Prissy Elrod's Blog, page 2

Bestowals and Blessings

 

2017 will go down as a real bummer. I’m sorry. It‘s true. A devastating loss, followed by a spinal fusion, then, Irma, that nasty hurricane. It happened back to back. Bitter. Bleak. Goodbye and good riddance, 2017. Come on in 2018!

Even so, Scrooge can take a hike. I refuse to let him bring me down. I’m choosing to be happy, counting all my blessings, not getting bummed out by the bearings of badness.

After all, I am the limoncello queen. I turn lemons into luscious liquid and drink the happiness. 

Even with this truth, and my lovely lemons, Christmas season is tough with my beloved mother gone. Every day I must remind myself how lucky I was to enjoy her beautiful life for so many years. What a gift! But, as many know, first holidays are difficult for those who’ve lost a loved one. And I’m so sorry to anyone reading and living this ‘first’. I feel your pain.

On the humorous side (you know I’m going to find it) we will be having Christmas family dinner at our house. (26 people, half of them crazy, bingo, and a bouncy house). I’m fixing beef tenderloin- with a twist, this year.  For once I won’t be anxious, waiting for mama’s remark. That infamous, unfiltered comment, ”Ewww Prissy, why’d you fix dead cow?!” I never thought I would miss hearing her words with every bite I chewed. God Bless her sweet vegetarian self.

 

Here’s some more humor for you. Well, it’s funny to me, anyway. My youngest daughter, Sara Britton, said to me a few weeks ago, “Mom, you need grief therapy.” I was crying way too much for my baby girl.

When their daddy was dying, even afterwards, I wouldn’t cry in front of my daughters. I’m not saying it was a good thing, or even the right thing. But I was afraid it would be more difficult for them. So, I concealed my fears and tears around them. I made plenty of puddles–under hanging clothes–inside my dark closet. That place was a perfect crying space. 

Since my mother died, I cry anywhere, anytime, on anyone. I don’t care. My daughters are only familiar with the happy me. It’s taken them off guard. Hence, I need crying therapy, say they!

Recently, I was to speak at an event in Tallahassee called Dove Story. It’s a fundraiser for Lee’s Place, a grief and counseling center. I tell a story -any story -to a crowd of 200 attendees, a sold-out event.  A few days before the event, my girls were meeting me for lunch.

Beforehand, that morning, I had a meeting with the directors at Lee’s Place. The meeting ran late, and my phone was off. They kept getting my voicemail. 

“Where is she, why doesn’t she answer?” Garrett asked Sara Britton. Sara Britton asked Garrett. Both asking, wondering, worrying. They do this.

“I’ll track her . ” (And she claims tracking app is for children) Hardly. She be tracking me. “Lee’s Place, that’s where she is”. Garrett announces. “Thank God, she’s getting that therapy.” Sara Britton squealed. 

Umm…no, helicopter daughters.  Ain’t nobody got no time for no therapy.  

 

Now, about my husband. A man who hates the spotlight. He should have thought about that before he married a girl with a blog. The same girl who shared his private emails in her memoir. Let’s talk about him.

He’s an artistic skater. You know, the kind that spins around in circles and doesn’t fall. They skate backwards more than forward. Heck, I can hardly walk forward some days. All that skating– not to mention the reckless, wild, bachelor life he lived–finally took a toll on him. After umpteen opinions, a spinal surgery recommendation. Or, rather, fusion of L4 and L5.

I seldom take real medicine (I’m homeopathic), or the flu shots (no way), X-rays (nope- radiation). Here they were, suggesting a plate, rod and screws. It gave new meaning to the term getting screwed.

We found the neurosurgeon he wanted, after much research. He was a pioneer with the X-lift procedure. I won’t bore you. But my husband would if I let him. By the time he finished telling you about it you could do it yourself.

The surgery happened at the worst possible time. Who knew? Irma, that’s who. She started moving towards Jacksonville (where we were) as he lay on the fusing table. Everything went downhill from there. Irma’s tail is a tale to tell.

The picture of Dale is 30 hours after his five-hour surgery. But, 24 of those 30 hours he was flat on his back from a dura puncture (not uncommon) during surgery.

Four hours after I took this photo, the earth shifted. We were fleeing. His drains and catheter pulled out thirty minutes before we slammed our car doors. The hospital evacuated and the Hyatt Hotel where I was staying. His predicted four-day stay was nay…way too soon. We headed back towards Tallahassee as fast as my sporty car would go: 20-miles-per-hour. I kid you not. That dang interstate was a noodle nest, the highway from Hell on the road to Hell. We didn’t know it though, until it was too late.

 

What should have been a 2.5-hour trip took 7.5-hours. That poor man was holding his barf bag the entire trip.Two words flooded my brain: blood clot. 

Once I pulled inside my garage he couldn’t walk. It took two people to carry him inside.  The following weeks were bad. Not to mention my entire family (eleven bodies) had to take refuge inside our home, awaiting Irma. They boarded because we have a whole house generator. I shouldn’t be broadcasting that- probably.

Thank goodness for friends who are great doctors. Each one of them made house calls (like my daddy always did). They kept me calm, and less crazy. Even better, they cared for my patient.  A two-fold blessing.

Today, he is much better, mending, almost well. I see skating in the horizon. And nothing makes me happier than seeing him happy. Along with everyone else I know.  

NOW, to news and some noteworthy!

Did you know old-fashioned hairpins are worth their weight in gold? I sure didn’t. When I went through my mother’s personal treasures, I found a stack of hairpins. I laughed at those absurd, antiquated things. Yet, I couldn’t discard them. I scooped them up and brought them home.  I’m way too sentimental for my own good. Says the girl with letters from old boyfriends that are decades old. The letters and the old boyfriends. Note to self…throw them out.

Anyway, back to those pins. A few months later – when I was being a cry baby -I pulled the hairpins out. I started separating my long strands of hair, twisting each piece around my finger and clipped… one, then another, soon, a whole head full. I didn’t know what I was doing.  But Alexa was playing Sam Smith in the background and he kept me company. 

I left the clips in my hair and went about my business. I was planning to wash my hair later in the day when I was all done feeling sorry for myself. 

Later came. I was ready to shower and started pulling the clips from my hair. I couldn’t believe it. Perfect curls started falling. Soft. Flowing. I looked like I’d walked out of a hair-salon. It was a gift, by chance. A bestowal. Chance gifts are the best kind of gifts, don’t you think?   

Here’s another bestowal! Even better!

Flamingo , Florida’s only statewide feature magazine, offered me a prize… my own column. They’ve named it  Panhandling . My writing is now in each issue, found inside the pages of their beautiful magazine. They cover people, travel, outdoor pursuits, food, conservation, culture and style. I’m thrilled, honored and humbled to join their team. My most recent essay is here:  http://www.flamingomag.com/2017/12/07/panhandling-prissy-elrod-about-mama/

By the way, I love the column’s name for two reasons. I live in the panhandle of Florida. And, also, I peddle books, coloring books, and share stories on stage. That column name is way cooler than me though.

And Flocktails, a new event, just happened at Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, where I spoke. My new column,and little ‘ole me, both introduced to all the invitees. Ruth Chris catered the event and served wonderful, yummy food.  Flocktails is a great concept we will be bringing to Tallahassee. Stay tuned. Click to see the Flocktails’ pictures http://www.flamingomag.com/2017/12/15...

There I am panhandling, rather, signing, Far Outside the Ordinary books. I look more important than I am. Thank-you for that, Flamingo team!

 

Shhhh!! I have something to share. My new book cover— Chasing Ordinary

(Coming summer, 2018)

I was asked to keep the cover secret and wait until the release date to unveil.  But you know I never listen, right?  I follow my own heart. 

So, you go. The butterfly wraps across the spine to the back. Katie Campbell, my award winning, Far Outside the Ordinary, graphic designer nailed it. Again. Thank-you, Katie.

 

 

Don’t you think children are the most beautiful creatures on the planet? They are happy vitamins nourishing starved hearts and souls. My own precious poodles and mutts (my names) are full of innocence, goodness and wit. They are a reminder God’s awesome magic, grace, and love. I realize His blessings, bestowed on me, every time I see these perfect human beings.

This holiday season– more than ever–I’m mindful and grateful for my heavenly gifts. 

 

Thank you so much for your support, encouraging me to keep writing. Your believing in me makes me believe in myself. As I tap my words today, it occurred to me how writing is my therapy. So, I guess that makesYOU my counselor. Let’s tell my girls. 

May your own season be filled with love, happiness and good health.

Love, hugs and happy 2018!

Prissy

 

The post Bestowals and Blessings appeared first on Prissy's Blog.

BEARINGS, BESTOWALS & BLESSINGS

2017 will go down as a real bummer. I’m sorry. It ‘s true. A devastating loss, spinal fusion, and Irma, that nasty hurricane. For us, it was back to back, bitter, bleak. Good riddance 2017. Come on in 2018!

Even so, Scrooge can take a hike. I refuse to let him bring me down. I’m choosing to be happy, counting all my blessings, not getting bummed out by the bearings of badness. After all, I am the limoncello queen. I turn lemons into luscious liquid and drink the happiness.  




 


Even with this truth, and my lovely lemons, Christmas season is tough with my beloved mother gone. Every day I must remind myself how lucky I was to enjoy her beautiful life for so many years. What a gift! But, as many know, first holidays are difficult for those who’ve lost a loved one. Many know first hand. And I’m so sorry to anyone reading and living this ‘first’. I truly am.


