenting how one you deeply love doesn't take the proper care of themselves and is now in hospital. Need I say more?

But how to juggle the joy, I want to respond, bringing this post's theme back into the fray.

Future Me smiles that all-knowing grin, shrugs, then walks away. Perhaps I know what happens to Bonhoeffer and Bethge, but they had no idea when sending those letters. They merely commended each other to God's care while being right where they were. Which is all I can do as well. And with that said, have a beautiful Wednesday!

Blogging or Bluesky

 

A hunk from my Lavender EPP quilt, currently in progress.

Around the first of March, I took an early Lenten sabbatical from Bluesky Social. My account with that form of social media is only from last November, after the election. I didn't abandon a Twitter handle for it, as that type of social media had never been my preferred method of outreach. As you can imagine, I like a LONG manner in which to share my thoughts, smiley face inserted HERE.

Yet I was happy to create the account, and enjoyed the camaraderie I met. Giving up Bluesky was in part a Lenten sacrifice, as well as a need to distance myself from the weight of what was happening in America. I fully expected to rejoin the banter once Easter was over.

That plan has been discarded, as I will continue my absence from Skeets and a three hundred character limit for posts. That was certainly a hindrance, as often I have far more on my mind, LOL. But what I found most interesting was how I didn't miss that level of social media within my life. Probably not having had a similar account figures into it; Bluesky was a brief dip into a form of social media I have firmly avoided since, well, since I became an indie author/when Twitter was unveiled. It's not only preferring a longer form to express my views; I had an Instagram account that I deleted after the election, and that platform permitted lengthy entries. My decision is mostly based on the desire to keep social media at arm's length, even to the detriment of marketing my novels.

I didn't sign up for Bluesky to blow that horn; I merely wanted to add a voice to an alternative. At the time I entered the fray, the site had thirteen million users. It now boasts over thirty-five million. My absence won't be noticed, nor do I plan to deactivate my account. Yet I felt it necessary to note why I am stepping away. I will link to this on my Bluesky profile because I like to close chapters. Bluesky was a fascinating experience and I wish everyone there well!

Easter 2025

Our back garden in Yorkshire from the date I began writing the journal entries.

It's a quiet start to the day; I went to bed early last night after being on my feet for two hours at a protest at the Courthouse. While I slept eight hours thereabouts, if you hit the hay before eight thirty, that means rising before five the next morning.

Which is fine, smiley face inserted here. It feels a little incorrect to use more than that on Easter, not sure why. On my Ukrainian flag yesterday I had the names of Josiah Lawson and Freddie Gray. While Love Thy Neighbor and Remember flew off the flag, those names remained. My prayers for those family continue.

My husband just woke, I'll finish this later....

So.... I threw blankets in the washer, will change out the sheets. A gray start to our day, but sun is forecast for later. I typed out the first of a series of...journal entries or devotional entries or whatever will come of several months of entries written in 2002. I truly don't recall doing them, other than I have them in two UK notebooks, yet their purpose isn't for me to micromanage. Just type them out and see what happens.

A strange Easter, maybe mostly in my mind. Protests and government unrest right alongside the greatest gift the world was ever given. I'm far from family, not for the first time nor the last, yet something else tethers me to them, perhaps Christ's gift showers us in myriad ways that cannot be tallied or predicted. Which is part of the beauty of this at times painful and distressing existence; life is full of sorrows, heaped with joys! They mesh together in a manner that could barely resemble the agony and grace Jesus endured hanging on a cross to die.

He died to give us life. He suffered to bring us home to him. He rose to release us from bondage and separation and sin. I hope Josiah and Freddie are with Christ today, with my beloveds near. I pray for guidance for these twenty-three-year-old entries devoted to God's love for us. I want to plant marigold seeds later today, and while I'd LOVE to EPP, I might give my right shoulder a few more days, or at least one more day. It's shingle-achy, but no blisters appear. Again, life is a mystery.

And it's good. Despite the sorrows, life is indeed VERY GOOD!

Pray for more love

Latest Mandolin block completed last night.

I'm feeling a mixed bag today; it's Maundy Thursday, the day when Jesus celebrated The Last Supper with his disciples and also washed their feet. 

Colonel Nicole Malachowski's achievements as the first woman Thunderbirds pilot are being erased from official military websites. I wrote an email to family and friends denoting this, including the names and Washington D.C. phone numbers for Republican women senators. Here they are, if you're interested in letting them know your views. (All are currently on holiday until 28 April, but you can leave a message for each one.)

Marsha Blackburn        202-224-3344 Tennessee
Katie Boyd Britt             202-224-5744  Alabama
Shelley Moore Capito    202-224-6472   West Virginia
Susan Collins                202-224-2523  Maine
Joni Ernst                      202-224-3254   Iowa
Deb Fischer                   202-224-6551   Nebraska
Cindy Hyde-Smith          202-224-5054   Mississippi
Cynthia Lummis             202-224-3424   Wyoming
Ashley Moody                 202-224-3041   Florida
Lisa Murkowski              202-224-6665   Alaska I'm at a loss for what to put on my Ukrainian flag for this Saturday's protest. I'd been thinking that since it will be Easter Saturday, LOVE THY NEIGHBOR was appropriate. Do I add: ESPECIALLY IF SHE'S A WOMAN. Or: WHAT HAPPENED TO WOMEN IN HISTORY? Or:.... I'm grateful it's only Thursday, Maundy Thursday. Much to contemplate. A daily reading I incorporate recently admonished to pray for more love. I took that with all due gravity and generosity of spirit. Why the exclusion of Colonel Malachowski seems to have set me off, I'm not sure. Partly due to the SAVE Act, yes; that members of congress, women among them, want to make it harder for women and others to vote is INFURIATING! But then women plantation owners kept slaves during my nation's history, I guess some people simply live to wield power over others. That doesn't make them very LOVING, merely consumed with obtaining as much influence as possible. Christ implored his disciples to NOT be like those in power. To act humbly, to turn the other cheek. To LOVE. In loving another, we set aside much of ourselves. In loving others, we choose their betterment over our own. In loving our neighbor, we seek to connect in a manner wholly concerned with goodness, kindness, compassion, peace. Jesus knew which disciple would betray him, yet he didn't condemn that man, but told him to do what he needed to do and do it with haste (John 13:27). After Judas left, Christ then said, "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." (John 13:34) In love, erasing people from history wouldn't happen. In love, sending people to El Salvadorian prisons wouldn't occur. In love, I wouldn't need to go to a protest in two days. Yet love feels very diluted in America. Love seems like a hazard or a line spouted by hypocrites. Simon Peter goes from asking Jesus to wash all of him to denying him THREE TIMES. How many times have I turned away when evil persists, how many times have I denied my Lord? Do with this what you will. Just needed to get it off my chest and in a place less harmful, as well as easier to consider. None of us are perfect. Yet I will pray for more love.

