Catherine Astolfo's Blog, page 9
April 1, 2014
Home-word Bound: The Last Leg
March 30-31: After all the rain and gloom of the ride, we end up in a dirty, dumpy hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. An overflowing garbage can greets us at the outside door, along with cigarette butts that haven’t been swept in weeks. Inside the room, the wallpaper is peeling, the cleaners haven’t touched the corners in years. The bed is horrible. Ripped spread, pilly sheets, lumpy pillows, uncomfortable mattress. I check for bed bugs, but luckily find none. To say we are disgruntled would be a huge understatement. If we had the energy, we’d get back on the road and forget our sixty bucks. Instead, I write a scathing review on Trip Advisor. (Don’t ever stay at the Red Roof Inn, Central Knoxville!)
We stuff the sides of the bed, as usual, so Miss Monk won’t go under, but she finds a way and disappears half the night. We eat cold, soggy take out in the room because there are no restaurants nearby. I don’t even take a shower. I’d rather be un-bathed than get underneath the rusted-out faucets.
When morning comes, we are happy to see a sun-filled day. We don’t even want the free breakfast this place offers, so we pack up hurriedly. Monkey, of course, feels our anxiety and slips out of my grasp to vanish under the bed. No amount of coaching will bring her out. And we desperately want to get out of here!
So we push and pull the lumpy mound of mattress onto the floor. Next we move the two box springs—and when I say springs, I mean they should be called sprungs—apart. There’s Monkey, huddled in a corner. Not to mention what looks like a rotted dog bone, a pile of dirty cloth and a bunch of strewn papers. How all that got under there is not something we bother contemplating at the time, though it would make a good mystery.
Finally in the car, we are greeted by cheerful sunny scenery, some of it bucolic. Now we are deep in the hills of Tennessee, followed quickly by Kentucky, enjoying the vistas with its greens tinted by sunlight. We see no wildlife in Elk Valley and the fog advisory doesn’t apply this morning. From the summits, we can see a ring of mountains etched on the blue sky. Jellico, Pine mountain ranges, the Daniel Boone National Forest.
The surrounding rock is stunning, geometric lines of colour. I know they’ve been gouged by machinery to create roads, but out of this destruction a lasting beauty has been created. Dave Hunter (author of Along Interstate 75) tells us to watch for Exit 15, near Williamsburg in Kentucky, and we do. It truly is astounding. The ramp has been cut into the mountainside, creating two enormous mounds of rock, and the road now traverses a tunnel of granite and greenery.
Soon the hills give way to fairly flat ground, lots of rivers, rich soil. We are back in horse country, admiring the muscled stature of the beautiful animals. Next comes Ohio. Where we saw only snow sculptures at the end of January, we’re happy to see the light brown of fields drinking in the sun, getting ready for blooming and planting.
We stop in Findlay, Ohio, at our favorite hotel chain: the Drury Inn and Suites, of course! As if to compensate for last night, this time we get a bigger-than-average room, complete with a separate room for TV, lounge chairs and flat screen ready. Even Monkey likes it. She has a lot more room to run around in.
“Kick back” time is from 5:30 to 7:00. Hot dinner, 3 alcohol drinks each (well, 2 for Vince, 4 for me) and we’re set for the night.
By morning, we’re rested, have had our hot breakfast, and we’re ready to make the last part of our journey toward home. Miss Monk is not impressed, however, although she was easy to capture this time. At this writing, she is complaining loudly, despite the sunshine and some great music as background. Where are those earplugs Frances and Marty gave us?
We talk about all the things we loved about our stay in Florida - besides our guests, this time. Being able to walk outside first thing in the morning to sit in the sun or slide into the warm pool was a joy for us and Miss Monk. Dining out. The Air Boat rides. Visiting Cugina and John's Pass and the dolphins. Cocoa Beach and the dolphins and the shark. Winter Garden, Celebration, Downtown Disney. Did I mention swimming in our warm pool?
We slip over the border into Canada without any problem and immediately feel at home. It's sunny and warm (relatively) and lots of the snow has disappeared. Spring does feel as though it has arrived...we hope. Home-word Bound!
March 30, 2014
Home-word Bound: Memories
March 29 – Today our drive is full of dark clouds, pouring rain, and stop-and-go traffic. It’s long and tiring, so we spend time talking about our experiences.
What a strange feeling, looking back over the two months we’ve stayed here. We feel as though we’ve been away much longer, because of all that we did, because of all that happened.Our house was constantly filled with visitors, which is what we wanted and planned for when we found a rental. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nice open kitchen and dining area, our own small pool and lanai. This house is lovely, with a great open plan and a bigger-than-average seating area around the pool.
It’s lived-in, needs some deep cleaning and carpets replaced, but we felt comfortable. We didn’t have to worry about cats and kids, with their exuberance and freestyle ways.
In the beginning, I didn’t want to bother the property manager, Vera Gualano, but I learned later on that I should have. Clearly, it means a lot to her to ensure the house is being maintained properly. I would rent through her again with no hesitation.
Each visitor brings their own gifts of conversation, excitement, love, and interests. Mike and Rita were in this area of Kissimmee only last year, so they take us exploring. They fit us perfectly, like brothers and sisters often do. Easy, comfortable, fun, generous and in our loss of Sahara, so very consoling. We're together when Mike and Rita's daughter, Laura, calls from Ontario. She's engaged to be married to a wonderful young man and we toast their love and happiness.
Kristen, John, Ben and Cate bring high spirits, energy, laughter and fun. We play in the pool for hours, visit Universal Studios and play cards at night. They spend fourteen hours at Disney one day! It’s pure joy for me, every minute I can wake up and see their amazing faces.
I haven’t spent this much time with my daughter’s partner. Now I appreciate and love him even more. I cannot describe the feelings I have for this daughter of mine, this strong beautiful talented amazing woman whom I still remember as a little hand in mine.
It’s during my daughter and her family’s visit that we hear about Rose. For a couple of years now, we must admit, we have grieved for her loss. At ninety-five, Rose was no longer able to do all the things she loved such as cook and garden. She was very often unable to communicate and this was a woman who loved to tell stories, ask questions, give fiercely held opinions, offer unsolicited advice.
Rosie was a huge presence. She ran her household with gusto, was the original reduce, reuse, recycler. Her sauce and pasta were unparalleled, along with her pizza, melting moments cookies, biscotti, apple or lemon meringue pies, butter tarts, scrippelle…
When she had leftover pizza dough, she’d roll it up, fry them and salt them, and presto! Long Johns to munch! At special times of the year, such as Christmas, she made her own Christmas cake, and at Easter, she made sweet, fruity bread. I remember her salads were always delicious because most of the vegetables came from their garden, and the dressing she made was perfect. Rose, along with assistance from her husbands and sons and later, daughters-in-law and grandkids, was the consummate hostess, and she loved having family around.