 


On the humorous side (you know I’m going to find it) we will be having Christmas family dinner at our house. (26 crazy, bingo & bouncy house). I’m fixing beef tenderloin with a twist this year.  For once I won’t be anxious, waiting for mama’s remark. That infamous, unfiltered comment, ”Ewww, Prissy, why’d you fix dead cow?!”


 


I never thought I would miss hearing her words with every bite I chewed. God Bless her sweet vegetarian self.

 


Here’s some more humor for you. Well, it’s funny to me, anyway. My youngest daughter, Sara Britton, said to me a few weeks ago, “Mom, I think you need grief therapy.” I was crying way too much for my baby girl.
 
When their daddy was dying, even afterwards, I wouldn’t cry in front of my daughters. I’m not saying it was a good thing, or even the right thing. But I was afraid it would be more difficult for them. So, I concealed my fears and tears around them.
 




I made plenty of puddles–under hanging clothes–inside my dark closet. That place was a perfect crying space. But since my mother died I cry anywhere, anytime, on anyone. I don’t care.


My daughters are accustomed to a happy me. It’s taken them off guard. Hence, I need crying therapy, say they!


 


Recently, I was asked to speak at an event in Tallahassee called Dove Story. It’s a fundraiser for Lee’s Place, a grief and counseling center. I tell a story -any story -to a crowd of 200 attendees, a sold-out event.  A few days before this event, my girls were meeting for lunch.Before hand, that morning, I had a meeting with the directors at Lee’s Place. My meeting ran late and my phone was turned off. My girls kept trying to call  about our lunch, the exact time. But kept getting my voicemail.
 
 “Where is she, why isn’t she answering? ” Garrett asked Sara Britton. Sara Britton asked Garrett. They asked each other. Wondering. Worrying. They do this.


 


“Wait, let me track her.” Garrett says to her.  She claims the tracking app is for her children. Ha! Here’s a rhyme-let’s say together.  To me…may be… she be… tracking me! 
“She’s at Lee’s Place.” Garrett tells her sister.
“Thank God, maybe she’s finally getting therapy.” Sara Britton squealed. 
Umm…no, dear, sweet, helicopter daughters.Ain’t nobody got no time for no therapy.

One day, when I get those fluffy, feathered angel wings, and buzzing around in heaven, you will get it. You two can get you some‘mama crying therapy’.from missing me. 
The greater the love, the harder the loss. Such is the architecture of love. Says me.




 Now, about my husband. He hates the spotlight. He should have thought about that before he married a girl with a blog. The same girl who shared his private emails in her memoir. Let’s talk about him.

He’s an artistic skater. You know, the kind that spins around in circles and doesn’t fall down. They skate backwards more than forward. Heck, I can hardly walk forward some days. All that skating– not to mention the reckless, wild, bachelor life he lived–finally took a toll on him. After umpteen opinions, spinal surgery was recommended. Fusion… L4 and L5.

I seldom take real medicine (me be homeopathic ), or flu shots (no way),  X-rays (nope, radiation). Here they were, suggesting a plate, rod and screws. It gave new meaning to the term getting screwed.

After tons of research (you have no idea) we found this neurosurgeon he wanted, a pioneer of the X-lift procedure. I won’t bore you. But my husband would, if I let him. By the time he finished telling you all about it, you could do it yourself.

The surgery happened at the worst possible time. Who knew? Irma, that’s who. She started moving towards Jacksonville (where we were) as he lay on the fusing table. Everything went down hill from there. Irma’s tail is a tale to tell. 

The picture below is 30 hours after his five-hour surgery. However, 24 of those 30 hours he was flat on his back from a dural puncture (not uncommon) during surgery. Four hours after the below photo was taken, the earth shifted. We were fleeing.
 

The drains and catherter in him pulled out thirty minutes before we slammed our car doors. The hospital was evacuating us, so did the Hyatt Hotel where I was staying. The recommended four day hospital stay was shortened. We headed back towards Tallahassee as fast as my sporty car would go: 20-miles-per-hour. I kid you not.
The interstate was  a noodle nest. The highway from Hell was the road to Hell. We didn’t know it.

What should have been a 2.5 hour trip took 7.5 hours. That poor man holding his barf bag the entire trip.  Two words flooded my brain: blood clot. 

To lay flat 30 hours after major surgery – then climb inside a car for a seven hour ride- was stupid, reckless, and frightening.

Once I pulled inside my garage he couldn’t walk. It took two people to carry him inside.  The following weeks were bad. Not to mention my entire family (eleven bodies) had to take refuge inside our home awaiting Irma. We have this whole house generator, though I probably shouldn’t be broadcasting that. 

Thank goodness for friends who are great doctors. Each one made ‘house calls’ (like my daddy always did).  Dave Draper (anesthiseolgist), Jeff Snyder (thoracic surgeon); and Alex Davenport (Internist and OB-GYN) kept me from being cray, cray, crazy. Even better, they cared for my patient.  

Today, he is well, mending, and skating is in the horizon. Nothing makes me happier than seeing him happy. Along with everyone else.  

News and Noteworthy!

Did you know the old-fashioned hairpins are worth their weight in gold. I sure didn’t. When I was going through my mother’s personal things, collecting donations for Goodwill, Salvation Army, and finding  heirloom pass-downs, I found a stack of hairpins. I laughed at the absurd, antiquated things, but  couldn’t discard them. I bagged them and brought home.  I’m way too sentimental for my own good. Says the girl holding letters from old boyfriends decades old. The letters and the boyfriends. Note to self…throw them out.

Anyway, back to those pins. A few months later – when I was being a cry baby -I pulled the hairpins out. I started separating my long strands of hair,twisting each piece around my finger and clipped one, then two, soon, a head full. I really didn’t know what I was doing.  But Alexa was playing Sam Smith in the background and he kept me company. 

I left the clips in my hair and went about my business. I was planning to wash my hair later in the day when I was all done feeling sorry for myself. 

Later came. I was ready to shower and started pulling the clips from my hair to wash.   I couldn’t believe it. Perfect  curls started falling. Soft. Flowing. I looked like I’d walked out of a hair-salon. It was a gift, by chance, a bestowal. Chance gifts are the best kind of gifts, don’t you think?

Here’s another bestowal!

Flamingo, Florida’s only statewide feature magazine, offered me a prize… my own column.They’ve named it Panhandling. I can be found inside the pages of their beautiful magazine with every issue. They cover people, travel, outdoor pursuits, food, conservation, culture and style. I’m thrilled, honored and humbled to join their team. You can read my current story by clicking here: http://www.flamingomag.com/2017/12/07/panhandling-prissy-elrod-about-mama/

By the way, I love the column’s name, probably since I live in the panhandle of Florida. Or maybe ’cause I’m an author peddling books, coloring books, and sharing my stories on stage. That column name is way cooler than me.

And Flocktails, a new event, was held at Ponte Vedra Beach, where I was invited to speak. Jamie Rich, Editor in Chief, Publisher and Founder of the magazine introduced me to a plethora of interesting, smart, creative people. She announced  the new column and little ‘ole me to the invitees. Ruth Chris catered the event with all their yummy food.   It was such a great concept, we will be bringing it to Tallahassee in February. Stay tuned and check out the Flocktails party pictures by clicking  http://www.flamingomag.com/2017/12/15...

There I am panhandling, I mean, signing Far Outside the Ordinary books.  I look so much more important than I am. Thank-you for that, Flamingo team!

 

Shhhh!!  Here’s a secret gift to share with you. My new book and cover: Chasing Ordinary

It will release summer, 2018. 

I was told to keep it secret until the release date. But  you know I never listen, right?  I like to  follow my own heart. 

Soooo……The butterfly tail wraps across the spine to the back of the book. In real time it looks like a piece of art. Thank you, Katie Campbell, my award winning graphic designer. You nailed it. Again.

Don’t you think children are the most beautiful creatures in the whole wide world? I sure do. They’re like a happy vitamin nourishing starving hearts and souls.These precious poodles and mutts of mine are full of such innocence, goodness and wit. They are a reminder of the magic of God’s grace, His love, and the many blessings bestowed on me every time I look at them. Perfection.  This holiday season I’m humbled, mindful, and grateful more than ever. 

I want to t hank you for supporting me, encouraging me, keeping  me writing.  Your believing in me makes me believe in myself. 

May your own season be filled with love, happiness and good health.

Hugs, love and happy 2018 !

Prissy

 

 

The post BEARINGS, BESTOWALS & BLESSINGS appeared first on Prissy's Blog.

The Circularity of Life

 

 

She was my first home. We were an island. That was before the world called out to me. Inhale. Breathe. Live.

I buried my beloved mother, my friend. It was very sudden, unexpected, and brutal. A massive stroke.

My brain was so shaken, shocked, engulfed with pain, I couldn’t arrange a coherent thought, much less a sentence. And to make it worse, I had no time to negotiate with God. It was already too late. There was no hope for her recovery.

She lay in a restful coma as my sisters and I circled her bed. We took turns sliding next to her, snuggling against her limp body like baby kittens. We were a pathetic mess.

Willie Nelson (her favorite) sang from the bedside table. Either golf, or tennis, flickered from a muted TV across the room. She liked golf, tennis, and television. We gave her all three.

We quibbled -Deborah, Gina and I- over little things. How best to arrange pillows under her head, knees, and left hip? Which organic nightgown was her favorite? Was the quilt from home too warm, or not warm enough? Was the room too quiet? Each daughter had an opinion on what could make their mother more comfortable, content, happier.

Nothing, you stupid girls. Nothing!  She must have thought.

We didn’t’ know what to do. So, we did the only thing we could. Fuss. Worry. Cry. Sit. Stare, Argue. Cry again.

If the room was too quiet I grew uneasy. That made me babble.