Making memories while the sun shone

We squeezed in a trip to the beach, low tide and calm waves a pleasure.

Close friends visited over the weekend, and while this morning is a cloudy mess, we enjoyed bright blue skies, warm temps, and marvelous camaraderie.

Chatting with those of a similar age and interests is always pleasant, for while we are on different paths, the journeys coalesce in manners that remind we're not alone in 1) Getting older, 2) Navigating our purposes and 3) Maintaining sanity. Definitely important elements in this thing called Life.

Then Life returns to its usually scheduled programming, which of course is wonderful too, mostly. My wonky knee remains tricksy, but is improving. Shingles have cleared up and left no visible reminders other than I'll probably need another vaccine in the next few months. I'm SERIOUSLY contemplating what I'd LIKE to next write, whoa! I'm making good strides with the Mandolin quilt, but A Quilt of Grace was moved off the sofa so others could sit on the sofa, and has yet to make its way back to the sofa. Grace will determine when that change of location occurs.

Spring felt so authentic over the weekend, all that sun and warmth and joy of sharing our lives with those so dear to our hearts. Palm Sunday was noted, and now it's Holy Week. Easter is late this year, and I'm grateful for its approach. I don't turn on lights where I do my evening stitching until well after supper, although I am aware that it's MUCH EASIER to thread needles in late morning/early afternoon light, ahem. I might find or make another pincushion to accommodate that deficiency in my eyesight.

The nasturtiums are doing well, including a red one to the right of the brown plastic flowerpot!

Friends being our age reaffirmed that growing older beats NOT growing older, and that when we were kids, those approaching sixty or just past that cusp seemed A LOT OLDER than how we emotionally and mentally feel now. Aches and pains are what they are, can't escape how the body alters as the years pass; aging is inevitable, yet it's also merely a number. I'll be fifty-nine soon, but I feel like I had my hissy-fit about nearing sixty last year, the whole two times twenty-nine thing. Wonky knee notwithstanding, I'm doing okay, and for as long as that holds, I'll keep pottering around with my activities. Which right now are working on a Heart quilt, a Mandolin quilt, writing more of The Enran Chronicles (hopefully), and formatting The Hawk. If I feel VERY inspired, I'll pot up some marigold seeds. And always I'll attempt to keep my soul aligned to Love and Joy. Because no matter how old I get, how long I live, Love and Joy smooth the way to wherever and whatever happens next.

Inadvertent beginnings

My latest release, Brave the Skies: The Hawk Book Two certainly falls under that heading, as do some errant but fun EPP blocks that might or might not turn into more than shinies. Time will tell.

When starting a novel, I allow the characters free rein. We plan to let our chickens free range, but that's months away, lol, yet a similar notion, although if not all the hens survive into winter, that is out of our hands. Birds of prey, as well as foxes and possums, roam our neck of Humboldt County, and while we'll do all we can to keep the flock safe, nature always triumphs. As an author, I have more control, at least of nature. What my cast muscles their ways into is another story.

The Hawk began with humble aspirations; I had been writing short stories back in 2013, my goodness, that's a dozen years ago now! Anyway, I'd been penning, or typing, brief tales and wholeheartedly assumed Eric, Lynne, Sam, Renee, Stanford, Laurie and the rest would neatly tie up loose ends in a rather succinct manner. LOLOL! Could I have been more wrong, I don't think so. Because along came Frannie, Seth, Marek, Louie, Klaudia, Jane, Cary, Walt, Luke, Dora, Callie, Susie, Tilda, Sigrun, Harald, Adrienne, and don't forget Mrs. Harmon! And several others, but I think the point has been made. A cast this large wasn't going to be shoe-horned into anything less than a saga, not that all emerged by Chapter Ten. Yet they made their stealthy ways into the prose, into what unto my wondering eyes appeared as a sprawling collection of hopes, dreams, and yes a few nefarious schemes, although mostly melodrama based on love, faith, loss, and healing. The main themes of The Hawk are love, redemption and healing.

When first crafted, I was in the thick of familial maelstroms, namely my father's ailing health. Fortunately that was hedged by both of my daughters' journeys toward motherhood, abuela-hood for me. My first grandchild was born six weeks before my dad died, then two months later another grand joined us while The Hawk kept on getting larger. Settling into the role of Grandma, I mastered how to make quilts, a pretty timely endeavor what with more grandkids arriving, yet my mum's health waned in too fast of a manner, passing just three years on the heels of losing Dad. From 2013-2018 I wrote a massive tome, lost both of my parents, welcomed three wee ones, another on the way. It was beautiful and tumultuous, educational and wearying, often driving me to my proverbial knees. Yet I couldn't STOP telling this tale, just as I couldn't heal my folks. Some parts of this life are truly out of our control.