Although she was a woman of deep faith, Rose didn’t take too long to accept me, even though I was half responsible for her son’s marriage break up. Because he loved me, and she loved her son, she eventually enfolded me in her circle. Nowadays, she sat mostly sleeping in her chair, often unable to recognize people. She never forgot her sons, though, even if she couldn’t retrieve their names. When Vince and I would visit, her eyes were often vacant when she looked at me, but as she gazed upon him, a light would appear. She’d rest her head on his shoulder and pat his belly, as though soothing her baby boy. Very often, we’d shed lots of tears when we left her, for the loss of her quality of life. When she falls that day in February and breaks her hip, we fervently pray that she'll go to sleep, go to where she can play cards again, tend a garden, give a family dinner, run around on two strong legs. On March 1, she does just that.
Vince books a flight home for Saturday afternoon, so I drive him to the airport. It’s a hasty decision, one we somewhat regret later. When he’s home in Canada, alone, feeling the effects of losing his mother, in a house that’s torn apart for painting, his voice is tearful and sad. I wish then that we had waited until Sunday, when I could have gone with him. My sister Chris and her husband Dave arrive tonight and I have booked a flight and back again for the funeral only. I feel as though I am in a bubble. Here I am, enjoying the company of my beloved sister and brother-in-law, while Vince grapples with grief. The first night, Dave and I drink a couple of bottles of wine (okay, each), make a few drunk calls, sleep late the next day. Their friend Grant’s son, Adam, comes to visit and we have a ball.
On Tuesday, I take a cab at 3 a.m. and get on a plane, wearing a sundress and my sister’s boots. Our friends Mary Jo and Peter meet me at the airport. It’s surreal, getting to hug and kiss them unexpectedly, and stepping over ice and snow. When Vince sees my face in the doorway of the funeral home, he begins to cry. I wrap him in my arms and kiss him, and he lets his sorrow flow. The day is a whirlwind of family, friends, tears, laughter, funeral egg salad sandwiches, and memories. Our nephews and Vince’s sons are pallbearers; our nieces do readings at the Mass. We are so proud of our children. The grandkids add zest and innocence. Dylan speaks for all of us as the casket is raised and inserted into the crypt: “Wow, that was awesome,” he says and we all smile. Because it was awesome—the celebration of a life well lived, Rosie’s long, loving legacy, the memories, the joys and sorrows.
Suddenly we are back in Florida. We visit my cousin Wendy and Dennis the next day, revel in their company, in the sunshine, marvel at the dolphins, and of course eat and drink well. For the rest of Chris and Dave’s stay, we laugh and swim and sun and talk. We talk about loss, we talk about life and love.
After we reluctantly allow Chris and Dave to leave early Saturday morning, we get ready for David, Rebecca, Sydney and Evan. Once again, the house is filled with high spirits, laughter, playfulness, romps in the pool for hours. They spend a whole day at Disney and excitedly describe every moment when they get back.
I am so grateful for their presence in my life, never ever take for granted the fact that they have embraced me and treat me as mother-in-law, friend, grandmother. When they leave, we are glad that our friends Helen and Sandy and Maire and John are arriving, the Duplassies on Saturday and the Kearns’s on Monday. Since we’ve been friends for over forty years, there is complete and utter comfort and ease in their presence. We can be ourselves. We enjoy the warm air, the pool, shouting at each other over cards, and going out for dinner. We visit Winter Garden and Bok Tower Gardens. The four of them spend three days in Bonita Springs, while we stay home with Monkey.
Then suddenly there we were, on our last day, crying over Sahara, our faces looking toward home and certain realities.
But the lilacs in Georgia are in full purple bloom and the radio is playing our favorite songs. We start to sing. We feel very lucky, very blessed, very grateful. Monkey meows in her pet carrier.
March 29, 2014
Home-word Bound: Leaving Sahara
March 28:
Perhaps it’s because we leave a bit earlier than expected. The cooler weather is followed by rain, so we decide to spend a bit more time in the morning packing up. If we wait until Saturday, we’ve got to be out by 10 a.m.
We are ready to take off early in the afternoon, a little while after Maire and John and Helen and Sandy leave.
On our last night, we had a great time at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.
Whatever the reason, grief hits us again without warning. First for Sahara.
If you read my blog about our trip here, you know that we arrived with two cats. In fact, the blog was entitled Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida. Little did we know that our beloved tabby would never leave here.
Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Five years ago Sahara was diagnosed with very bad irritable bowel syndrome that either bordered on, or had morphed already, into lymphoma. The vet told us she had between twenty-four and forty-eight months to live, but that she could have a good life. Once the cancer “jumped”, it would likely happen very quickly. It did.Until a couple of days before, Sahara was her usual self. Loud, feisty, highly attached to us, she’d follow us everywhere, complaining or just observing. She had a lot of different sounds to express her opinions, often hilarious. She had the kind of personality that could not and would not be ignored. She even ruled over her dog cousin and nephew.
Her daughter Raven, called Monkey because she sounds like one and is a little mischievous, was enraptured with her mother. They played, cuddled, cleaned each other, and were seldom apart.
At first we thought Sahara was still nervous about being in a “new” house. Suddenly she began to spend time in our bedroom closet, huddled up behind a suitcase. Even though she hadn’t shown signs of feeling strange here, that’s what occurred to us. After a few hours, she’d come back out and be her loving, active self. The next day when it happened again, we thought maybe she had a stomachache. On the third day, when she went under our bed and didn’t come out, we knew there was a problem.
Did she eat something poisonous? A plant, a beetle? I got on the Internet, searching for the weeds that poked up in the garden outside but I found nothing dangerous.
I tried coaching her out, placed her on our bed, petted and talked to her. Gave her some of her medication, which she had been refusing. She took it, but it came back out a while later. She wouldn’t eat, or drink. She crawled back under the bed.
The next day, Valentine’s Day, she was lethargic, hardly moving in the spot under our bed. We pulled the mattress back to touch her. At one point, she seemed to have slipped into a coma. I burst into tears, thinking she had died, but suddenly she began to purr. A soft, broken sound. Every once in a while she would give a rattled sigh, as though she were trying to breathe through pain.
“We have to take her to a vet,” I said, and Vince reluctantly agreed.
When we gently pushed and dragged her out and placed her in the cat carrier, she groaned. Urine squirted out on the floor and all over me as I clutched her to me. Rita and Mike, upset too, cleaned up after us as we stumbled into the car.
At the veterinarian hospital, we petted and cooed to her. She gave a weakened, rumbling purr in return. The vet and assistant were amazing. Knowledgeable, efficient, yet caring. They were gentle with Sahara, doing what they had to do with a minimum of fuss. When the doctor showed us the x-ray results, we knew the time had come. The cancer had indeed jumped—her stomach, her liver, her intestines. She was likely in terrible pain, though animals instinctively hide it.
“What do you recommend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“I think we should put her to sleep,” he said, as kindly but as honestly as he could. “I guess you have two options. We can help her go right now, or you can take her home and she’ll probably pass naturally during the night.”
We both thought of the chance to cuddle her in our bed once more, to hear her purr as she died, but we knew that was selfish. She’d try so hard to purr for us, to make us happy, even while she was suffering. We couldn’t do it to her.
We talked to her, petted her, cried over her as the medication stilled her heart. Sahara died knowing we loved her with all our hearts.
