Cindy Bonner's Blog, page 3

A Long Long Wait

It has been 22 years since I had a new book launch. I've done a lot of writing during those years. I've had an agent, well, two agents actually, who have worked with me, one I found and one who found me. I've written book reviews, lots of them, for newspapers and for Amazon. I've written a screenplay that's being passed around, and I've kept this blog (granted not as much in recent years) since 2009, but that kind of writing doesn't count much to readers. It's book they want. And it's books I want too. 

At my core, I'm a novelist. I need that long form to create a believable world, and that time to bring characters to life. I will never be a mystery writer, or a horror writer, or anything that requires a heavy plot line. That just isn't my style. It isn't even the kind of books I read. I don't fit easily into a category. My novels are too literary to be genre romance, even though they are romantic. But they're not literary enough to be classified in that category either. They're historical, but not generic historical romance. They don't always had happy endings. Sometimes I like to write from the male point-of-view. A few times, the entire book has come from the male point-of-view. The main thing for me is it has to hold my interest. I figure if I can hold my own interest -- someone so easily distracted by life -- then maybe it will hold a reader's interest, too. 

Anyway, the point of this blog post is, my 22-year drought is about to end. I have a new book, my fifth one, finally coming out in just a few weeks. The official pub date is April 26. Here's the cover art. I have to admit, I'm pretty excited. I'll let you know when you can go buy a copy, because I just know you will want to do that, right? 

I started working on this novel in 2000, made two research trips to England, read a hundred-gazillion books on World War II. I sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire, and watched one fly in an airshow in Duxford where the Americans of the 8th Army Air Corps were stationed. I met the president of the Hurricane Fighter Pilots Association, who showed me all around the south of England to what remained of old airdromes. And I made friends with an American WWII fighter pilot, a real-life one, who flew and fought over the skies of Europe, a generous gentleman who gave me so much material it overwhelmed me. He opened his home to me after a single email, showed me his war chest full of souvenirs like his flight helmet and his bail-out kit, all still intact. We became real friends, phonecalls, lunches, library visits. He lived in San Antonio, it wasn't a far drive for me. I do so wish I could give Jack a copy of this book, but sadly he passed away a few years ago. I know he would recognize some of the good ideas he gave me. Our WWII heros are passing quickly. We have to cherish and honor them. They saved the world. (I believe the world is going to need saving once again. And soon.)

But back to the journey I traveled writing this book. In the middle of it, I got a divorce. My 34-year marriage, when it ended, stopped the writing. And then I met a new man, fell in love at age 54! and that stopped the writing, again. Who has time for writing when you're falling in love, learning about a new person, making trips together to places like to Ireland, and Montana, and Alaska? Oh, and did I mention getting a "day" job, which required, you guessed it, hours and hours on a computer. Last thing I wanted to do when I got home was sit in front of a computer for another few hours. In short, for the past -- let's say 15 years anyway -- I have been living my life, and mostly daydreaming about finishing this book. I even took to calling it The Endless Novel before I heard a line in an old WWII song and the real title finally came to me: 

"It's still the same old story, a fight FOR LOVE AND GLORY, a case of do or die, the world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by...."  

That's all. My big announcement. Next, comes the part I hate -- promotion. But that's a little bit of what this blog is all about, promoting. So I hope I haven't bored you to tears, or seemed too full of myself. It's more relief that it finally got done than beating my own drum. Now, let's see what happens with it. Keep. your fingers crossed for me!

Onward...

The Need for Stories

 I have been told I should get back to blogging, so here goes:

I've been thinking a lot lately about this whole business of reading, writing, yearning for stories and knowledge, and what drives it inside of us. Stories have been around since man came along. Our ancestors told stories through folklore and cave paintings. The need to hear and learn about other people, places, adventures is part of being human and having big brains. Our big brain is what separates us from other creatures on earth. Other animals have the capacity to learn. You can teach your dog to fetch or to do his business outside, but humans are unique in having stories in our brains that we retain, enjoy, repeat. (On another note: I would really love for my Sam-cat to tell me a story. The thought of that gives me a smile.) 

I found this need for story when I was a young child. I loved hearing my grandparents tell about their childhoods, or my parents tell about theirs, hearing Daddy's "war stories." Since I was a baby boomer, those war stories abounded in my childhood. I can't think of a single man in my orbit who had not taken part in some way in World War II, so it was still all around me, and I was curious for the details. 

Before I could read I pestered everybody in my house to read for me. My mother once told me I drove them crazy on car trips asking what every sign we passed said. Back then, people didn't expect children to learn to read before they started to school. I think I was probably ready to learn much earlier, but I didn't come from a scholarly family. They were Depression era, hardworking, public-school educated rule-followers. If the rules were that kids learned to read in first grade, then they weren't going to start any sooner, and kindergarten was something unheard of in my world. 

Two weeks before I started first grade, my mother sat me down to the kitchen table with a piece of paper and a pencil and taught me to write my name. She made me memorize our address and phone number, and the address and phone number of my grandparents, since they lived in the same city and could substitute in an emergency. I learned those lessons so well--TE5-0170 and TU2-6926, respectively--that there are still stamped in my brain, 60-plus years later. 

