Joyce Magnin's Blog, page 6

Cavalcade of Bad Nativities

Okay, here's the thing, I know this isn't an entirely original idea, but really, it was My idea. I just procrastinated about it. So kudos to the others who have gone before and shared some of the wildest and wackiest of Christmas delights.
First Up ( more later as time permits.) If you have a fav bad nativity send it my way.

It looks to me like Joseph had a bad experience at the dermatologist. Way too much Botox. And he looks really pissed about it.
 In honor of my children who live in Maine. Yes. A MOOSE Nativity. It looks like the one moose is holding a lunch pail and what's that? A sheep? And why is Mary naked and without even a tuffet of grass to sit on. Sheesh.
 Ahh, the old Jesus in the bubble creche. "Now Jesus, we'll let you out of that bubble as soon as the sheep has gone. Germs, you know, they're everywhere."
 I never could figure this one out. So which end of baby Jesus do you eat first?

Is that a beard? Five o'clock shadow? Look closely at the baby Jesus

 See, Santa really does exist. All four of them.
 In case you wondering what happened to the Andrews Sisters.
 I'm sorry. I don't understand this one, except it's apparently "rare". Good.

Frosty Visits the Holy Family

This is my favorite time of the year. Christmas. I love it all, the shopping the giving the decorations. Oh my, the decorations! Especially lawn displays. I love to watch otherwise lovely suburban properties transform into festive, winter wonderlands. Oh, the joy of watching homeowners string lights, some blinking, some not, all over their houses. To blink or not to blink seems to be a highly personal preference. Personally, I am nonblinking but, hey, to each his own. We see white lights, bright lights, multicolor lights, houses draped with only single- or two-color lights—and again it’s highly personal. I prefer many colors.

Large characters begin to appear, usually Santa and reindeer, gingerbread men and their gingerbread houses, snowmen, elves, angels, and, of course, the plastic holy family. You’ve seen them: Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus, who always looks like he’s got a full diaper and for some reason is rarely swaddled properly. This disturbs me. It’s cold out there on the lawn. Often an angel is lurking around the nativity. Sometimes this angel is huge and no longer matches the holy family. It stands behind them with large spreading wings—sometimes blinking, sometimes not.

I prefer nonblinking angels. But I suppose if you need an angel, a giant one is the way to go. And the wise men are most of the time present and situated off to the left as though they are still arriving. Balthazar, it seems, is nearly always face-down on the lawn. Am I right? He always falls down. Strong winds in Bethlehem.

What I find especially interesting is how the homeowners combine not only the religious aspects of the holiday but also the secular. Notice, however, as you are making your holiday wanderings this month that almost without fail the religious icons are placed on the one side of the lawn, while the secular are on
the other. Except, of course, for one house I like to visit that has Santa in his sleigh being pulled by three reindeer flying over Mary and Joseph and Jesus. He’s actually hanging from a tree limb, but the effect works. I used to wonder what could possibly be going through the homeowner’s mind. “Oh look, Joseph, it’s Santa. I told you he was real. And look, he left me an Easy-Bake Oven.”

Now we have these giant inflatable figures popping up or blowing up on lawns everywhere. Great big Frosty the Snowmen, oversized penguins, gigantic Santas, and even incredibly large inflatable nativities. My favorite is the one with the holy family inside a snow globe complete with mini blizzards every three minutes—swirling pieces of plastic in a tiny vortex. I mean, wouldn’t you just love to have been a fly on the wall at the research and development meeting that created that one. “Oh, oh, I know, let’s put them inside a snow globe with swirling snow bits. People love that.”

And during the day when the blow-ups are turned off. Geeze, it’s Christmas carnage all over the lawns. Melted Frosty’s everywhere. And some of those Frosty’s are huge. Paul Bunyun huge.

But to the homeowners’ credit, I must say I am impressed and dazzled by how so many have chosen to keep Christ in their Christmas decorations. Have you ever noticed that? The fun symbols on one side, the religious on the other. A proper separation. Usually there’s an angel, sometimes a gigantic angel in between,
My father loved Christmas and always decorated the house . . . and not with those tiny sissy lights. He used only the large, manly bulbs that exploded when you stepped on them or threw them against a wall. He never put any blatant religious symbols on the lawn.