“Maybe I’ll write a reality show, starring mama and her three crazy daughters. You know, make the setting a hospice house. I’ll call it Southern Crazy.” My sisters looked up, then sad laughed with me.

I looked away from their tired faces to the birdhouse outside my mother’s window.  A red cardinal was watching me, so I watched her. She fed from her tiny house, looked to me, then turned back to feasting. I looked beyond her to the peaceful garden, manicured greenery, and the serene water features. There was such beauty outside that window and our stale room. I craved the cardinal’s fortune.

“I could make it funny, you know, write some humor around the pain and suffering.” I looked over and saw neither sister listening, both were busy texting. I hushed and retreated back to the quiet stillness, just staring at my mother’s face.

When it was my turn to stay the night, I would slide next to my mother and whisper prayers against her ear. Then I would tell her she was doing better. Lies and prayers, intertwined. I couldn’t let her believe she was dying. Or be afraid, anxious, or sad. I simply couldn’t.

She lingered for days, then another week. We groomed our mother like a Barbie doll: brushing her hair, applying organic gloss to her parched lips, rubbing her arms, legs, hands and feet with lavender lotion. It was horrific, yet beautiful; painful, yet peaceful; cold, yet welcoming.

I roamed at night wearing my slippers and nightgown, visiting with perfect strangers. My hair was a rat’s nest, my eyes mimicking a racoon. A scary raccoon. The Hospice House began to feel like home. The other sufferers– also roaming– were like my big, sad family. We belonged to one another, though we didn’t even know each other’s name. 

It was noon the following day when I told my sisters I needed to run home, shower, change into fresh clothes. Should I go? I was hesitant to leave, even for 30-45 minutes. “Go.” They said in unison. I had been up all night. Leaning forward I kissed my mother’s cheek. “I’ll be right back, mama.”  I promised.

I was inconsolable when I returned to the reality before me. My mother left my world while I was brushing my teeth.

“Prissy, I swear, she waited for you to leave.” Gina pleaded through my wailing. Everyone tried to console me: my husband, sisters, daughters, and staff.  But there were no words to unburden my guilt. I left my mother.

Death is a bully. It steals energy, strength and will and marches on. Then grief, the sidekick, shows up.  It moves in and takes residence. This nasty, ugly leech adhered to my broken heart, mooching away the very essence of me.

I tried to remember how long it took after Boone died. When did my heart stop aching and the lump in my throat dissolve? When could I gaze at the blue sky with white clouds and not be sad? Or cry.  I pushed those painful memories deep in the crevices of my brain. I no longer remembered. How long… how long… how long.

Time heals grief. But grief is unilateral. It targets each person differently. Everyone punched with horrific pain, just in different formats. I’m not tough, or strong. I never was.

I wrote and delivered my mother’s eulogy at her funeral. It was surreal. After that, I lost my desire to ever write again. Days, weeks, months passed as I moved through life in a daze.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was nudged awake from my pharmaceutical sleep. Was it my mother’s voice I heard, or was I dreaming? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Something changed inside me during the night.  I woke up feeling more like myself. The urge to write had re-seeded, or maybe, it just returned.  I knew, as I lay staring at the ceiling, my mother knew me better than I knew myself. She knew watching her slip away would mirror Boone. And just like Boone- over-protective- she waited for me to leave her before she left me.

I threw off my coverlet and slipped from the crinkled sheets. I needed to write.  Perhaps, if only to honor my mother’s message.

As I passed through the pantry I grabbed a protein bar. Weary, but determined, my Luna bar, espresso and I shuffled into my home office. I turned on the lights and spotted the abandoned chair waiting in front of my computer. I settled in and booted up, sipping and chewing as I watched the monitor come to life. The lemon-flavored bar, fused with dark roasted espresso, soothed my pallet. I rested my shaky hands on the keyboard and began searching. 

I found the essay I’d been working on before my mother died. After two more cups of coffee I finished. Every paragraph rewritten, edited, honed, and polished. It seemed fresher, more promising.  My eyes were scratchy and dry from staring at the monitor screen. I needed a break. I saved my file and left to shower and dress.

I walked back in, reread, and left again, then back once more. How long did I hesitate, second-guessing myself? A good while.  Finally, I hit send and blew out my inhaled breath. 

A few days later an email arrived.

Flamingo , a brilliant Florida magazine, accepted my piece. It will be published in the Fall issue.

I was liberated, rejuvenated and hopeful- in the same moment. Grief lost. I won. I decided not to let it steal another day from my blessed life. Despite the separation from my mother, I would, once again,  Inhale. Breathe. Live.  

It is, after all, the circularity of life.

I read an article by Matthew Norman, author of We’re All Damaged. In it, he wrote, ” I tend to see the world through a humor lens. I use it as a defense mechanism. That may be a personality flaw, but it makes me the writer I am.”

When I read his words, I felt I knew this man I never met. His thoughts mimicked mine. He searches for humor through pain. And why? Just because. His reasoning is defense. Mine is survival. And so, I’ll find some humor in my devasting loss. 

Dad-gum-it, Mama! Nobody wants your stuff! * Not the marble statues, the mahogany furniture, your porcelain china, the sterling silver, the massive oil paintings, or those portraits of our dead relatives.  

Stuff after a loved one’s death is humorous. Sort of. Kind of. 

Parent’s treasures:  ‘Oh My’ and ‘Ugh” fused together!

Estates, Liquidating, Settling and selling …blah, blah, blah. Call it what you want. Wait until you are in the midst of it and see what you call it:

Possessions/stuff/crap! It’s all the same game.

If you are still reading this post, please listen. Be kind to your children. They do not want your stuff. Neither do estate folks, antique shops or collectors.  Our children are not collectors. Most of them are minimalists. They want new technology, Restoration Hardware, IKEA, and designer clothes while driving massive SUV’s.

And all these dolls! What the heck, heck, heck?

Well…ugh…okay! I’m 100% to blame. I made my sweet mama a Victorian doll thirty-years-ago.

Yep, the one pictured below. Shoot me now!  

That started her collecting the’collections’ of more ‘collections’. 

I guess I’m to blame.Well, not this me, the one writing this post. It was the other me, the one who made the doll. The Prissy in Far Outside the Ordinary. That Prissy and this Prissy are two different species. Trust me.

That one smocked little girls’ dresses, made porcelain dolls, dressed them in clothes made with her own hands. She rolled and whipped edges and seams of imported batiste fabric creating heirloom dresses. She threaded silk ribbon through antique lace bonnets and crowned their heads. She loved designing clothes and watching  life spring from the dolls’ composite bodies. This me is NOT that me. Nada, none, done!  

And now, this here me has these dang dolls sitting inside her curio cabinet, smiling from lips I painted, and wearing those elegant clothes I made. They are all signed, dated, and gifted to Garrett or Sara Britton (my precious daughters) in equal division. So, why do I still have them -after decades -you wonder? Yeah, well, me too. Drum roll…they do not want them!  And guess what…. I do not want my mother’s dolls either.

Wake-up to a new era. Nobody wants nobody’s stuff. 

Should anyone reading know a  ‘Doll Collector’ out there…please, do tell! 

Okay, enough stuff about stuff. You get the picture(S) 

Soooooooooooo….ABOUT that second book of mine. You know, the sequel to Far Outside the Ordinary, the one you think I will never finish and you will never read.

My mother asked every single day. “Prissy, have you finished the book?” I had three different answers for her sweet self. It depended on the day and my mood. “Almost.” “Not quite.” “Close.” 

She was anxious. But, I procrastinated. Writers do that. I should have finished my book before she died. I regret that so much. Honestly, if 2017 had been kinder to me, if death hadn’t stolen my mother. If. If. If. 

But, after my recent dream, and her visit, whatever it was, I’m feeling more steady, creative and ambitious. I’ve accomplished two projects in two weeks: I have a title for the sequel and a gorgeous cover. Thanks to the talented, Katie Campbell, my genius graphic designer/artist.

And my manuscript is nearing completion. See, Mama, I really was closer than you thought. 

I read my horoscope this morning- uncanny, don’t you think? And, yes, I read it every day. Please don’t judge me:-) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know about you right now, but I’ve had enough of me.  With that said… I’m so very grateful for your support and patience. Hang with me and I’ll do my very best to never disappoint you.

Cheers and hugs!

Prissy

 

 

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The Circularity of Life

 

She was my first home. We were an island. That was before the world called out to me. Inhale. Breathe. Live.

I buried my beloved mother, my friend. It was very sudden, unexpected, and brutal. A massive stroke.

My brain was so shaken, shocked, engulfed with pain, I couldn’t arrange a coherent thought, much less a sentence. And to make it worse, I had no time to negotiate with God. It was already too late, with no hope for recovery.

She lay in a restful coma as my sisters and I circled her bed. We took turns sliding next to her, snuggling against her limp body like baby kittens. We were a pathetic mess.

Willie Nelson (her favorite) sang from the bedside table. Either golf, or tennis, flickered from a muted TV across the room. She liked golf, tennis, and television. We gave her all three.

We quibbled -Deborah, Gina and I- over little things. How best to arrange pillows under her head, knees, and left hip? Which organic nightgown was her favorite? Was the quilt from home too warm, or not warm enough? Was the room too quiet? Each daughter had an opinion on what could make their mother more comfortable, content, happier.

Nothing, you stupid girls. Nothing!  She must have thought.

We didn’t’ know what to do. So, we did the only thing we could. Fuss. Worry. Cry. Sit. Stare, Argue. Cry. 

If the room was too quiet I grew uneasy. That made me babble.