I consider that when pondering the chickens, roaming freely, but at the mercy of the elements around them. Yet all of us dwell in that state of grace, which at times feels prickly, harsh even. As an author, I've killed off favourite characters, it happens. When I began The Hawk, it was merely to relieve my mind from a dream that wouldn't leave me alone, about a man who turns into a bird against his will. All the ensuing drama is courtesy of the muse, the spirit, the way I approach this gracious life that gives and takes and blesses and at times leaves me deeply confused. Still, every morning is a miracle, every word written a gift, every stitch secured a small piece of fabric love. If the blocks pictured within this post turn into their own cozies, that's awesome! If they were just to pass a little time, that's fine too. The Hawk taught me not to underestimate the glory of creative effort, as well as perseverance. And as it moves further away, I am grateful for the opportunity to briefly call it mine. May you enjoy it too, and all manners of this amazingly crazy world that touch your soul.

Brave the Skies

A new book is out, WOO HOO! Brave the Skies: The Hawk Book Two continues the adventures of Eric and Lynne Snyder, an artist and his wife living in the Pacific Northwest. Eric's paintings are gaining new audiences while Lynne's former occupation of a hospital nurse has been jettisoned for the role of artist's model. Yet more is altering for Lynne, as she and Eric find themselves on the cusp of their hearts' desires; despite his time as a hawk, humanity has wound its way into their lives in a most precious way.

It's hard to write a synopsis for this tale without invoking spoilers. Yes, Eric alters form, but not in a superhero manner. It's a tragedy for the couple, who have hidden this alarming but irrevocable action until their best friends Renee and Sam Ahern discover what has no logical purpose. The Aherns know a fair bit about calamity; Sam was injured during the Korean War, and the Catholic couple are unable to have children. In Brave the Skies, Sam recounts some of his experiences, which draws the attention of Lawrence 'Laurie' Abrams, the partner of Eric's art dealer Stanford Taylor. Laurie's cousin Seth Gordon also fought in Korea, and is severely traumatized. Sam equates his and Seth's experiences to what Eric undergoes both in changing into a hawk, and his time as a bird of prey. Yet Seth's mental and emotional damage threatens to separate Eric from Lynne just when the couple need each other the most....

Lots of character-driven drama here, a women's fiction/historical fiction/magical realism genre mashup! Firmly rooted in early 1960s reality, the setting travels from the Snyders' home base of Central Oregon to the metropolitan exploits of Manhattan as Eric's fame increases from two successful art exhibits. Yet all the painter wants to do is remain near his beloved, as Lynne's body and soul expands in unpredictable directions. Faith is central to this tale, as the Snyders contemplate joining the Catholic faith, while Sam ponders how far does God permeate a former soldier's heart, as well as his own. And can Eric's art heal the seemingly irreversible harm with Seth's mind before that man slips into permanent psychosis?

As I've stated previously, in reading through the entirety of this manuscript, I have found that in regard to my own life, Eric mirrors my struggles while Lynne exhibits the strength of my amazing spouse. If you keep that in mind, some of the characters' revelations make more sense. I was blown away in realizing such truths, perhaps it was too close to the bone to grasp when this was written. I'm grateful that spoiler wasn't revealed to me at the time, perhaps I would have given up crafting this tale. As it is, much remains for you, dear reader, for in the last chapter an important character is introduced, a Polish pastor transplanted to Oregon, who will figure strongly within the Snyders and Aherns' circle. But that's a hint for the next novel in this series' queue.

In the meantime, enjoy the first chapter of Brave the Skies, and if it piques your interest, head over to Smashwords to download the entire novel, as well as Give Her My Love: The Hawk Book One, both of are FREE! And thanks for reading an independent author!

 

 

 

Chapter27

 

 

 

Thebustle of New York caught Lynne by surprise, but Eric embraced the crowds andnoise, perhaps a reminder of his urban childhood. Now that his foot no longerhindered him, Eric loved walking the streets, keeping his wife close at hisside. They were tourists, also anonymous, although Stanford said after openingnight, Eric Snyder would be a well-known name within a wide circle. Ericunderstood Stanford’s warning, for that’s what it was, the Snyders’ quiet lifeabout to be up-ended. Eric was ready, also grateful for tall walls surroundingtheir property back home.

Thecouple enjoyed privacy at the hotel, but the night before the show they atesupper with Stanford and Lawrence at Stanford’s Manhattan apartment. Eric hadstayed here years before, but this time he could afford a place for himself andLynne, as well as not displacing Lawrence from his residence. Eric held anassumption about the nature of Stanford and Lawrence’s relationship and hewondered if perhaps Lynne did too. He had wanted to ask her, but no time hadseemed appropriate. As Stanford and Lawrence shared jovial banter, Eric feltuncomfortable; it was insinuated that Lawrence lived in a different Manhattanapartment, but he had wanted to again see Stanford’s favorite client. And,Lawrence teased, he’d also wondered if Lynne had somehow brought along aboysenberry pie.

Lawrencesaid that in a whisper, after Agatha Morris had left the room. She wasStanford’s cook, also his sole domestic help, which Eric took as another signtoward the two art dealers’ relationship, the men wishing to keep their love asconcealed as possible. Eric didn’t miss that aspect, which was conveyed byStanford’s happy, albeit slightly weary tone and the way Lawrence’s eyessparkled. Eric wondered which couple was hiding a bigger falsehood, then hesmiled as Lynne joked she had considered bringing a pie, but decided againstit, assuring Lawrence’s presence the next time Stanford visited thecountryside.

“Ofcourse, you’ll need to wait till mid-summer. The house won’t be in any shapefor guests till then.” Lynne smiled, then sipped her wine. Then she squeezedEric’s hand. “And by then we’ll have more than one guest room available, unlessEric goes on another painting spree.”

