Jennifer Griffith's Blog, page 23

Miss(ing) Manners

So, the other day I made pork chops for dinner. This is the kids’ favorite thing. They were on sale, so I was thinking how neat it’d be to treat them. My husband was gone that evening, so I was holding down the fort, serving the chops, monitoring the mealtime chaos.

Now, over the years I’ve really thought I’d been inculcating my kids with good manners. We’ve had multiple, yea a hundred, discussions about “passing to the left” and not chewing with our mouths open. Countless reminders of “don’t touch your sister during dinner.” Unending lists of rules like “no singing at the table,” “no toys at the table,” and “if you say ‘jinx’ at the table you have to do all the dishes. Even the hand-wash.”

We’ve been over it.

However, I was not prepared for the caveman-like behavior that evening. One boy was eating in a para-European style, cutting the meat with the knife in the right hand and fork in the left, but then just shoving the cut meat immediately into the open craw. One kid picked up her meat in her hand. Maybe two did that. And when the other kid stabbed the whole pork chop onto the fork and started eating it like a candy apple on a stick, I lost it.

“What is wrong with everyone! We look like Neanderthals!”

They looked up in surprise. It was an emergency. And I had to pull out the big guns: a 1994 video called “Manners for Missionaries (and Everyone Else.)” That evening — before the remainder of the chops were chopped by their cute little choppers — they were stuck watching the whole 20 minute installment of the “how to” video on table manners. This movie was comprehensive. Slide the soup spoon away from you. Unfold a dinner napkin halfway. Unfold a luncheon napkin all the way. How to handle being served food you dislike. Pass to the left. The big hair and shoulder pads on the girl missionaries were a mild distraction, but they submitted themselves to the punishment. And, to my surprise, they were surprised by what was taught.

As if I hadn’t been saying these very exact things for months, years!

It proves how deaf our own children are to our voices. Proof. Proof!

Anyway, their manners at the second attempt at pork chops a couple of days later was improved. Mostly. And if we just watch that thing about 25 more times over the next 3-5 years, there’s a minute chance they won’t be doppelgangers for Viking warriors at the table.

It reminded me of our last big push for manners, also known as “the day I gave up.”

We hardly ever go out to eat. I mean, it’s expensive, and I mostly like food I cook more than food someone else cooks. Call me snobby if you must. But it’s even rarer to take the kids to a restaurant (at least one without a drive-through.) So we decided to dangle this special thing as an incentive. The “manners dinner.”

“If you guys can all have good manners for two months, we will go out to eat. You’ll prove you’re ready for a restaurant.” The word resonated in the air. Restaurant. Oooh! Granted, we had a two-year-old at the time, so some of our preparatory meals were less than stellar examples of good preparation, but we pressed forward. Everyone seemed to be trying. The two months went by, and there were lots fewer times when I had to yell, “Get up from under the table and finish your chicken.”

We were ready. It was restaurant time.

Fate dictated that we choose a Mexican restaurant. I mean, in this town of 10,000 people, we have 14 Mexican restaurants plus four taco trucks, so it was how it had to be. Yes, this town is the heart of the famous “Salsa Trail.” We had the kids dress up (even though everyone else in the place was wearing ball caps.) We sat down at the table and everyone chose something from the menu. The kids got to choose, which was fun for them. The adventurous eaters chose things with foreign names. The picky eaters chose dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets with ketchup. It was going to be a win!

Until it wasn’t.

To my right, at the end of the table, the youngest girl was standing up on her chair. I sat her down. She stood up. I turned to help someone on my left with a water spill. The youngest lunged for the little bowl of salsa and lifted it to her lips. My husband pointed toward her. I glanced and she’d drunk the whole bowl.

“Are her eyes watering? Is she okay?” he asked. I was horrified. That was the hot stuff. I mean, this is Arizona. Salsa can be pretty steamy here. (Incidentally, our town has a Salsa Fest every September with salsa tasting. You should come.)

“She seems okay. I think she liked it.” I shrugged and kept mopping up ice cubes.

Then the salsa made its reappearance. Baby girl threw up all that had gone down.

So much for manners.

The waitress saw it and kept walking. I waved for her. Finally I had to chase my way back to the kitchen and ask for a roll of paper towels.

We took the rest of our food to go. And we ate at home. Under the table. Where we belonged.

