Deborah A. Jaeger's Blog, page 2

Special Occasion...

I remember how proud momma was when she finally had her new china. Her sister had the same set with a different border...pure white with silver was mom's, pure white with gold was Aunt Noreen's. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas the dishes would come out of the box (we never had a dining room, much less a china cabinet) and she would beam as she set the table. The ordinary, suddenly becoming the extraordinary.

These dishes would only make their appearance on holidays, and special occasions, like the neighborhood birthday club, where her friends would gather once a month, at each others homes, and celebrate the birthday girls of that particular month. Once a year it would be held at our house. Giggling and gossiping into the evening. Over the perfect (or maybe not so perfect) pineapple upside down cake. We do the same thing today, but my friends meet at a restaurant, and there is usually wine involved.

"Careful, careful." Momma stood poised, waiting to rescue us, should we fumble.

She supervised closely as my sister Sherry and I set those precious plates gingerly on the tablecloth. And after the meal, after we cleared the table, the six of us, sisters, mom and grandma (and later sisters-in-law were added to the mix) would spend hours cleaning up the kitchen. I still feel the hot sudsy water on my hands, and the weight of a sodden dish towel as we wiped dry, what seemed at the time, to be thousands of dinnerplates, salad bowls, bread plates, dessert plates, sweet little china cups and the saucers that went with them. They rest in my china cabinet today. Waiting.

And after the holiday was over, I remember mom sighing as she wrapped each precious cup in white paper, and placed it carefully back into the carton, reluctant to let it go until the next special time, the next special occasion. Back to the melamine for everyday use. Back to the ordinary.

"What are you doing?" My husband stands in the kitchen doorway on Saturday afternoon.

"I'm making a sandwich, do you want one?" I turn to look at him, strawberry jam dripping from the knife.

"Uh, no. That's okay. I'm not in the mood for PB & J ."

"Well, what are you in the mood for?"

"I don't know. Got anything special in there?" He bends to rummage through the refrigerator, like a t-bone steak is going to suddenly materialize.

And just like that it hits me. Special. Why do we deny ourselves the simple things that bring us joy. Why do we pack them up and put them away instead of savoring them, every day, every moment of our lives? While we can. While we have the chance.

I was cleaning out my closet recently, and I came across a blouse that I bought a few years ago. Loaded with rhinestones, it was beautiful, the way it draped just so. And I remember that when I purchased it, I thought it would be a lovely piece to have on hand for the holidays. Something very special. I really loved that blouse. It made me feel beautiful. So when the husband and I were  invited to a Holiday Party this year, I immediately thought of that lovely garment, hanging longingly in my closet, draped in plastic...a lady in waiting. Like me.

"Honey, can you zip me up?"

"Nashville, we have a problem."

"Very funny. What do you mean we have a problem? Did you get the zipper caught in the chiffon...  BE CAREFUL or you'll tear it."

"Um, I don't think so. I think if I try to get the zipper up any further I might tear it. The sides don't come together...what size is this?"

It seems that the Debbie that stood in the dressing room two years ago, was a little smaller than the Debbie who was getting ready for this party. And in the waiting, in the anticipation, life was going on...plus, obviously, a few too many appetizers. All this time, fantasizing about the perfect moment, and I was never able to enjoy that beautiful top.

I realize now, that so many of the things that I have been waiting for over the years, have come and gone, and that something has been forever lost in the waiting. That we should all enjoy every minute, every second, while we can. Don't save the good china! So what if you break a few pieces. Enjoy it now. Today.

So, this year, after Christmas, I never put away my favorite holiday mugs. And if you stop by for a cup of coffee, you will be served in a mug decorated with fir trees and reindeer, in red and green and gold. In July. And we may not have a t-bone steak waiting in the fridge, but, I promise you, that peanut butter and jelly sandwich tastes mighty fine on momma's good china.

This becomes my new resolution, a promise to myself. Do not save it...savor it. Enjoy it. Now. Today. Everything. Everyday is special. Throw caution to the wind. Be here..be with me now. In the moment.

And if you see me at the grocery store...no, you are not seeing things. I will be the one in rhinestones and house-slippers, somewhere in the aisle between jelly and jam. Today is special. Because it is.

Until next time,
Debbie

Well, Hello There...

  For me, it's the bluebird. My reminder that spring is on the way, that I am being guided by a power greater than any here on earth, that hope springs eternal. My own personal signal from above that my prayers have been heard (maybe not always answered in the way I would like them to be...but definitely heard.)

"Please send me a sign...guide me." It seems that I am always asking God for reassurance.