Stanfordgazed at Eric, then smiled widely. “That’s what I want to hear.”

Ericnodded, noticing how Stanford then nearly blushed. Eric chuckled, draping hisnapkin over his empty plate. “I think you’ll need to reserve a large space forthe autumn show. I really have been busy.”

“Tryingto make hay while that sun shines,” Lawrence grinned. “I don’t like to travel,but for a piece of Lynne’s pie, I’d go to Bombay. And for those pork chopstoo,” he added.

“I’llbe sure to tell Sam. He loves to feed a crowd.” Lynne placed her napkin overher plate, then leaned against Eric, who deftly put his arm around her. Thenshe yawned and he wondered if it was authentic. She had to know the truth aboutStanford and Lawrence; it was too obvious to miss.

Ericwould love to incorporate these men into a painting, but doubted he would everget the chance. It might be as remote as painting Sam’s portrait, althoughRenee had agreed to pose while contractors were busy. Eric had accepted Sam’sdare about capturing Renee’s eyes, but he more ached to include Sam. Perhapssome ideas were best left to an artist’s imagination. Then Eric chuckled asLynne squeezed his knee. She yawned again and that time he knew she was faking.Yet dessert waited and Eric hoped Lawrence wouldn’t try to leave first. Ericwanted to make their departure long before Stanford and Lawrence had to excusethe latter’s presence.

“ShallI ask Agatha to bring out dessert?” Stanford glanced toward the kitchen door.

“Ohplease,” Lynne smiled. “Then Eric and I will be on our way. I’ve loved seeingthe sights, but tomorrow will be busy and….”

Agathastepped through, gazing at Stanford. She didn’t speak, merely raising hereyebrows. Stanford smiled and within minutes chocolate cake was served, custardon the side. The foursome shared hushed giggles once Agatha was gone, but thecustard was very good, and the sweets quickly disappeared.

Decliningdecaf coffee, Eric thanked Stanford for the hospitality, and Lawrence forjoining them. Lawrence remarked he would see them at the show tomorrow night,then all stood as Stanford retrieved Eric and Lynne’s coats. Spring wasflirting with the city, he said, but it was better to be well wrapped than not.Lynne agreed, warmly shaking Stanford’s hand. But Lawrence demanded a hug andwhile Eric and his dealer exchanged strong grips, Lynne and Lawrence shared anembrace. Lynne laughed at his whisper in her ear, saying she would do her best,then the couple said their goodbyes. Eric walked Lynne to the elevator,learning that Lawrence promised to see them in summer, with or without Eric’sdealer.

Ericsmiled, but said nothing in front of the elevator operator, or in the cab. Oncein their hotel room, Eric made small talk about the meal and Lynnereciprocated, but her tone was stilted. They undressed, got into bed, snugglingclose. Then Eric kissed her forehead. “Honey, did you notice….”

Shenodded, then moved away, staring at him. “Last fall when I showed Stanford thepaintings of me, he slipped and called Lawrence Laurie. He kept on talking, but I could tell something had changed.And tonight, well….”

Ericstroked her face. “When I came here the first time, I could tell then. I feltbadly Lawrence didn’t stay at the apartment. That’s why I deliberately didn’textend the evening. And you seemed to….” He smiled. “Yawn at all the righttimes.”

Shesighed. “I don’t know which of us has the bigger secret.” Then she rolled hereyes. “Well, we do, but not by much.”

“They’remore accepted here with what they do, but you’re right, I mean, they can livetogether in New York. But probably nowhere else except for some of Europe’sbiggest cities.”

Lynnenodded, then again cuddled against Eric. “Maybe if they come in summer, perhapsthey would….”

“Theywon’t. Stanford wouldn’t allow it.”

“Lauriewouldn’t mind,” Lynne giggled.

Ericlaughed quietly. “No, probably not. He looks more like Laurie than Lawrence,that’s too formal.”

“Theycomplement each other so well.” Lynne nibbled on Eric’s chest. “It’sunfortunate they have to live so….”

“Likewe do, at times. Or maybe it’s not the same at all.”

“Maybe.Stanford was staring at you, at your face. I wonder if he thinks your eyes arestill odd.”

“Idon’t know. I did catch Laurie gazing at my feet.”

“Youbetter watch yourself,” she smiled. “You call him Laurie in front of Stanfordand….”

“Maybeone of us will have to ’fess up.”

“Ohgoodness,” Lynne said. “I don’t know which situation would be harder to admit.”

“Neitherdo I,” Eric smiled. Then he stroked his wife’s hair, which seemed to be growingout rapidly. As he did so, Lynne pressed against him, and within moments lovewas being made, that other couple forgotten.

 

Inthe morning, Eric and Lynne ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant. They weren’tdisturbed until a delivery man approached with a large bouquet. He presented itto Lynne on behalf of Lawrence Abrams. Eric didn’t have his wallet, but the mansmiled, noting a tip had already been arranged. Several diners gazed at thecouple, who hurriedly finished their meals, taking the flowers to their room.Within moments a maid knocked, carrying a vase, and Lynne watched as thebouquet was artfully arranged. She wanted to call Stanford, to thank Lawrence,but that would appear too forward. “I’ll thank him this evening,” she said, hervoice quaking. Then she wept briefly, embraced by her husband.

Theyspent that day in their room, making love when Eric wasn’t on the phone withStanford. He didn’t mention the flowers, but Lynne told Renee all about it whenRenee called to wish them well. Eric and Lynne were having supper with Stanfordand his father, the elder Taylor eager to meet the artist. Years before Erichadn’t been introduced to Michael Taylor, but now Eric’s talent was deserving,and Michael wished his own father was alive to meet such an esteemed painter.