No, our nativity had a special, sacred place—on the HiFi. That’s right, the HiFi! That large chunk of furniture with the sliding door on top? For you young people, that’s where we hid the record player. Uhm, I could almost see Mary and Joseph swaying in time with Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. Actually, they were vibrating from the beat of the woofer inside the cabinet. Nice, except there was that one time when someone stuck an elf inside the crèche. We don’t discuss it anymore. Except it’s hard to have a crèche now without little visitors. Barbie, GI Joe, various Lego people, a lama, a zebra or two. The year the chipmunks visited the holy family—Alvin, Simon and Theodore.

Perhaps this memory is why I am so affected by Christmas lawn décor. I can still hear my father hollering that elves and Zebras have no business in the manger. Just between us, I think it was my mom who committed the crime because that little tiny elf continued to appear and reappear throughout the year in the strangest places, and when discovered, Flossie would crack just the tiniest grin and her eyes would sparkle like tinsel.

But then one day, just a few years ago, as I was traveling I saw that someone had put Frosty the Snowman in line with the three kings. And it struck me: This is the gospel. So what if there’s an elf in your nativity? Or a Frosty in your three kings procession. Go ahead, invite the gingerbread men to see the baby Jesus, move Santa closer, put those snowmen right in there. All are welcome to visit with Jesus. So this year, if you are tempted to get upset when someone puts an elf in your nativity, don’t. It’s all right. We know elves are only fiction, but maybe he could represent those who need Jesus, just as they are, dressed in an elf suit even.

A Taste of Cake

ONEHope is the thing with feathers . . . — Emily Dickinson Birds have hollow bones. That’s how they can fly.Sometimes I wish I had hollow bones so I could fly. I would fly so far away no one would ever find me. I would fly to the highest mountain on the furthest continent. I would perch there and wait for just the right air current to come my way, and then I’d fly some more. I’d fly over oceans and farms fat with corn and wheat, and cows. I’d rise with the air and fall with my wings outstretched so wide you’d think they might snap . . . but they won’t. My wings are strong.That night I stayed awake. I didn’t want to sleep. I knew if I did the morning would come too fast. So I kept myself awake, awake dreaming about flying over the ocean and watching the waves build and roll and crash on the shore. Awake dreaming that I could fly over the Great Redwood Forest. That I could fly above the green tree canopy where salamanders live on the branches of the world’s tallest trees.I flap my wings but only a few times so I won’t get tired. Mostly I rest on the air currents like dandelion seeds. Mostly I fly with only the wind under my wings.

A Sweet Treat

Here's the thing. I have a great idea for you Christmas book shoppers. No, I can't promise your CAKE for Christmas since it won't release until AFTER Christmas but if you pre-order a copy for yourself, your daughter, your granddaughter, aunt, sister, niece or friend and you let me know I will send you a signed and personalized bookplate to give your daughter, your granddaughter, aunt, sister, niece or friend on Christmas along with a bookmark,  also signed if you want. The bookplate will feature one of the fabulous illustrations you will find inside CAKE.
So, go ahead, pre-order CAKE and let me know via email or this blog or FB and I will get you a bookplate toot sweet.

From Kirkus Reviews a Starred Review*
"Magnin maintains a delicate balance between a fable like fantasy and reality fiction as Wilma Sue gradually discovers that not only is she eminently worthy of love, but that she can also help the people around her by loving them. Wilma’s captivating, clever language and short declarative sentences perfectly exemplify her wary but reverential view of the world."