“Maybe I’ll write a reality show, starring mama and her three crazy daughters. You know, make the setting a hospice house. I’ll call it Southern Crazy.” My sisters looked up, then sad laughed.

I looked away from their tired faces to the birdhouse outside my mother’s window.  A red cardinal was watching me, so I watched her. She fed from her tiny house, looked to me, then turned back to feasting. I looked beyond her to the peaceful garden, manicured greenery, and the serene water features. There was such beauty outside that window and our stale room. I craved the cardinal’s fortune.

“I could make it funny, you know, write some humor around the pain and suffering.” I looked over and saw neither sister listening, both were busy texting. I hushed and retreated back to the quiet stillness, just staring at my mother’s face.

When it was my turn to stay the night, I would slide next to my mother and whisper prayers against her ear. Then I would tell her she was doing better. Lies and prayers, intertwined. I couldn’t let her believe she was dying. Or be afraid, anxious, or sad. I simply couldn’t.

 

She lingered for days, then another week. We groomed our mother like a Barbie doll: brushing her hair, applying organic gloss to her parched lips, rubbing her arms, legs, hands and feet with lavender lotion. It was horrific, yet beautiful; painful, yet peaceful; cold, yet welcoming.

I roamed at night wearing my slippers and nightgown, visiting with perfect strangers. My hair was a rat’s nest, my eyes mimicking a racoon. A scary raccoon. The Hospice House began to feel like home. The other sufferers– also roaming– were like my big, sad family. We belonged to one another, though we didn’t even know each other’s name. 

It was noon the following day when I told my sisters I needed to run home, shower, change into fresh clothes. Should I go? I was hesitant to leave, even for 30-45 minutes. “Go.” They said in unison. I had been up all night. Leaning forward I kissed my mother’s cheek. “I’ll be right back, mama.”  I promised.

I was inconsolable when I returned to the reality before me. My mother left my world while I was brushing my teeth.

“Prissy, I swear, she waited for you to leave.” Gina pleaded through my wailing. Everyone tried to console me: my husband, sisters, daughters, and staff.  But there were no words to unburden my guilt. I left my mother.

Death is a bully. It steals energy, strength and will and marches on. Then grief, the sidekick, shows up.  It moves in and takes residence. This nasty, ugly leech adhered to my broken heart, mooching away the very essence of me.

I tried to remember how long it took after Boone died. When did my heart stop aching and the lump in my throat dissolve? When could I gaze at the blue sky with white clouds and not be sad? Or cry.  I pushed those painful memories deep in the crevices of my brain. I no longer remembered. How long… how long… how long.

Time heals grief. But grief is unilateral. It targets each person differently. Everyone punched with horrific pain, just in different formats. I’m not tough, or strong. I never was.

I wrote and delivered my mother’s eulogy at her funeral. It was surreal. After that, I lost my desire to ever write again. Days, weeks, months passed as I moved through life in a daze.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was nudged awake from my pharmaceutical sleep. Was it my mother’s voice I heard, or was I dreaming? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Something changed inside me during the night.  I woke up feeling more like myself. The urge to write had re-seeded, or maybe, it just returned.  I knew, as I lay staring at the ceiling, my mother knew me better than I knew myself. She knew watching her slip away would mirror Boone. And just like Boone- over-protective- she waited for me to leave her before she left me.

I threw off my coverlet and slipped from the crinkled sheets. I needed to write.  Perhaps, if only to honor my mother’s message.

As I passed through the pantry I grabbed a protein bar. Weary, but determined, my Luna bar, espresso and I shuffled into my home office. I turned on the lights and spotted the abandoned chair waiting in front of my computer. I settled in and booted up, sipping and chewing as I watched the monitor come to life. The lemon-flavored bar, fused with dark roasted espresso, soothed my pallet. I rested my shaky hands on the keyboard and began searching. 

I found the essay I’d been working on before my mother died. After two more cups of coffee I finished. Every paragraph rewritten, edited, honed, and polished. It seemed fresher, more promising.  My eyes were scratchy and dry from staring at the monitor screen. I needed a break. I saved my file and left to shower and dress.

I walked back in, reread, and left again, then back once more. How long did I hesitate, second-guessing myself? A good while.  Finally, I hit send and blew out my inhaled breath. 

A few days later an email arrived.

Flamingo , a brilliant Florida magazine, accepted my piece. It will be published in the Fall issue.

I was liberated, rejuvenated and hopeful- in the same moment.  Grief lost. I won. I decided not to let it steal another day from my blessed life. Despite the separation from my mother, I would, once again,  Inhale. Breath. Live.  

It is, after all, the circularity of life.

I read an article by Matthew Norman, author of We’re All Damaged. In it, he wrote, ” I tend to see the world through a humor lens. I use it as a defense mechanism. That may be a personality flaw, but it makes me the writer I am.”

When I read his words, I felt I knew this man I never met. His thoughts mimicked mine. He searches for humor through pain. And why? Just because. His reasoning is defense. Mine is survival. And so, I’ll find some humor in my devasting loss. 

Dad-gum-it, Mama! Nobody wants your stuff! * Not the marble statues, the mahogany furniture, your porcelain china, the sterling silver, the massive oil paintings, or those portraits of our dead relatives.  

 

 

 

Stuff after Death = Humor

Our parent’s treasures. Oh my!

Estates, Liquidating, Settling and selling …blah, blah, blah. Call it what you want. Wait until you are in the midst of it and see what you call it: possessions/stuff/crap! It’s all the same.

If you are still reading this post, please listen. Be kind to your children. They do not want your stuff. Neither do estate folks, antique shops or collectors.  Our children are not collectors. Most of them are minimalists. They want new technology, Restoration Hardware, IKEA, and designer clothes while driving massive SUV’s.

 

 

 

And all the dolls seen above. What the heck, you ask????

Well…ugh…okay! I’m 100% to blame. I made my sweet mama a Victorian doll thirty-years-ago. Yep, the one pictured below. Shoot me now!

That started her collecting ‘collections’ of more ‘collections’. It was me.

Well, not this me, the one writing this post. It was the other me, the one who made the doll. That Prissy you read about in Far Outside the Ordinary. That Prissy and this Prissy are two different species. Trust me.

That one smocked little girls’ dresses, made porcelain dolls, dressed them in clothes made with her own hands. She rolled and whipped edges and seams of imported batiste fabric creating heirloom dresses. She threaded silk ribbon through antique lace bonnets and crowned their heads. She loved designing clothes and watching  life spring from the dolls’ composite bodies. This me is NOT that me. Nada, none, done!  

And now, this me has her own dolls sitting inside a curio cabinet, smiling at her from their hand-painted faces wearing elegant clothes. She (me) signed, dated, and gifted Garrett and Sara Britton (daughters) their own dolls, in equal division. Why do I still have them after three decades, you wonder? Yeah, me to! Because…drum roll…..They don’t want them. Me either. And, furthermore….  I. do. not. want. my mother’s dolls either. Wake-up. It’s a new era. Nobody wants stuff anymore. Including me.  

So, should you know of any ‘Doll Collectors’….do tell! Asap.

 

 

 

Enough stuff about stuff. You get the picture. You’re welcome!

Words, Wisdom and Songs

 

It was the 8th Annual 30A Songwriters Festival this past weekend and we just returned home. There were 175 artists covering 30 venues along Scenic Highway 30A in Northwest Florida. I’ve gone seven out of the last eight years, dragging my kind husband along. He doesn’t care one hoot about music, but he cares that I do.

Since I love all genres (country, indie, soul, opera etc.) and he loves me, we attend plenty of concerts. I’ve been known to dance in the forbidden aisle only to be escorted back to my seat by the guard. Tina Turner made me do that with her six-inch pumps flying in the air!

 

 

Okay, here’s a confession from a girl who spends hours writing. I’m a music junkie and Pandora is my drug. I-Tunes is peddling close behind. The number of songs downloaded on my apple device is shameful, ridiculous. I’m not oversharing that number with you, I’m just not.

Author friends always ask, “Prissy, how do you write with that noise?”

I like what I like. That’s why there’s chocolate and vanilla ice cream. End of story.

Seth Walker: New Orleans roots made him a fave for me. A poster boy for blues, gospel, pop, rock, R&B and a dash of country. And he’s cute, don’t you think?

I’m not only a music junkie, I’m also a nerd. I’m not to be confused with smarties who score 1500 on the SAT. That’s another specimen, entirely. Those people are science, math, computer– genius nerds– who turned our world around and changed lives forever: medically, technically, and productively. Then there’s me. I’m just a word nerd and will never make the world better, or different.

But I did make a world of difference for me. It wasn’t easy, or fast, or even planned. Like everything in life, the difference occurred while journeying the unknown. I translated my internal thoughts- convergent and divergent- into words. It happened moment by moment, day by day.

I like to compose and string words into sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters, and hopefully, a book. I do this playing music in the background.

It’s been a deep-rooted excavation of my soul, again. Trying to make sense of dreams, memories, choices, mistakes, regrets, life, even me. I’ve realized through each tap, tap, tap on my keyboard, it’s not for the faint of heart.

Yrsa Daley-Ward, a favorite poet

Occasionally, a thought germinates in my head. Where did that come from, more importantly, why? I can barely decipher the thought, much less the meaning.

Perhaps, I’m no different than an artist who stares at a blank canvas. She’s holding her bristle brush loaded with paint, just wondering. She has so many color options, a plethora of paint tubes she’s collected over the years. She chooses one color and stares, thinks, waits for that inspiration. Finally, it comes and she begins her creation. She has no idea where it will lead, how it will end, what it will be. That’s the beauty and madness of an artist.

