Leta P. Hawk's Blog, page 24

This Winter Night

A night not fit for man nor beast, yet

The dog dances at the door,

Her nightly routine

Unaffected by the cold.

I open the door���

Out she goes!

I hesitate, reluctant to leave

The cozy warmth of the living room.

I step onto the deck, and my eyes follow

Raven zigzagging

Through the yard,

Her black form conspicuous

Against the snow-covered ground.

Old North Wind rushes in,

Scattering fallen snow like fairy dust

Across frozen fields.

Swirls of snowflakes sparkle diamondlike

In the porch light���s glow.

My eyes drift heavenward

To the cloudless sky alight with stars.

Orion stands sentinel

In the western sky, the Milky Way

A mantle cascading across his shoulders;

Even the hunter

Seeks warmth on this winter night.

A lone owl hoots

From some distant tree,

And I bid him well, knowing his prey

Likely eludes him in this cold.

Taking a cue from Orion,

I draw my own coat closer and call for the dog.

My whistle shatters the icy silence;

Raven ceases sniffing

And turns,

Her paws crunching across crusted snow.

She bounds up the steps,

And I open the door���

In she goes!

I pause, reluctant to leave

The frozen beauty of this night.

North Wind rushes in once more, and I shiver in surrender.

Orion winks wordlessly

As I bid him farewell and retreat inside.

An Unexpected Valentine

~ This is a work in progress, something that may be a short story, may be a novella, or may be a novel; I’ve no idea yet. Just having fun with it and seeing where it leads.

Annie Billow sat at her desk, surrounded by the new acquisitions she was cataloguing for the library. The task was taking longer than it normally would, not that she either noticed or minded, because she couldn���t refrain from reading the back cover blurbs and skimming through the first few pages of each book she picked up. She was about three-quarters of the way through the stack when she picked up a copy of the latest shape-shifter novel by one of the more popular Young Adult authors. She eagerly read the synopsis and then turned the book over to gaze dreamily at the artwork on the front cover. Her lips curved into a smile as she ran her fingers over the velvety matte cover and envisioned herself as the tall, beautiful heroine who would have some epic romantic adventure with the handsome, morose were-man whose brooding emerald eyes stared out from the cover. She let out a sigh and was just about to open to the first chapter when a deep male voice interrupted her reverie. ���Hi, Annie.���

�� �� �� �� �� She gasped and fumbled the book, at first thinking the man on the cover had spoken; then her head snapped up and she blinked rapidly a few times. A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks at being caught with a Young Adult book in her hands, even if Brock Cavanaugh was the one who had caught her. She didn���t know why she was embarrassed; she and Brock had grown up together, and he knew she could no more resist opening a book���any book���than a cat could resist an open can of tuna. [Even if he wasn���t a tall Alpha-wolf with bulging muscles, he was still achingly handsome with his short blond hair and gray-blue eyes. Not that that mattered to her anymore. She had long since given up her high school crush on Brock, completely satisfied���at least she told herself���with being his closest friend.] Suddenly realizing she hadn���t responded, and worse yet, that she was staring at him, she blurted out, ���Brock, hi. Why aren���t you at work?���

Brock feigned offense before giving in to the easy laugh that was always on his lips. ���What, can���t a guy take a lunch break?��� He knew Annie well enough to know she hadn���t meant to be abrasive, just that she had gotten caught up in her work.

���Lunch?��� Annie craned her neck to see the clock on the back wall. She was surprised to see that it was already past noon. ���I must have lost track of time.��� She turned back to him, a sheepish look on her face. ���Was there something you needed?���

He gave her a cocky grin and leaned on the desk. ���No, not since I was in this morning before work. I don���t devour books the way you do, Miss Bookworm.��� She wrinkled her nose at him, trying not to giggle at his expression; no use encouraging him. ���I just wondered if you���d like to grab some lunch with me.���

���Oh.��� Annie thought about the banana and the cup of strawberry yogurt stashed in the break room refrigerator.

