A New Week, a new beginning

Mondays always give me hope. At least I feel that way when I don't face a job I can't stand. In that respect unemployment has lightened up Mondays considerably for me. And with you and this blog to push me to write each day, I began the morning with a rewrite.

Back in July I had sent a personal essay off to Christian Science Monitor. No word. A silent rejection. Not even a letter to use in my fabric-paper collage. When I sent the essay I wasn't completely satisfied with it, but I got lazy and a little desperate to sell something and sent it.

Today I stripped it apart and refocused it, cut out the oh woe is me sections, and tightened the writing. I don't know if it will sell. What I do know is I am already much happier with this piece. And if I'm happy, that makes rejection easier somehow. But I am hopeful again that this piece will sell.

Yes, do overs are allowed.

My new schedule seems to fit into a routine of checking email, checking my blogs, and then surfing for inspiration or information that I can fit together into something unique and universal with a slightly new perspective before settling down to write today's blog.

Today's serendipitous cyberspace ramble took me to a site, Walletpop, where I found great information about freebies, job searches, unemployment, and making money. I read a CNN story about the four people they have been following through their unemployment experiences.

These people were struggling, no doubt about it, but they were also experiencing what I had discovered -- freedom. Freedom isn't free. We've heard that cliche. And the price may be dear. No I'm not going to fight a war for my freedom, people much braver and stronger and younger and much more heroic than I are standing at the wall and securing my world. And I thank them everyday -- they just don't know it. I need to work on that.

Right now my freedom is costing me the security and peace of mind that my guaranteed every two weeks paycheck brought. But I'm really less conflicted, even with financial woes. I'm where I think I should be. I'm where I can help and support the people I love.

Today I plan to spend some quality time with the Subversive Stitchers and their fictional lives. Stay tuned, I'll let you know how that goes.

Tip of the Day: How to use a dash.

Writer's Darlings

I recently discussed 'killing your darlings' with another writer. Seems that us writers have favorites and cling to them even when they are all wrong. A phrase that seems particularly expressive or alliteration that sings or a detour in the middle of an essay that leads nowhere, but sounds good. They jump out at us and we embrace them because they make us as a writer feel good. "Look at that, I wrote that, isn't that literate? Isn't that creative? Isn't that just exceptional?"

Often these darlings are just that 'exceptional pieces of writing' -- but they just don't fit the voice or the form or the topic. The wrong word in the wrong place no matter how beautiful the word is still the wrong word.

But essay writers know that often an essay starts with a 'darling' of a different sort. A favorite anecdote perhaps. A scene -- like the one of my husband walking across the parking lot with me as we enter a quilt show admonishing me to "don't even try to talk about those 'blankets' to me." And him standing with his arm around the guest speaker at the quilt show, grinning like an idiot while I snap their photo and listen to him tell her, "Quilts? Oh yeah, I like quilts, yep I like quilts a lot." It begs to be turned into an essay.

Recently I experienced an 'essay moment' while thumbing through my most recent issue of Mid-American Review. It is published by Bowling Green University and they actually published one of my book reviews there. Bowling Green was my Dad's home town and it is the college I would have loved to graduate from, if I could have had that opportunity. So I have a soft spot for the university and the publication. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't subscribe because I'm always intimidated to try reading it.

This whole intimidation factor came into play when I read a poem that appeared in the magazine. Now, poetry is even scarier to me than literary short stories. I started reading with the expectation of not understanding a word, but it spoke to me and I truly felt my world shift and my creativity soar and well, I turned it into an essay.

Of course my first choice to submit it was Christian Science Monitor. They always get first dibs on my kinder-gentler essays. This one though had a four letter word in it and well, it wasn't the usual fare I send their way.

To my surprise the editor liked it. And even more surprising, she did very little editing. And well, my little ode to poetry and all its angst is up on their website today in celebration of Poetry day or week or month, whatever it is.

It is one of my darlings. One that made me feel a bit vulnerable admitting my unsophisticated reading limits and the fear factor when addressing poetry. I don't know how readers will respond to the piece. For me it is a milestone. I feel it is one of my better efforts. I hope this darling proves to be worth keeping.

Waning Gibbous tugs us toward chaos

Today's moon is a waning gibbous, which means more than half, less than whole. Basically, the moon has a hump back. This may be the cause of the atmosphere of discourtesy and chaos we encountered today at Sam's Club.

The full moon's tug is still strong. That explains a lot. People are known to do weird things while under the effects of a full moon. Or at least that makes a great excuse.

I didn't expect Sam's Club to be a location where people are so vulnerable to the moon's phases. Evidently it is.