 

Interview: The Brothers Washburn

I had a chance to interview Andy and Berk Washburn, the brain trust behind PITCH GREEN, the newest release from Jolly Fish Press. I reviewed PITCH GREEN here. If you like a good, spine-tingling read, these guys have a story for YOU!

With Berk in blue and Andy in green, ladies and gentlemen, I present…The Brothers Washburn!

 

First off, do you go camping? If so, which of you tells the best campfire stories?

We used to do a lot more camping than we do now, though we still do some camping with our church youth groups and with our grandchildren.  We both still tell campfire stories, but Berk concedes that, around the campfire, Andy is the more practiced scary story teller.

If you’ve ever been Scout leaders: Estimate the number of Boy Scouts you’ve scared into wetting their sleeping bags over the years.

We both have been Scout leaders for many years, and though it would be unkind to accuse any Boy Scout of wetting his bed (though it has been known to happen), we have probably told scary campfire stories to hundreds of Scouts over the years.

PITCH GREEN. Is it your first novel? Give my blog readers an overview of the plot, would you?

Though we both have been working on other fiction novels, PITCH GREEN is our first novel to be published, and it is the first book in the Dimensions in Death YA horror series.  Based on a scary story we used to tell our siblings and friends as kids, this book follows our protagonists as they battle against an unseen evil presence lurking in an old mansion in a desolate mining town, deep in the Mojave Desert.  Camm and Cal are destined by their wit, pluck and luck (not always good) to become the balancing force in this world against monstrous predators that keep showing up around the strange, deserted mansion.  They must make a stand against the mansion’s bloodthirsty guardian, any alien visitors who might want to come through the mansion in search of easy prey, and the forces of the U.S. Federal Government, who are using the mansion to access unlimited natural resources.  Camm is the brains, Cal is the muscle and together they make a formidable team when they decide to work together.  They are joined by FBI Agent Linda Allen, who is smart, resourceful and not easily intimidated by those protecting the government’s secrets.  They barely have time to catch their breaths or scratch the surface of what is happening and do not understand the nature of what they are facing.  By the end of the first book, they have left a doorway to horror wide open and unguarded.

Where did you come up with the idea for your “creature?” (It’s hideous, by the way. Well done.)

From the time we were old enough to sleep over night at a friend’s house or have a friend sleep over at our house, an important part of the sleep-over ritual was the late-night telling of scary stories, and there was no better scary-story teller than our own mother.  Scary stories are a Washburn Family specialty, and from the time we were little, a family favorite was a story about a giant, vicious green rat. Variations of this twenty-minute story have been told to family, friends and complete strangers in many different settings over the years and were the basis for Pitch Green.  There is more than one type of creature in the bigger story, but each new creature will be properly introduced as the series unfolds.

 

So, does this creature have a name? (I didn’t see it named in the book.) Or is it a secret? Or maybe you can’t agree…

We’ve been calling it the Guardian.  We can only reveal so much in the first book.

My sister-in-law and I love team writing. How is it to team write for you two? Do you ever argue? If so, what’s the thing you disagree on most often?

As brothers, we get along well and have had no reason to argue so far.  We are two old lawyers with a healthy level of mutual self-respect, so we can freely share ideas and challenge each other without worrying about egos.  We are more creative when we are bouncing ideas off each other and discussing a general storyline, but we actually write separately, later conferring on what we have been doing.  Though we sometimes disagree on specific wording, there is usually some friendly give and take as we consider alternatives, but we usually agree quickly on the final wording.  We are different in how we approach a story.  Andy used to be a planner (a habit from writing like an attorney), but in writing fiction, he no longer plans ahead.   He likes to develop his characters, and then let them take the story where it is going to go.  Berk is definitely a planner.  He is always making lists and outlines for both the current story as well as future stories.  Our mutual work product is better than anything we could have done separately, and we both appreciate the different skills and perspective that we each bring to the joint process.

Is Trona a real place? I have heard of a borax lake somewhere… Did you ever live there?

Trona, California, is a real mining town, located in a desolate area of the Mojave Desert, not far from Death Valley.  Andy and I are part of a large family who grew up in that region in the 1960s and ‘70s.  We spent many days exploring hundreds of square miles of isolated desert and high-mountain country around Trona.  Our father was a dentist, who built up a practice in Trona, and while we were growing up, he was the only dentist in town.  As the good citizens of Trona mined the minerals of Searles Valley, Dad mined their teeth.