Reading her thoughts, Brock urged, ���Oh, come on, Annie. You can have your yogurt during your afternoon break. Lunch is on me; come on.���

As much as she enjoyed hanging out with Brock, she really wanted to finish her task. She was about to make an excuse when Margie, the head librarian, who had overheard the whole conversation, chimed in. ���For heaven���s sake, Annie, the books will still be here when you get back. Don���t turn down a free lunch, especially from a handsome young gentleman like Brock.���

Annie finally relented, and after grabbing her coat and purse from the back room, the two friends headed out the door. Outside in the frosty February sunshine, Annie wrapped her scarf more snugly around her neck, cursing her impulsive decision to cut her hair short last month.

One Writer’s Musings on Laura Ingalls Wilder

Today is Laura Ingalls Wilder’s 148th birthday. Many of my Little-House-loving friends are celebrating this milestone in one way or another–re-reading her books, watching the television adaptation, donning sunbonnets (yes, even in the dead of winter when it’s 20 degrees and snowing), or enjoying a slice of birthday cake and a cup of tea in her honor.

Me, I’m observing her birthday by jotting down a few thoughts I had while browsing the various Facebook pages, blogs, and other websites dedicated to one of America’s most famous and most well-loved pioneer women.

I’m fascinated by readers’ fascination with Laura’s collected memories of her simple life. I’m sure that if she were alive today, she too would be fascinated and perhaps perplexed by the popularity of her stories. Could she have known as she penned those��stories decades ago that they would be so loved by generations of children and adults? Did she have any idea how much people would enjoy reading her recollections of simple tasks such as cutting and stacking the hay, teaching a calf to drink, or butchering a pig? Did she ever think people��would enjoy reading about her town job of piecing and hand-stitching shirts? Did she ever dream that��her home would become a museum, or that conferences would be held to discuss her writing and her life?

From��a writer’s perspective, the popularity of��Laura’s��works boggles my mind, not because her writing isn’t good, but because I highly doubt she ever intended it to be so far-reaching. I’m certain that her main goal in writing was to preserve her memories of her family’s move West, as well as her way of life, for her descendants. There may have been the hope of gaining some income from the books, but it was not her ambition to achieve the amount of fame that she did both during her lifetime and since her passing. She just told her story, and the rest was history.

The Measure of a Woman

One of the first Facebook posts I came across this morning was a shared post from THEGUARDIAN.COM��regarding Colleen McCullough���s obituary in The Australian. Not surprisingly, there was an uproar over the obituary���s opening lines: “Colleen McCullough, Australia���s bestselling author, was a charmer. Plain of feature, and certainly overweight, she was nevertheless a woman of wit and warmth.��� Also not surprisingly, many of my friends and acquaintances were appalled by the obit writer���s distasteful words, and they did not hesitate to share their opinions.

I, too, was struck by the churlishness (I could have used another word, but I thought it best to keep it clean) of those opening lines, but always trying to look on the bright side (Pollyanna, eat your heart out), I commented that maybe it was an attempt to say, ���Oh, look, she didn���t fit into society���s ideal of a beautiful woman, but she overcame that and became successful anyway.��� Having always felt much the same about my own appearance I wanted to view that comment in a positive sense, that one���s physical appearance doesn���t matter and doesn���t make or break your success, unless of course you���re an aspiring supermodel.

But the more I thought about it, the more it irked me. I read through the rest of the obituary, as well as some other articles on McCullough, and I was quite impressed with her many achievements. This woman was an accomplished scientist who specialized in fields that many people probably can���t even pronounce. She set up and ran the neurophysiology department at a Sydney hospital and then came to the United States to run a research lab at Yale University���s medical school and also taught neuroanatomy, neurophysiology, and neurological electronics. Yet the opening lines of her obituary say she was homely and fat?

The last time I looked, we were in the year 2015. One would think we���d be past the whole rating-women-on-their-appearance gig, but apparently not. I guess it doesn���t matter what a woman achieves in life; if she doesn���t measure up in the looks department all those achievements just go to the bottom of her obituary, secondary only to her physical shortcomings. How ironic that two of the songs I heard on the radio on the way to the grocery store this morning were Megan Trainor���s ���All About That Bass��� and Colbie Caillat���s ���Try,��� both of which kick the shins of society���s emphasis on physical perfection.

As I kicked this around in my head, you know what I realized? I realized that I���m still stuck in that rut as well. I hear the truth in those lyrics, hear the outcry over the focus on women’s appearances, ��and then turn around and berate myself for the way I look and try to figure out how to ���fix��� myself.