People were pushing and shoving. Some stood in the middle of aisles staring at the same frozen fish or unripe mango unable to see the bottle neck they'd created. Cell phones crushed tightly to ears transported people to another time, place and relationship to the detriment of those milling around them. Clerks tapped feet, gritted teeth, and then whirled and stalked away or yelled like a mule skinner trying to get recalcitrant shoppers to form two lines. "There are two lines people, two lines, two lines, two lines...."

My husband, riding a motorized cart, was marooned more than once by people jumping in front of him, driving their carts into his path, or some tried pushing him out of the way. Maybe we didn't get the memo about rescinding the rights of people with disabilities.

I wondered if there might be a natural disaster coming that no one mentioned to us. Each person bent on his own needs, his own path, his own space, his own survival. But, maybe someone should tell the one woman in the milk and egg aisle, that her world will not end if she did not get a gallon of milk precisely when she wanted to get a gallon of milk. I originally wrote 'the lady' -- but had to change that. She was definitely not a lady.

This was Sam's Club, not Hurricane Charlie.

I can't explain why people can't be courteous. Interact with a smile, take a deep breath and stop fighting the fray.

We were exhausted by the time we exited the store. I'm just thankful I don't work there and never need return -- except for the kitty litter. We can't seem to find that brand elsewhere, but maybe we could teach our cats to sit on the toilet and flush. It might be easier than facing that mob again.

Or maybe we'll check the moon phase before heading back. A gibbous moon seems to turn everyone into mannerless boors. Well, not everyone. My husband and I and the guy behind us in the check out line seemed to be resisting its effects.

In total honesty, I felt the moon's pull when the woman pushed me out of the way as she reached for the milk. It was a strong urge to grab the cell phone from her hand, throw it to the ground and stomp it to smithereens. I had a flashback to working at the library, emptying the book drop. A patron drove up in her Lexus, thrust a book in my face while she babbled into a cell phone, then drove off forcing me to leap back so she didn't run over my foot.

I do so hate cell phones and the boors who must babble on them in public places. I think the moon made me say that....

Life Lists -- Not Just for the Young

Turn 50 and your perspective takes a quick 180.

Suddenly you see how much life is behind you, and how little is before you. Between those two views, the realization hits you that you've been spinning your wheels for the last 30 years.

Younger generations seem to find life lists a way to keep their focus, to make their lives count. According to an article in the New York Times:

"Once the province of bird-watchers, mountain climbers and sufferers of obsessive-compulsive disorder, the life list has become widely popular with the harried masses, equal parts motivational self-help and escapist fantasy."

But at 50 or 60 or 70 -- can one really make a life list and it means something?

I say, "Yes!"

At 95, Mom just took her first cruise. Granted it was on Lake St. Marys, but still she is finding new experiences and enjoying each one.

Maybe I can't dance all night, but who knows, maybe I could see Mt. Kilimanjaro before I die.
If that is really something I want to do.

The problem of arrested development, something I seem to suffer from, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. So the list I've been contemplating recently includes things I'd like to do -- again.

1. Lay in the grass on a summer night and stare up into the tree, watching the lightning bugs dance.

2. Feel the wind and spray on my face while racing across the surface of water -- lake, river, ocean -- it doesn't matter. I just want to experience that freedom, that giddy feeling of rushing toward something fun that is a bit unnerving like riding in my uncle's boat.

3. Write an essay that makes me giggle with delight.

4. Talk all night with friends....

Maybe if I revisit a few things, I will find some new items to put on a life list. Regardless of old or new experiences, life should not be wasted. And that means realizing that age has nothing to do with quality of life -- you're never too old to live.

Just ask Mom.

Grandma's Sewing Machine

Whether it was nesting instinct, restless boredom, or too much HGTV, I felt the need to rearrange furniture yesterday.

We 'downsized' with our last move, only the house turned out to be smaller and the items we could part with less than we'd hoped. So we have a small house with too much stuff. Periodically I throw something away and reshuffle what is left in hopes that it will fit better.

Yesterday was a reshuffling day.

I tried moving the little love seat in our bedroom closer to the desk. But I liked it centered on the window, so I moved it back. Then I moved the little table that held the computer tower (beside the desk) and returned it to its original intent as a side table by the couch.

Much better.

My husband could just bend down a bit to turn his computer off and on.

The round table that sat beside the bed just wasn't working. It was wobbly at best and the cover I had over it was actually a curtain. So out it went. But what to put in its place?

I almost bumped into my grandmother's old Singer sewing machine as I carried the table out to the dining room where everything I didn't know what to do with landed. My collection of books that had overflowed the five book shelves, the overstuffed chair that I thought I would recover -- and hadn't. And the sewing machine.