When we got home, Mike and Rita were waiting with hugs and tears. We were so grateful to have them with us. In the two weeks previous, they’d gotten to know and love Sahara, too, so they understood.
There were lots of tears over the next six weeks. We cried as Monkey meowed mournfully, searching the house for Sahara, night after night. The time she looked into the still pool water, saw her own reflection and reached out a paw to touch it, brought on some weeping. We watched as she changed her personality, became more vociferous and affectionate, clinging a bit more to us, as she had once cuddled her feline mother.
Now we leave here, the site of Sahara’s last days. She had played, purred, talked, raced around, fallen onto the pool cover and got soaked, meowed for a video, and slept at our feet.
Monkey seems lost and lonely in the big cat carrier. In the hotel, she has no one to cuddle when we go out for dinner. She’s a cat, she’s adaptable, she’s fine. We all just wish Sahara were heading home with us, too.
During this same trip, we lost our Rosie, too. As the miles (not kilometres yet) fall away, we wonder how we’ll feel once we’re home. Until then, her loss has not seemed real.
March 29 – rain, peanuts, lilacs – describe each visitor
Perhaps it’s because we leave a bit earlier than expected. The cooler weather is followed by rain, so we decide to spend a bit more time in the morning packing up. If we wait until Saturday, we’ve got to be out by 10 a.m.
We are ready to take off early in the afternoon, a little while after Maire and John and Helen and Sandy leave.
On our last night, we had a great time at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.Whatever the reason, grief hits us again without warning. First for Sahara.
If you read my blog about our trip here, you know that we arrived with two cats. In fact, the blog was entitled Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida. Little did we know that our beloved tabby would never leave here.
Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Five years ago Sahara was diagnosed with very bad irritable bowel syndrome that either bordered on, or had morphed already, into lymphoma. The vet told us she had between twenty-four and forty-eight months to live, but that she could have a good life. Once the cancer “jumped”, it would likely happen very quickly. It did.Until a couple of days before, Sahara was her usual self. Loud, feisty, highly attached to us, she’d follow us everywhere, complaining or just observing. She had a lot of different sounds to express her opinions, often hilarious. She had the kind of personality that could not and would not be ignored. She even ruled over her dog cousin and nephew. 
Her daughter Raven, called Monkey because she sounds like one and is a little mischievous, was enraptured with her mother. They played, cuddled, cleaned each other, and were seldom apart. At first we thought Sahara was still nervous about being in a “new” house. Suddenly she began to spend time in our bedroom closet, huddled up behind a suitcase. Even though she hadn’t shown signs of feeling strange here, that’s what occurred to us. After a few hours, she’d come back out and be her loving, active self. The next day when it happened again, we thought maybe she had a stomachache. On the third day, when she went under our bed and didn’t come out, we knew there was a problem.
Did she eat something poisonous? A plant, a beetle? I got on the Internet, searching for the weeds that poked up in the garden outside but I found nothing dangerous.
I tried coaching her out, placed her on our bed, petted and talked to her. Gave her some of her medication, which she had been refusing. She took it, but it came back out a while later. She wouldn’t eat, or drink. She crawled back under the bed.
The next day, Valentine’s Day, she was lethargic, hardly moving in the spot under our bed. We pulled the mattress back to touch her. At one point, she seemed to have slipped into a coma. I burst into tears, thinking she had died, but suddenly she began to purr. A soft, broken sound. Every once in a while she would give a rattled sigh, as though she were trying to breathe through pain.
“We have to take her to a vet,” I said, and Vince reluctantly agreed.
When we gently pushed and dragged her out and placed her in the cat carrier, she groaned. Urine squirted out on the floor and all over me as I clutched her to me. Rita and Mike, upset too, cleaned up after us as we stumbled into the car.
At the veterinarian hospital, we petted and cooed to her. She gave a weakened, rumbling purr in return. The vet and assistant were amazing. Knowledgeable, efficient, yet caring. They were gentle with Sahara, doing what they had to do with a minimum of fuss. When the doctor showed us the x-ray results, we knew the time had come. The cancer had indeed jumped—her stomach, her liver, her intestines. She was likely in terrible pain, though animals instinctively hide it.
“What do you recommend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“I think we should put her to sleep,” he said, as kindly but as honestly as he could. “I guess you have two options. We can help her go right now, or you can take her home and she’ll probably pass naturally during the night.”
We both thought of the chance to cuddle her in our bed once more, to hear her purr as she died, but we knew that was selfish. She’d try so hard to purr for us, to make us happy, even while she was suffering. We couldn’t do it to her.
We talked to her, petted her, cried over her as the medication stilled her heart. Sahara died knowing we loved her with all our hearts.
When we got home, Mike and Rita were waiting with hugs and tears. We were so grateful to have them with us. In the two weeks previous, they’d gotten to know and love Sahara, too, so they understood.
There were lots of tears over the next six weeks. We cried as Monkey meowed mournfully, searching the house for Sahara, night after night. The time she looked into the still pool water, saw her own reflection and reached out a paw to touch it, brought on some weeping. We watched as she changed her personality, became more vociferous and affectionate, clinging a bit more to us, as she had once cuddled her feline mother.
Now we leave here, the site of Sahara’s last days. She had played, purred, talked, raced around, fallen onto the pool cover and got soaked, meowed for a video, and slept at our feet.
Monkey seems lost and lonely in the big cat carrier. In the hotel, she has no one to cuddle when we go out for dinner. She’s a cat, she’s adaptable, she’s fine. We all just wish Sahara were heading home with us, too.
During this same trip, we lost our Rosie, too. As the miles (not kilometres yet) fall away, we wonder how we’ll feel once we’re home. Until then, her loss has not seemed real.
March 29 – rain, peanuts, lilacs – describe each visitor
February 5, 2014
Part Three: Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida
Early the next morning, we escape the dog Inn and cross the border into Georgia. Last night we'd heard and read the news about Atlanta, to which we are intrepidly heading.
Hit with a couple of inches of snow and ice on Wednesday, the city was paralyzed. Traffic had snaked all the way up the I75 nearly to Canada. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but to hear the news media, you would think it could be true. People stuck in their cars for hours on end. State of emergency, the governor said.
We don't have much of a choice, though. Plus we've already booked the Drury Inn at Valdosta.
However, it's Friday now, and going to to 11C. Surely the snow and ice will have melted. Surely the cars will have been removed. So...on we go.
We are very very lucky. The only traffic we meet up with happens just as we enter Atlanta. We follow Dave's advice (Along Interstate I75) and we DON'T take the by-pass. In fact, we're able to use the HOV lanes and they are phenomenal. Aligned a bit differently from the ones we have at home, we're nervous at first as we go left and the highway goes right, but the lanes always meet up. In fact they have dedicated HOV exits as well, so the system works beautifully. Except for a few short slowdowns, we sail on through the city.
We see very little evidence of snow, some ice here and there, but no stranded cars. Perfect timing on our part! Happy birthday to me.
We push on through Georgia, past many bucolic scenes (remember - verdant and at least one cow). The girls are quiet, happy to be away from the pup motel.