Duringthe meal, Lynne said little, but she noticed how father and son shared severaltraits. Their formal bearings were identical and Lynne smiled inwardly as she andEric learned that Michael hadn’t necessarily wanted Stanford to follow in hisfootsteps, but perhaps it had been inevitable as the family was steeped in NewYork’s art world. Yet Lynne felt a small ache in that Stanford would be thelast Taylor so occupied. His younger sisters weren’t inclined toward the familybusiness and Michael said that his father, for who he’d been named, would havewished for the legacy to have continued. Stanford mentioned a nephew as apossible candidate, but Michael noted that boy was destined for medical school,taking after his father’s side of the family. Nieces weren’t broached as thoughthis occupation was only for men, yet Lynne wasn’t offended. Art was a man’sworld and a woman’s place was to act as a muse.

Stanforddidn’t represent any female painters and that didn’t surprise Lynne either. Hewas cordial to her, but he obviously preferred the company of his own gender,regardless of the situation. Many of the doctors with whom she used to workwere the same and Lynne didn’t try to break into the conversation. She washappy to sit near her husband, occasionally receiving his warm squeezes on herknee. A few times he inched his hand up her dress and she had to fight breakinginto giggles. Then their eyes would meet and she had to blink away tears. Nomatter what was being said, she was Eric’s focus.

Aftersupper, the foursome took a limo to the gallery. Lynne had never ridden in sucha sumptuous vehicle, but the trip was short, and soon she was being escortedfrom the sedan to where a large crowd had gathered. Lynne hadn’t realized thesignificance of this night until she encountered popping flashbulbs and reporters’questions. Stanford guided the couple inside, his father right behind them.Michael said his wife Constance might join them later, once the flurry hadsubsided. Lynne would appreciate another woman’s company, although Eric hadtold her he didn’t want her leaving his side.

Shedidn’t want to be anywhere else that evening, unless Lawrence Abrams requestedher attention. She was content to flank Eric, Stanford on his other side, andonce they entered the gallery, Eric wrapped his arm around her waist. They wereoffered a drink, but Eric declined on their behalf, which suited Lynne. Theywould enjoy champagne later, after Stanford made his remarks to the audience.She wanted a clear head to absorb what would usher in a new life for Eric, andfor her. His previous showing had introduced a maturing artist. These paintingswould confirm that statement, also laying a deeper foundation. And in autumn….Then Lynne shivered. What kind of reaction would erupt from the work Eric wascurrently producing, or the pictures he ached to begin?

Hehad mentioned that right before they left home as though preparing her. Lynnegazed at mounted canvases, the landscapes first, and she smiled. These werenothing like what waited at their house.

Yet,they were stunning, for the hues and what was depicted. She stared at thehorses, which was her favorite, then she recalled that conversation, over ayear ago, with Sam about his ideas of what filled the blue barn. Lynne wouldnever forget how innocuously Sam described those beasts, then his shock andsubsequent embarrassment. Then how he had departed, abruptly and with someanger. Now that seemed like a lifetime ago and these paintings were the same,heralding a similar virtue, but with much lingering under the surface.

Ericand Michael wandered through the maze while Lynne was happy to remain alone asshe reached the next part of the exhibit, her hobbies on show. She consideredhow nervous she had been, yet relieved for Eric’s presence after a long,miserable winter. Then she shook her head; that had been merely a taste of whatautumn was to bring. She walked past those canvases, enjoying the warmcamaraderie evoked by the Ahern and Nolan clans. Those family portraits actedas a transition to the last series, which was of the artist’s wife amid herpassions, or those that didn’t concern her husband. Lynne wore a seductivesmile. At the time these were painted she wasn’t at all comfortable as a modeland her poses, while welcoming, didn’t hide her anxiety. Yet, Eric had turnedthose fears into a formidable beauty; in a matter of weeks, he would be gone,they had both known it. These pastimes had shielded her until Eric’s agonizingreturn.

Gentlemurmurs wafted through the hall, but Lynne only noticed the pounding of herheart. She didn’t mind these canvases being sold as she had no desire to seethem again. The man who had created them might not be at her side, but soonEric would stand next to her, and later that night they would revel in all thisevening had wrought, as well as feting their devotion to one another. Lynnedidn’t assume their love was any more outstanding than Stanford and Laurie’s,but it was singular in the obstacles they had overcome. She sighed, thensmiled. The art dealers might be homosexuals, but she highly doubted eitherturned into a hawk.

Thelast painting was of her seated at the patio table, blue yarn piled in a heap.Now Lynne wished she had met Eric’s gaze, but perhaps this was the best way toconclude this chapter of his career, for there was a buzz in the air, even ifthe hall was still quiet. The paintings spoke loudly, warning of thedemarcation displayed throughout the gallery. Eric Snyder wasn’t merely anotheremerging artist; in these canvases he had arrived and woe to those who didn’tacknowledge his greatness. Lynne knew not everyone would be so inclined tobelieve, but in another six months, no one could say they hadn’t been warned.The blue barn might linger in a few minds, but what Eric had fashioned in thelast several weeks would shove that painting off the map. And, Lynne sighed,then smiled, if she acquiesced to his request, all hell would break loose.

Footstepsapproached and she turned around, finding Eric with Lawrence, the Taylors rightbehind them. Lynne met them, going into Lawrence’s waiting embrace. He kissedher cheek, then handed her to Eric, who did the same. Lawrence began speaking,but all Lynne heard was his gushing tone, Stanford and Michael’s alongside. Sheclosed her eyes, relieved to be in Eric’s loving grip, ready for however theirlives would change. And this time, Eric wouldn’t be going anywhere.

 

Lynneenjoyed two glasses of champagne as the compliments flowed. Eric was the toastof New York and by evening’s end, all available canvases had been sold. Insnatched moments of conversation, Stanford noted several distinguished familieswished for Eric’s time, but not enough money existed to tear Lynne’s husbandfrom what he next wanted to paint. All she had to do was give the word, butEric wouldn’t badger her. Yet after all he had produced of her recently, thenext step was clear. The artist’s wife was a huge hit that night, both inperson and on canvas, and Lynne wondered what percentage of those well-wishersassumed she was already striking other poses for her husband.