We'd adjusted to walking around it. But maybe it could work as a side table in the bedroom. So I wheeled it in and much to my surprise it makes the perfect dressing table. It was intended for someone to sit at it and all of those drawers on either side -- perfect for make up, etc.

I unwrapped a mirror that had remained swaddled in bubble wrap from our move, hidden behind the bedroom door. I propped it atop the sewing machine and it worked. Add my favorite vase of philodendron and Mom's hand mirror, a knit scarf, it looked good.

It didn't hurt that I cleaned up the clutter, dusted and vacuumed, and made the bed.

But I look at that sewing machine that probably hasn't sewn a stitch since Grandma died and wonder. What if I could get it working? What would it be like to sew an heirloom on it? That old treadle sewing machine stitching twenty-first century thread into antique cloth to make something that my Grandmother would have appreciated and that maybe a future generation might treasure.

I've seen a similar machine used. It was in the 1960s, the summer, 4-H sewing projects. My good friend, Regina, sewed her award winning clothes on an old treadle Singer machine. She and her sisters and her mother did all of their sewing on it. Did I mention that there were nine children in that family? I thought she was the luckiest girl in the world. All of those sisters and brothers.

And when she came to stay at my house, she thought I lived in heaven. How could I find anything wrong with being the only kid. Not sharing my room with four sisters and my bed with two of them. Meals were another issue for her. She learned to eat fast and had what Mom called a boarding house reach. At our table she couldn't believe that we actually had leftovers and Mom offered her seconds. No one said, "Don't hog it all."

Funny how looking at that sewing machine reminds me of Regina as much or more than it does my grandmother. I never saw Grandma use it, but I had seen Regina pump the treadle and thread the needle.

The thought won't go away.

So maybe if I make an especially good dinner tonight -- I'm thinking roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy and corn on the cob....maybe my husband will tinker a bit and see if it is possible to resurrect the old machine.

It's only been fifty years since it last took a stitch. It would be like living in two worlds, two eras, at the same time, to sit at that machine and sew. What spirits would surround me....

Useless Information

I'm a fan of trivia and useless information. So when I happened upon Don Voorhees' The Book of Totally Useless Information -- I was fascinated.

Want to know why Scottish Highlanders wear kilts? Why boxing 'rings' are square? Or maybe What is Fahrvergnugen?

Its all in there, including some tidbits maybe I'd rather not know or had never thought to ask. For example, "Why don't you ever see cashews sold in the shell?"

Well?

I'd never thought to ask.

Just the mention of cashews takes me rushing through time back to the candy store on the square in Lima, Ohio. They had fresh roasted nuts of all variety and the best -- the very best cashews I've ever tasted. Mom could drag my brother and I out in zero weather, make us stand for hours while she shopped, going in and out of the various shops that lined Main Street. If we got antsy she'd just remind us that our LAST stop was the 'nut shop.'

I have no idea what the name of the establishment was, but the aroma was decadent. A mixture of chocolate and nuts and oil and salt and nougat and salt water taffy and peanut butter. Ohhh I'm drooling on the keyboard as I write this.

But Mr. Voorhees got my attention with the statement: "Cashews are in the same plant family as...."

Are you ready?

"Poison ivy." That would be the family of Anacardiaceae.

No way!

Way.

He explains why this nut is never in the shell:

"The oil that surrounds the shell is very irritating to the skin and can cause blisters."

It certainly sounds like poison ivy!

And he continues: "This makes the harvesting of cashews nasty work. Trying to shell these obnoxious little nuts at home would also be a difficult task. Even roasting the shells causes a noxious smoke to be given off."

Ever raked up a big pile of leaves and stuff in your yard and set it on fire (before fire laws of course!) and discovered that you'd burned some poison ivy? Ever had an internal case of poison ivy from breathing those smoky fumes. Ohhhhh not pleasant, not at all. Some have died from such an experience.

"Another interesting thing about cashews is that they can help prevent tooth decay."

Wow, who knew?

"The oil in the nut is so powerful that it inhibits the growth of plaque-producing bacteria."

Maybe toothpaste makers missed the boat and should have made cashew flavored instead of mint flavored tooth paste.

I suppose you still want to know the kilt, boxing ring and Fahrvergnugen answers.

The Scottish kilt started out as a multi-purpose garment out of necessity. Poverty and scarcity of wool made this large rectangular piece of cloth especially popular. About 15x5 foot in size and called a philabeg, the cloth wrapped around the waist and the remainder went up over the shoulder to be pinned in place. It gave unrestricted movement and could also be pulled over the head and shoulders during bad weather or used as a blanket for sleeping outdoors. Mr Voorhees goes into more detail, but this should give you a start into kilt lore.