I published my own first novel last summer, so I���m in the midst of marketing myself and my book. Of course, I want to get some professional author photos taken so I have them available for press releases or book signings. There���s absolutely nothing wrong with putting a professional foot forward. What hit me smack in the face after the whole Colleen McCullough obituary fiasco this morning is the fact that I have been putting off getting those photos done because my hair is all wrong (I need an up-to-date, age-appropriate hairstyle and color), my face is all wrong (maybe my stylist is right and I really need to wax those eyebrows and learn how to do my makeup), my clothes are all wrong (jeans and sweatshirts are okay for being a SAHM, but are all wrong for a woman author), and I should really lose some weight (the camera puts on 10 pounds, you know).

I thought about how ridiculous it sounded that part of me wants to get a complete makeover before I put my face on the back of a book cover, like I want to change my entire appearance to be more appealing to my readers. Really? I asked myself what I look for when I pull a book off the shelf at the library���do I go right to the author photo and put the book back on the shelf if she isn���t attractive enough or doesn���t fit my idea of what an author should look like? Um, of course not. I���m interested in the story that author has to tell, whether or not she has crafted a plot that I can get into or characters I can relate to. I couldn���t care less if she’s overweight, underweight, drop-dead gorgeous, or plain as a slice of dry toast, and I’m certain that other readers feel the same way. So why am I stressing myself over this?

And of course, let���s not disregard the elephant in the room: Would I still struggle with these issues if I were a man instead of a woman? If I were a man, would I have the same concerns���no, fears���that my readers would look upon me with disdain if I weren���t fashionably dressed, or if I had wrinkles or frizzy hair, or less-than-perfect teeth. Perhaps there are some men who would have these concerns, and perhaps there are those who would judge a male author for those same reasons, but I have the feeling that the burden of beauty and perfection still rests upon women more so than on men.

And whether your name is Colleen McCullough or Leta P. Hawk, whether you’re a novelist or a neurophysiologist, that is just a sad, sad commentary on our society.

Kindle Countdown Deal

“The Newbie” will be a Kindle Countdown Deal from January 16-23.

From 8AM (PST) Jan. 16th through 4PM (PST) Jan. 19th, it will be offered for $0.99.

From 4PM (PST) Jan. 19th through 12AM Jan. 23rd, it will be offered for $1.99.

The Newbie: A Kyrie Carter Ghost Hunting Adventure (Kyrie Carter Paranormal Adventures Book 1)

Book Signing

Midtown Scholar Bookstore in Harrisburg, PA just contacted me about a March Mystery Book Signing. I will be there with Bill Peschel, another local mystery author, on Saturday, March 28th from 2-4pm. I will be there with my current book, “The Newbie: A Kyrie Carter Ghost Hunting Adventure.” By then, I hope to also have information about “School Spirits,” the second book in the Kyrie Carter series.

Spread the word, and come out and say hello.

The Midtown Scholar Bookstore

1302 N. 3rd St.

Harrisburg, PA 17102

25 Days of Memories: Day 4

December 4th

Christmas cards. These things are such a necessary evil to so many people. Even now, I have a love-hate relationship with them. It was always exciting as a child to see the stacks of mail come in, with all the different-colored envelopes that you didn’t see any other time of the year. It seemed I didn’t know a lot of the people we got cards from, but isn’t that the way it usually goes?

Our family was never much for the family newsletters; I don’t recall getting very many of those, if ever, and my parents never sent one out either. The most exciting things we ever got in Christmas cards were the cousins’ or nieces’ and nephews’ school pictures.

My favorite cards were always the ones with a lot of glitter on them. It didn’t matter what the picture was, as long as it was covered with glitter. An added bonus for me (but not so much for my mom) was that the glitter always fell off onto my hands, the table, the floor. It seemed we had a reminder of those cards for months after they were gotten rid of (my parents weren’t sentimental and didn’t keep every card they got).

One especially memorable year for me was the year Doug had gone to college in New Mexico. He didn’t come home for Christmas much because it was too expensive to either drive or fly home. He sent a Christmas card to both Gary and me. They were quite different than any cards we had seen before. There were no snowy landscapes or pictures of Santa; those cards had road runners on them. Of course, there were some touches of Christmas, like a few Christmas balls here and there, but it was definitely a “New Mexico” type card.