The Power of Words

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Times; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Lucida Grande"; mso-font-alt:Arial; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 1342218751 0 0 447 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} p.MsoHeader, li.MsoHeader, div.MsoHeader {mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-link:"Header Char"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; tab-stops:center 3.0in right 6.0in; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} p.MsoFooter, li.MsoFooter, div.MsoFooter {mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-link:"Footer Char"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; tab-stops:center 3.0in right 6.0in; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {mso-style-noshow:yes; color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} p {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Times; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Times; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} p.MsoAcetate, li.MsoAcetate, div.MsoAcetate {mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-link:"Balloon Text Char"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:9.0pt; font-family:"Lucida Grande"; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;} span.HeaderChar {mso-style-name:"Header Char"; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:Header;} span.FooterChar {mso-style-name:"Footer Char"; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:Footer;} span.BalloonTextChar {mso-style-name:"Balloon Text Char"; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:"Balloon Text"; mso-ansi-font-size:9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:9.0pt; font-family:"Lucida Grande"; mso-ascii-font-family:"Lucida Grande"; mso-hansi-font-family:"Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Lucida Grande";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style>(You can listen to the audio version <a href="http://wordweaverswny.com/media/Joyce... /><div class="MsoNormal"><br />A couple of weeks ago I was asked to present a keynote on the Power of Words at the Western New York Word Weavers Weekend Conference. It was one of the highlights of my career to attend, teach and speak. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z3YjsuzW0ls..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z3YjsuzW0ls..." /></a>As I thought about this topic, The Power of Words, my natural inclination was to go back through my notes or talks and workshops and rehash some things that I have already taught, I thought about looking for particularly snappy passages from literature, to find wisdom in someone else’s words, wisdom and ideas that I believed as well. But as I did this I became more and more uneasy and threw out my new notes, tore pages off my yellow legal pad like they were Autumn leaves and let them rest on the floor until I had so many discarded pages I almost felt I couldn’t do this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But then in a flash I decided to not talk about the power of words in the same old way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We all know this. We all know that words can heal or harm or instruct or entertain and make us laugh. No one will dispute that, and I didn’t think it would be telling you anything you didn’t already know. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So in keeping with what we began last night as I shared my personal writing journey and some thoughts on what it means to become a writer I thought it more appropriate to share with you what the power of words in my life </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">. . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>was . . . <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. . . and will be because as<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>writers we all understand that the one common aim of our writings is to say something that will resonate with others, that our stories will matter in what Carl Jung called the collective consciousness, or the Greater Narrative. That we have something to say. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And I would suggest that this is true not just for the writer but is apropos for all our gifts. Don’t we all want to touch life in some far-reaching way, to leave some small legacy, to change, perhaps, a person going in the wrong direction. Think of your children and the power of your words. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time I was three years old I was totally and irrevocably wordstruck. Smitten as it were by words and what they could do. I remember sitting on the floor or at the kitchen table reading the back of my father’s newspaper. Somehow I knew that those little black marks on grayish paper had sound and meaning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I got just a little bit older I noticed that words were everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>I particularly enjoyed reading cereal boxes. I liked to read road signs as we drove past them in my father’s car. My favorite sign was YIELD because I thought it was a funny word. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There was one sign in particular that confused me. It read: No Thoroughfare. My mother helped me pronounce it but didn’t explain it to me. The only thing Thorough I knew was a thoroughbred horse and so I thought the sign meant that we couldn’t take our horses down that road. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Words had the power to confuse and amuse me. No one I knew had a horse and so I thought the sign must have been some throw back to an earlier time, something historical, or maybe it was there just in case someone tried to ride their horse down the street. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Even at that young age I was concocting stories to help explain something I didn’t understand. This is the power of words. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I grew taller and a little older and went to school where I was told to read and given books, one after the other that I could take home and sit under the basement steps and read to my heart’s content yet my heart never was content. I wanted more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t name it then, but words had the power to hide me, to transport me from the one place I didn’t want to be—home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My favorite day in the school year was Scholastic book day. When the books we ordered from those wonderful and colorful book order forms arrived. Back when we could purchase a stack of books, nine or ten for like a dollar or something. It was Christmas for me. I would race home with my books and hide and read, or read and hide from the dangers that lurked around me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The problem was I thought I was unusual, a freak because here I was lost in books most of the time, bringing them to the dinner table which I’m sure we’ve all been told at one time or another was forbidden, no reading at the dinner table. I thought this was a major atrocity. Books should have been welcomed everywhere. At least back then that was what I thought. I have told my own children not bring books to supper.