When, in turn, Andy and I went off to college, we left the desert and never looked backed.  We thought we were done with Trona forever, but couldn’t have been more wrong.  After we each moved to Colorado for different reasons, we talked for some time about starting a business together.  We have always been story tellers, first to our siblings, then to our own children, and now to our grandkids–scary stories are a specialty.  A few years ago, I started writing a young adult science fiction series, so when Andy also tried his hand at writing fiction, it didn’t take long for us to come together as The Brothers Washburn on a young adult horror series.  The tale is of course set in Trona, California, the perfect setting for a horror series.

I loved Cal and Camm as hero/heroine of the story. Talk a little about what their personalities are like so my readers will get a glimpse of these two.

Camm is the story’s main character.  She is caring and good hearted, but at the same time, tends to quickly assess new problems, decide on the best solution, and rarely doubts her choices.  She is smart, brave, knows her own mind and has the highest GPA in the senior class.  Nobody is smarter than her, and she knows it.  Cal is a few months older than Camm, and the two grew up together.  They have been close friends since they were very small children.  As a senior, Cal is strong, tall and fast—he is a star on the high school football team.  Unlike Camm, he is caught up in what the other teens are thinking and doing at school, in what is cool.  While he is popular with many of the girls, he thinks Camm is beautiful and would like to have a romantic relationship with her, but she insists they are just friends and have always been just friends.  Camm has no use for a boyfriend or any kind of romance.  All his life, Cal has been taking orders from Camm, but he resents her always bossing him around and is feeling like he should have a girlfriend.  Over the years, each has learned a lot from the other, and they really are best friends, but now, the question is, where do they go from here?

The book ends a bit open-endedly. Do you have plans for a sequel in mind?

The general outline for Pitch Green, the first book of many in our horror series, is based on the basic elements of a favorite childhood scary story that we expanded into a full-length novel.  Andy wrote the first rough draft, and then, in our typical tag-team effort, I took that draft over to edit and expand the tale.  In the writing of the first book, the ground work was laid for many sequels and prequels in that series.  The whole tale that will unfold in the series is both long and complicated.  However, writing as The Brothers Washburn, we are having more fun in the spinning of the tale than should be legally allowed, but we’re not worried, we know some good lawyers.

I think I remember your saying you explore old mines. My husband and I had a prenup (lawyer talk, as he’s one too) about that. He could explore old mines, and I never, ever had to iron his shirts. How do your wives feel about a) your mine interests? b) your being book writers? Which is more dangerous, in your opinion?

We’ve been exploring old mines since our youth, and early in Berk’s marriage, he took his wife on some old mine adventures, but that kind of thing is really not interesting to either of our wives.  While we continue to look for old mine adventures, we now go with sons and grandsons.  Our wives (and sons’ wives) tolerate it, but don’t encourage it.  On the other hand, our wives actively encourage our book writing efforts and have participated in the writing and social media effort.  We couldn’t do it without them.  While mine exploration and book writing both have their respective risks, our wives view the mine exploration trips as a thrill ride without a purpose, and the book writing is seen as more an investment than a senseless thrill.  Like Camm, our wives are both smart and practical in their approach to life.

I loved the book, even though I’m usually what guys your age probably termed a ’fraidy cat back in your schoolyard days. Who do you see as your audience for the book. (I might argue with you about this, counselors.)

We have spent our whole lives telling scary stories to youth (from 8 to 28, both male and female), so we have targeted the youth and young adult market in our horror series, and we’re hoping this will also include adults who are young at heart.

 

 

Make that $481

Remember the Rice Cooker? Wait. There’s more.

My vacuum also broke. The “dream” vacuum my mom insisted on buying me three years ago when she was here last and saw the ridiculous effort I was making with my fourth vacuum in 8 months, and how futile the effort was. She couldn’t take it and in her motherly way insisted I get a “real” vacuum.

Oh, it was so worth it. I love this vacuum. In fact, I think I even “tweeted” about it on Twitter when I first signed up for that mysterious social networking site. It (get this!) actually sucked up dirt! Imagine! And it didn’t have any stupid features like being “bagless” which basically means (to me) that I get to see what my vacuum picked up when I have to dump that dirt a second time, letting it poof into the air and turn into dust in my already extremely dusty desert world. Yay for bagged vacuums. Yay for not having to see any stray dead bugs or whatever else I want to suck up with a machine at more than arm’s length and never see or think of again.