My first grade teacher, Miss Hopper, sat the class in small circles, handed out our primer, See Spot Run, and we learned slowly how to sound out the simple, LARGE print words on the pages. I adored that part of our classes. As far as I was concerned, I could have sat in that circle for the entire day. I couldn't wait to read that whole book to see what happened. I'm sure it was predictable. I didn't care. 

However, I didn't come from a family of readers. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias and that was about it. Once Daddy went up in the attic and brought down a battered, water-stained children's picture book called Water Babies. He must have known it was up there and climbed up there to find it for me. I read that one book over and over, memorized it backwards and forwards. Mom set me up with a subscription to Highlights for Children. It came once a month, and within a day or two, I had read all the stories, worked all the dot-to-dot puzzles, and colored all the pictures of farm animals, etc. I loved my Highlights! I really think my accountant parents didn't know what to make of this child of theirs with the hunger for books. I'm pretty sure they would have better understand if I had been a math-whiz like they both were, but they did their best for me. The whole family did.

Twice a month, my brother walked me down to the end of the block to the church parking lot where the book mobile stopped. He helped me get my first library card there, and allowed me to check-out three books. He was five years older and thought he knew what was best for me. I thought he knew, too, so I followed his rule, but I was always ready for three more books within a couple of days. 

By third grade, the family was giving me Nancy Drew books every birthday and at Christmas. By the time I outgrew them, I had the whole set. And by the time I was through with all six years at my elementary school, I had read most of the books on the shelves in our tiny library room. By about 5th grade, I started to write my own stories, in a spiral-bound notebook I bought at the drug store. Oh, how I wish I still had all those early writings. Only one has survived--a romanticized version of Ponce De Leon. I was already writing historical fiction, even way back then. 

There is no point to this narrative, other than to come back around to the need people have for story, for the neatness a story gives--beginning, middle, end--to help us make sense of the world we live in, the people we encounter, to escape to places we may never go otherwise, to situations far afield of our own lives. And of course, to learn. The smartest people I know are readers. My dad probably never read an entire book, but he was always reading something, science journals, stock market reports, newspapers and all those magazines he subscribed to. His accountant mind required that he date-stamp the upper right corner of those magazines, and check off the articles in the Table of Contents as he finished them. 

When Dad was in his late 80s he was still learning. We had long backyard conversations over a beer maybe, or a glass of wine, while watching his dogs. We discussed astronomy, foreign wars, foreign places, politics, and the psychology of human nature. Often, he surprised me with his knowledge of current fads and trendy subjects. I remember he watched the entire royal wedding when William married Kate, and talked about it for days afterwards. Another story, understanding the world, and always striving for knowledge. I hope to do the same.

Onward...

Life Without Air-Conditioning

Last night our air-conditioner went out. It's August. Temperatures have been hovering around 97 degrees with 260% humidity. Of course, that's an exaggeration but it doesn't feel like one. We noticed about 9:30 it was getting hot in the house, and when we looked at the thermostat, it read 80 degrees. It was set for 75. By the time we went to bed, it was at 82 degrees and rising.

Lucky for us we installed six ceiling fans in this house when we first bought it. Every one of them was going on high. We thought about opening windows but the humidity ruled that idea out immediately. Instead, we laid on the bed underneath the whirling fan and tried to go to sleep without any cover on us at all. The moon is full right now and the light filtering in made the room glow. Neither of us could settle down enough to drift off, so we started reminiscing, about how neither of us grew up with air-conditioning in our houses. I seriously don't know how we stood it, except we were ignorant of it and unaccustomed to it. 

My childhood bedroom only had a single window, but my bed was shoved right up next to it. With the window open wide, and with the helicopter fan on a chair in the middle of the room, I stayed cool at night. But this was in Corpus Christi, so how could it have been all that cool? I must have been wet with dew every morning from the humidity coming off the Gulf of Mexico, but I don't remember that part. 

Our house was a modest, post-WWII house in a tacky-tacky neighborhood--block after block of houses built from one of three floorplans. My best friend, who lived kitty-cornered from us, had the same house as ours only turned around, a mirror image. For some reason, the architect who designed these houses thought it would be a great idea to put a planter box in between the kitchen and living room as a sort of room divider. I don't know of a single house in the neighborhood who kept that planter box. Daddy filled ours with concrete and mother arranged cushions on it in an attempt to make it into a bench, an uncomfortable one stuck off in an odd corner. For my brother, Ray, and I it became a great stage. Ray, who by age 10 was already an actor in his heart, choreographed complicated dance routines for the two of us. Many of them started with a launch off that concrete former planter box with high-kicks and leaps. It's a wonder we didn't break our necks. 

We had a garage, which made us special. Many of the houses in our neighborhood only had driveways. Daddy and his next-in-line brother, Sid, built the garage together. The only thing they didn't do was pour the concrete foundation. After the mixer truck left, Daddy pressed my right foot into the edge of the cement and wrote the date with his index finger. My 4-year-old footprint must surely still be there.