We can't check into the house in Kissimmee until 4 p.m. on Saturday, so we stop driving early in the day at our beloved Drury chain. They allow us to check in early. We stay with the girls for a while, but it takes them no time at all to settle in. They can sit on the window sill and look out at a row of lovely homes and trees. The rooms are advertised as sound proofed so, even if there is someone of the canine variety next door, we don't hear them.
We're starving, because we ate a light breakfast early and had no lunch. We decide we don't care if the dinner is included because there's an Olive Garden across the parking lot. We LOVED the Olive Gardens when we had them in Canada and haven't been to one in years. Besides, it's my birthday. So we have a 3 p.m. dinner. Glorious and I even get an idea for a short crime story...
Of course, later on at the Inn we help ourselves to our free drinks during Happy Hours and celebrate with the girls.
Next day, we head for Florida, where we'll have to leave Dave behind. If I find his book on the Sunshine state, I will buy it. According to his advice, we ignore the huge billboards that advertise "Florida information centres" all along the border - inside Georgia. Apparently these are pretty much time share traps.
Instead, we stop at the official Florida welcome centre, where they serve fresh juice and give away free maps and coupon books. We find two other welcome sights: Mike and Rita! We had taken a bit longer to get here, so they caught up to us. We couldn't have planned something like this. We laugh and hug and talk and enjoy the juice and the company.
When Vince and I get into Kissimmee, we head straight to the house, just in case we can get in a bit early. It's 2:45, so it's not that early. Sure enough, the lock box is ready for us. We're thrilled with the place! We settle in very quickly. Mike and Rita arrive at 4 p.m. and we all immediately feel at home. Although the girls are tentative at first, it's amazing how fast they adapt. We have a little bit of a restless night with them, but after that, they're enjoying the sun and the warm air as much as we are.
The house has a dining and sitting area at the front of the house. As I had hoped, it's clean but lived-in, the kind of place you can add cats and kids and feel perfectly homey.
The kitchen is well stocked. All the floors are tiled, yay!
Nice open concept.
This is the front sitting room, where we do our reading. After I took this picture, I covered all the furniture with blankets so the cat hairs and any compunction to scratch can all be dealt with!
Looking from the open kitchen through the TV room to the lanai and the pool. Of course, the bottle of wine makes it truly home.
Sahara and Miss Monk have explored every inch of the place. They - and we - have been spending the majority of our time out here or in the pool (that's Mike in the background). Well, the cats aren't IN the pool of course...
Every morning, Rita and I do 6000 steps, then fill in the 4000 in the pool or walking through places like Celebration. We are eating pretty healthy too, lots of fresh fruit and veggies in the fridge. Out for dinner one night, cook at home the next.
I made this little kitchen eating area into my office. Here's where I plan to edit "Above the Sea" (my Young Adult novel) and continue on "Up Chit Creek" (the new title for Nosy Rosie). Right now, explorations, the pool, my blog, and general relaxation have slowed that plan down a lot.
How lucky are we?!!Wish my whole family could be here. Can't wait for the grandkids and their parents to arrive. In between, other friends and family will be in and out, making our stay here absolutely perfect.
Hit with a couple of inches of snow and ice on Wednesday, the city was paralyzed. Traffic had snaked all the way up the I75 nearly to Canada. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but to hear the news media, you would think it could be true. People stuck in their cars for hours on end. State of emergency, the governor said.
We don't have much of a choice, though. Plus we've already booked the Drury Inn at Valdosta.
However, it's Friday now, and going to to 11C. Surely the snow and ice will have melted. Surely the cars will have been removed. So...on we go.
We are very very lucky. The only traffic we meet up with happens just as we enter Atlanta. We follow Dave's advice (Along Interstate I75) and we DON'T take the by-pass. In fact, we're able to use the HOV lanes and they are phenomenal. Aligned a bit differently from the ones we have at home, we're nervous at first as we go left and the highway goes right, but the lanes always meet up. In fact they have dedicated HOV exits as well, so the system works beautifully. Except for a few short slowdowns, we sail on through the city.
We see very little evidence of snow, some ice here and there, but no stranded cars. Perfect timing on our part! Happy birthday to me.
We push on through Georgia, past many bucolic scenes (remember - verdant and at least one cow). The girls are quiet, happy to be away from the pup motel.
We can't check into the house in Kissimmee until 4 p.m. on Saturday, so we stop driving early in the day at our beloved Drury chain. They allow us to check in early. We stay with the girls for a while, but it takes them no time at all to settle in. They can sit on the window sill and look out at a row of lovely homes and trees. The rooms are advertised as sound proofed so, even if there is someone of the canine variety next door, we don't hear them.
We're starving, because we ate a light breakfast early and had no lunch. We decide we don't care if the dinner is included because there's an Olive Garden across the parking lot. We LOVED the Olive Gardens when we had them in Canada and haven't been to one in years. Besides, it's my birthday. So we have a 3 p.m. dinner. Glorious and I even get an idea for a short crime story...
Of course, later on at the Inn we help ourselves to our free drinks during Happy Hours and celebrate with the girls.
Next day, we head for Florida, where we'll have to leave Dave behind. If I find his book on the Sunshine state, I will buy it. According to his advice, we ignore the huge billboards that advertise "Florida information centres" all along the border - inside Georgia. Apparently these are pretty much time share traps.
Instead, we stop at the official Florida welcome centre, where they serve fresh juice and give away free maps and coupon books. We find two other welcome sights: Mike and Rita! We had taken a bit longer to get here, so they caught up to us. We couldn't have planned something like this. We laugh and hug and talk and enjoy the juice and the company.
When Vince and I get into Kissimmee, we head straight to the house, just in case we can get in a bit early. It's 2:45, so it's not that early. Sure enough, the lock box is ready for us. We're thrilled with the place! We settle in very quickly. Mike and Rita arrive at 4 p.m. and we all immediately feel at home. Although the girls are tentative at first, it's amazing how fast they adapt. We have a little bit of a restless night with them, but after that, they're enjoying the sun and the warm air as much as we are.
The house has a dining and sitting area at the front of the house. As I had hoped, it's clean but lived-in, the kind of place you can add cats and kids and feel perfectly homey.
The kitchen is well stocked. All the floors are tiled, yay!
Nice open concept.
This is the front sitting room, where we do our reading. After I took this picture, I covered all the furniture with blankets so the cat hairs and any compunction to scratch can all be dealt with!
Looking from the open kitchen through the TV room to the lanai and the pool. Of course, the bottle of wine makes it truly home.
Sahara and Miss Monk have explored every inch of the place. They - and we - have been spending the majority of our time out here or in the pool (that's Mike in the background). Well, the cats aren't IN the pool of course...
Every morning, Rita and I do 6000 steps, then fill in the 4000 in the pool or walking through places like Celebration. We are eating pretty healthy too, lots of fresh fruit and veggies in the fridge. Out for dinner one night, cook at home the next.