But my mom called on Sunday night and said she and my dad are coming to visit. I’m really excited to see them! My parents are wonderful. My mom really values a clean house, which is also wonderful, and it gives me an incentive to kick myself into gear. (Well, sorta. I’m not kicking quite yet like I ought to.)

And Monday morning, I realized that the dream vacuum was broken. It barely picked up a stray leaf or grain of dried up rice under the table.

Seriously? Right now? No. Not even thinkable.

But it was. So I had my 15 year old take it apart. He’s always been good at that. But he couldn’t quite figure what was wrong with it. So this morning, I tried again to take it apart. Thinking that maybe it was clogged or something, I got one of those “drain zipper” flexible tools you use to unclog drains. This would’ve been great if it hadn’t instantly broken off inside the vacuum tube. Nice.

This, I felt, constituted an emergency. I had to bring in the big guns. “Hon, can you um, just help me with this for a few minutes, like maybe even before you go to work?” My husband, bless him!, undid all the pertinent screws, and we dejunked all the nether parts of the vacuum. No one specific clog came out, but we unclogged it all over, and then he put it all back together. I have no idea if he was late for work or not. I’m so self-centered I didn’t even care because I was so busy rejoicing that … the vac was back! It worked so well I was just vacuuming with glee.

Glee? Yes, seriously. Generally, I’d say something about that like, “That’s just not right.” But in this case, man, it was fantastic. Without this miracle of the disassembly and reassembly, I’d have had to haul myself over to WalMart and buy a $300 replacement vacuum, and I’d have to do it today. Pressure was on.

But no! No need! The Hoover Platinum has had a miraculous regeneration. The Zojirushi pulled itself off the ropes and both have come back up swinging, ready to fight the good fight at Chez Griffith another day.

It’s an appliance miracle! A St. Paddy’s Day appliance miracle! I think I’ll kiss the vacuum, it’s Irish. Or else just my super great vacuum-fixing husband. May he find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow! (Which would be perfect because I’d end up spending it all anyway because that’s the way things work around here.)

Review: Pitch Green

PITCH GREEN by The Brothers Washburn debuts today from Jolly Fish Press. It’s a YA Horror novel *(NOT my usual genre)* which is what is going to make this review highly unexpected–especially for me. I’ll be interviewing The Brothers and posting the interview here on Monday, but I’m excited about this book and want to give any weekend readers a chance to know about it as soon as possible. Good times!

I just finished reading PITCH GREEN by The Brothers Washburn, and first, before I say anything else about it, I have to say that The Brothers Washburn are never, ever allowed to go camping with me. I’ll bet my last doughnut these guys tell the most scream-inducing campfire stories of all time.

PITCH GREEN is a young adult horror novel about Camm (Camelot Mist Smith) and Cal (California Gold Jones), two high school kids in Trona, a desolate east-California town. Trona has a freaky history of multiple child disappearances over the past 70 years, including Cal’s youngest brother Hughie, who’d been only five at the time. Camm and Cal both feel responsible for Hughie’s disappearance, as they were the oldest kids in the trick-or-treating group when the unfortunate little one was taken from them.

No one knows who is taking the children. No bodies are ever recovered.

Now, years later, another disappearance has occurred, and Camm isn’t about to let this keep happening in her town. An FBI agent comes to investigate and interviews Camm, since she was present for the loss of Hughie. Agent Allen brings Camm and others into the creepy old mansion near where Hughie disappeared, and Camm sees things that make her mind start turning.

Later, Camm brings Cal along and they sneak into the abandoned mansion. What they find there leads them into a battle with a horrible creature with a voracious appetite for humans. The survival of all the children (and adults) in their town depends on Camm and Cal’s victory.

Granted, I’m not a big reader of scary stories, but this was so well written, and with such good dialogue and fun banter, as well as a plot that punches along merrily, I couldn’t help but fly through it in a couple of days. I’d let my own teens read it; in fact, I’d even gladly recommend it to them for a creeptastic time.

But I’m still not going camping with The Brothers Washburn.

Yes, there’s a creepy clock that plays a role in the story!