I love bluebirds. Their vibrant blue foliage, their sweet warbly notes. Lloyd built a bluebird house in the yard one spring for my birthday. We thought it might be too late in the year for them to nest, but I was content to think that maybe the following year they would come and call our yard their home. So out came the ladder, a trip to Home Depot for the twelve foot post that would later be sunk three feet into the ground, and the wood to build the little house.

I stood at the window in front of the desk where I write every day and, from there, guided his placement of the fresh, green wood. I wanted to be able to look up from my desk and see the it, and hopefully the inhabitants, as I worked.

I knocked on the glass, trying to catch my very patient husband's attention.

"A little to the left..." (did I mention this awkward 4 x 4 post was 12 feet long and heavy?)

I knocked again.

"No, I meant my left."

One more time I knocked on the window (and looking up,  he gave me his "what now?" look).

"Back up a just little bit...perfect!"

And so it came to be, that a little over an hour later, the hole was dug and the pole placed and the birdhouse attached. Lloyd began to gather his tools and hoisted the ladder to his shoulder, taking most of his gear back to the garage in the first trip. I finally left my daydreams, and my perch by the window, and went out to the patio to sweep and enjoy the warm spring air.

Coming around the corner of the house, Lloyd spotted me on the porch.

"All I have left to do is grab my level. How about some lunch?"

"Okay, I'm almost finished here...oh my God, Lloyd, look!"

As my husband turned to look into the yard, he reached for my hand. We both stared in amazement at the new little house, sitting high upon the post, less than ten minutes finished, the level still leaning against its base. Sitting on the roof was a sweet and very blue young couple, taking turns inspecting the interior, already staking their claim, moving in, ready to build a nest, raise a family. My bluebirds.

And I cried. Because I had prayed for a sign that morning, and I choose to believe that God heard me, is always there for me, for all of us, sending a nudge when we need it, letting us know that he sits on the roof, and is still raising us, his family. We only need to know that. To believe. 

When I was a little girl, I cherished the time spent with Grandma Edith. In her sitting room, she had a table that held books in each side, and I remember curling up in the corner of her sofa as soon as I was old enough to  read. Two of those books books I remember to this day. One was Art Linkletter's "Kid's say the Darndest Things" and the other was a slim volume called "Yellow Butterflies" written by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews in 1922. It was about the dedication of the tomb of the unknown soldier. I will never forget the story, or the way it affected me. At seven years old. (It is available on Amazon as a reprint.) I can't give away the story, but I can say that my understanding that God really does send us signs, began there, with her words.

Every year at Thanksgiving, we put a Christmas star on that bluebird house. It is the only light out back, shining brightly against the backdrop of the woods, a beacon in the cold, black night. It serves as a reminder to us that we are never alone. That God is always there, everywhere, around us, showering us in unconditional love. We have much to be thankful for. And we pay homage to him.
I know that the snow will melt and spring will come. If you ask, and if you notice, even in the darkest of days, there are signs all around that we are being watched over, taken care of. Of that you can be sure. And if you see a bluebird (or a butterfly or a... well...your very own reminder) along the way, smile and accept it. Believe it. Embrace it. Conversations with God are never one way. He always answers.  A sign. Of faith.

See that snow drift over there? Underneath, the grass is already turning green. Spring is on the way.

Until next time.
Debbie


 
 

ROAD TRIP

  Leaving winter behind. Never sounded better than in this...the year of unprecedented cold and snow. Heading to the Florida Keys by way of Savannah Georgia, a stop at Kennedy Space Center in Melbourne Florida (woke up to the sun coming up over the ocean...imagine a contented sigh here) and then, Key West. Home by way of Sarasota, Saint Petersburg and then, over the mountains in Chattanooga and home sweet home again. Ten days of wanderlust. Ten days in the car with my honey...no kids in the backseat...our first real, empty nest adventure.

Ah, the anticipation. Is it just me, or, is half the pleasure in the planning. I hate to pack but I even found that enjoyable this time.

"Why do we have six suitcases?"

"Because I thought it would be easier if we packed for each hotel. Instead of dragging two huge suitcases up to the room each night."

"I don't need a huge suitcase. We are going to Florida. Shorts and t-shirts. And what is the garment bag for?"

"What if we decide to go somewhere nice for dinner? Where you have to dress up. I figured that the dress clothes and shoes could stay in the trunk...unless we need them."

"Okay...but we never do that. I mean dress up. What is this black bag for?"

"It's my Clorox Clean-up and disinfecting wipes...for the shower...just in case the rooms need a little...you know. Spiffing up." 

"Gotcha...What about this blue bag? "

"The computer and phone charger...and a few games just in case we want to sit around the pool and... "

"The pillow and blanket...?"