It’s daunting, challenging, and exciting laying that first stroke. She tries to understand the flow of her brush, blends the edges, fills in those tiny corners one seldom notices. She worries as she writes paints, afraid of critics lurking nearby. Is it good? Will past admirers be happy? She sees her vision with each tap stroke and tries to capture on her page canvas. Sometimes she feels brave, most days only afraid. She refuses to retreat, because, well, she can’t. She’s compelled to complete her book painting. Otherwise, it festers inside her being, consuming her daily thoughts and nightly dreams. That’s simply unacceptable to this writer painter.

My 30A weekend was different this time. I think I learned something about myself and understand where my passion for music originated.

It came as I sat inside a listening room at the venue I chose. Sitting next to me was a sweet, adorable girl talking, while the performer sang his heart out. I perked my lips and gave her a shh!! I can’t believe I did that. But he was singing beautiful lyrics, his tenderness coupled with pain. I had to hear the words behind his song. Didn’t she?

It was in that moment it clicked. My passion isn’t about the music, but rather the words inside the music. The message.

The Song{writers} Festival is full of lyrical stories.The beats, rhythm and cords are played with guitars, violins, accordians, horns and everything in between. The melody is just icing on my lyrical cake.

All those words strung into lyrics, melodies and songs tell us stories.They are all storytellers like me. Only they write with melody, I write with ink… in blogs and book(s). I had never really thought about that. Not really.

As I listened to their lyrics, I understood the hard-knock lessons they wrote, recorded, and hoped to sell.  Some may get that record deal they want…if lucky. Some may realize they were better off without it. The music world, the movie world, the publishing world- they are all alike. It can be a delicious entree, but it depends on the chef. You never know until you order, pay and taste. It may be the most expensive rotten bite you ever tasted. Risk. Is. Always.There.

Songwriters and memorists journal from deep within:  love, sadness, pain, addicitions, joy, happiness, rebirths, reinvention, even destruction are shared. The lyrics and songs, pages and books- they all come from lessons endured. They decide to share, perhaps knowing it may lessen the pain and heartache of listeners. And in my case… readers. It was an epic moment for this author. I understood. Finally.

 

Farewell Angelina:  These girls aren’t just singers, they’re friends. They were a slam dunk this weekend. I’ve watched from the sidelines as they rose to the top. They have made it! They have reached the ‘tipping point’ and don’t yet even know it. Their humbleness makes my heart sing.

We first met when they played one of my book-signings in Tallahassee. It was a Far{m} Outside the Ordinary party at The Space I co-hosted with The Space and Fresh New Start,  a non-profit organization for young widows. Fresh New Start.

Fast forward to now! They have been named one of the Top 10 Upcoming Country Artists in Rolling Stone magazine, climbing the stardom ladder step by step. Beautiful girls with lovely souls who work hard every day. Check them out: Farewellangelinamusic.com

 

Jim Gray, a five-star guy, shuttled us to our car (a long walk) in his newly refurbished five-star luxuryVW Bus.Thank-you for that, Jim! Love the outfit, btw:-)

 Florida day in a Florida way…

Val and Dave… the epitome of good karma who radiate warmth to anyone nearby. I got tanned just hanging around them all week-end.

I think 30A (Alys, Rosemary, Watercolor, Seaside ) is growing faster than summer weeds. It’s been discovered. Darn it!

The homes are stunning with plenty of culture, art, shops, and restaurants nearby. Plus Hidden Lantern in Rosemary Beach & Sundog Books in Seaside live there. I love those independent bookstores most of all! Visit them!

It’s been said the beaches along 30A are some of the best in the world. I wish I was taller (who doesn’t) so you could see that heavenly, white sand behind me!

Below: “Hay there” Southern-Italian style hello. NOTE:  Lips are inches apart. We are NOT kissing. But we wanted Garrett, my daughter, to think so! We be bad, but we be fun!

Michael is her sidekick at Maclay School. He makes her job fun ’cause he’s fun. Everyone loves them some Michael Obrecht, King of the Music Groupie Empire.

We ended the weekend with a Gospel Brunch at Caliza’s, inside the heart of Alys Beach. There are no words for how this concert moves me.

Ben Glover entertained us. He is a two time Grammy award winning songwriter and producer and has penned over thirty-five #1 hits in multiple genres of music. He was named ASCAP’s songwriter of the year in 2010, 2012, 2013, 2015 and 2016. Kudos. 

He held court with Brian White, Karyn Williams and Phil Madeira…think Alison Krauss, Garth Brooks, Emmylou Harris, Civil Wars, Amy Grant, Keb’Mo’, Mumford and Sons. Phil has written songs for all of them. It was a glorious morning full of Hallelujah!

 

Laughter is life’s best medicine. Always. I laughed so much I grew welcomed wrinkles. Wait. Are those muscles on my arms? Score!

 

God and the cosmic universe navigate my life. Pieces of conversation are always nuggets of gold for a writer. I try to listen. Sometimes conversatons aren’t realized, or even understood, until much later. Like in the middle of the night, nudged out of sleep, the aha moment, with dazed eyes. Awake!

The night before I left for 30A was one of those nights. I bolted straight up from my sound sleep. And, just like that, I knew. 

I waited for the sun to rise to text my Far Outside the Ordinary cover designer, Katie Campbell. Her ‘butterfly’ on my bookcover was recognized and awarded as one of the top five designs that year…. right next to Justin Timberlake’s merchandise. That was also her design.

My FOTO cover was featured in the prestigious Print magazine, right next to Me Before You. Katie is beyond cool…. but even better, she’s my niece! She belongs to my sister, Gina.  Give her to ME!!!!

We set the date and time for our new ‘cover slam jam’.  But Katie cancelled, pushed my anxious fanny aside to meet her big deadline.  Later, on her instagram feed, I saw that deadline. I had to laugh. It was so fitting after my music revelation over the weekend. The circularity in this author’s life is stellar.

Katie is in high demand: LA captive, LA escapee, LA recaptive. Zac Brown was the perfect ending to my weekend. After all, he’s a writer, singer of great melodies. It’s fitting his music should trump a word nerd. Not to mention, I pay far less $$$.  ‘Nuff said.

But just so you know ’cause she’s so humble and would never boast, or share, I can. After all, it’s my blog, by golly.

Here are just a few other clients I’m up against. AC/DC; Aero Smith; Demi Loveto; Fleetwood Mac; Florida Georgia Line; James Taylor; Jewel; Justin Timberlake; Kontra band; Kurt Cobain; Live Nation; Lynrd Skynrd; Madonna; Selena Gomaz; Straight No Chaser; The Ten Tenors. 

Say what? I swear.

Screen shot of my Far Outside the Ordinary cover on her website below. Campkatie.com

Enjoy our January summer. I just killed a mosquito in 77 degree weather today. That’s wrong on so many levels.

My next blog caption may/could/should read:  Cover, Title, Touchdown. That is if those more important ‘folk‘ don’t throw me to the curb and steal my Katie’s time. 

We can only hope….

 

Cheers and Hugs!

Prissy

The post Words, Wisdom and Songs appeared first on Prissy's Blog.

Warmest Holiday Wishes

 

Blessings From My Family To Yours

Let me take this opportunity to send my heartfelt thanks for your support and encouragement on this journey of mine, the one I never anticipated.

Your kindness and enthusiasm since the release of Far Outside the Ordinary has filled my heart with such gratitude. From comments on this blog, to texts, emails, phone calls and your outreach through social media. It humbles me more and more each day. Thank-you!

Far Outside the Ordinary continues to sell by the power of two. Two people tell two, who tell two, then two more. This momentum gives purpose to the long hours I spend writing, taking me away from friends and family. It also propels me to finish the sequel, a story that keeps me up at night. I am working tirelessly to complete it. And I realized I have each of you to thank for giving me this guided purpose. 

May your holiday season and coming year be ladened with love, happiness and good health.

Merriest of Cheer!

Prissy

 

 

The post Warmest Holiday Wishes appeared first on Prissy's Blog.

Beauty, Brutality and Silver Linings

We popped into an Amalfi shop the last day of our Italy trip. The butterflies were everywhere this butterfly girl looked. What are the odds? The next day we journeyed back to Rome for one last night before departure. I had no idea what awaited. I simply can’t make this stuff up!

Since Dale (my hubs) was still harboring ‘something’, I hired a driver recommended by our hotel concierge for the five-hour trip to Rome.  When he picked us up, I gave him the name of our hotel. I love finding unique out of the way places to stay.

“I not heard of this.” He said. 

“Really? It has great reviews and it’s five-star.” I boasted.

He entered the address into his GPS. Five hours later, he was still looking for it. Even the GPS had trouble. Finally, he called the hotel number I gave him and they gave directions.

“I not know this even here.” he said driving through the wrought iron gate. “I drive client’s airport every day.” I heard him babbling to himself.

I felt so proud to have found a fabulous hotel even a native didn’t know about. Score, Prissy!

The facade and surrounding grounds reminded me of one of the plantations in Thomasville, Georgia. Hidden elegance, quiet isolation. When we checked in the gentleman suggested we make dinner reservations at the hotel restaurant. We were exhausted and that sounded great.

“Perhaps, 8:30 since we invite you to our wine reception at 7:00.” he said. 

“I love meeting new people, let’s do that.” I tell Dale.

We were shown to our beautiful room where two of these were laid out on our plush king-size bed.

I opened our French style window and admired our view as seen below.

I pulled out the only clean clothes left after two LONG weeks on the trail.  An indulging bath– in the luxurious bathtub– called out. I answered. There were so many products to choose from I decided to test them all. I was surprised to find they even had hair serum, a real bonus for a traveling lady. I applied a dab to the ends of my dried-out locks before we left for the reception.