 

The Near Death Experience of Fuzzy Logic, Or How I Saved $181 This Week

Fuzzy Logic. That’s the jargony term the Zojirushi company uses for the magical way their rice cookers “know” when the sticky rice is done just perfectly. We bought a Zojirushi rice cooker with said Fuzzy Logic about 12 years ago when we bought our house. At the time I was dying because my husband insisted on getting a top of the line rice cooker, when I was just thinking of one of the $15 things we could get off one of the top shelves at Kmart or whatever. The Zojirushi cost more than $15. By a wide margin.

However, it was worth every penny. We have used the rice cooker at least twice a week, sometimes 4x a week, for all 12 years. I love it. It’s my favorite appliance ever. Hands down. That Fuzzy Logic defies logic because it makes the best sticky rice, and perfect every single time.

Until a month ago.

And it failed me.

The family was dumbfounded. Obviously, my kids instantly jumped to the conclusion that I’d lost my touch and that I was now and forever more a terrible cook.

Thanks, kids.

But luckily my husband was more forgiving, although he did ask whether I added something odd to the batch or if I put in the right amount of rice. No, I made it the same way as always, a ratio of 1.5:1, water to rice, hit “quick cook” and voila! Yucky rice.

Then it was fine a couple of times, including for Basmati rice. Then, dun, dun, dun. It happened again. Yucky rice, fuzzy logic on the fritz, bad dinner.

Dinner was saved because the kids were willing to put the chicken sauce over steamed broccoli in lieu of rice (how can I be mad at kids that forgiving, even if they jump to wild conclusions?) However, there was great mourning throughout the land. The kids suggested a funeral for the rice cooker for family home evening. We could light candles and stuff. I was personally feeling so very sad, and almost cried. I know, that’s dumb, but this rice cooker is very special to me, you know?

Anyway, we looked up the price of a replacement cooker. Nowhere in our small town sells such a wonderful custom gadget as the Zojirushi, so it was the Internet or bust. We found a dealer selling one for $181. Man! I did not want to spend $181 on a rice cooker just now. No! This exacerbated the mourning.

The next morning the kids asked when the funeral was. I put them off. I wasn’t ready to let go. The thought of hauling it out to the trash hurt my heart. I dumped the bad batch of rice and let the appliance sit on the counter while I mulled a proper and fitting sayonara.

The next morning I woke up before my alarm clock by a couple of minutes. Why does that happen? It just does. Anyway, my brain got thinking as I lay there in bed, and it hit me—maybe the breakage didn’t apply to the whole rice cooker. Maybe it just applied to the “quick cook” setting.

It’d be like one of those last minute phone calls from the governor for the inmate on death row. I’d intervene and stop the funeral proceedings. And I did. Anddddddd, it worked! The regular setting made perfectly fuzzily logical rice!

So I made a second batch just to be sure. And it worked. And it was fine for the subsequent batches all last week. Hooray! The Zojirushi narrowly avoided a trip to the city dump, and we have delicious rice that takes just a bit longer to cook, and (thank you very much) I feel $181 richer. That might be fuzzy math (a la George W Bush) but I’ll calculate it that way and be happy to.

Review: Dissension by Adrienne Monson

Adrienne Monson’s debut novel, Dissension, is the first in a trilogy and tells the story of a teenage girl who finds herself unexpectedly sucked into the world of vampires (pun intended) and the vampires’ war against the immortals, their eternal enemies.

I love the art on this cover. Super creepy and artsy!

Samantha doesn’t know what to expect when her mother dies and she must go live with her estranged father, a man she’s hardly spoken to since he left when she was just a child. His work for the government has always been hush-hush, and she still has no idea what he does for his job. It’s hard to feel close to him, and she decides she will try to endure the only year with him and then get out.

Within a short time of her being in his home, she has one of her visions, views of future events involving the distress of another individual. Samantha sees a beautiful woman being held captive in a warehouse and tortured—by Samantha’s own father.

Feeling she must do something to stop the torture scene and help the woman, Samantha sets out to sneak into her father’s office. Little does she know, this move will ensnare her into a life of people she never even knew existed, and make her the pawn in a gruesome battle between warring factions of the undead. Samantha’s protector, Leisha, will play a vital role in bringing all the fighting to a deadly climax.