As for the boxing ring: Well, he doesn't answer that question very well. He gives a kick-butt history of boxing in only a few paragraphs, but leaves it you as to why the term ring was used. My guess is that in early days there was no seating except for the fighters. Thus, much like a fight on the playground, the audience gathered around in a circle to watch the fighters go at it.

It is interesting to note that the term boxing has nothing to do with the boxlike ring. "It is derived from the Middle English word for slap or strike -- box. In England, thrashing someone is still referred to as 'boxing their ears.'"

And Fahrvergnugen: remember the old 1980s VW advertisements? Well this word basically means the pleasure of driving from the German words fahr meaning drive and vergnugen meaning pleasure. Sorry, I had hoped it was more exciting than that, too.

Not everything we don't know is all that worth knowing -- but cashews related to poison ivy -- amazing. I wonder who the first person was to discover the cashew, and how he or she survived the experience! Or better yet, after their fingers blistered and swelled, why did they stick the nut in their mouth? Food foragers were wickedly courageous people!

Duh

Have you seen the car commercial based on "Duh"? Innovative use of a word that usually takes a negative connotation. Still, it is a car commercial.

On Dictionary.com, Duh is defined as an interjection used to display annoyance at banality, stupidity and the obvious. Like duh, who was surprised at Brittany, Paris or Lindsey's behaviors?

Or duh, people treat their pets like they are their children. Yet, today I saw a new high or maybe it is low that demonstrates the divide that leads me to believe Americans have lost touch with reality.

For a mere $50, dog owners can buy a 1.7 ounce bottle of doggy perfume so that their ummm DOG won't smell like a well, DOG! Sexy Beast offers a whole host of pricey and unnecessary indulgences that are meant to turn animals into family members, more human family members, it seems. And, best of all it is non-allergenic.

Another writer put it in perspective with her comment, "meanwhile babies are dying for lack of clean water...."

Barbara Ehrenreich, author of Nickel and Dimed and blogger, writes about the giant leaps in pet care that veterinary medicine has taken. She wrote,

This year, Americans will spend about $9.8 billion on health care for their pets, up from $7.2 billion five years ago. According to the New York Times, New York’s leading pet hospitals offer CT scans, MRI’s, dialysis units, and even a rehab clinic featuring an underwater treadmill, perhaps for the amphibians in one’s household.

She proposes that if a family can not afford health care for their children, perhaps they could afford to take them to the local veterinarian who is now equipped to provide care that otherwise a family cannot afford. Children die for lack of basic health care -- as simple a 'duh' process as taking a child to the dentist to treat an abscessed tooth.

And who doesn't get outraged when the nightly news tells of dog fights, cock fights, starving animals chained in cages and abandoned or abused? I grew up with the Bambi and Lassie syndrome. I was petrified that something would happen to the animals. It didn't matter that humans died, were hurt, lost, mutilated. Don't hurt the animal. Do we feel as much outrage when abused children make the nightly news lineup? Have you noticed that less stories about kids see air time than those of animals?

Ehrenreich goes on to say,

The Senate Finance Committee has approved a bill that would expand state health insurance cover for children (S-CHIP) to include 3.2 million kids who are not now covered (but leaving about 6 million still uncovered.) Bush has promised to veto this bill, on the grounds that government should not be involved in health coverage. If does veto the bill, the fallback demand should be: Open up pet health insurance to all American children now!

Kids have fallen out of favor. True they can be annoying, vexing, frustrating, and costly. They aren't as well house-trained nor as easily taught tricks as most dogs. And when they run to greet us at the door it is more about 'what did you bring me' than being happy to see us.

Perhaps kids would benefit from a good PR firm like the car commercial Duh guys.

But in the meantime, I wonder how many children would benefit if that $50 for dog perfume was used instead to help pay for children's health care.

Lawn care woes

It seemed like an easy enough project. Just screw the container of weed and feed onto the end of the hose and spray the lawn. No big deal.

A week later the weeds were shriveling up, turning brown. The product seemed to be doing what it said it would do.

The second week our grass shriveled up, turned brown and now I'm looking out the window at this lawn that matches the new chocolate brown paint job on our house!

My husband felt I had over-treated the lawn. True, I used almost twice as much as the bottle suggested, but really, how accurate are those instructions? But I bore the burden of killing our lawn. I resigned myself to another big expense, this time for replacing sod, something we had never expected to buy. It seemed so unnecessary to have ready-grown grass placed in a yard. We could wait for grass seed. Well, that doesn't seem to be the case where we live, now.