When we arrived, all dolled up, we were turned away.

“You must wear robes.” We were told by the waiter holding glasses of delicious chardonnay on a silver tray.

“What… robes… we have dinner reservations over there.” I pointed to the fancy restaurant next to us, across from the ‘reception’ headquarters.

 “I’m sorry but we require robes at reception.” he repeated.

Say what…. you crazy a*s people!!!

Do you know where I’m going with this? 

Prissy had found herself a ‘Far Outside the Ordinary‘ place alright. It was a Roman Bath retreat.

I think we call it a ‘nudist colony’ in our language. Furthermore, that serum in my hair wasn’t serum at all. The words ‘personal care’ on those three bottles in the bathroom were, well…maybe, more personal.

I scrubbed my hair when we returned from dinner that evening…. fully clothed, by the way!

And that was just the last day of a two-week Italy adventure, a vacation I desperately needed. The first two weeks…well, they were crazier. However, I’ve learned to make lemonade with my lemons. And, sometimes, I even add vodka. And yes, this was a vodka added time.

I’ve been an absent writer for months. My blog is such a passive little thing, sitting quietly in the backseat. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I spin around on my wheels, with loudmouths and high-maintenance (meetings and marketing) riding shotgun in my life.

The most demanding riders always steal the show and my attention. Note to self: One shouldn’t birth multiple offspring…the quiet one always get neglected. Too late, Prissy!

The fury and force of Hurricane Hermine…my goodness! To say it reaped havoc on this beautiful, southern city would be a travesty in narrative description. Thousands lost power for days, even weeks, as temperatures soared to 90+ degrees.

Many picturesque and historical live oak trees were destroyed. Our home became a refuge for family, friends, even a stranger or two. It took a village to help this village. We wouldn’t know it then, but, Hurricane Matthew was waiting around the corner with more Florida destruction. Friends on the east coast can attest to that. Two nasty hurricanes: Hermine and Matthew!

Days later I was struck with more devastation. So much worse. Charlotte Horne, my dear friend (see below) lost her battle with breast cancer. She was one of the most perfect human beings God ever created. My fractured heart is scarred forever more.

There is a ladder of grief I need to climb: Shock/Denial. Pain/Guilt. Anger. Depression/Reflection. Acceptance/Hope. My brain keeps telling my aching heart the pain will lessen. I wait. Still.

There would be more heartache.  A family friend diagnosed with cancer. The death of a child. The murder of a friend.  Two sides of life: beauty and brutality. Coping. Always coping.

I had to excavate and find some way to restore the creativity buried in my soul. Dale took me to Italy. I was certain pleasure awaited and I could heal. Life keeps its own agenda though. Italy became a story. It became this blog, as a matter of fact.

I like to be prepared. Before we left the country, I pre-ordered my No-Jet-Lag http://www.nojetlag.com. I followed directions to the tee. I’m that kind of girl. And, by golly, it worked. A big ‘thank-goodness’ since I had no idea what awaited. 

If you read my book you already know I’m the last living authority on everything I know nothing about. It was never more apparent than when we landed in Rome after our ten-hour flight. I was positive Dale had a blood clot. I based my diagnosis on his racing heart, profuse sweating, nausea, and a slight cramp in his leg. You would too, right?

I immediately hauled his fanny from the airport to the hospital. Well, there was a pit stop between the two places.  However, my word count would be way too high if I explained. 

I asked our driver to drop us at the ER entrance. We were only two steps inside and my suspected diagnosis fell from my dehydrated mouth in a southern slang.  The ER personnel understood nothing I said. Furthermore, they were too busy for google translate to translate. I thought someone spoke English in foreign hospitals. Umm….wrong! Nada! Non comprendevano!

Someone looked at him (or me) and injected a syringe into his chest. This was followed by two EKG’s, an echocardiogram, a chest x-ray, and vials and vials of blood drawn three-hours apart. Okay, maybe I did misdiagnose. But something was wrong. Why else would they try to keep him overnight?!** Dale refused to stay. Go Dale!

It would be thirteen long hours before we fled that place, against the advice of the only English speaking doctor I could find. I confess I did sit up all night watching him sleep, No-Jet-Lag hanging nearby. What the heck is in that stuff??!* 35 hours after my first dose, I was still wide awake. And hungry. There was no food in the hospital or hotel.

Early next morning we hit the Rome streets full throttle with friends- Paul and Mary Kikta- running beside us. Two days squeezed into one: Vatican, Sistine Chapel, St. Peters, flea markets and everything in between. 7 a.m. to midnight. Yes, I was still going– like a battery. Shocking! 

One good thing, I met Mr. and Mrs. Bruno Limentani in that God-forsaken hospital waiting room. They told me they owned a family retail business nearby and suggested we visit the next day. And we did…OMG…we did! It was more than a shop– dear, humble, Italian couple–so much more!

Ditta Leone Limentani, is known as ‘ Cocciari of Rome’. The store was founded by Leo Limentain in 1820 and Bruno is seventh generation. They manufacture fine porcelain china for famous leaders all over the world…Shah of Iran, Tito of Yugoslavia, the Pope, all the china for the Vatican.  We got a VIP tour with Bruno as our guide. It was a good day… a very good day… a silver lining day. 

“Don’t you just love silver linings?” I asked Dale. He never answered.

We left Rome the next day for a week of cooking in Termoli, Italy. I was certain the worst was behind me . I mean him.

As we journeyed–on a bus, ugh–I noticed my patient was either scratching or sleeping.

Now what?!*

My diagnostician brain was at work, again. When we finally arrived early evening, he was covered in hives, a rash and very strange marks. They were everywhere.

I asked the small group leader where I might find a pharmacy, explaining my concern over the unknown medication he received in Rome.  My concern fed her concern…she summoned a doctor.

Within fifteen minutes the doctor arrived, along with two nurses and an ambulance. Poof! Dale was snatched and sirened away. I was left behind, stunned, a breath away from the Adriatic Sea.

There would be more tests, more shots, more hours. At midnight, he was finally released from the hospital. And, again, no diagnosis. Lordy me… we still had thirteen days to go!  

Fortunately, Maria Laura Pace, our guide, sat with me in the Termoli waiting room for hours.  She became my second silver lining.

She and I shared stories: history, joy and pain. What a beautiful soul she has. I think we knew each other in some other life. It felt like it, our synergy electric. Laura is a worldly entrepreneur with so many talents. Check out her blog: http://www.laura-selection.com. 

I might put my travel hat back on again for a 2017 project and take small groups to ‘out of the box’ destinations in Italy.  If you want your name on my information list, post on my blog, or IM Facebook. It will be a ‘Far Outside the Ordinary‘ adventure for the few who tag along with us. 

After three long days and two hospital visits, it was time to chase and capture some Italian fun. And we did, moment by moment, day by day. Italy is one of the most beautiful countries in Europe and my personal favorite. It fed my heart and soothed my soul.

Old Abruzzi & Molise

Epicurean Cooking: A full week residing and cooking within the walled, medieval enclave of Termoli, Italy. Residenza Sveva (where we stayed) and Restaurati Svevia (where we cooked) pays homage to the Sveva synasty, with its greatest splendor in the 13th century.

Termoli is such a magical, timeless town with surroundings of Frederick 11 of Sveva fortifications and its charming castle. This ancient town stands at the top of a cape and is known as Borgo Vecchio (old village) and juts out over the Adriatic Sea. It looks like a small fortified cathedral, with tiny squares and alleys. One of the narrowest alleys in Europe is found there. It’s called Vico 11 Castello.

 

Highlights of our culinary week: Olive Mill tour and tasting at Colonna estate; Sommelier Wine Pairing Class; Pasta and Truffle Cooking Class, Vineyard Tour and Tastings, Vasto Tour and Trabuco Fishing House, Peasant Food Cooking Class, Antipasti Cooking Class, Visit to Agnone and Bell Foundry, Cheese Making and Factory Tour, 12th Century Cathedral Tour, Guided Fish Market Tour, Pizza Making Class. 

We visited so many exotic places frequented by so few. Then it was back to our quaint, charming village to cook with our five-star-chef. The word fantastic does not suffice!

We visited Princess Marina Colonna’s Dimora Rurale estate, in her family for over 200 years. She produces extra virgin olive oils and citrus oils for William-Sonoma and Dean and De Luca.

Then her personal chef served lunch on the grounds, after we learned the process of making olive oil. Amazing!

One day we took a tour of Vasto and its historical center and dined on a unique Trabuco fishing house which jutted out into the sea. I drank… a lot… waiting for…’huff, puff, I’ll blow your house down!

Below: The famous Caseificio Di Nuccia.  Founded in 1662. Most   awarded   cheese in Italy

I’m with Franco Di Nucci and his lovely wife. He is tenth generation in family company

Below: Vineyard tour, wine tasting & dinner at Il Quadrifoglio Agriturismo….divine!

And just like that our week was over. We packed up our gear and hired a driver. Dale and I were bound for the next leg of our trip. And yes, he still had the rash, hives and itching. He was miserable!  Poor Dale, my traveling trouper. What a guy!

Amalfi Coast…

My first visit to Italy was in college. I’m lucky to have traveled there several times with Boone and our girls. I even escorted a large group of twenty-five to Rome, Venice, Florence and Milan. That was back in the day when I wore my travel consultant hat.

I have no idea why I ever skipped the Amalfi coast.  Positano, Praiano, Tramonti, Atrani, Minori, Amalfi, Ravello, Capri, Sorrento. The moment we arrived it felt like home. Each place had a unique flavor with a delicious taste. Indescribable! 