Monson has drawn a completely unexpected world for the reader to fall into. While I am really not the intended audience for this book (as vampires and blood and such are not really ever my preferred genre), those who cannot get enough of vampires will likely find this a compelling entry in the lexicon of blood-sucking stories. Ms. Monson’s descriptions are filled with imagery, and the danger is compelling from the broad cast of villains in the story. The ending, too, is a real knock-out.

So, vampire fans, this one’s for you! Dissension by Adrienne Monson will have a sequel as well, so sharpen your fangs for the stories to follow!

Mistakes about the 1956 World Series Yankees and my Dad (with apologies to the fans)

All my life I grew up thinking my dad loved the Yankees. He’d met the team in Japan.

I love Japan. I loved living in Japan. I loved learning Japanese. I loved meeting Japanese people. I loved all of that. It’s been 20 years now this spring since I got on the plane to fly there for the first time.

Terrified.

Honestly, I was scared out of my skin. I kind of hoped they’d let me stay on the plane, not disembark, and just fly back. I still remember how fast the blood coursed through my veins when we touched down at Narita Airport, how I felt like I was having a out-of-body experience, how I wished I could be anyone else right then.

Silly me.

But I wasn’t the first person in my family to go to Japan.

In the 1950s, my grandparents packed up their six kids (later ten kids, but six at the time) and went to live on the north part of the island of Honshu on a U.S. Air Force base. My grandfather was an Air Force pilot, well, a pilot trainer, to be exact. He worked with Japanese officers to teach them to fly American planes, if I have my details correct. He met the likes of General Genda, one of the architects of the attack on Pearl Harbor. My grandmother raised the kids on the base and often used her stock phrase, “Ikura desu ka?” — How much is it?

She taught me that before I left.

Well, my dad was the oldest of their kids, and he was a 12 year old the year the Yankees won the World Series title. They came on an exhibition tour to Japan, and my dad, as an officer’s son, was selected to be their bat boy. What an honor!

As such, he was given a ball with all their names signed on it, and he kept it in a drawer of keepsakes where I found it when I was about 12, or maybe a bit older, and asked him the story. Even I recognized some of the names on the ball–Whitey Ford, Don Larsen, Yogi Berra–and I was a baseball idiot.

Fast forward to the year 2001. Just weeks after the September 11th attack on New York City, the Yankees again made it to the World Series. They were playing against the Arizona Diamondbacks, and my husband and I had moved to Arizona a few months before. Baseball fever was running high–and American nationalism was at its height, possibly the highest it’d been in my entire memory. There’d been some talk of canceling, due to the heightened security after the 9-11 attacks, but America spoke: baseball must go on.

We here in Arizona were rooting for the Diamondbacks.

The series went to seven games. New York, the city that had borne the brunt of the attacks, was at the edge of its seat to prove that the city would not be cowed by either terrorists or rattlesnakes from the desert. It seemed like the D’Backs were on the ropes. Those Yanks would beat them after all.

And then the Diamondbacks came alive in the seventh inning, scoring three runs and putting the Yankees to shame.

I was a little nervous to call my dad, but I figured, it’d been a rough autumn and he’d need some consoling, so I went ahead and dialed him. It rang.

“Isn’t it great!” his voice sounded so alive, so joyous.

“Wait. Dad. You weren’t watching the World Series were you?”

“Yes! And isn’t it great? I’m so happy!”

“Did you watch the same game I did? I mean, the Diamondbacks just won it.”

“I know!”

“But, Dad. I thought you were a Yankees fan. You were their bat boy. You have the ball signed by all the players. Whitey Ford, Dad. Yogi Berra!”

“Oh, no. I have hated the Yankees all my life. I root for anyone but the Yankees. It was swallowing my bile to have to be their bat boy.” And he went on in an ecstatic gush for a while.

I personally don’t have a strong opinion about the Yankees. I hope no one that reads this is offended. They seem like a great team to me. Truthfully, I have been emotionally involved in baseball for about a sum total of six weeks of my life (when I dated a baseball player in high school, and during that 2001 series.)

Still, it’s funny to learn things about my parents, to learn how wildly wrong my assumptions had been. It makes me wonder what kind of wildly wrong assumptions my kids will make about me. Like perhaps that I like root beer, or that I’m a good listener, or something completely wrong like that. But I am keeping a journal as often as I can, and someday when they read it, I hope they get a fairly accurate picture of the woman I am, of what I care about, of what my hopes and dreams are for them.