Our garage was as big as our house. It was a two-car-plus boat garage with a grease pit so Daddy could work on our cars without lying on his back. There was a small shop at one end where he had his table saws. I used to hang out in that shop for hours when he worked. Now, I wish I had learned some of the things he knew, but at that time I just wanted to be wherever he was. He really was good with his hands, had taken classes in work working and mechanics at the local tech college. By profession, he was an accountant, the youngest of five to second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe. All Dad's brothers could build and fix and take care of plumbing and the like. Most of my friends had dads who could do those things, too. It seemed to be something men were born knowing how to do, just like our moms all knew how to cook and sew and clean house. I didn't realize until I was grown that not all men are handy with their hands, just like not all women can wield a skillet or a needle-and-thread.

In the center of our garage, double doors opened onto a crescent shaped patio where we played hours of ping-pong, or sat in the Adirondack chairs Daddy built visiting with neighbors, friends, and family. Out in the yard was a playhouse Daddy also built, for my fifth birthday. It looked exactly like our real house, complete with the same asbestos siding and tan paint. My dog, Gaylie, and I had many tea parties inside that playhouse, although I do remember his tail knocking things off the little shelves built into the wall. I suppose someone since has dismantled the playhouse but it was still there when we moved. By then I was 12 and could barely crawl inside the door.

Back to my bedroom and that noisy, oscillating fan. It was a huge thing, full of oil and dust. It had two speeds--loud blast (and I mean BLAST) and so low it would almost stop oscillating. The blast speed was so forceful I could tie-down the corners of my top sheet and the wind from the fan would lift the sheet like a parachute. Me, my scottie dog stuffed animal named Scottie (how original!) and Lollipop, my purple poodle, would play under that sheet tent until Mom or Dad finally hollered at me to go to sleep. I was never allowed to handle the fan even to turn it off or on. A friend of my parents had a young son who stuck his hand inside the cage of a moving fan and had lost two fingers. 

My mother mostly lived in fear that my brother or I would do permanent damage to our bodies. There was a entire list of things we were not allowed to ever do, including climbing trees, horseback riding, and roller skating. Of course, we did all three of those things whenever the opportunity arose. I recall being really high up a backyard tree one day when Mother came home early from work. I stayed still and quiet, heart pounding. She didn't even notice Gaylie (who normally mauled anybody who came into the backyard with lots of hello hugs and kisses) sitting patiently at the base of the tree staring up at me in the limbs. As soon as Mom stepped inside the back door, I clambered down, much to Gaylie's delight. He was so happy to have me back on earth, he tore around the backyard in big wide zoomies.

We weren't poor but we weren't rich either. Since Mother worked (back then most mom's didn't) we had enough to go out to eat on Friday nights. We rotated between Piccadilly Cafeteria, Taco Village, Angelo's Pizza, and Whataburger. Occasionally, we got to go to Chung May's. It was a high-end (for the times and the place) linen-tablecloth Chinese food restaurant. Back then, we knew nothing about Chinese food so we always order the Cantonese Surprise Dinner for Four. It varied from trip to trip, but it was alway served in multiple courses with hot tea in a precious tiny porcelain pot. We felt fancy when we ate there. I always picked Chung May's for my birthday night dinner. Later, when I was in high school, one of the boys from the Asian family who owned Chung May's was our drum major. Since I was a majorette, I got to know him pretty well and had a big-time crush on him. All these years later, Chinese food is still my favorite, just a tad above Mexican and Pizza. Hmm. I guess we are what we come from after all.

Well, the air-conditioning man has just pulled up to the curb, thank God! Memories of days without a/c are fun but I'm glad they're just memories. I would rather belong to the good-old days of NOW with cold air blowing in every room.

Onward!

LAST 30 THINGS TO STOP DOING (con't)

 As promised, here are the last of the 30 things on my mother's list, hidden away in her personal things. (See the last two posts for a better explanation.) These are some of the best ones:

21) STOP DOING THE SAME THING OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITHOUT TAKING A BREAK. - The time to take a deep breath is when you don't have time for it. If you keep doing what you're doing, you'll keep getting what you're getting. Sometimes you need to distance yourself to see things clearly.

22) STOP OVERLOOKING THE BEAUTY OF SMALL MOMENTS. - Enjoy the little things, because one day you may look back and discover they were the big things. The best portion of your life will be the small, nameless moments you spend smiling with someone who matters to you. 

23) STOP TRYING TO MAKE THINGS PERFECT. - The real world doesn't reward perfectionists, it rewards people who get things done.

24) STOP FOLLOWING THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE. - Life is not easy, especially when you plan on achieving something worthwhile. Don't take the easy way out. Do something extraordinary.

25) STOP ACTING LIKE EVERYTHING IS FINE WHEN IT ISN'T. - It's OK to fall apart for a little while. You don't always have to pretend to be strong, and there is no need to constantly prove that everything is going well. You shouldn't be concerned with what other people are thinking either -- cry if you need to -- it's healthy to shed your tears. The sooner you do, the sooner you will be able to smile again.

26) STOP BLAMING OTHERS FOR YOUR TROUBLES. - The extent to which you can achieve your dreams depends on the extent to which you take responsibility for your life. When you blame others for what you're going through, you deny responsibility -- you give others power over that part of your life.

27) STOP TRYING TO BE EVERYTHING TO EVERYONE. - Doing so is impossible, and trying will only burn you out. But making one person smile CAN change the world. Maybe not the whole world, but their world, and yours. So narrow your focus.