I made this little kitchen eating area into my office. Here's where I plan to edit "Above the Sea" (my Young Adult novel) and continue on "Up Chit Creek" (the new title for Nosy Rosie). Right now, explorations, the pool, my blog, and general relaxation have slowed that plan down a lot. How lucky are we?!!Wish my whole family could be here. Can't wait for the grandkids and their parents to arrive. In between, other friends and family will be in and out, making our stay here absolutely perfect.
February 4, 2014
Part Two: Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida
We very quickly go from Michigan to Ohio. This is cousin country! I think a lot about Linda, Carolyn, Sean and Kathleen and their families. When I was little, they were the most important people in my life. You never forget that kind of bond, even when you're apart for long periods of time. They've been through a lot lately, but at least I was able to be with them.
Once in a while, the girls give soft little complaints from the back seat, but for the most part, they are quiet. Maybe that pheromone stuff really does work. Or maybe they've figured out that we must have passed the vet's office by now. We make a couple of comfort stops (ours mostly, but the cats get food and water too). Outside it's brutally cold, mostly due to the frigid wind.We duck into roadside stations and stops very quickly.
There is snow everywhere, perhaps a little less than at home, but not much. Alongside the highway, the wind has sculpted the snow and dirt mix into drifts of toasted meringue. All the rock faces have white ice beards.
Toledo, Bowling Green, Findlay, Lima, Wapakoneta. Dave Hunter (Along Interstate 75) tells us the river Teays existed here in ancient times. We're warned as we go through Sidney and approach Piqua that there might be wildlife near the highway as we cross the Great Miami River, but they are too cold to come out from the warmer brush.
We read one of Dave's tips about a hotel chain along 75, so we push past Dayton and land in Middletown about 6:30 p.m. Fortunately the Drury Inn and Suites has a room for us, but happy hour and dinner end at 7. So we unceremoniously drop the cats in the room and dash downstairs. Pasta, salad, buns, desserts - and three beverages of a social nature each - all included! We decide we love the Drury Inns. Even the girls like the place. It's apparently the best kept secret along the interstate, so please don't tell anyone. We don't want a no-room-at-the-inn situation. The next morning we enjoy the full hot breakfast they provide as well. Oh, and Internet, and an hour's worth of long distance calls.
What's the clue that tells you this is an old billboard? Just past Cincinnati and the Ohio River, we enter Kentucky. Although there is still snow, it's not what we Canadians think of as "snow". It dusts the fields. Still cold enough for the ice beards, but some of the water still runs. Lots of lovely green expanses and rolling hills. This is horse country. Ranches, farms, race tracks, equestrian parks, all beautifully maintained. Stone walls, white fences...black fences. Dave says the traditional white, which is expensive because it must be replaced every year, is changing to black because they now have non-leaded. Used to be the ranchers could only use white for the safety of their animals.
Lexington and Richmond begin to qualify as bucolic. Our rules for this designation are that they have to be verdant (green) and there must be at least one cow.
We stop at the stunning Kentucky Artisan and Rest Centre, which Dave says has the cleanest restrooms in the state. We think he's right. Not only that, it would be very tempting to shop here for lovely, handmade shawls, scarves, ornaments...if only I weren't trying to downsize!
The Daniel Boone National Forest - wait a minute, wasn't he born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, killed himself a bear (pronounced bar) when he was only three?
Former land of the Cherokee, Shawnee, Miami and Wynadot natives. Apparently, old Danny was a significant contributor to settling this land with white folk. I picture them chopping and hacking their way through the bush and forest.
Nearby is where Colonel Sanders began the whole fast food obsession. Incredible that he started with what he thought was "good, wholesome food". Tell that to the fat conscious population now.
Wish the girls liked sitting in bars and listening to music. This would be an amazing area to stop and soak in the local talent in Renfro Valley.
The hills make their way up to the Pine and Jellico Mountains as we pass into Tennessee. We have sunshine and warmer weather, so the vistas are breathtaking. Steep grades up, then down, as we travel along the valleys. The traffic is light and the day is clear. There are deer and fog warnings posted here and there, but we don't see either.
What we do notice are enormous white crosses poking toward the sky every few miles or so. Dave has the explanation: Some fellow, who clearly has too much money, buys up an acre or two next to any location where an adult store establishes itself. Then he builds the cross. If I were the business owner, I'd use it as an advertising symbol.
By the time we reach Chattanooga, we're tired. There aren't any Drury's here, but we find a nice clean La Quinta that's pet friendly. It's cheaper, but not as sound proof and apparently very popular with dogs. The girls aren't very happy here. We pick up a take-out at the Wendy's next door and spend the night inside with them. No one even asks, "Is that the cat that ate your new shoes?"
www.catherineastolfo.com
Once in a while, the girls give soft little complaints from the back seat, but for the most part, they are quiet. Maybe that pheromone stuff really does work. Or maybe they've figured out that we must have passed the vet's office by now. We make a couple of comfort stops (ours mostly, but the cats get food and water too). Outside it's brutally cold, mostly due to the frigid wind.We duck into roadside stations and stops very quickly.
There is snow everywhere, perhaps a little less than at home, but not much. Alongside the highway, the wind has sculpted the snow and dirt mix into drifts of toasted meringue. All the rock faces have white ice beards.
Toledo, Bowling Green, Findlay, Lima, Wapakoneta. Dave Hunter (Along Interstate 75) tells us the river Teays existed here in ancient times. We're warned as we go through Sidney and approach Piqua that there might be wildlife near the highway as we cross the Great Miami River, but they are too cold to come out from the warmer brush.We read one of Dave's tips about a hotel chain along 75, so we push past Dayton and land in Middletown about 6:30 p.m. Fortunately the Drury Inn and Suites has a room for us, but happy hour and dinner end at 7. So we unceremoniously drop the cats in the room and dash downstairs. Pasta, salad, buns, desserts - and three beverages of a social nature each - all included! We decide we love the Drury Inns. Even the girls like the place. It's apparently the best kept secret along the interstate, so please don't tell anyone. We don't want a no-room-at-the-inn situation. The next morning we enjoy the full hot breakfast they provide as well. Oh, and Internet, and an hour's worth of long distance calls.
What's the clue that tells you this is an old billboard? Just past Cincinnati and the Ohio River, we enter Kentucky. Although there is still snow, it's not what we Canadians think of as "snow". It dusts the fields. Still cold enough for the ice beards, but some of the water still runs. Lots of lovely green expanses and rolling hills. This is horse country. Ranches, farms, race tracks, equestrian parks, all beautifully maintained. Stone walls, white fences...black fences. Dave says the traditional white, which is expensive because it must be replaced every year, is changing to black because they now have non-leaded. Used to be the ranchers could only use white for the safety of their animals.
Lexington and Richmond begin to qualify as bucolic. Our rules for this designation are that they have to be verdant (green) and there must be at least one cow.We stop at the stunning Kentucky Artisan and Rest Centre, which Dave says has the cleanest restrooms in the state. We think he's right. Not only that, it would be very tempting to shop here for lovely, handmade shawls, scarves, ornaments...if only I weren't trying to downsize!
The Daniel Boone National Forest - wait a minute, wasn't he born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, killed himself a bear (pronounced bar) when he was only three?