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Although, I will say that when I finally put it together that books were written by people I was a little disappointed. I wished they had sprung up like blades of grass, or appeared like peaches on a tree. But I can remember looking at the names on the book covers and lightly touching them with my fingertips and wishing a little of the author would seep into me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It might just be me but I think something of this pleasure has been lost to children because of things like the internet and E-Books. The world is becoming so small when we can tap a few keys and be transported to the home of our favorite authors or read about them living their ordinary lives. I’m afraid I would have been sorely disappointed if I had that ability when I was nine or ten or eleven to be transported to Lucy Maude Montgomery’s home and see her sitting at her desk with a cat and sipping tea as she wrote Anne of Green Gables and Emily of New Moon. I wanted authors and their words to remain shrouded and secret. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Writers and where they found their words were a mystery and that was a good thing. Unfortunately we have grown uncomfortable with mystery. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I was assigned to Mrs. Nichols’ third grade and I already shared the Martian story with you and how that was the day I believe my gift was anchored to my spirit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But there was more. She continued for many years to nurture my love for words and taught me things about them that I believed no one else was learning. She introduced me to not only Mrs. Piggle Wiggle but also authors like Jack London and Ray Bradbury. I read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something Wicked This Way Comes</i> by Bradbury and thought they were the best words on earth. A relatively new novel at the time, it didn’t matter why a story about two fourteen-year-old boys, a traveling carnival and a lightning rod salesman set in a reality light years from my own, spoke to me. What mattered was it did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now I admit I had to go back and look this quote up. It’s been a few years since I’ve read it. But listen to these words from Something Wicked This Way Comes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“He knew what the wind was doing to them, where it was taking them, to all the secret places that were never so secret again in life.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps at age eleven or twelve I didn’t quite grasp the metaphor but I think somewhere in my subconscious brain I knew this was a story about growing up and leaving the childish things behind. These words instructed me. These words made me feel less of an outsider. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Somewhere along the line I discovered an amazing place called the library, THE FREE LIBRARY OF PHILADELPHIA where I would later spend much of my days, particularly my teenage days, safe with a trillion words scattered across a million books, hidden away from what I knew were the dangers of growing up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I knew, perhaps from reading so much, the dangers of adolescence, of lightning rod salesmen and Catchers in the Rye and what it meant to have a Separate Peace and that it was true No One Promised Me a Rose Garden, but it was okay to be Harriet the Spy and long to become Anne of Green Gables, to entertain the notion <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and horror of Dracula, and find myself traveling with a rag tag band of Hobbits to Mordor, I understood why The Caged Bird Sings, I chased my own White Whale, and tumbled down a rabbit hole and because there was no one to help me navigate the turbulent waters of adolescence, I turned to books for answers, I turned to books to explain. I found Anna Karenina and read, “Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” And there it was, the power of words to affirm me, to inform me that I was not alone. Dysfunctional families existed even in 19^th century Russia a half a world away from me, from my little spot in the library. Dysfunction existed, I discovered, even before Jesus was born.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Bible became more than something I reluctantly carried to church on Sunday, something more than a Sword we held in the air and waited until someone called a verse and then went digging to be the first to find it. The Bible became literature, a place of story, wars and battles for not only land but body, spirit <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and mind. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The Bible had much to say to me about the Power of Words, not only the words we write but those we speak, and even the words we don’t speak. Words I learned could destroy, break, or build and even change an entire nation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Atomic Bomb had the power to kill, the power to annihilate entire cities and all the people in it, the babies, the elders, the young men and women their dogs and chickens, their vegetable gardens and sky but what good is that? Should that be the goal of power? To leave unspeakable destruction when words can change a life. When words can bring about salvation and redemption, healing and peace, tolerance, understanding and community a future.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">While everything around me was broken, I wanted my words to build and if Mrs. Nichols was correct, this was my calling and I would no matter what, remain true. The thing is, when God gives a gift he doesn’t take it back. For me it was a gift of words and at times the only truth I could hang on to. Words were like tiny life rafts that carried me through many turbulent seas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>PART TWO Tomorrow. <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>