My grandparents were from Palermo. Maybe that’s why it felt so right, like I belonged, was even meant to live there. Yet, somehow, I ended up on another continent… by mistake.

 

I think the nudist hotel suited our vacation, a perfect way to end the trip. Had I been thirty years younger, shaved my legs, and consumed some of my vodka infused lemonade, who knows, I might would have worn that robe for free chardonnay.

We flew home the next morning from Rome, the poor hubby still scratching, both of us laughing.

The silver lining…

My creativity was rebirthed after this trip. Once again, I am reminded of the magnificent artistry of our Creator. His world is simply splendiferous!

Stay tuned for my next Blog: Mystery, Magazine and Movie Blitz

And don’t forget to let me know if you are crazy enough to travel back to Italy with me. I’ll send you one of my informational packets. That is…when I get around to putting one together. 

Cheers and hugs!

Prissy

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A Splash of Toilet Water

Some would say I have an uncanny memory.  I’ve discovered that’s not such a great thing.  Let me explain…

Memory One: I’m a tiny little thing and a babysitter is rocking me to sleep. Fat chance that’s happening since the sitter fell asleep and not me. I remember gripping and clinging on to huge breasts as I slipped towards the wooden floor below my little self. My mother found me hanging when she arrived home. And yes, it has been verified by a grown-up. I’ve been scared of heights ever since– bridges, high balconies, Ferris wheels, well, you get the picture.

Memory Two: Another event I’m purging from memory is being stuck with a diaper pin when I was a baby. It’s true. Nobody believes me when I tell them.  According to Mazelle- who raised me- I was 100% potty-trained by 18-months-old. I know, I’m impressed, too. So now, let’s do the math here. That means I would have been under 18 months old when I was stuck with that pin, right? My potty-training IQ was shared with me by Mazelle when my babies were slower to be trained. My point to this story– I remember things way back and that has influenced this girl– not in a good way.

Memory Three: Let’s talk germs, shall we? I’m a phobic according to girlfriends who have been unfortunate enough to room with me. They take great delight in comparing stories of traveling with Prissy. Dr. Oz hasn’t helped my affliction with his televised shows on ‘fecal matter in all hotel rooms’ and ‘e-coli’ everywhere else. I’ve been known to pull out my alcohol sprayer before the bellman gets his tip. I traced this need for overcleaning to another buried memory and may have unraveled a possible link …men.

Hold on gentlemen, let me explain. Don’t judge me, not yet.

It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college.  I decided I wanted to spend it in the big city we all know and love– Atlanta. And by the way nothing has changed. I’d still like to do that.

Anyway, it was a very last minute decision (the best ones usually are, right?) and off I went with my girlfriend, Debe Chesson.  Of course, neither one of us had jobs, contacts, or plans. Saks failed to hire me after I informed them I could only work six weeks. Clearly, I needed to polish my interviewing skills.

If I wanted to stay in Atlanta that summer we had to be creative. Believe you me, we were. We decided to clean apartments for money. Now it couldn’t be just any apartments, mind you. We rode around and looked for some gated, fancy hoods that showcased expensive cars out front: BMW’s, Mercedes, and Jaguars. I wasn’t prejudiced, just practical. We targeted busy, successful, executive bachelors. They were the only ones who could actually pay me enough money to stay in Atlanta those six weeks. Had my daddy known his daughter was knocking on doors of strangers’ apartments, he would have snatched my hair and dragged me straight home. 

So we got ourselves dressed up real cute, wearing Pappagallo shoes and Lily Pulitzer frocks. We knocked on doors with our clip boards, flyers, and big grins. We even offered to do their dirty, personal laundry for a tiny bit more money.  Did I say I was crazy? Yes, indeed, crazier than crazy. But here’s the good thing… I read a lot of crime novels back then. We stipulated the apartments be empty of all occupants during our cleaning hours. Clearly, had there been a murderer living there, he would have torn up that contract and smiled after he killed us.

Fortunately– for the two stupid girls– we were lucky. And just in case you’re wondering– the women who answered the doors shooed us away. They were smart enough to know they could clean better than us. They were right, by the way.

The lesson I learned that summer followed me.  Money doesn’t make you clean. Those were some nasty apartments, dirty clothes, and ill kept men driving those big, fancy cars. I’ve been a Q-tip cleaner ever since…germs need to move away from me. My point of sharing this story is my next story. Stay with me.

Last week I went to see Elizabeth Gilbert in this wonderful city where I live- Tallahassee, Florida.  You remember her—Eat, Pray, Love; Big Magic– that girl. I was very fortunate and invited to meet her at a small cocktail party before the event. Oh my, she was so charming, grounded and real. I loved her instantly.

After the cocktail party my girlfriends and I scooted over to Ruby Diamond Auditorium for her lecture at Florida State University. I was so pumped to see her speak, especially since I’m doing some of that myself.

I had a couple of minutes to run to the ladies’ room before the lights were dimmed and the entry doors to the auditorium closed. I told my friends I’d be right back and left them waiting in the lobby. Inside the stall I looked for a place to hang my favorite, perfect-sized, adorable, burlap, beige clutch. There were no hooks on the closed stall door. I found a stainless shelf above the toilet and carefully placed it there, reminding myself not to forget it.

I turned around and positioned myself in a perfect squat. I lifted my silk, darn cute, chiffon dress high above my knees for a quick pee. For the record, Rocky Balboa a.k.a. Sylvester Stallone has nothing on my legs. My thigh muscles are stone hard from years of squatting to keep myself as far away from public toilet seats as possible. I heard a splash. It wasn’t coming from me!

At first I didn’t believe it so couldn’t react. I looked down into the toilet and watched my favorite, adorable, burlap, perfect-sized clutch sink to the bottom of the toilet bowl. I was paralyzed. Inside were my tickets, wallet, i-phone and more.  I stared at the ‘beigeness’ sitting at the bottom of the bowl in international toilet water.  I pulled myself together and reached down and pulled it out as water dripped from the burlap threads. I opened the stall door and raced to the sink with a quart of toilet water spilling over me and the polished, historical floor. I  pulled yards of paper towels from the dispenser and removed all they had.  I wrapped them around my purse and contents and raced out the door. The toilet water had soaked the brown paper towels before the door closed behind me. Water ran down the front and sides of my dress, my legs, and splashed all over my cute new shoes.

I looked around and realized the lights were already dimmed and the doors to the auditorium were closed. My friends were gone, along with every other soul in attendance. I stood in disbelief with that nasty toilet water dripping from my armload of brown sogginess. And I didn’t even get to pee.

But you know what—I didn’t let it ruin my night. I didn’t speed home for a shower. Nope, I stayed.  Well, in all honesty, I didn’t drive my own car and would have needed Uber. And in order to pay Uber I would need to dig into the germ-infested purse and locate my i-phone which stored their information. Instead, I slipped through the back door, sat alone, and listened to Elizabeth Gilbert. The toilet water puddled and ran down the floor of Ruby Diamond Auditorium during her entire, inspiring speech.  But guess what Dr. Oz, and everyone else? I survived. I didn’t get E-Coli or any other deadly disease. Not yet anyway.

My sisters and I are taking my mother to Sea Island for her birthday celebration next week. It will always be that place of ‘Remembered Beauty’ I wrote about in Far Outside the Ordinary. I’ll also be getting some much needed rest at Rosemary Beach the following week, rebooting this old brain of mine, before heading to Los Angeles for some Far Outside the Ordinary business.

We all know pigs don’t fly, right? When my daughters were young and whined for something ridiculous, I would reply, “Sure honey, when pigs fly.”

The irony is there are whispers a pig might get fitted for wings. If magically these wings do actually fly, I’ll share this incredulous news with you. According to my daughters… I overshare everything.  Nah, no way!

Enjoy this beautiful spring, your family and the abundant joy in living. We are blessed and this comes from someone who knows. I remain grateful every day just to have another day.

 

Warmest wishes!

 

Prissy

 

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THE COLORING CRAZE

Have you heard about the Coloring Craze sweeping the nation?

Coloring Books for Adults are a huge trend now. Notice I didn’t write Adult Coloring Books which I fear someone might take the wrong way. 

I heard of the up and coming trend last spring after my friend Nancy shared this phenomenon. She suggested I needed a Far Outside the Ordinary coloring book. This was before it had become a whirlwind in almost every store in the country. Here are examples of awesome Coloring Books for Adults.

  

 The artist in me kept screaming….me, me, me, do it for me. It was July when I mentioned to my hubby I wanted a Far Outside the Ordinary coloring book. He ignored me (in a very nice way) and suggested I focus on finishing my second book. I ignored him and kept researching, sending him email after email about this trend. 

For the record, my husband is a computer nerd genius and has created multiple businesses and websites including mine. He is also a guru on SEO (search engine optimization) and other technical stuff most people know little about, and frankly care even less about. He offered to check it out in hopes I would get back to finishing my book.

Nanny-nanny-boo-boo! What do you think happened? 

“Prissy, okay, maybe we should do a coloring book.” He was standing at my studio door holding his Excel spreadsheet.

Oh Lordy….how this girl loves being right!  And so here we are with three Far Outside the Ordinary Coloring Books: Butterflies, Flowers and Circles. They were ready in December but my new website wasn’t.  She was getting a nip and tuck on her brand new face.

Now, finally, you can find them on the website: prissyelrod.com. If you’re not sure you would like coloring, on my website you can try coloring for free.  You can do this easily by clicking FIVE FREE Mandala Coloring Pages. 

 

Shop locally for these coloring books at the following Tallahassee stores: Sweet Patina, Hearth and Soul, Bedfellows, Weezie’s Cottage Living, My Favorite Things and The Bookshelf  in Thomasville, Georgia. Please support these marvelous shops overflowing with so many other beautiful treasures. 