"For the car...back seat."

"And this..."

"Snacks."

"And..."

"Magazines."

I don't quite understand why it takes me eight hours to painstakingly pack, and Lloyd is finished in about eight minutes. Start to finish...but that's the way of it. I tend to pack for 'just in case' and Lloyd tends to pack for 'what the heck'.
Eventually the suitcases are arranged in the trunk, the maps and itinerary are within reach in the back seat. Bye- bye to the puppies and we are ready, set, and backing out the driveway. We actually make it all the way to end of the block, before my husband puts on the brakes.

"I forgot my sunglasses."

Reverse. Quick run into the house. On our way. Again.

There is something about a road trip that is different from any other kind of vacation. The long, lazy conversations in the car...or the long, comfortable silences.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not thinking anything, why? What are you thinking?"

"I was just wondering what you were thinking."

And on and on and on. Making lists of things we want to accomplish when we get home. Writing a journal as we drive...what we want to remember for the next trip. And what we want to forget.

So much more than a direct flight to somewhere. The opportunity to veer off course and try something new and different. The sight of the last Discovery Shuttle on the launch pad. The ocean on either side of the car. The boats drifting lazily on the deep blue water. Window down in Key Largo and lunch on the dock at The Big Chill Restaurant  on the way out to Key West. Lunching long enough for the sun to kiss our cheeks with the warm blush of color that the winter has taken away. Windblown and in no hurry, no plane to catch...no one's time table but our own. So much to discover.

Time with friends along the way. Time with each other that feels different, almost magical. Holding hands while we walk, he slows down a little, I walk a little faster. A new rhythm we are creating...just the two of us.  We pass so many cars heading for Florida that contain occupants that look vaguely familiar...seeing ourselves in many of them, they are of an age, like we are, out to discover the world once again, through older, more experienced eyes.

And at the end of the day...coming home, already the sweet nostalgia of the time just spent together is settling in, the trip still fresh in our minds. Somehow, the emptying out of the car (the six suitcase experiment did not work too well, by the way) makes us sad that our journey is over, but we are happy to see the familiar, the greeting from the dogs, a casserole ready for the oven, made by our good friend, a shower and our own bed.

I unpack slowly, a mountain of laundry waiting for me. Odds and ends scattered around the house. I am in no hurry to put things in their place, so I take my time, emptying the sand from our sneakers, then zipping the six (much lighter) suitcases that stand at the foot of the stairs, waiting sadly for their journey back up to the attic. We will return to the normal hustle and bustle soon enough.

The atlas still sits on the kitchen table...the last remnant of our trip. I think maybe I will keep it within reach. There are a lot more frontiers out there, waiting for us to explore. The next road trip. Can't wait.

Until next time,
Debbie


 



 

Use Them Wisely...

The Power of words.

What else can we use to cause such immeasurable happiness, intense pain, sweet comfort, or monstrous fear to another living being without ever having to leave the comfort of your easy chair. Both a weapon and a salve, words are the way we communicate our innermost feelings. And because we are conditioned from birth to express ourselves, sometimes we toss words around without thinking about what we are actually saying. And sometimes we think about it so much that what comes out of our mouths sounds rehearsed, and it ends up being not what we meant to convey at all. 

And sometimes, we just like to hear ourselves talk.

What if we only had a certain number of words that we were allotted at birth? What if we were forced to wear a counter, and once we reached that magic number, were no longer allowed to speak? Would we use our words wisely? Would we make sure that every word counted for something? Oh my! What would politicians do? Or Aunt Millie when she came to visit? (Everyone has an Aunt Millie--although she may be going by another name in your family!)

And words are made even more powerful by the circumstances in which they are used. Or by who is using them. The same word can cause different emotions, joyful or painful.

"I love you, mommy"...from my two year old daughter when I came home from the hospital after a surgery.
Her chubby little hand on the side of my face like I was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Breaking my heart. JOY.

"I LOVE YOU, MOMMY!!!!"...from my oldest son when he was two, chubby little hands holding on to the handle of the car for dear life, tears streaming down his face, looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. How could I leave him at Grandmas for the night when he didn't want me to go. Ever. Breaking my heart. GUILT.

"I love you"...you're in love. Heart swollen with joy. And then ..."But, I love you..." and it's over. Breaking a broken heart.

"CHARGE!" had a different meaning at the Alamo, than it does today at Macy's.

"Where's Sammy?" when he's playing...hiding behind a chair when he's five. Peek-a Boo, and, "Where's Sammy?" when it's past curfew and you haven't gotten a phone call from him telling you he's going to be late.
Fear.