WHy I Love Writers Conferences

Here’s the thing, I will be attending and teaching at the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference in Dallas later this week. I love writer’s conferences for three reasons. Only three? Well, yes, there are more I suppose but there are three that really make it worth the price of admission.
The first reason: Community. I get to see friends, some dear friends I only get to see at conferences because we live in separate states. Well, usually I’m in the state of confusion but you get the idea. It’s great time to hug and catch up on family and career. To compare notes as it were about what’s been happening for the last year. Isn’t it funny how long a year can seem but when it has passed we look back and say, gee that was fast. It is so important for writers to have this time with like-minded people because writing is such a solitary profession. And be honest, no one else understands you. And as much as I like that about my career, even I, the Secretary of Introversion enjoy talking with other writers and editors. I learn so much from these discussions, usually unplanned and often unexpected as folks gather in the hotel lobby or the nearby Starbucks. And I always walk away from these meetings energized and eager to keep writing. Cheerleaders.
The second reason: Classes. I love, love, love to teach. I always enjoy presenting to a class of new and even established writers. I enjoy the interaction the questions, the playful banter—and yes, I will tell the turkey story. I like it when I say something that makes a difference I someone’s writing or career. Not that it’s of me, no, God gets the glory here folks. I just follow His lead and yet I always come away from a class feeling as though I learned so much. Then, if I can I can attend a class taught by a comrade. There is nothing quite like peer learning, if that’s even a way to put it. In any case, it’s nice to hear how the others do it and to know I am not alone when I feel like tossing the laptop out the window. Camaraderie.
The third reason: Career. It is one of the few times I get to sit with my editors, publicists, and my agent face-to-face, not on the phone or via email and chat. Now this is some great conference activity. I enjoy the discussions, the planning of the next novel or the next three novels, the back and forth of these conversations. Career.
So, if you’ll be attending ACFW, come find me, hang out in the lobby with me, visit my class. I’m teaching the Middle Grade track. I’ll be wearing my Chucks.

The $99 Deal of the Season

Here's the thing, H
Here's the thing, it’s September! Yayyy. Time for new beginnings, to clean up your desk, purchase some new pencils and pens and yellow legal pads and replenish your chocolate supply. It’s Autumn, the time when publishers get back to work and editors start reading manuscripts again and decisions are made. In the interest of this most glorious time of year I am offering a deal. A terrific deal.
For just $99 I will read and evaluate your novel synopsis and the first thirty pages of your manuscript. I will evaluate for premise, writing, plot and characterization. You will receive a letter from me along with track changes.
Yep, that’s right, just $99.
Oh and this deal is good for middle grade, YA and adult novels.

If interested please email me and we'll discuss the details. Basically you only need to send me your stuff. Easy peasy.
 

A Variation of Normal

Here’s the thing, my glasses broke the other day and I cannot afford to get them replaced. My prescription is complicated. So until I can afford to get new ones I am walking around with nerd tape on my frames. That’s right, a grown woman with nerd tape. But oh well, what can I do. Sometimes life calls for such measures. But here’s the thing, at least I can still see. I remember when I got my first pair of glasses many, many, many years ago. I walked out of the doctor’s office and I could see leaves on the trees. I was astounded. Those were cows in the meadow not blobs of goo that I was too freaked out about to question. I had no idea that trees had leaves from a distance. I guess I thought everyone saw the way I did. But as I got older my eyes grew progressively worse and I continued to need more and more complicated lenses. One year I went for an exam and the doc gave me the drops and told me to relax as  my pupils dilated. I really hate that part. But anyhoo, he looks in my eyes and gets all alarmed. He says, “You have cupping of the disk.”In my blurred state I looked at him and said, “What?”“Cupping of the disk.” Apparently this is not normal and is symptomatic of glaucoma. So he suggested very strongly that I make an appointment with an ophthalmologist for further evaluation. Now this was freaking me out. All I could think was that I would be blind in a matter of hours. Cupping of the disk? So off I went to the ophthalmologist who performed an exam on my eyeballs that rivaled any known terrorist interrogation tactics. Seriously, the doc put so many chemicals in my eyes that when I left my eyes were green. GREEN! Not the irises but the whites of my eyes had turned green. And not a pleasant hunter green or grass green. Nope. I’m talking toxic waste green. The doc assured me this was temporary and should go away in a few hours. SHOULD? Anyway, the upshot of the whole ordeal is this. After a through examination of my eyeballs and my optic nerves the doctor came to this startling conclusion.“It’s a variation of normal.”I laughed. “What?”She repeated her diagnosis. “A variation of normal. For you. Cupping of the optic disk is normal and nothing to worry about. Come back next year.”Variation of normal. I left. Still laughing because that seemed to sum up my whole life, and my personality. A variation of normal. So now when I say or do something stoopid or some crapful life thing happens I can look myself in the eye and say, “It’s okay. It’s variation of normal.”But aren’t we all? Variations of normal? The trick I suppose is knowing what normal is.