Coloring Book Parties are a big rage. The Bookshelf in Thomasville, Georgia had the first Far Outside the Ordinary Coloring Night. It was relaxing and tons of fun.  I have more in the next few weeks, including Hearth and Soul (March 10) and Bedfellows (April 11).  Gather your friends and ready yourself for this peaceful pleasure. I’ll be so relaxed after all these parties people will think I’m medicated.

Why not check out this great article on the health benefits of coloring: Three Reasons Adult Coloring Can Actually Relax Your Brain

And for more on the subject—here is a great blog about coloring. This is another cool site:  National Coloring Association

                                   

You can also watch your favorite television show –perhaps binge watch The Housewives of Here, There and Yonder–while coloring. We Southerners call that multi-tasking. Personally, I think those housewives should indulge their senses, relax their minds and color their world outside of gray. They seem pretty high-maintenance to me.  

DAZE is what I’m in most of the time.

I know I’m not the only one. We all live in a fast-paced world, overscheduled, and hauling around our overloaded brains.  I can’t remember where I’m supposed to be half the time, probably because I’m using four different calendars. Trust me, I know how crazy that sounds. Garrett, the Type A daughter, has lectured me on this nonsensical behavior for two years.  My brain is just more creative than organized.  To be frank, I’m happy to have a brain. 

Just the other day I forgot I had a 50-minute radio interview until I answered the phone with a mouth full of hot tomato soup. It was live, syndicated and from a northerner.  Good thing I know how to run my mouth. 

Most days I feel like a squirrel on meth.  Just so you know– I watched Breaking Bad and got educated on that poison. Then, for whatever reason,  I wondered what would happen if a squirrel took it. I know, I’m way too weird.

MAZE is another word I wear.

I’m in three book clubs and always trying to remember when, where, and who is having it. Not to mention which book is selected for which club.  And yes, I get them all mixed up. We meet for food, fun and the dissection of the chosen book I better have read. I know any sane person would be in only one. But I love all three clubs, each filled with a diversified group of wonderful friends. Beside it’s like therapy, which, let’s face it — I probably need.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Count your breath. One, Two, Three. Okay, I’m better now. I just took five minutes and used my meditation app. It keeps me from worrying about almost any ‘ole thing, especially some silly mixed up calendar. Small stuff — and this from someone who knows.

Over the last year I’ve had many friends and family requesting Far Outside the Ordinary koozies and other items showcasing the award winning butterly image on my book.  I listened to those requests and my pleasing gene kicked in.  You will now find Far Outside the Ordinary koozies and other products on my site, along with the requested audio version of Far Outside the Ordinary narrated by me.  Pour yourself a drink for that one. I sure did.

   

Everyone is asking when I will finish my new book.  I know I’m taking way too long.  I couldn’t agree more. I’m ashamed. Yet, nobody gave Harper Lee grief and she took decades.  I keep thinking what happened to her after the second book was finally released. Exactly!

 And the movie rumor? Look up. When you see the pigs flying…you will know.

Let’s enjoy this beautiful life and pray for world peace. The crazy people around the world scare me to death. They should all start coloring and de-stress their mean little selves, don’t you think?

Come on spring—get here already!

Don’t forget to sneak yourself a peak at my new and improved website 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Little Engine That Could

As you can see Prissy’s Blog has been under construction, now remodeled, and is up and running again. That means I have no excuse for not blogging. But I’m sure I’ll think of some anyway. It’s pretty bad when I realize my last post was Father’s Day. And now October is peaking at me from around the corner with crisp air, colored leaves, football, and festivals hanging nearby. Have you noticed I only blog on ‘Something’ Days? Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and now a Fall day. Okay, I know I am the worst blogger inside the blogosphere world. I should get an award.  How about a trophy, please, please, please?  I’ve never won a trophy for anything. Never. It might as well be for being a lousy blogger. Here’s the thing… unless I have something to share I just don’t want to waste your time. Nobody, and I mean nobody, has time for anything, anyone, anymore. You know it. I know it. It stinks.

“I think I can, I think I can!”

 

                               

I slipped on my armored dress, a splash of Flower Bomb perfume, and with a dollop of tiny courage headed for the recording studio.  I felt just like that little engine. With my southern accent and all the critics awaiting, I decided I would narrate Far Outside the Ordinary. A committee of everyone I asked, along with my research, revealed the author of a memoir should be the narrator. Rats! I must say it was much harder than writing the book.  When I was composing my narrative arc, the content, characters and everything that encompassed my story, I had to analayze and weave it together with careful planning. The brain was in charge. But when I isolated myself inside that recording studio, read my written words out loud through the microphone, well…it echoed reminders of those painful and dark months I wrote about.  And it was brutal. This time I was sharing my story from a totally different place … my heart. There was more than one day I had to stop. But I returned and was determined I could do it. I knew my childrens’ children, and theirs, would hear Far Outside the Ordinary read by me. I was brave enough, but barely.

As I drove to the studio one day I was remembering a boy I knew decades ago. He walked with metal poles with his two thin arms slid inside the welded holes which supported his weight.  He had strawberry blond hair with chocolate brown eyes. He was much smaller than the other boys in our Lake City, Florida, middle school. Rail thin, with a slightly curved spine, he wore very thick glasses and shoes with elevated soles.Whenever he would run into me somewhere his adoration was like a puppy waiting for a treat.  I was his treat. One day as I retreived books from my locker, I heard him calling my name from afar.  I looked over and watched as he raced down the corridor as fast as those cumbersome poles would carry him.  “Prissy, Prissy, will you go to homecoming with me?” he asked. He was breathless but had the confidence of a rock star. It was so unexpected and out of the blue. I was unprepared. But I do remember looking into his brown eyes, so magnified by his glasses they were out of proportion for that tiny face. I saw this kind, soulful being who twirled his thin fingers and waited  for my answer as though I was somebody important. I thought he might be an angel and it was a test. I said yes. Of course, I would.  He was ambitious, funny, and so brave. He was fragile, yet fearless, and despite life’s challenges he had the courage of a lion.  We went to the homecoming game that night. He sat smack dab in the front row stadium seat, his metal poles beside him, and watched as I cheered for our losing team. His smile never faded the entire night. A few years later he died from pneumonia. The boy’s name was Stevie Kuschell… polio did not define him. Thank you for teaching me the real meaning of courage, Stevie. I wish I could tell you how important your lessons were to me in your short life. As I pushed through narrating Far Outside the Ordinary your footprints were all over my heart.

There have been many readers asking when the sequel to Far Outside the Ordinary will be released? The truth– only when this ‘baby’ is well developed, healthy, full-term, and ready to deliver into this great, big, scary world. I want her strong enough to face the obstacles and challenges which, undoubtedly, await her.  I’m sure it seems like I’m a worthless slug, the slowest writer on the planet — along with being the worst blogger in blogosphere — but, hey, it is what it is. Writing is my joy but I believe it must be done right, have significant value for others, or just not be written at all.

Besides, don’t forget, I still have an active eighteen-month-old named Far Outside the Ordinary that can’t be ignored. She still needs my attention as I guide her from the shadows to the spotlight. Like most eighteen-month-olds, she is a ton of work. I can’t turn my back on that butterfly for even a minute.  I don’t want her getting into trouble, straying, wondering why I have forsaken her, and just when she flourished. What kind of mother would I be? But, yes indeed,  I am working on my sequel…..look for it in 2016. By the way that’s around the corner. Yikes!

So what have I been doing besides making excuses for not finishing my new book? Well I’ve become a professional speaker. Stop laughing! Okay, I’m laughing too. I know, I know… imagine me with a microphone standing center stage. Say it isn’t so. Really it is quite remarkable for a girl who once stutterered. It’s true. I had such extreme anxiety during graduate school I gave my oral thesis to the professor standing alone in his office. Every other student gave theirs in front of the class. As we all know…life is what it is and not what you expect. I have evolved into someone else. Now I can stand before any audience, fearless, and share how I navigated my personal loss and found hope, purpose and meaning after living through such a random, senseless tragedy. I’ve shared my message with a variety of fabulous audiences for some pretty spectacular events– here, there, and yonder: Merrill Lynch, SunTrust, Altrusa, Philanthropic Educational Organization, Florida Transportation Builders’ Association, Author Forums and will soon be headed back to where my education all started, Flagler College, to give the keynote address for the Women of Vision ‘Power of the Purse’ scholorship endowment luncheon. I am honored.

                

 

 

Aside from the sequel, I have a big surprise!  It’s different, fun and current. But, alas, I can’t tell you yet! I promise I will even if you didn’t give me a trophy. But a little mystery and suspense in one’s life is a good thing, don’t you think?  Of course you do. Stay tuned….

Who wants a Give-Away? Here you go….

GIVEAWAY: Far Outside the Ordinary AUDIO is now available on Amazon. To celebrate I’m giving away 15 FREE COPIES.   I will be randomly choosing my winners from Amazon and Goodreads’ reviewers.  If you’ve not posted your REVIEW on Amazon or Goodreads, please do so to be eligible. I would be most grateful. For my winners,  I will also include a Far Outside the Ordinary koozie and paperback all bundled together with the audio. A perfect Christmas gift, right? The deadline for your entry is October 15. The winner(s) will be selected on October 16. Good luck!!!!

So….that’s about it.  However, I promise the surprise mentioned earlier will be shared with you very soon.  I won’t wait until the next ‘Something’ Day…Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas.

Thanks so much for supporting me. I can feel your love, truly.

Warmest wishes and Happy October!

Prissy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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