Former land of the Cherokee, Shawnee, Miami and Wynadot natives. Apparently, old Danny was a significant contributor to settling this land with white folk. I picture them chopping and hacking their way through the bush and forest.Nearby is where Colonel Sanders began the whole fast food obsession. Incredible that he started with what he thought was "good, wholesome food". Tell that to the fat conscious population now.
Wish the girls liked sitting in bars and listening to music. This would be an amazing area to stop and soak in the local talent in Renfro Valley.
The hills make their way up to the Pine and Jellico Mountains as we pass into Tennessee. We have sunshine and warmer weather, so the vistas are breathtaking. Steep grades up, then down, as we travel along the valleys. The traffic is light and the day is clear. There are deer and fog warnings posted here and there, but we don't see either.
What we do notice are enormous white crosses poking toward the sky every few miles or so. Dave has the explanation: Some fellow, who clearly has too much money, buys up an acre or two next to any location where an adult store establishes itself. Then he builds the cross. If I were the business owner, I'd use it as an advertising symbol.By the time we reach Chattanooga, we're tired. There aren't any Drury's here, but we find a nice clean La Quinta that's pet friendly. It's cheaper, but not as sound proof and apparently very popular with dogs. The girls aren't very happy here. We pick up a take-out at the Wendy's next door and spend the night inside with them. No one even asks, "Is that the cat that ate your new shoes?"
www.catherineastolfo.com
February 3, 2014
Part One: Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida
We've been talking to the girls about this trip for a year. You'd think they would be ready. Sahara (who will not answer to any nicknames at all, a family tradition that she ignores) complains, her voice constant and loud. Raven, whose name has been switched to Monkey or Miss Monk for a variety of reasons, quietly stares at us with a deep seated suspicion borne of the belief that a car ride leads only to the vet. We promise them sunshine and lollipops, but they aren't convinced.
Into the cat carriers, we spray the pheromone stuff that's supposed to calm them down. In the freezing air, Vince plows through the snow to warm up the car for them. We bundle up in hats, mitts, coats and scarves and pack everything. Despite the fact that they have four legs each, Sahara and Miss Monk don't even offer to help. Once we have all the luggage arranged, the big pheromone-soaked pet tent strapped safely into the back seat, little bowls handy for fresh food and water along the way, we are ready for the girls to board.
During the preparations, they wound themselves in and out of our legs, over our feet, tripped us on the stairs. Now they are nowhere to be seen. We wait a few quiet moments. Sahara, unable to stifle her curiosity, pokes her head into the hallway. I snatch her up and shove her, legs stiffened and howling, into the carrier. Immediately I remove her to the waiting, warm automobile, lest her howls spook Miss Monk. Naturally I am too late.
Monkey darts past us and burrows her way under our bed. Now, ours happens to be a king-sized monstrosity with wooden sides only a very small child (or cat) can squeeze under. Judging from the dust balls, not even the Merry Maids have been able to get under there with a vacuum hose. Miss Monk has scratched a little pocket into the box spring. With a nice sharp exacto knife, we manage to make the rip larger, but she simply burrows totally out of reach. However, she purrs to let us know she's pleased with herself.
An entire frustrating impossibly long hour later, several litres of gas keeping Sahara and me warm, and Monkey strolls out into the hall. Vince quietly follows her, down the stairs where she finds the doors shut, up the stairs where she finds the doors closed, and finally into her master's arms. (Who am I kidding with the "master" monicker?)
We're on the road to Florida! The girls sing joyously - or should I use piteously? - for a few kilometres and then...silent resignation.
Whichever one of us is not driving balances Dave Hunter's book, Along Interstate 75, on our knees. If you are planning a trip to Florida, we highly recommend it. (Insert commercial music here.) As Dave suggests, we take the Ambassador Bridge between Windsor and Detroit, which fortunately is fairly devoid of traffic. Under our wheels, we can feel the difference between the economy of the Canadian versus the American city.
We approach the border with a little bit of trepidation. We've got our passports, the house rental contract, and the vet's papers, ready for inspection. Luckily there's not much of a line up and we slide up to a booth very quickly.
"Afternoon."
Yes, it is. Might have been morning if Miss Monk...
"Afternoon," Vince says.
"Where are you folks headed?"
Folks. Such a...well, folksy kind of word.
"Florida."
Always answer the question. Provide no more detail unless prompted.
"For how long?"
"Two months."
"Do you have more than $10,000 with you?"
"I wish."
Silence.
"No."
"Tobacco?"
"No."
"Alcohol?"
"No."
"Okay." Hands back the passports. "Have a good time."
You didn't even ask what the huge tent in the back seat is for!
"Thanks."
Right away, there's the toll booth, after that a twisting left, and we're on I75 headed south. The girls are still silent. Vince and I are grinning like Cheshire cats.
Into the cat carriers, we spray the pheromone stuff that's supposed to calm them down. In the freezing air, Vince plows through the snow to warm up the car for them. We bundle up in hats, mitts, coats and scarves and pack everything. Despite the fact that they have four legs each, Sahara and Miss Monk don't even offer to help. Once we have all the luggage arranged, the big pheromone-soaked pet tent strapped safely into the back seat, little bowls handy for fresh food and water along the way, we are ready for the girls to board.
During the preparations, they wound themselves in and out of our legs, over our feet, tripped us on the stairs. Now they are nowhere to be seen. We wait a few quiet moments. Sahara, unable to stifle her curiosity, pokes her head into the hallway. I snatch her up and shove her, legs stiffened and howling, into the carrier. Immediately I remove her to the waiting, warm automobile, lest her howls spook Miss Monk. Naturally I am too late.Monkey darts past us and burrows her way under our bed. Now, ours happens to be a king-sized monstrosity with wooden sides only a very small child (or cat) can squeeze under. Judging from the dust balls, not even the Merry Maids have been able to get under there with a vacuum hose. Miss Monk has scratched a little pocket into the box spring. With a nice sharp exacto knife, we manage to make the rip larger, but she simply burrows totally out of reach. However, she purrs to let us know she's pleased with herself.
An entire frustrating impossibly long hour later, several litres of gas keeping Sahara and me warm, and Monkey strolls out into the hall. Vince quietly follows her, down the stairs where she finds the doors shut, up the stairs where she finds the doors closed, and finally into her master's arms. (Who am I kidding with the "master" monicker?)
We're on the road to Florida! The girls sing joyously - or should I use piteously? - for a few kilometres and then...silent resignation.
Whichever one of us is not driving balances Dave Hunter's book, Along Interstate 75, on our knees. If you are planning a trip to Florida, we highly recommend it. (Insert commercial music here.) As Dave suggests, we take the Ambassador Bridge between Windsor and Detroit, which fortunately is fairly devoid of traffic. Under our wheels, we can feel the difference between the economy of the Canadian versus the American city.We approach the border with a little bit of trepidation. We've got our passports, the house rental contract, and the vet's papers, ready for inspection. Luckily there's not much of a line up and we slide up to a booth very quickly.
"Afternoon."