28) STOP WORRYING SO MUCH. - Worry will not strip tomorrow of its burdens, it will strip today of its joy. One way to check if something is worth mulling over is to ask yourself this question: "Will this matter in one year's time? Three years? Five years?" If not, then it's not worth worrying about now.

29) STOP FOCUSING ON WHAT YOU DON'T WANT TO HAPPEN. - Focus on what you do want to happen. Positive thinking is at the forefront of every great success story. If you awake every morning with the thought that something wonderful will happen in your life today, and if you pay close enough attention, you'll often find you're right.

30) STOP BEING UNGRATEFUL. - No matter how good or bad you have it, wake up each day thankful for your life. Someone somewhere else is desperately fighting for theirs. Instead of thinking about what you're missing, try thinking about you have that someone else might be missing, and be grateful for it.

I think Mother would be happy that I have shared her list. As I said at the beginning, I don't know who gave it to her, who wrote it, maybe she did but I doubt it. They see more like things she aspired to herself. Some items on the list seem like they are meant for me, personally. I can't imagine that they were, but I'm glad I found the list. It's special and it means something to me. I hope anyone reading it feels the same way.

Life is so short. It goes by in a flash. I have fond memories of certain things that seem just yesterday. It floors me when I realize decades have passed since that memory happened. We need to find ways to linger in the moment. That has been especially true this last year when our world's have all shrunk to our homes, gardens and immediate surroundings.

Love your life. Enjoy the days and nights. Get your vaccine as soon as you can. I can't wait to see you!

Onward....

30 THINGS TO STOP DOING, con't

Yesterday, I explained what this is (apparently they were my mother's goals) and I set down the first 10 on the list. Today is the next 10. It seems to me that the list will mean different things to different people. Could be work-related, could be friend-related, and could be relationship-related. I wish I knew which ones meant the most to my mother. I can guess, but who truly knows another person, especially your parents? Anyway, for what it's worth, here goes:

11) STOP BEING IDLE - Don't think too much or you'll create a problem that wasn't even there in the first place. Evaluate situations and take decisive action. You cannot change what you refuse to confront. Making progress involves risk. Period! You can't make it to second base with your foot still on first. 

12) STOP THINKING YOU'RE NOT READY - Nobody ever feels 100% ready when an opportunity arises. Because most great opportunities in life force us to grow beyond our comfort zones, which means we won't feel totally comfortable at first. 

13) STOP GETTING INVOLVED IN RELATIONSHIPS FOR THE WRONG REASONS - Relationships must be chosen wisely. It's better to be alone than to be in bad company. There's no need to rush. If something is meant to be, it will happen -- in the right time, with the right person, and for the best reasons.

14) STOP REJECTING NEW RELATIONSHIPS JUST BECAUSE OLD ONES DIDN'T WORK. - In life you'll realize that there is a purpose for everyone you meet. Some will test you, some will use you, and some will teach you. But most importantly, some will bring out the best in you. 

15) STOP TRYING TO COMPETE AGAINST EVERYONE ELSE. - Don't worry about others doing better than you. Concentrate on beating your own records every day. Success is a battle between YOU and YOURSELF only.

16) STOP BEING JEALOUS OF OTHERS. - Jealousy is the art of counting someone else's blessings instead of your own. Ask yourself this: "What's something I have that everyone wants?" And when you find the answer, be grateful and count that as an asset. 

17) STOP COMPLAINING AND FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF. - Life's curveballs are thrown for a reason - to shift your path in a direction that is meant for you. You may not see or understand everything the moment is happens, and it may be rough. But reflect back on those negative curveballs thrown at you in the past. Often, you'll see that eventually they led you to a better place, person, state of mind, or situation. So smile! Let everyone know that today you are a lot stronger than you were yesterday, and you will be. 

18) STOP HOLDING GRUDGES. - Don't live your life with hate in your heart. You will end up hurting yourself more than the people you hate. Forgiveness is not saying, "What you did to me is OK." It is saying, "I'm not going to let what you did to me ruin my happiness." Forgiveness is the answer ... let go, find peace, liberate yourself by forgiving! And remember, forgiveness is not just for other people, it's for you too. If you must, forgive yourself, move on, and try to do better next time.

19) STOP LETTING OTHERS BRING YOU DOWN TO THEIR LEVEL. - Refuse to lower your standards to accommodate those who refuse to raise theirs.

20) STOP WASTING TIME EXPLAINING YOURSELF TO OTHERS. - Your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe it anyway. Just do what you know in your heart is the right thing for any given situation.

Mother as a bride. She was oh-so young, just barely 16. I think she missed out on a lot by not waiting until she was older. That may have been part of her struggle. To me, this list, even with all its wisdom, informs me a little more of the things she struggled with. She was not always an easy person, but I think she strived hard to be easier, maybe more tolerant. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to the many clashes she and I had through the years. Still, I have missed her, and I wonder if now that I'm an old woman, she and I would have been more sympatico.  