Ifshe did agree to Eric’s request, Lynne wouldn’t accompany him to the nextexhibit. She might travel to New York, but would spend her time at the hotel,or maybe at Stanford and Laurie’s apartment. That evening, when Eric had beendetained, Lawrence Abrams stood at Lynne’s side, and she learned many tidbitsabout his life, and a few juicy morsels of those who encircled the artist, hisdealer, and Michael Taylor. But Lawrence never betrayed his connection toStanford and Lynne didn’t reveal her suppositions, although as the crowdsthinned and Eric rejoined his wife, Lynne was even more certain as to thenature of Stanford and Laurie’s relationship. It wasn’t hard to think of Lauriewith that pet name, for it suited him better than the staid Lawrence; Lynnecouldn’t get Stanford’s slip from her mind every time she saw the men chattingtogether. They never stood alone as a couple, always flanked by other dealersor collectors. Sometimes Michael admonished his son and…. Lynne had to lookaway, for Michael Taylor treated Lawrence Abrams with the same fatherlyconcern, bordering on tenderness, as he did Stanford.

Lynnehadn’t minded that Michael’s wife Constance hadn’t attended. She suffered frommigraines and one had set in late that afternoon. Neither her husband nor herson had seemed troubled and Lynne hadn’t asked more than questions any nursewould pose. She had been standing beside Laurie at the time and hadn’tdiscerned any anxiety from him. Later Lynne mentioned she hoped Mrs. Taylorwould be feeling better in the morning and Michael assured her she wouldimprove. And that he hoped the women could meet in October when Eric’s nextexhibit was planned.

Erichad rescued Lynne, mentioning that autumn was a busy time for the boysenberryharvest, which wasn’t quite the truth, but it sufficed for Michael, who hadheard of Lynne’s famous pie. Then they walked to where on canvas she tendedthose vines, displayed in vibrant colors, although her back was to theaudience. Lynne blushed, but it wasn’t due to Michael’s praise for either herpie or Eric’s talent. The next showing would focus upon her, but not in suchmundane settings. Perhaps she would stay home, making it easier on everyone.

Ormaybe she would be the only one so affected. Social mores were changing and NewYork wasn’t a provincial township where she was already the grist for gossips.Imagine their wagging tongues if she posed for Eric as he wished, which wasn’tany differently than how she had posed for him since his return. But Lynnewouldn’t appear as fields or forests or even an ocean. His most recent paintingdepicted her as a vibrant coral reef, which had pleased her immensely. Thereseemed no end to his vast imagination, but now he was ready to return to a moreacceptable manner of illustrating the human body, her body. All she had to dowas say yes.

Tothe happy sounds of an artist and his dealer, Lynne drifted from her husband’sside. She meandered through the gallery, stopping momentarily at the fire whichstill radiated heat as she admired it. Lynne might never see these picturesagain, but she possessed clear memories of when each had been painted. Shemoved on, finally pausing at the first Ahern canvas of Fran, Sally, and tinyHelene in Sam and Renee’s kitchen. Lynne studied how adult Sally looked, how wearyFran seemed, and the angelic baby in Fran’s arms. Eric had created thispainting from a mere sketch, but it had ushered in a series of its own, many ofwhich were displayed nearby.

Lynnehadn’t witnessed more than the paintings taking shape, but now she shuddered athow many personalities Eric had depicted. She was surrounded by Sam and Renee’ssiblings and their many children, making Lynne ache for the exclusion of thecouple who had brought these people into Eric’s realm. Eric needed to paint Samand Renee before he started painting Lynne again.

“Honey?Lynne, where are you?”

“Overhere,” she called. Then she smiled. “I’m at Ahern central.”

Ericchuckled, approaching her. He pulled her close and she collapsed against him.“You ready to go?”

“Iwas ready ages ago.” She smiled, but fatigue edged her voice. “I think thismight be my last show.”

Hekissed her head, then laughed quietly. “If that means what I think it does,excellent.”

Shehuffed, tapping his arm. “All it means is I’m not made for the New Yorknightlife.” Then she giggled. “Although that was very nice champagne.”

“Yesit was. Expect more of that Mrs. Snyder.”

Shemoved away, staring at him. “And what does that mean?”

Hecaressed her face. “If you want, I can hire professional gardeners this summer,let them clean up the contractor’s mess. You won’t believe it when I tell youthe prices….”

Sheshook her head. “That’s between you and Stanford.”

Ericnodded, but his smile teased. “All right, but we are celebrating when we gethome.” Then he lowered his voice. “And after autumn, oh honey.”

Shestroked his face, then traced his eyes. Were they different? Not to her, norwould their lives be changed by his talent. “Take me to the hotel. We can startcelebrating there.”

“That’sa fabulous idea.” He brought her against him, then kissed her passionately.They only parted when Stanford could be detected, both by his step and a sharpcough.

“Idon’t mean to intrude, but if you want to continue the party, there are severalplaces I can recommend.” Stanford’s tone was light, then he chuckled.“Otherwise, the limo’s waiting.”

“Let’sgo,” Lynne smiled. “I’m about to fall over.”

Ericgripped her, then nodded to Stanford. “Lead the way, my friend.”

Stanfordmade a small flourish. “After you Eric, and your lovely wife. You both are thestars of the evening and for the next several. Though it will be a sad patronof the arts if they were hoping to buy a canvas past opening night.”

Lynneleaned against her husband, who took slow steps. “Did they actually all selltonight?”

“Theydid,” Eric said. “And several would’ve bought the Ahern and Nolan portraits ifthey could’ve.”