Yes, it is. Might have been morning if Miss Monk...
"Afternoon," Vince says.
"Where are you folks headed?"
Folks. Such a...well, folksy kind of word.
"Florida."
Always answer the question. Provide no more detail unless prompted.
"For how long?"
"Two months."
"Do you have more than $10,000 with you?"
"I wish."
Silence.
"No."
"Tobacco?"
"No."
"Alcohol?"
"No."
"Okay." Hands back the passports. "Have a good time."
You didn't even ask what the huge tent in the back seat is for!
"Thanks."
Right away, there's the toll booth, after that a twisting left, and we're on I75 headed south. The girls are still silent. Vince and I are grinning like Cheshire cats.
Day One: Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida
We've been talking to the girls about this trip for a year. You'd think they would be ready. Sahara (who will not answer to any nicknames at all, a family tradition that she ignores) complains, her voice constant and loud. Raven, whose name has been switched to Monkey or Miss Monk for a variety of reasons, quietly stares at us with a deep seated suspicion borne of the belief that a car ride leads only to the vet. We promise them sunshine and lollipops, but they aren't convinced.
Into the cat carriers, we spray the pheromone stuff that's supposed to calm them down. In the freezing air, Vince plows through the snow to warm up the car for them. We bundle up in hats, mitts, coats and scarves and pack everything. Despite the fact that they have four legs each, Sahara and Miss Monk don't even offer to help. Once we have all the luggage arranged, the big pheromone-soaked pet tent strapped safely into the back seat, little bowls handy for fresh food and water along the way, we are ready for the girls to board.
During the preparations, they wound themselves in and out of our legs, over our feet, tripped us on the stairs. Now they are nowhere to be seen. We wait a few quiet moments. Sahara, unable to stifle her curiosity, pokes her head into the hallway. I snatch her up and shove her, legs stiffened and howling, into the carrier. Immediately I remove her to the waiting, warm automobile, lest her howls spook Miss Monk. Naturally I am too late.
Monkey darts past us and burrows her way under our bed. Now, ours happens to be a king-sized monstrosity with wooden sides only a very small child (or cat) can squeeze under. Judging from the dust balls, not even the Merry Maids have been able to get under there with a vacuum hose. Miss Monk has scratched a little pocket into the box spring. With a nice sharp exacto knife, we manage to make the rip larger, but she simply burrows totally out of reach. However, she purrs to let us know she's pleased with herself.
An entire frustrating impossibly long hour later, several litres of gas keeping Sahara and me warm, and Monkey strolls out into the hall. Vince quietly follows her, down the stairs where she finds the doors shut, up the stairs where she finds the doors closed, and finally into her master's arms. (Who am I kidding with the "master" monicker?)
We're on the road to Florida! The girls sing joyously - or should I use piteously? - for a few kilometres and then...silent resignation.
Whichever one of us is not driving balances Dave Hunter's book, Along Interstate 75, on our knees. If you are planning a trip to Florida, we highly recommend it. (Insert commercial music here.) As Dave suggests, we take the Ambassador Bridge between Windsor and Detroit, which fortunately is fairly devoid of traffic. Under our wheels, we can feel the difference between the economy of the Canadian versus the American city.
We approach the border with a little bit of trepidation. We've got our passports, the house rental contract, and the vet's papers, ready for inspection. Luckily there's not much of a line up and we slide up to a booth very quickly.
"Afternoon."
Yes, it is. Might have been morning if Miss Monk...
"Afternoon," Vince says.
"Where are you folks headed?"
Folks. Such a...well, folksy kind of word.
"Florida."
Always answer the question. Provide no more detail unless prompted.
"For how long?"
"Two months."
"Do you have more than $10,000 with you?"
"I wish."
Silence.
"No."
"Tobacco?"
"No."
"Alcohol?"
"No."
"Okay." Hands back the passports. "Have a good time."
You didn't even ask what the huge tent in the back seat is for!
"Thanks."
Right away, there's the toll booth, after that a twisting left, and we're on I75 headed south. The girls are still silent. Vince and I are grinning like Cheshire cats.
Into the cat carriers, we spray the pheromone stuff that's supposed to calm them down. In the freezing air, Vince plows through the snow to warm up the car for them. We bundle up in hats, mitts, coats and scarves and pack everything. Despite the fact that they have four legs each, Sahara and Miss Monk don't even offer to help. Once we have all the luggage arranged, the big pheromone-soaked pet tent strapped safely into the back seat, little bowls handy for fresh food and water along the way, we are ready for the girls to board.
During the preparations, they wound themselves in and out of our legs, over our feet, tripped us on the stairs. Now they are nowhere to be seen. We wait a few quiet moments. Sahara, unable to stifle her curiosity, pokes her head into the hallway. I snatch her up and shove her, legs stiffened and howling, into the carrier. Immediately I remove her to the waiting, warm automobile, lest her howls spook Miss Monk. Naturally I am too late.Monkey darts past us and burrows her way under our bed. Now, ours happens to be a king-sized monstrosity with wooden sides only a very small child (or cat) can squeeze under. Judging from the dust balls, not even the Merry Maids have been able to get under there with a vacuum hose. Miss Monk has scratched a little pocket into the box spring. With a nice sharp exacto knife, we manage to make the rip larger, but she simply burrows totally out of reach. However, she purrs to let us know she's pleased with herself.
An entire frustrating impossibly long hour later, several litres of gas keeping Sahara and me warm, and Monkey strolls out into the hall. Vince quietly follows her, down the stairs where she finds the doors shut, up the stairs where she finds the doors closed, and finally into her master's arms. (Who am I kidding with the "master" monicker?)
We're on the road to Florida! The girls sing joyously - or should I use piteously? - for a few kilometres and then...silent resignation.
Whichever one of us is not driving balances Dave Hunter's book, Along Interstate 75, on our knees. If you are planning a trip to Florida, we highly recommend it. (Insert commercial music here.) As Dave suggests, we take the Ambassador Bridge between Windsor and Detroit, which fortunately is fairly devoid of traffic. Under our wheels, we can feel the difference between the economy of the Canadian versus the American city.We approach the border with a little bit of trepidation. We've got our passports, the house rental contract, and the vet's papers, ready for inspection. Luckily there's not much of a line up and we slide up to a booth very quickly.
"Afternoon."
Yes, it is. Might have been morning if Miss Monk...
"Afternoon," Vince says.
"Where are you folks headed?"
Folks. Such a...well, folksy kind of word.
"Florida."
Always answer the question. Provide no more detail unless prompted.
"For how long?"
"Two months."
"Do you have more than $10,000 with you?"
"I wish."
Silence.
"No."
"Tobacco?"
"No."
"Alcohol?"
"No."
"Okay." Hands back the passports. "Have a good time."
You didn't even ask what the huge tent in the back seat is for!
"Thanks."
Right away, there's the toll booth, after that a twisting left, and we're on I75 headed south. The girls are still silent. Vince and I are grinning like Cheshire cats.
December 19, 2013
All I Want For Christmas
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth...When I was seven, all I really did want was two front teeth.