30 Things to Stop Doing

Since this is my first post in the new year, I want to share something I found. This typewritten list was in and among some of the papers my mother kept in a storage bin. I have been trying to focus on going through all of these things my parents left behind, but it's not an easy task. I keep getting sidetracked,  sitting in the garage and reading things like with this. I don't know who wrote these 30 things, but there's some good advice in here. I'll share 10 today, 10 tomorrow, and the final 10 after that. Mother had a soft-spot for profound advice, even though she had trouble, like we all do, following those lodestars. I found some of the thoughts in this list to be poignant and personal and ideas I continue to strive towards. Hope you get something out of it, too. Here goes:

1) STOP SPENDING TIME WITH THE WRONG PEOPLE. - Life is too short to spend time with people who suck the happiness out of you. If someone wants you in their life, they'll make room for you. You shouldn't have to fight for a spot. Never, ever push yourself on someone who continuously overlooks your work. And remember, it's not the people that stand by your side when you're at your best, but the ones who stand beside you when you're at your worst who are your true friends.

2)  STOP RUNNING FROM YOUR PROBLEMS. - Face them head on. No, it won't be easy. There is no person in the world capable of flawlessly handling every punch thrown at them. We aren't supposed to be able to instantly solve problems. That's not how we're made. In fact, we're made to get upset, sad, hurt, stumble, and fall. Because that's the whole purpose of living - to face problems, learn, adapt, and solve them over the course of time. That is what ultimately molds us into the person we become.

3) STOP LYING TO YOURSELF. - You can lie to anyone else in the world, but your can't lie to yourself. Our lives improve only when we take chances, and the first and most difficult change we can take is to be honest with ourselves. 

4) STOP PUTTING YOUR OWN NEEDS ON THE BACK BURNER. - The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too. Yes, help others; but help yourself too. If there was ever a moment to follow your passion and do something that matters to you, that moment is now.

5) STOP TRYING TO BE SOMEONE YOU'RE NOT. - One of the greatest challenges in life is being yourself in a world that's trying to make you like everyone else. Someone will always be prettier, someone will always be smarter, someone will always be younger, but they will never be you. Don't change so people will like you. Be yourself and the right people will love the real you.

6) STOP TRYING TO HOLD ONTO THE PAST. - You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading your last one.

7) STOP BEING SCARED TO MAKE A MISTAKE. - Doing something and getting it wrong is at least ten times more productive than doing nothing. Every success has a trail of failures behind it, and every failure is leading towards success. You end up regretting the things you did NOT do far more than the things you did. 

8) STOP BERATING YOURSELF FOR OLD MISTAKES. - We may love the wrong person and cry about the wrong things, but no matter how things go wrong, one thing is for sure, mistakes help us find the person and things that are right for us. We all make mistakes, have struggles, and even regret things in our past. But you are not your mistakes, you are not your struggles, and you are here NOW with the power to shape your day and your future. Every single thing that has ever happened in your life is preparing you for a moment that is yet to come. 

9) STOP TRYING TO BUY HAPPINESS. - Many of the things we desire are expensive. But the truth is, the things that really satisfy us are totally free -- love, laugher, and working on our passions.

10) STOP EXCLUSIVELY LOOKING TO OTHERS FOR HAPPINESS. - If you're not happy with who you are on the inside, you won't be happy in a long-term relationship with anyone else either. You have to create stability in your own life first before you can share it with someone else. 

Here's Mom when she had bouffant hair. I love this one because she's laughing. Hard to believe she has been gone 26 years!

A Pandemic, a Screenplay, and Endless 2020

I haven't been here for a while. I don't know if it's because I didn't want to immortalize the year 2020 since it surely has to rank among the worst in living memory. I was about to sit down an blog about the headstone I got for a baby that died in 1928 and who has rested in an unmarked grave since then, but before I could get my thoughts down -- wham! The coronavirus pandemic was upon us and everyone's attention was taken by IT. We have missed an important wedding, three funerals, two planned trips, one of them to Europe, and many many other moments we can never get back. But I know everybody else has had those same experiences so I won't dwell on it. Except to say, I realize how lucky I am, with a house in a quiet small town, and another one where I can go write, and not having to worry about a job loss or any of the other catastrophes others have had to endure. I am not going hungry. 

The time has reminded me, oddly, of when I was a child. We didn't go places all the time like people do now. We pretty much kept to our daily routine, and even on the weekends, we often spent a lot more time at home than we did in the car or recreating. In fact, recreation wasn't even a word in my vocabulary when I was a child. I do remember wishing to "go somewhere" and jumped at the chance to accompany either one of my parents on mundane errands if they would allow me to tag along. Often they didn't. We just stayed at home. A lot. But that was back when we had neighborhoods full of kids who played in the streets or in each other's yard, and we didn't have air-conditioned homes, or internet, or any of those things that seem to keep children inside their houses now. We played hard. Sun-up to sun-down. Mother would turn on the porch light when it was time for us to come home. And we usually stayed out a while even after we saw it burning. She might scold us a little bit, but not much. We lived in a safe neighborhood. We didn't even lock our doors way back then.

I do lock mine, now, but my house is my sanctuary, and with all this time on my hands, what better way to fill it than to dig back into writing. Oh, don't think I mentioned it but at the end of 2019 I got a new agent. She went to a lot of trouble to find me! What a switch. I enjoy talking to her, she gets my work, and is enthusiastic. What a delight it is just to have that much after other agents I've had through the years. She's trying to sell a novel, and she has some other ideas, too. Keep your fingers crossed for me. I need a lot of good wishes.