“Notenough Snyder canvases to go round, though some were assuaged that in Octobermore would be available,” Stanford smiled.

Lynnenodded as they reached where Lawrence and Michael stood, near the painting ofthe horses. That canvas had been the desire of many collectors, Stanford said,as a doorman stepped their way. Lawrence held Lynne’s coat and he helped herinto it. Eric thanked Lawrence, who smiled graciously. Then Lawrence turned toMichael, asking if he was ready to leave.

Theyfollowed the doorman, but Lynne took one more glance at the horses. Who boughtit, she wondered, and would she ever see it again? She didn’t care about themoney, somehow that aspect of Eric’s career never intruded, maybe because inthe past she had been working. But now people were fighting over his paintings.She grinned, then closed her eyes. “Take me home,” she mumbled to Eric.

“Mypleasure.” He led her into a cool New York night and Lynne opened her eyes. Thecity pulsed around her in lights, traffic, and voices, but she longed for thequiet comfort of their home as if she was one of those horses, happy in themeadow. Eric helped her into the limousine, then got in beside her. She nestledagainst him, sensing the rush of his heartbeat. Some of that was from the show.Most of it, she nodded inwardly, was for her within his arms.

Stanfordsat across between Lawrence and Michael. Yet they were stilled, probably fromtheir own musings, she assumed. Then Lynne was overwhelmed by the realizationof where she sat, in a black sedan in the most notable city in the world. Herhusband had been the center of that evening’s activities and Eric Snyder’s artwould be the buzz for weeks to come. Yet he was the same man she had waked tothat morning and with whom she would sleep that night. All he wanted was to bewith her, in that bed, then at home in their own space. And he wanted to makeone other place that venerated….

“Yes,”she murmured so only Eric would hear her.

“Yes?”he repeated.

Shenodded, then snuggled against him.

He stroked her hair, then chuckled softly. Lynne didn’t see the wayStanford gazed at them, or Laurie’s affectionate smile, or how Michael grippedhis son’s hand. All she knew was her husband’s love wrapped tightly around her.He had painted her tenderly before and she trusted him implicitly. However Ericnext translated his adoration would be just as beautiful as that coral reef,the field of wildflowers, and as…. Lynne fought, but lost a battle, as hertears erupted, thinking about that mare and her colt, a stallion right behindthem.

The value of perseverance

I've spent much of this day prepping my next novel for release. Brave the Skies: The Hawk Book Two has been published tonight! As it takes Smashwords/Draft2Digital several hours to get a newly published novel onto the Smashwords store, I have chosen to upload a new book in the evenings, Pacific Daylight (or Standard) Time, then happily find my story the following morning.

Publishing novels isn't an earth-shattering experience, although writing a book and getting it to this stage takes much time, work, self-belief, and assistance from those who have been in my corner for the last thirteen years of indie publication, over seventeen years on my overall authorial journey. For seventeen years I have actively written/revised fiction, and despite the writing feeling a little thin recently, I have been heavy into edits both for The Hawk and The Enran Chronicles. Two series at one time is indeed a LOT of effort, taking away from time I'd love to craft a new story. After Brave the Skies hits online outlets, I have a few months before putting out another tale. Hopefully during those months, I'll be doing more than raising chickens.

The photo above illustrates how a dream can alter, yet remain wholly authentic despite not reaching the imagined stratosphere: My Lucy Boston blocks are indeed part of a quilt WIP, with the Mr. Carter Heart Quilt draped over it at the end of the sofa. While I've been writing far longer than the LB blocks have been around, their integration into my active sewing realm still surprises me. I never thought I'd do anything with them but store them forever in a plastic tote.

The hope and desire to write fiction emerged by accident, or rather God's well-timed plan, depending on your take on faith. In faith I wrote over a hundred thousand words that turned into my first novel, Drop the Gauntlet. In faith I began a story about a couple with rather intriguing backstories set in the early 1960s that evolved into a saga far surpassing anything I had previously written, both for its length and scope. In faith tinged with grief I wrote a tale that turned into the second book of a series I have yet to finish, but in knowing I did reach The End of The Hawk, I am made brave in my wish to at some point add another installment to The Enran Chronicles. When is a topic for another day. Today is about celebrating the overall novel-producing experience.

Or feting any particular marvelous accomplishment, because in current times getting the right thing done feels damn hard. It drifts like an improbable goal. It trembles like a lone leaf on what had been the proudest, tallest tree. Perseverance is necessary in moments like these, in America and other nations currently spiraling out of control. We must remember our small actions are indeed meaningful and important no matter how inconsequential or irrelevant. For these endeavors and accomplishments revive our hearts, breathe life into our bodies, restore our weary, wondering souls. Why write fiction and publish it? Why attend protests in small towns far away from a nation or state capital? Why sew a quilt with blocks made from scraps that no longer appeal to my sense of style? Why not, I counter. This has nothing to do with Past or Future Me. This is about who I am in this sliver of my existence, at this moment of inhalation, then exhalation. Following my heart, I write these words to affirm my creative spark, to applaud abilities honed by much effort, and to stoke the fire for whomever requires that subtle nudge or robust shove. Do not be dissuaded from your dream. It will take courage, time, and work. But at the end of a day, success emerges. Or it will early tomorrow morning, insert winking emoji here!

Kinda all over the creative, protesty place

I attended our local April 5th Hands Off protest this afternoon, an AMAZING turnout on a beautifully sunny and warm day. My knee cooperated, especially as I kept moving, saying howdy to those I've met at previous rallies, also noting that I hoped to not run into them again. Their knowing smiles spoke the same.

During this Lenten season, I've been able to maintain my PMA via prayer, reading, meditation on said texts, revising Brave the Skies for a Monday release and of course sewing. Lots of sewing on loads of projects, lol. I wonder if my copious collection of both EPP and Kawandi-style items makes up for scattered thoughts, probably. I've fashioned a few coasters with orphan English paper pieced blocks; they come together easily, actually more quickly than I thought they would. I like having timely finishes, makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something. Protesting relieves my heart, but for now, not much emerges from it other than personal peace.