25 Days of Memories: Day 3

Yep, lagging behind again. Here is December 3rd.

Christmas cookies. I remember when I was a child, Mom would bake dozens and dozens of cookies—cut-outs, pinwheels, checkerboards, thumbprints, and many more that I don’t know the names of. I honestly don’t know who ate all those cookies, because even with four of us kids plus Mom and Dad, it seemed like an awful lot. I can’t remember what my favorite cookie was, but I’m pretty sure the cut-outs were near the top of the list. I especially loved the reindeer-shaped cutter, and I insisted that we make lots of reindeer. Of course, I also loved cats during that time, but there were no cat cookie cutters around then (or if there were, we couldn’t find them in the stores).

Mom stopped baking when I was a teenager, so I took over as head Christmas Cookie Baker. Now, I never did the real fancy ones like the pinwheels, but I did make cut-outs, chocolate chip, and chocolate cookies with peanut butter chips.

And hermits. Dad’s favorite cookies were hermits, a spice cookie with nuts and raisins that Grandma Daniels used to bake. For such a simple drop cookie, those things seemed to be difficult. They would either get rock hard or not bake through. Dad told so many stories about Grandma griping about her cookies being like rocks. Grandpa always assured her, “Well, then they’re good for dunking.” I made hermits for the first time the year Grandma had died. Dad warned me that Grandma always had trouble with them, and not to get discouraged if they got hard. I wanted to do it anyway. My first batch of hermits was complete perfection. Dad asked me how I pulled that off, and I told him that maybe Grandma had helped. He said, “Yeah, maybe she did.”

25 Days of Memories: Days 1 & 2

One of my friends started sending ecards with notes attached that document some of her childhood memories of Christmas. I thought it was such a wonderful idea that I decided to document my own memories to pass along someday to my boys. Of course, since I started late, I’m already a day behind (something else I’ll pass on to my boys–ha!), but here are Days 1 and 2.

December 1st

When I was growing up in Millersburg, we always knew that Christmas was coming when the gazebo and the town square were decorated. Wreaths were hung all around the gazebo, and miniature evergreen trees and light strings were placed around the square and along Market Street and State Street. The lights were those old-fashioned big bulbs, and they only came in red, blue, and green. The decorations may have been simple, but they were unforgettable. Millersburg, in my mind, has one of the most beautiful Christmas displays I have ever seen, and it just embodies all that is special about living in a small town.

The annual tree lighting used to be the Saturday after Thanksgiving (I believe they now hold it on Black Friday evening, but when I was growing up, it was on a Saturday). My church, Trinity UCC on Center Street, used to hold a holiday bazaar that afternoon that ended shortly before the tree lighting. The ladies’ group would sell soup, sandwiches, and all kinds of baked goods; there would be different stations throughout the fellowship hall with various kids’ games, face painting, and such; and the Sunday school classes always made simple ornaments to sell to raise money for the Christian Education.

I don’t remember much about the actual lighting ceremonies, unfortunately, but I’m sure there was some kind of entertainment, whether it was carolers or the high school band and chorus doing Christmas songs. Of course, Santa would make an appearance as well, usually on a fire truck. At least once I remember him sitting up on the gazebo. Kids could go up and read him their Christmas lists or have their pictures taken with him.

December 2nd

Decorating. Every year I watch the TV specials about the extreme Christmas decorations some people put up, with enough lights to send your electric bill into the quadruple digits or with so many animatronic figures that the front yard isn’t even visible anymore. And I pore through magazines showing pictures of homes that are decorated according to a theme or a color scheme. Every light, Christmas ball, and mantle decoration had to fit in, or it was gone. I was always awestruck by both of these practices, probably because our decorations were nowhere near extreme or perfect. Nope, the Christmas decorations we had were an accumulated mish-mash of whatever struck my parents’ fancy.

Our decorations always came out of the basement and the attic on Thanksgiving weekend. As a young child in our house on Market Street, I recall boxes of decorations piled higher than I stood, and I used to love crawling around in between the stacks, hiding from my parents and my brothers. I don’t recall helping all that much with the tree; Dad always wanted the lights just so, and I think Mom was afraid Gary and I would break the ornaments (no shatterproof Christmas balls in those days!). We never had any special tree decorations, just the run-of-the-mill multi-colored glass balls and tinsel garland. One year Mom did buy some small blown glass ornaments—animals for me and trains for Gary. I don’t know that they lasted all that long, for obvious reasons.