I've done a good bit of reading through the last few months. Haven't had to actually buy many books since my shelves are loaded with books that have been waiting for me to get around to. Hope I can one day read them all, although I may not live long enough for that. I had two books on Horton Foote sitting side-by-side on my shelf. I had forgotten about them. "The Trip to Bountiful" has always been one of my favorites plays and I love the movie with Geraldine Page, too. Reading those two books made me want to write a screenplay. Several years ago I made a stab at it, bought some screenwriting software, and so I updated the software for my newish laptop, and started in on it again. And guess what? I wrote a screenplay. All the way through. From beginning to end. Six times!

It's an adaptation of one of my own novels (the third one), and I was thoroughly engrossed in it from the moment I started. I got lots of help from my agent and just generally had a ball. I changed the ending, deleted characters, streamlined dialogue, and got the thing down from the original 145-page script to a decent 117 pages and I'm (more or less) happy with it. I don't know if anything will come of it, but my agent has it and she will decide if it has merit enough to submit somewhere. The main thing, for me, is it got my writing juices flowing and I'm anxious to get onto the next project. I've got about three of them rattling around in my head, and we shall see which one takes hold. 

So I guess for me there has been an upside to this terrible pandemic, although it has more to do with forced isolation than anything. I hope the medical scientists can get this thing licked pretty soon. We've lost far too many people in this country and over the world, and far too many have suffered. There are just a couple more months left of this endless, awful year, and good riddance to it. I urge anyone who might be reading this to wear your mask, maintain social distance, and stay safe and well. Until next time --

Onward... 

Gardening Dilemma

This year I have decided to skip planting a vegetable garden. By this time, mid-February, I would normally be moving my seedlings out of the back bedroom, where they have been under a grow light since December, and into the greenhouse in the back yard. But the garden was so bountiful last year, all the way into late October, that I am weary from harvesting, watering, fertilizing, and then trying to find a home for my overage. I gave so many peppers away last year, my neighbors began to ran inside when they saw me coming with a grocery sack in my hands. I still have frozen tomatoes in the freezer, Ziplocks full of frozen chopped peppers, and jars of canned peppers and salsa in the pantry. Last year, so many of my seedlings made plants that I took the extras to the feed store. The owner sold them in all within a week and gave me free bird seed and fertilizer in exchange. So this year, I need a break. However, it's kind of bothering me.

In six more weeks, we will be gone on our long-anticipated river cruise up the Danube. I don't want to leave a ready-to-harvest garden for the pet-sitter. And it will be one less thing for me to worry over on our vacation. Instead of wondering if there's been rain or if the weather has turned off hot, or if the auto watering system is still functioning, I can walk the streets of Vienna carefree. Last year while we were in Italy we had some of the hottest weather of the summer in Texas. It was over 100 several days, and when that happens, our west-facing backyard becomes a sauna. I think I can survive one year without a garden.

Besides, the garden also puts a damper on us heading down to the coast house whenever we want. Usually I feel compelled to rush back home after two or three days to check on the garden, to make sure some bug infestation hasn't begun, or that the wind hasn't blown over, or some other disaster hasn't befallen my plants. A garden can really be a pain in the neck to maintain.

But what fun to watch okra seeds sprout and push through the soil, or to spray each delicate tomato blossom in the quiet, dewy morning to help set fruit, and coming inside with a basket full of beans, peas, okra, peppers, and tomatoes really gives my mood a lift. We hardly need any store-bought vegetables when my garden is coming in. Does anything taste better than really fresh vegetables you picked just that morning.

Inevitably, though, no matter how few plants you grow, there comes a time when the harvest overpowers you, when two people cannot possibly eat all the bounty, and there you go, bagging up your overage, trying to find someone willing to do the clean-up required on homegrown produce. Maybe the first time or two, they're appreciative, but all my neighbors are just like us, couples with no kids. We have one bachelor who lives behind us. He never wants more than a handful of any one thing, and by the time I'm in give-away mode I want to get rid of sacks full.

Weeds are growing in my garden, big tall thistles that seem to be Round-up resistant. I pulled up a few this morning, and had to control the urge to toss in a handful of beans seeds. While I was weeding, I found an overlooked onion from the Fall and brought that inside to wash. I have some seed onions left from last year still. Onions are all but bulletproof. I could maybe just stick a few of them in the garden and forget them -- they will grow despite neglect.

It's going to be hard on me not to have a garden this year. I can tell already. I'm already wondering which boring tomato varieties the local garden center will have this year -- nothing like the heirloom varieties I nurse along on my heat mats in the back bedroom. It would be a last resort to buy plants from the garden center, but I might not be able to stand the gloom of looking out onto an empty garden all spring and summer. It's just the 21st of February. Maybe it's not too late!!!



Onward....

Pet Love & the Contract With Sorrow

Today I’m thinking about pets. I probably should be focusing on the promise of 2019 - the garden I’ll probably plant in a few weeks, the trip up the Danube in April, or the cataract surgery my darling will have in two days. But instead I’m thinking about pets.