Now that I'm...older than seven, I only want one thing. It's a giant thing, though.
I want a family compound. You might think this is a throw-back to my flower child, hippie days. What I have in mind does resemble a commune or a kibbutz.
The dream is uppermost in my mind today because I am stuck here while my cousins grieve the loss of my aunt.
You see, I adore every single person in my familial circle. I want to have them close by.
I'd like to look out of my mobile home (I always picture big fat buildings with sides that expand into living rooms and libraries) and see my sisters' and cousins' and nieces'/nephews' and all of our children's trailers through the trees.
We always have trees and lots of land. (I mean, everyone needs their space, even people who love each other.) Oh and a lake that we can swim in during the summer or skate on in winter. Our mobile homes are lovely and outfitted with all the latest in technology.
We have an enormous building in the centre of the property. It looks something like a barn, all pine and oak. It's got lots of rooms for guests upstairs.
Downstairs, we hold dances, parties, and writers' conferences. The older people work from home - writer, photographer, on-line entrepreneur, casting director...you name it.The younger people have careers and drive away every morning. There is always someone who wants to stay home and take care of the babies.
Once the older people get really old, we'll have caregivers for them, too, from among the talented nieces/nephews/kids/grandkids.
Doesn't that sound idyllic? It's all I want for Christmas. Oh, plus I need to win that $100 million dollar lottery first.
"I use Grammarly for online proofreading because a teacher can't make no mistakes."
December 12, 2013
Join the Imajin Books Twitter Party
Ever wonder what life must be like for a writer? <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073786111 1 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {mso-style-parent:""; color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">(<i>For instance: Do all writers kick beer cans in the air when they have trouble choosing the right word - or was that just Hemingway?</i>) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">Ever want to ask an author how they come up with their plots?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA"> (<i>For instance: Do all authors search through every book in the world to get an idea? Or is that just Agatha Christie?</i>)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKs6lor2tmI..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKs6lor2tmI..." width="170" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bptXhgWkrCw..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bptXhgWkrCw..." width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">Want to ask a publisher what </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">they're looking for?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-size: large;">(<i>For instance, must I wear the electrodes all the time?</i>) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA"> Now you can ask all those questions and more!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">Get all the dirt, the secrets, the lies, the truth...</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">well, you get the idea.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">On December 14 & 15, from 5-10 PM EST, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">join the <b>Imajin Books Twitter Party</b><span style="font-weight: normal;">, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">part of their annual 25 Days of Christmas Giveaways event. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You will have the opportunity to chat </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">with various Imajin Books authors (including me!!) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">and the publisher herself, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">international bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Cheryl will be giving away random prizes to participants during the Twitter Party, so get your questions ready.</span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">To join the Party, simple use <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23imaji... all your tweets and follow the #ImajinAuthors thread on Twitter, which can be found by searching for the hashtag or going <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23imaji... style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">And don't forget, Imajin Books is holding a massive <a href="http://www.imajinbooks.com/sale"... Sale</a> and giving away lots of prizes</span>, including a Kindle Fire HD or Kobo Vox 7 HD, and two $50 Amazon gift cards. </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">To learn more about all these events, please visit</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="http://www.imajinbooks.com/contests-e.... </span><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBWrFHjC748..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="122" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBWrFHjC748..." width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>
December 7, 2013
The Weird and Wonderful Workings of the Criminal Mind
"I use Grammarly for online proofreading because a teacher can't make no mistakes."
http://www.grammarly.com/proofreading
The Weird and Wonderful Workings of the Criminal Mind
I'm enjoying a lovely, summery day ride in the car with my husband. Our favourite rock and roll music wafts in the background. A fine cooling breeze lifts our hair and our arms are being tanned as we lean casually through the open windows.Inside my head, it’s a different picture altogether. Down in a dark, dank basement, a man lies slowly bleeding to death from a shotgun wound. I am contemplating how long it would take him to die, when my husband asks me what I’m thinking. Unfortunately for him, I tell him. This is a scenario from Book One.A large raccoon is splayed upside down in the slope of the ditch on my right. He is stiff and awkward on his back, lips pulled back in an angry grimace. Maggots crawl out of his mouth and flies swarm everywhere. I can hear their frenzied delight as we stop for a red light. I am fascinated. Book Two!Next we pass a burned-out shell perched forgotten on a side road. I am thrilled to see it. I ask my husband to stop so I can get out and breathe in the scorched wood smell and the stench of furled plastic and dead things underneath the ash. Great experience for Book Three.
Forensics for Dummies, Until You Are Dead, Criminal Investigative Failures – these were the books that dominated my shelves during the writing of Book Four. Along with questions to which I find an answer through Sisters in Crime’s forensics specialist: Can you paint scenery on a dead body?The mind of a psychopath: what if you were ensnared in his/her way of thinking? What if you followed the path of their skewed morality and began to really like him/her? What if you fell in love? What would you do if you were betrayed, manipulated, swindled by that person? The seeds of Sweet Karoline! Book 5, but not in the series. Lucky for me, my husband is not only tolerant but is actually enabling of my weird and wonderful way of thinking. He likes my books, helps edit them in fact, and isn’t easily startled or frightened. If you are in the mood to traverse the weird and wonderful workings of my "criminal mind", come visit: www.catherineastolfo.com.
http://www.grammarly.com/proofreading
The Weird and Wonderful Workings of the Criminal Mind
I'm enjoying a lovely, summery day ride in the car with my husband. Our favourite rock and roll music wafts in the background. A fine cooling breeze lifts our hair and our arms are being tanned as we lean casually through the open windows.Inside my head, it’s a different picture altogether. Down in a dark, dank basement, a man lies slowly bleeding to death from a shotgun wound. I am contemplating how long it would take him to die, when my husband asks me what I’m thinking. Unfortunately for him, I tell him. This is a scenario from Book One.A large raccoon is splayed upside down in the slope of the ditch on my right. He is stiff and awkward on his back, lips pulled back in an angry grimace. Maggots crawl out of his mouth and flies swarm everywhere. I can hear their frenzied delight as we stop for a red light. I am fascinated. Book Two!Next we pass a burned-out shell perched forgotten on a side road. I am thrilled to see it. I ask my husband to stop so I can get out and breathe in the scorched wood smell and the stench of furled plastic and dead things underneath the ash. Great experience for Book Three.
Forensics for Dummies, Until You Are Dead, Criminal Investigative Failures – these were the books that dominated my shelves during the writing of Book Four. Along with questions to which I find an answer through Sisters in Crime’s forensics specialist: Can you paint scenery on a dead body?The mind of a psychopath: what if you were ensnared in his/her way of thinking? What if you followed the path of their skewed morality and began to really like him/her? What if you fell in love? What would you do if you were betrayed, manipulated, swindled by that person? The seeds of Sweet Karoline! Book 5, but not in the series. Lucky for me, my husband is not only tolerant but is actually enabling of my weird and wonderful way of thinking. He likes my books, helps edit them in fact, and isn’t easily startled or frightened. If you are in the mood to traverse the weird and wonderful workings of my "criminal mind", come visit: www.catherineastolfo.com.