One of my favorite ornaments was a huge snow-covered church that lit up and played “Silent Night.” It wasn’t ceramic like most music boxes today, but was some kind of waxy material. I remember it being quite heavy, and I was never allowed to move it. The snow on the roof was made of what looked like glitter-coated quilt batting. The church was old even when I was young, and the snow even then was already dirty-looking, but I loved it to death. I opted not to take it when Mom was cleaning out the house after Dad died, and I regret that now. I’m sure it’s gone to the land of memories.

Another decoration that I loved, and one that sits on my mantle now, was a carved wooden dog. It’s brown with black spots, and it’s sitting down with its nose pointed skyward. I never understood why Mom had that with the Christmas decorations because there’s really nothing Christmassy about it. Still, one of the highlights of getting the decorations out was the anticipation of finding that wooden dog so I could play with it for a month out of the year.

The Sentiment of Things

“What are we doing with this sled?”

Mike has asked me that question every November for the past five years or so, and for the past five years or so, I have given him the same answer: “I want to keep it.”

The sled in question is a wooden toddler pull sled with a high back, a red cushion seat, and a yellow pull rope. My dad had gotten the sled from L.L. Bean for my son Wesley’s first Christmas. Wesley is now 10, and my younger son Wayde will soon be 8, so it goes without saying that the sled hasn’t been used for years. It has pretty much been sitting in the garage taking up space and gathering spider webs, a fact that Mike reiterated every year.

So why did I hold onto it?

Well, I guess the obvious answer is sentiment. My dad died when Wesley was a little over a year old, and despite the fact that he and I didn’t always get along, I still miss him, especially around the holidays. In a way, holding onto that sled was a way to hold onto a piece of him, and a part of me felt that if I got rid of that sled, I was getting rid of my dad.

So I’d find reasons to keep that sled for another year. Maybe Wesley or Wayde could pass it on to their kids. Maybe the grand-nieces and grand-nephews could ride it if they visit when there’s snow on the ground. Maybe I could set it on the front porch as a Christmas decoration.

But then the voice of reason interrupts my excuses. There’s no guarantee that Wesley and Wayde will ever have kids, and even if they do, what shape would the sled be in by that time? As for the grand-nieces and grand-nephews, they rarely visit anyway, and I can’t recall snow ever being on the ground when they were here. And using the sled as a Christmas decoration? Well, even though we don’t exactly live in a crime-ridden neighborhood, I’d be too worried about it being stolen to ever set it outside anyway.

So at last this year, I finally caved in and agreed to post it for sale on one of the local yard sale pages on Facebook, figuring it likely wouldn’t sell anyway. Then I could keep my sled, but I would still be able to say, “Hey, I tried to find a new home for it.”

Well, as luck would have it, within an hour of posting it, I had a taker. So, with a lump in my throat, I made arrangements to meet the potential buyer that weekend. I lovingly wiped the spiderwebs from the sled and straightened the red cushion before putting it in the Equinox, all the while thinking of my dad and wondering if he’d be okay with me selling Wesley’s Christmas present.

The lady who bought the sled turned out to be a lovely woman whom I judged to be only a few years older than I am. She was buying the sled as a Christmas gift for her little granddaughter. Her eyes lit up when she saw the sled, and she declared it absolutely perfect.

We talked for a bit, and I told her of my internal struggle over getting rid of it. She completely understood, having gone through similar feelings herself after the death of her mother, but she assured me that it was all right to let go of the sled. She told me that it was no coincidence that I had posted the sled for sale at the very time she was looking for one for a Christmas gift for her granddaughter; she felt that it was meant to be and that my dad would very likely be pleased.

The more I thought about it, the more I believe she was right. I haven’t forgotten my dad or his love for me or Wesley because I passed the sled on to someone else. And it is nice to think about the little girl waking up to that sled under her tree on Christmas morning.

In the end, it comes down to remembering that it’s not the things themselves that make the memories; it’s the love that is shared in the giving, as well as the enjoyment that comes from using those things for their intended purpose.

I’d like to think that my dad is smiling down from  heaven, knowing that his gift will be enjoyed by another grandchild this Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Dad.