It started this morning when I was in the doctor’s exam room waiting for her to finally show. They had a new calendar on the wall with beautiful pictures of farm animals. I was bored, had forgotten to bring a book. The March photo was of a border collie with intelligent, brown, soulful eyes that reminded me of Lulu, the part border/part shepherd rescue dog that stole my heart eleven years ago. We lost her last year and I miss her still. Lymphoma -- the scourge of well-loved, well-cared-for animals these days. My eyes were teary when the doctor came in, so I had to explain about the dog in the calendar, the one that looked a lot like Lulu.

In my life I have had many pets: nine dogs, five cats, a myriad of aquarium fish, a few turtles, and because of my children, a handful of hamsters and one cottontail that my boys saved from the jaws of another special dog, Little Missy Prissy Rae.


Missy was a hunting dog, the only purebred, registered animal I ever owned. She was sweet-tempered, had a “smart knot” on her head, and so fearless and focused when she got the scent of prey, mostly poor helpless things like tiny cottontails or frogs. She was affectionate, devoted, all the things a family dog should be. We loved her and cared for her -- well, I did that more than the rest. She and I had a special bond. It was me who had to make the decision to end her pain, when she began to develop tumors and stopped eating. I cried so hard I could barely write the check to the vet. When that canceled check came back in the bank statement, there were big tear blots that nearly obliterated my signature. Missy was a month shy of her 12th birthday. I still have her AKC certificate in my keepsake box.


And then there was Trouser, the cat who came into my life a decade later. He was my special pet, the one who loved me best and only. When I discovered him in the backyard, mewing and howling, he was a tiny, single handful of gray and white fluff, struggling, I believe, to find me, too. We became best friends, and went through a lot together: My halcyon days of living the writer’s life, on the road all the time, out promoting books, leaving behind my sweet Trouser to wait patiently for my return. He helped me survive my divorce, which nearly flattened me. Once when I was grieving for my lost 34-year marriage, my wasted years as I saw them then, Trouser came over to me and bit me gently on the leg - as if to say, “That’s enough of that nonsense. Get it together, you are embarrassing yourself.” So I laughed, dried my tears, and we soldiered on together.


Trouser and Lulu never loved each other. Once they saw the other one wasn’t leaving, they learned to live together in peace. Lulu had come with a tall man, and Trouser wasn’t happy with her attempts to pull me away. But he ended up liking the tall man well enough, and so we became a family - Wayne and Lulu, me and Trouser.


Shortly before his fourteenth birthday, Trouser got sick. Really sick. I hurried him to the vet’s office where he was diagnosed with lymphoma -- that scourge. The vet thought he probably wouldn’t make it two weeks. But our vet had a kind heart (what vet doesn’t?) and she described a treatment we could try. We tried it. And by golly it worked. In a couple of days he was chasing lizards again. And it lasted awhile, too, before it stopped working...and we were back in the vet’s office, and she was giving Trouser another treatment. And wow! he perked up again, just like the first time -- and then he slid back down again, a little sooner than before. And we carried on with this seesaw for another five months.


Then on September 25th, 2011 -- a Sunday so as usual he and I were watching MASTERPIECE THEATER in the bedroom together -- I was holding him on my shoulder, flat against my chest, and I looked into his sad tired eyes, saw his misery, and asked myself who I was keeping him alive for -- him or me? I knew the answer and what I had to do. The vet had told me I would know when it was time. She was right. We spent a last long night together, with me holding him limp and thin in my arms.


The next morning, September 26th, we took Trouser one final time to the vet. She agreed he was exhausted, would not get better again, and administered the power shot as I held him. It broke my heart. Someone wiser than I once wrote that we make a contract with sorrow when we bring a pet into our lives. Truer words were never written. I had him for 14 years, but it wasn’t long enough. It’s never long enough.


This would not be the only tragedy to come on that day. It was the same day Wayne’s only child died. His son. Forty-two years old. The aching sorrow of losing my pet, and the grief I felt in my sore heart, had to be put on hold. There were people who needed me to be strong for them, and so I shed a few little tears for my cat, then tended to the humans who needed me that day, and the days and weeks and months that followed.


In late December of that same year, I was alone one night with just Lulu for company, and my floodgates finally opened. I keened and sobbed for what seemed like hours, for my cat whom I had so dearly loved and so dearly missed. He had left an aching hollow in my heart. After a while, Lulu rose from her bed by the fireplace, came to me, and laid her head on my knee. She looked up at me with her chocolate eyes, and I got down on the floor. I told her I needed a hug and taught her how to do it. She wasn’t thrilled at first, probably thought I was trying to hold her down, but she had so much trust in me and before long, we were hugging in earnest. I really needed all the big black dog hugs she gave me,from that night forward.


I have a couple of friends who have just lost beloved pets. One a dog; the other, a cat.  I suppose that’s what has me thinking about all this today, after reading their sorrow-laden Facebook posts. I don’t know what it is about the love and loss we feel for these special friends, these family members that become so much a part of our mix. It must be the unconditional love they give so freely. Wayne likes to tell a joke that goes something like - "Lock your dog and your wife in the trunk of your car for 15 minutes. Then open it and see which one is happy to see you.” THAT is unconditional love.