And "Sealed with a Kiss"...has disappeared, as has the actual hand- written letter. Unless of course you want to end your text or tweet ...S.W.A.K.. It somehow loses the sentiment, but is much more economical when you are trying to stay within 140 characters!

We toss them around easily because there is no limit to how many times we can open our mouth to emit them...but  we must learn to use them wisely, these precious words. Once we let  them go, we can never get them back. And even though there is no one keeping track of the number of words we are allowed to use...maybe there should be. A few heartfelt meaningful phrases, mean more than you know, and will break through all the noisy jabber that we are accustomed to every day.

It might be hard to take sometimes, but wouldn't it be wonderful if you knew exactly what everyone meant, that it came from the true place in the heart, no matter how hard it was to hear...or how wonderful...just knowing it was real.

Yes sireee...words are powerful. Whether you say them out loud, or write them down. Words are powerful. If those eyes are the window to your soul...than words are the shortcut to your mind. And someone, somewhere will always be there to hear them.

Use them wisely.

Until next time.

Debbie



 

These Hallowed Halls...

SShhhh...

Today, I am officially over the moon. It seems that this journey I'm on, the one that never ceases to amaze me, surprise me, or delight me, has done so once again. Who would ever have thought that I would be here, at this place in time, at this stage in my life, thrilled with the knowledge that, 'PROPHECY the Fulfillment', has found its way to the very place I revered as a child. The Library.

I remember, to this day, how ecstatic I was the day I followed my mother into the hushed atmosphere of the Centerline Library in Michigan, and was presented with my very own, pale blue library card. A little metal tag in the right hand corner and my name plastered across the front. It was official. I could borrow books. I could take them home and spend my free time pouring over the pages. I was the heroine. I was the damsel in distress. I might have only been seven or eight, but I remember that I was almost as excited then, as the day I got my drivers license. I still remember the smell, the sound (actually, there wasn't any sound but the occasional hushed whisper of pages turning. And then, of course, there was the very serious and intimidating woman behind the counter. At least she seemed so to me. And Momma had said, "You must be very very quiet in here. You mustn't make a sound". I did my best to obey, lest I be relieved prematurely of this newly obtained treasure I held so tightly in my fist.

As a matter of fact, I think I might have been feeling those same butterflies in my stomach yesterday, as I walked up to the counter to deliver my prized books. The library has changed a lot since I was a child. Oh, the row upon row of books are still there, wrapped in their clear plastic covers, waiting for the next person to come along and get lost within their pages. But now there are computers, too. And though the librarians are still subdued and respectful, they smile a little more...which makes them so much more approachable. And there are even kidlet rooms, where at story time, the toddlers escape their tethers and gather around to perform their own squealing renditions of 'The Three Little Pigs'.  Today, people meet there for a variety of reasons, not all having to do with books. It has become a center for the community to gather. With the bonus of being within arms reach of history and drama and literary delight.

Yes, The Library.

I remember coming home from school to find my mom stretched out on the sofa, her glassed perched on the end of her nose, enjoying that last bit of quiet with her precious novel, before we descended upon her. I remember laying my head on her stomach and picking at her, trying my best to pull her from her fantasy world...after all, I had just gotten home from school and I was hungry! She obliged, all the time knowing her
make believe world would be waiting for her the next afternoon. It was a secret place that I could not even imagine until I held that powerful little blue card in my own little hand. The possibilities were endless.

I am sure my love of reading started long before my very first Nancy Drew adventure. Grandma Edith would sit on the end of the bed, and tell us these wonderfully woeful Mother Goose stories (Have you ever noticed how very sad most of them were?) She would lull us to sleep with nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme. Today, there is the soft blue light from the hand held interactive games my grandchildren play until they nod off. But really, nothing can compare to the slightly off key sound of Grandma, singing Daisy, again and again until we couldn't hold our eyes open.

And I must credit my adult children, with instilling the same love of books and reading to my grandchildren, that I enjoyed as a small child. You can see it when they play dress up, or have a friend over to join them in battle fighting an imaginary war. There is just nothing, anywhere, that compares to the magic carpet ride you take when you read a book.

So, today, I feel honored and amazed that my book, Prophecy, makes it's home in that same magical place that made such an impression on me as a child. That in two local libraries, you can walk in and borrow my novel. You can swipe your library card, and take home a little bit of make believe.

So make some time. Borrow a little bit of magic. Visit the library. I hope you'll read 'Prophecy'. But whatever you read, make it an adventure.