Small and large blocks using the same style of papers, only their sizes are different.

Sewing on all these projects acts as a distraction, I realize that. Editing a novel for publication is similar; I sense a theme. Keeping myself from pondering too deeply the disaster imploding in America, I stitch, read, read some more, pray, sew, then do it all again. What does this mean, I'm not sure. But I recognize my efforts aren't more earth-shattering than keeping me from dwelling in bad places. And maybe that's more vital than I know.

Kawandi-sewn coaster with one of my fave EPP blocks attached.

Near the end of Christ's corporeal life, he told the disciples he was going to leave them, instructing them in various manners of how to go on once he was gone. His crucifixion was devastating, his return a huge shock. Then again he departed, and while his immediate followers suffered tremendously, over two thousand years later his message of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control remains. Those fruits of the spirit in Galatians 5:22, 23 seem hard to find in my nation's current administration, but are vital aspects to be reclaimed, flaunted, applauded. They are essential in one's character in this rather dubious and at times vile world. Working on pretty fabrics and writing uplifting novels keeps me sane, alongside prayer and meditation. If my efforts look messy or askew, I don't mind. My sewing coffee table is certainly in a state of disarray, but no one is harmed by that chaos.

My Ukrainian flag doubles as a message board.

Maybe I have too many projects going, but at the end of the day, I'm keeping outta bad trouble while stirring up some good trouble. What's so wrong about peace, love, and empathy anyway?

Making a quilt I (surprisingly) love

Appliqued block 1/30, hah!

The Quilt of Grace has traveled from my office/sewing room to the living room sofa. That's a BIG MOVE. That means it is ready for all the hand-quilting, as well as applique, I can proffer for its completion. That means it's Kawandi-time!

I SO LOVE not needing a binding strip. I SO ADORE how crinkly is Kawandi stitching. I SO LOVE knowing that once I finish securing the last stitch I am truly DONE. No binding, um, I've already said that. Anyway.... Although, let me mention that I never detested making or hand-sewing bindings. What troubled me was wrestling a large or lap quilt under the presser foot to first secure that binding onto the quilt. I am SO OVER using my sewing machine, LOLOL! I'm so over a lot of things, but as my dad used to say, cry in one hand and want in the other and see which is filled the fastest.

(Took me AGES to understand that, which I never admonished to my own kids....)

Anyway again.... Sorting the top of this quilt wasn't simple, then it was. I wanted an abstract arrangement of the Lucy Boston blocks, maybe many bunched up along the right side as if hurled askew and that's how they stuck to the design wall. And while it sounds intriguing, actually laying them out so scattered quickly was an idea tossed in the round file. Yet laid out on point seemed...bland. Those large empty spaces screamed out for decoration, so I obliged. The result was TOO BUSY, even for me. And as this quilt is probably meant to stay at our house, I followed the dictates of my heart and pulled back a bit, instead inserting single two-inch hexagons in a range of prints. The LB blocks are from older fabrics, many from Joann, one reason I plan to keep this unless someone claims they can't live without it. The fabrics are a hodge-podge beyond any previous scrap quilt, the kind only a mother could love.

That mama is me! Past Me, Present Me, Future Me; we all agree that despite the blocks being kinda glitchy to stitch for the stiff papers and occasional thick fabrics as well as the uniqueness of said fabrics (a gentle way to say I'd not choose MANY of them now), somehow set upon four different hues of solids, gussied up with my latest fave prints as a slender border, as well as those pretty hexagons, I am IN LOVE with this quilt!

I can't overstate how the Lucy Boston blocks were for ages a drain on my soul. All the effort put into designing each block with MEH fabrics, sewing so many when I had time even though I wasn't itching to give this project my time, stashing them in a tote as if somehow the novel fairies would cart them off. Ah, the novel fairies.... Those fairies need to prod my subconscious because I'm down to one unreleased installment of The Enran Chronicles with SO MUCH LEFT TO SAY within that saga. Which is now starting to mirror the Lucy Boston blocks, which I thought I'd never actually use.

Perhaps the lesson here is this: Don't fret or sweat that saga, Present Me. Just let it sit in your brain as though the gray matter is a plastic tote, keeping safe vital details, rich characterizations, mesmerizing plot points. It's all gonna be fine AT THE RIGHT TIME. Which isn't now, ahem. Now it's time to put Lucy Boston to bed.

Unappliqued block and a Kawandi-style binding. No muss, no sewing machine fuss! (And no straight pins so I won't get poked, 'nuff said.)

Okay, all right! I get it, I mean, mentally I can wrap my head around it. It's not transference really, more like a lesson. Yet another life lesson, and how much did I enjoy appliqueing a block and a hexagon onto the pink Kona Melon late yesterday afternoon? HEAPS! And how much did I love Kawandi-style hand-quilting last night? GOBS! Gobs of love swirled around me as the needle was rocked while Seven of Nine became part of Voyager's crew, as our local news shared the weather, as Ziyal betrayed half of her heritage in "Sacrifice of Angels". Through all that I stitched and sewed, and threaded more needles and appliqued and sewed some more, that cotton fabric-y goodness filling my heart with purpose and joy.

I didn't think those LB blocks would be more than stones around my neck, weighing down my heart. I never planned to write a single Enran novel, much less four in one year. I always wanted to write fiction, never pondered making quilts. Didn't conjure living in Humboldt County, couldn't have considered the turmoil my nation currently experiences. Life is FILLED with the unexpected, unanticipated, yet at times most ALARMINGLY MARVELOUS gifts. Lucy Boston has been one of those. May you be graced with your own version of Lucy Boston today!