When Lulu was 15 we got another cat. I had waited for four years after Trouser, and probably still wouldn’t have him if he hadn’t shown up one morning at the place where I worked, a frightened orange kitten. Anyway, he’s ours now -- Mr. Sam. He is unlike any of my other special fur babies, but he brings us so much joy and we are both glad he’s here. We’re older now, not as eager to get down on the floor to play (not nearly as much as he wants us to) for fear we might not get back up! I don’t look as Sam as a replacement pet -- I tried that once and it ended badly -- but I’m sure glad we had Sam when Lulu made her last trip to the vet, four days past her 17th birthday. I believe she lived so long due in part to the TLC she got but mostly because of her great big happy heart. Afterwards, Sam searched the house for her, slept in her bed, smelled all her of her favorite spots. He still drinks from her water bowl. He loved her almost as much as we did.


Sam makes us laugh with all his silly antics, and although he isn’t yet as lovey-dovey as I am trying to make him, he’s getting there. So, no, he’s not a replacement pet. He is so completely different, but I wouldn’t trade him. As big of a pain as pets are -- with worrying over their health, or who will pet-sit when you have to leave,  or the hassle of taking them with you, and just all the other bother that comes along with them -- being without a pet, for me...well, that is just not an option.


Onward....<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @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;} /* 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;} @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;}

A Year of Big Loss

I have had several years that just seem to be filled with loss. When I say "loss" what I mean is losing people I have loved in my life. The first person I lost, the first one whose loss I felt deeply, was my grandmother. She died in 1988. In the grand scheme, I guess I was lucky that the first real loss I felt occurred when I was 35. Grandmother had lost a baby at Christmas back in 1928 when she was just 17. The baby was only 5 weeks old. What a tragic loss that surely was, and in fact, Grandmother grieved for that baby all her life, never liked Christmas much because of the memories that came back to her during the holiday. It was appropriate then, I suppose, that Grandmother died on Christmas Eve. 

The next loss was when my grandfather died in 1991. We were scheduled to have lunch the next day. I really hate that I missed having that lunch with him. We'd had a few before that, and I had begun to feel like I was really getting to know my Pop on a one-to-one, adult level. He is missed.

And then came 1995, the first big loss year. I lost my mother that year, but also an uncle and an aunt, and a friend so close and dear to our family that it felt like another uncle. And then there was a long reprieve, before 2011, a tragic year with the loss of Wayne's best friend and two days later his son and only child. It was a year of bereavement that lasted well into 2012 and beyond. In fact, losses like that leave you changed, with a piece of yourself forever broken. But as Hemingway says, The world breaks everyone but afterwards many are stronger in the broken places. --Or something like that. It's not an exact quote.

My dad died in 2013. Yes, he was going on 89 and had lived a long, and mostly healthy, life. He had traveled widely and always kept a mind that was open and honest. I lost my guiding star when he died, and it took me many months to be able to wake in the morning without that crushing loss pressing on my chest. I still miss him, and not a days goes by that something doesn't happen that I want to share with him. In fact, after his funeral, when we were driving from Corpus Christi back to Yoakum, I kept thinking how when we got there I would have to call him to bring him up to date on how all the family members and friends we had seen that day were faring. It was something I always did after a gathering that he missed. He would have loved to have known that some of the people we had for so long in our lives were there to honor him. I can't believe that's been nearly six years ago.

And now I come to 2018. Another year of big loss. Mother always used to say that death comes in threes. Sometimes it comes even more than that, but I'm going to hold her to that rule of three because this year we have already lost three and that's enough. First my brother, Ray, another casualty of cancer, the scourge of our time. It's haunting to watch a death from cancer. Both Mother and Ray struggled to the end. Nothing peaceful about it. I was left with nightmares again that lasted into the summer. And Ray was too young, just 69, only a few years older than Mother.

And then Wayne's mother, Loraine, died. She was 95, another long life, but still missed, most especially for how she was before she began to deteriorate. She always reminded me of Mother, neither of them had a good filter and often let their mouths overload. They were both feisty and funny when they didn't mean to be.

Finally, at the end of last month my uncle, Ron, died, another gone too young at 74. Ron was part of my childhood. He took my dear sweet youngest aunt away from me, or so I thought at the time. They made me the flowergirl at their wedding, to ease the transition a little, I think. Ron seemed to accept that I, along with my brother, just came with the deal. We were always hanging out at their apartment on campus at UCC. We used to swim at the big pool there. And there are many many more memories, almost all of them fun memories. Funerals have become family reunions, a place where you get to see all those old friends and relatives who have played such an important role in your life. It's good to catch-up, to reminiscence. Seems that there is usually lots of laughter after a funeral, and the aftermath of Ron's memorial was no different. The only thing missing was Ron, with his big hugs and hello, his corny jokes, and stories about something he had just read or learned. He and I shared a love for reading history, and we often compared notes and traded books. I will miss that.

I guess the thing we all have to do--and it's so hard to remember--is to each and every day appreciate and cherish those we hold dear. I know that sounds like an old cliche, but boy-hidy, life really is short. It's no kidding about smelling those roses. We have to do that, and to be grateful for the people we have in our lives and the times we get to share with them. It truly feels just like yesterday I was that flowergirl in my aunt's wedding, or that I was bringing my newborn sons home from the hospital, or trying so hard to write a book that might get published, or meeting my darling Wayne for that first date at Olive Garden, or starting this blog, for that matter. Times, they do fly!

Onward...