And that I loved them more than anything else. Even Japan.

Top 5 Best Westerns

I’m not talking about the hotels here.

This afternoon my husband came home for lunch and surfed Netflix streaming until he found “El Dorado.” This is a western starring the one and only John Wayne. I sat down to fold clothes while he watched, just to hang out with him.

Now, I’ve seen this one before, a long time ago, and I remember liking it. But this time through, I was listening to the dialogue. Oh, my heck! Whoever wrote this was a genius at banter. There are so many quotable lines in this film. We kept exchanging looks and laughing out loud.

Not only does it star The Duke himself, it also boasts Robert Mitchum, who has a western gentleman flair, and surprisingly James Caan, in his pre-gangster-movie days. Who knew James Caan was such a looker in his youth? Yowza.

That got me thinking. While I don’t watch a ton of westerns unless they’re thrust upon me during my husband’s lunch hour, there are, in fact, quite a few movies of that genre that are in fact excellent, and that I count among my favorite movies of any genre. Here they are in no particular order.

1. El Dorado. As noted, this stars John Wayne and James Caan. It has fabulous dialogue, quotable lines, and a great multi-faceted revenge plot. Plus, a really ugly hat.

2. High Noon. This stars Gary Cooper and Grace Kelley, and it’s actually more of a psychological thriller set in the Old West than a standard western. I once heard it said the story plays out in real time, but I’d have to watch a real clock (not the clock on the wall in the sheriff’s office in the movie) to verify that. Gary Cooper’s character is so full of integrity, I can’t help but love this movie. I love a movie with a truly good Good Guy.

3. The Magnificent Seven. This is a remake of a Japanese film by Akira Kurosawa called The Seven Samurai. It’s a vigilante justice plot, where a small town hires some mercernaries to protect them from banditos. Yul Brenner, James Coburn, and lots of other magnificent actors populate this film. At first the gunmen are just in it for the money, but their hearts do turn. Besides the greatness of this movie, it has one of the best spoofy spin-offs of all time (in my opinion): The Three Amigos. Happy trails to you.

4. Big Country. This one is super long, but worth every minute you invest. Why? Because Burl Ives is in it as the patriarch of a conclave of idiot outlaws with a great line: “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” It’s worth the wait for that line alone. But along the way, you’re treated to (drumroll, please) Charlton Heston and Gregory Peck. Yes! Seriously! And they have an all-nighter fistfight. It plays out pretty long on the screen as well. Both of them are vying for the heart of the same heiress daughter of a rancher, and Gregory Peck is the “better man.” But does she deserve him?

5. Quigley Down Under. Now, I know this is not technically a western, being set in Australia. But it has the same landscape and is in the same time setting, plus Tom Selleck wears a cowboy hat the whole time so I count it. It counts, okay? It has one of the best unconventional romances in any movie, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget when Crazy Cora describes the event that triggered her instability. The baby who wouldn’t stop crying when the gunmen approached? I still get all sniffly when I think of it.

There you have it. My list. Five Best Westerns–to me. Maybe I’m leaving something out. Maybe this should be the list of ten best. I don’t know. But we had to stop watching El Dorado 42 minutes into the film (at a spot where they had to have shot the movie in Old Tucson, if I know my landscape and mountain ranges right), and about half my laundry still needs to be folded. After my preschooler and I go on a walk.

Don’t Go to Bed Angry, But Waking Up Angry is Fine

Moms. We have to get up pretty early in the morning. It seems that no matter how early I get up, whether it’s 6:15 or 4:45, I end up berating myself for not getting up ten minutes sooner.

But some mornings it’s hard, especially after a late night Netflix or Hulu binge of Korean dramas or 1970s sitcoms like The Bob Newhart Show. (That’s funny stuff. I adore Bob Newhart. May he live forever.)

When I was pregnant with my fourth child, I had to get up early, but I discovered the power of Altoids. I kept a little tin of them on my nightstand. When I absolutely needed to get up in the morning, but my heavy body and my very soul were working against me, I’d reach over, flip open the Altoids tin and take a deep whiff of those “curiously strong” mints. Powerful stuff! It woke me up every time.