Until next time,
Debbie




 

To Write or Not....No Question

Last night was spectacular. To me. Not loud and crazy spectacular like a rock concert, but quietly spectacular, like a great hair day, or a perfect dessert, or Spring. Our neighborhood Barnes and Noble held a local author event and I was invited to participate. The Community Relations Manager, Robbie Bryan, put together a sweet gathering of people, all of whom had at least one thing in common (besides all wearing black---an interesting factoid). We were (are) authors.

Now, none of us have been on the Best Seller List (yet), but our books were there last night and looked so comfortable on that table, that prime real estate in the front of the store--if only for the evening. And the people who stopped to talk to us were interesting as well. But the truth is, most of us were there to learn. From each other. And I am so glad I was included.

Being an author means many hours holed up alone, by necessity, to put down on paper the thoughts that tumble around, unceasingly, in your head. And while we all had that one thing in common, our work and our way of accomplishing our goals were very different. My novel took two years to write. I lived with 'Prophecy' almost daily for that long (and the editing another four to six months-I know--Yowza!). There was another novelist there last night who was able to complete his manuscript in two months! Amazing to be that clever and organized! I was so very impressed!

I write in the morning. Most of my work is accomplished very early, between five and noon. By three o'clock I am tapping my toes waiting for my Prince (Lloyd) to walk through the door an announce "Happy Hour"! I am so ready by then, to talk and talk and talk. (Sorry, honey But I met authors last night, who work full time and then come home, only to write into the wee hours of the morning. (Long after I finish whining and am in bed for the night!) Until they can't write another word. Or who write during those precious hours of silence when their kids are in school, or down for a nap. Or during their lunch hour. Or whenever they can squeeze it in. The need is so great. To see the words. On paper.

And research! I count myself fortunate, that, as a novelist, my research, for the most part, can be carried out on the  internet. I am not sure if I could even figure out how to use the cataloging system at the library anymore! But I met an author last night, who, by the very nature of his body of work, by necessity, had to spend many hours doing just that! Imagine leaving work and heading for the library to do research for hours on end. To get it right. For yourself. Passion. For. Writing.

So last night was a winner for me. Fireworks. The passion for the craft, undeniable. The collection of works on that table was as eclectic as we were. From the how-to's, to the spirituals and devotionals, to the fact- filled tomes, and the novels, to an author, we were all part of something timeless and priceless. And to a person, our need to be heard was evident by the very fact that we were there. And who knows when one of us might just make it to the Best Seller List, or whose works or creations will stand the test of time. Everything is possible if you believe...and keep dreaming.

So a proverbial 'tip of the hat' to my colleagues. Proud to know you. New found friends.

And pssst...If you have the need, to write, to paint, to sculpt, to sing, to create anything, just start. There is someone else out there who shares your passion, your fear, your delight. It might just be time to take you toe out of the water and jump in. Be there. In the moment. Let it flow. Not because you can. But because you can't not. And if your dream is something that you must, by it's very nature, carry out alone...remember that you are not alone, but part of the bigger picture. There are so many others out there, who choose to be alone right along with you! Fill yourself up. Be true to your dreams. And then, step out to meet with people who have the same aspirations. To share. To learn. To teach. That golden moment of recognition. And to the last person, creating something beautiful. Unique. Wonderful. Extraordinary. Just like you.

I can't wait.

Until next time,
Debbie
 

 

Blank Page

"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing, what does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're on FaceBook."
"I am on Facebook."
"You just said you were writing."
"This is the part before I start writing. I am waiting for my mind to quiet down, so I can concentrate."
"OKaaaay. Then I guess I'm gonna go fix the printer."
"I thought you said you couldn't fix the printer."
"That's only because I didn't watch the football game first. I'll be on the couch letting my mind quiet down if you need me."
"Lloyd...get out of here."
"On my way."

There is a certain order to my day, there are rituals I follow before I settle down to face that first blank page. But what I have discovered about myself is that it's like pumping that first bit of fluid from a spray bottle. You may have to prime it a few times, but once it flows, you've got it made. An idea is like that. If you try too hard, you can't make it work. But if you try to relax, and think about something else, before you know it, the words come to you and you can't get them down fast enough. After all, the page is only blank until you  write that first word.

So this morning I am back at it. I had to step over a few piles of laundry to get here, but decided to push everything else aside so I can write for a few hours. Missing my son terribly (he went back to school after a LONG winter break--it was so nice to have the boys home for the holidays-hence the piles of laundry...sigh!)

Whatever it takes to get you motivated, let it happen. Once you start you'll be glad you did. I for one am getting down to business! Right now. In a minute. I just want to check one more thing on the internet.

"Touchdown!!"

"Lloyd, turn down the television........"

Until next time.

Debbie