My Maine Event

RebekahHere's the thing, I just got back from Maine where I visited my daughter, Rebekah and her family. I.E. my grandsons! They are so cute I couldn't hardly stand it. My daughter Emily and I traveled by car for over ten hours from PA to ME. It was quite a journey. We had a great time  but I must say the last three hours, when we traveled across Maine was a little . . . boring. Nothing to look at except trees, miles and miles and miles and miles of trees along curving roads that were prone to moose crashes. That's right, moose crashes. So it was kind of gnarly. But we arrived, alive. Tired but alive. I spent a couple of days with my kids. What a joy. An absolute joy to be with them. Rebekah has become a terrific mother, wife and COOK! Oh my gosh can that woman cook. We made it a restful vacation and stayed close to home. We did go into the small town of Rangeley. A lovely little town with quaint shops and cafes, a public library and a small beach on the lake where we watched birds and sea planes take off. Then we saw it--the MOOSE. That's right, I was about a hundred yards from a moose. She was fabulous and hung out just long enough for us to take some snaps and revel in her glorious mooseiness. And I'm pretty sure she was a small one, although her head was about the size of a Volkswagen. She saw us, I'm sure, but she just stood there, hamming it up for the tourists and I'm certain was on her way back to report the crazy car people to her moose girlfriends. "You just won't believe it, Marge, I stood there for like five minutes and those crazy humans were awestruck at my Moosey awesomeness, because you know we really are awesome creatures."
The View New York The View in Maine

After that we went into another town and ate really great grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. But then the day came  Emily and I had to leave. The ride back was not as easy as the ride there. We got to the George Washington Bridge--the ONLY way OUT of New York where we became wedged in a great tightness (to quote Winnie the Pooh) We were smack dab in worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Seriously, those who know me will know that I will travel miles out of my way to avoid traffic. But there was just no other way. We eventually got over the bridge and arrived home, again alive, exhausted but home. I miss my kids so much. Who are you missing?Or what jam are you currently navigating?

Does it Matter?

Here’s the thing, history doesn’t matter to kids these days. Not like when I was growing up and I had it pointed out to me every time history was made. My father would wake us up at three o’clock in the morning to watch a rocket blast off into outer space, because he said, “This is history and I want you to see it.” If I tried to wake my son to watch them land Curiosity on Mars, he would have said, “Yeah, I’ll catch it on You Tube.” Something is missing from the equation. Nothing is quite as important as it once was. We have successfully landed a car on mars. I’m thinking this is a big deal, people. Mars, 155,000,000 miles away from the nearest Seven-Eleven. Do you know how many people have trouble parking a car in the grocery store parking lot, let alone on Mars. And yet, it has been done. Not only is the car roving around on Mars looking for life but it is taking snaps and sending them back to Earth. Funny how it takes twelve hours to get the Olympics results but we get pics from Mars in a few minutes. When I was a girl, history mattered. And speaking of the Olympics, something has lost its luster here also. It seems to me that the Olympics were more special years ago. We all watched. They stood for something more than smashing records and glitz and the science behind the latest Speedo. It’s just not the same anymore. The games were on every TV. During the Winter Games, televisions were brought into our classrooms so we could share in a history-making event. Now a days, it doesn’t seem to matter. Or we will catch it later. Seems to me it’s not much about individual effort as it is about technology and that frightens me. I say we go back to its origins and everyone run naked and swim naked. Now that’s a contest. Bring back the human factor. Little men in suits with starting pistols and stopwatches. Tenths of a millionths of a second don’t interest me. The humanity does. So, I wonder, what exactly is history anymore. Is it being made by scientists with fancy technology they can barely control? Or shouldn’t it be made by people striving to reach a goal—on their own. Now don’t get all upset with me. I like technology. But in my opinion, sports is sports and is only real when it comes down to athlete against athlete not Speedo against Speedo. In this case, I think advancements in science and technology detract more than it adds. Oh, that's a picture of a two-headed turtle at one of my son's favorite animal stores. No one is winning that race either.