Well, lately I’ve been chugging Altoids like there’s no tomorrow since I supposedly gave up candy. (Altoids don’t count. Neither does cold cereal, as you should know by now if you’ve followed this blog at all. Like I say, I have my double standard and I’m sticking to it.) So since I eat them all the time, Altoids have lost some of their power of sense-revival. I needed something new—and I found it:

Being ticked off.

A few months ago I went to a book signing where the small bookstore alerted me at the last minute that my books had not yet come in and would I please bring some from my own stash to sell. “We’ll reimburse you. We’ll give you replacement books as soon as they come in, which could be any day now.”

Sure, I said. After all, it was a booksigning/fundraiser for a good cause, a girl fighting cancer. I was game. And they’d have my books in right away, so no problem.

This was the beginning of November.

Since then, I’ve called, stopped in (a three hour trip–each way!), emailed, called, emailed, asked.

Still no books. Still no payment. This…is bugging me. A lot.

However, in a way, it’s a really cool, useful situation. Why? Because when I hit that off button on my alarm clock at 5:00 a.m., and just ache to go back to sleep for a few hours, I remind myself to let my mind drift to this bookstore. Before I know it, my blood is pumping and I am letting my mouth press into a straight line of “mad,” and I know I won’t be falling back to sleep again with this much annoyance running around in my head.

Voila! Awake!

I’m not thinking that “waking up mad” is going to be a good long-term solution for my life. I don’t actually like being mad very much. There probably are some people who do like being mad. Not me. So I’m either going to have to actually take care of the problem or else I’ll have to just decide to let it go and mentally “give” them the $175 or whatever. Just giving it to them as a present in my mind would probably take care of the whole thing. And I could do that. And I just might.

But for now, it’s a great gift to me and makes me jump out of bed in the morning ready to put on my shoes and get after the day’s challenges.

So, thank you, rude bookstore, for never paying me for my books. (But please pay me for them because I need more sleep.)

Who’s “The Man?” (A definitive answer from Ray Bradbury)

On the front cover of HERE THERE BE DRAGONS is an endorsement of the book by none other than Ray Bradbury. THE Ray Bradbury, of Fahrenheit 51 fame, of The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit fame, of 20th Century author pantheon fame. Mr. Bradbury passed away last June, but what did the late Mr. Bradbury have to say on the cover of James Owens’s book?

“This is the man.”

Whoa.

What a ringing sentence.

But after hearing Mr. Owens speak at the 21st annual ANWA Conference this weekend, and sitting with him at lunch on Saturday, and hearing the stories he had to tell from his extraordinary life, I came away feeling filled. He’s really so very interesting and inspiring. I’m going to buy his dragon books for my kids (already bought one, and he drew a dragon in it for my reading maniac daughter!) and his meditations books for myself so I can remember the stories (because I tend to forget details of almost everything I hear, ever.)  PLUS, he taught us all how to draw a dragon. How nice is that?

So, anyway, one of the several things that really resonated from his class on “Finding Your Personal Mythology” was his statement that anyone’s life story can be extraordinary and highly interesting if it’s told in the right way.

I thought, yeah, probably, but maybe not mine. I’m a girl from a small town, grew up on a dairy, went to college, went on a mission, worked a bit, got married and have kids.

Well, I guess if I tell it that way, it’s not all that interesting. And it’s possible that maybe no matter how I tell it, it’ll bore readers to tears. But I, apparently, do not care! So I’ve decided from time to time to sprinkle this blog with stories from my life. They may not interest readers, but maybe someday my kids’ll pick through the archives of the internet (help me, Mister Wizard!), and come across the stories and like knowing about their mom.

So, dear readers, brace yourselves for a few stories to come.

Meanwhile, I shall share with you this picture I snapped of myself with Mr. Owen. Clearly, he was unaware of the moment, being busy signing books for my sister-in-law and friends at the time. But I think he wouldn’t mind. (If you do see this, Mr. Owen and would like me to remove it, I’ll be glad to. It just makes me laugh.)

And I’d also like to challenge any of you with a life to think about how to tell it and lift your friends and relatives by its retelling. Go for it! No reason not to discover our own inherent extraordinariness! (Writing can do that. I love to write.)

James Owen is too busy drawing dragons in book inscriptions to notice I’m sneaking up behind him. (At the ANWA Conference, Arizona, 2013)