We have given up our freedom and independence for a Neighborhood Development Committee who approves house colors, sends out nasty messages if lawns are not just edged as well as mowed each week, and they charge us for the pleasure of their oversight.

When we aren't quite sure what to do about something, we basically ignore it, waiting for inspiration, I guess. So we went about the business of putting things back in order after the lightning strike and the house painting. One of those need-to-do things was call the termite protection company and get them to do whatever it is they do around the base of the house to keep termites away. These are of course 'bug' guys and in business to make a profit, so one look at our lawn and they sent a salesman out. He told us without hesitation, "You have chinch bugs."

They are sucking the life out of the grass and depositing a toxin at the same time. Multi-tasking little predators. The salesman started naming all of the things we needed to do. Ending, I think after seeing the storm-cloud look on my face, with "At the least, the very least you need a one-time treatment to kill the chinch bugs."

I think they should be called cinch bugs because it is a cinch that no matter how we look at it, this is gonna cost dollars, lots and lots of dollars beginning with bug genocide for our lawn.

"What about the cute little lizardy anoles?" I asked.

"Oh, we start spraying and they run. It won't hurt them."

Somehow I got the feeling that this bug genocide salesman really didn't give a frootloop about anoles....

So we scheduled the treatment. What else could we do? I read about the chinch bugs and didn't find anything positive about them. Nothing.

The day came and went for the application. The saleman said, "emergency" several times, I thought they'd be right out to keep that appointment and collect the check.

Today they leave a note on the door that they can't do the treatment because I must pay the technician on the spot. But, but, but, who said they're coming today? It was yesterday when they were scheduled to come.

After a phone call and discussion, the company will bill us and the techie can come out whenever he wants to -- hopefully sooner than later.

Oh and as the salesman was leaving, after having sold us on the importance of getting rid of the bugs, he announced, "Once you get the new sod installed, we should treat it again...."

New sod? NEW SOD???

This was supposed to stop the bugs and let our grass grow back.

I remember the good old days when we grumbled about dandelions taking over the lawn. Who knew the day would come when I yearned for dandelion problems. At least now my husband has stopped blaming me for the brown yard. Maybe there is ONE good thing about chinch bugs.

Imprinting Quilt Shows

When I head to quilt shows, it is with such anticipation of what I'll see and learn there. I have yet to get to the American Quilt Show in Paducah, KY, but it is a goal of mine. I'd love to take classes with some of these creative women who generously (for a price) share their expertise. The whole atmosphere of a quilt show just feeds my spirit. The quilting community is warm and generous and comforting -- much like the work they create.

So my best assignments for writing involve writing about quilts and quilters. Recently I had the opportunity to work with Valerie C. White. Up until the past few years she's been known as the Louisville Police Chief's wife -- but now he is the husband of Valerie White, quilt artist.

Her quilts have such energy and delight and joy. You can see them move and undulate to the jazzy rhythms that influenced their maker. Add her African American heritage and you get a good idea of what these quilts involve. But there is a whimsy as well as layers of meaning to these quilts that draw you in and reveal themselves as you watch.

Her Changes quilt -- the last of a series -- is me after I've spent the day at a quilt show. :) The artist meant for them to reflect the changes that people undergo after a visit to Africa. Even Richard Pryor came back with a changed attitude....but for me her Changes will always be the imprint of all of those quilts on my face as I leave, filled with the urge to create something of my own.

Thanks Valerie for a most delightful conversation and for your beautiful quilts. I wish you all of the best.

Peace begats peace

A gifted writing friend, Ann Hite, wrote in her blog: "If you want peace, be peace."

She picked it up somewhere in her reading and passed it along.

The words conjured up an experience or maybe I should say a shift I've made in my own attitude.

Telemarketing calls infuriate me on many levels. They come at inopportune times, most of mine are computers with a canned message or someone with a foreign accent mauling my name. The worst are those who act as if we're old friends and won't take no, just keep hammering at me.

I'd slam phones down, yell at them to "Take me off of your list! Don't call again." And worse.

My son worked as a telemarketer for awhile and would tell of the horrid way he was treated. But that didn't stop me. I just couldn't seem to stop the anger.

These days I'm receiving more and more phone calls from clients, editors, colleagues. It is a sign of success, I tell myself. In an effort to promote good relationships and demonstrate business etiquette, I answer the phone with a more harmonious, welcoming voice.

Because I don't always recognize the name of the caller, I continue to be congenial. I still hang up on computer generated calls and tell telemarketers to "Take me off your list." But I do it with a smile in this new kinder, gentler phone voice.

My expectations when answering the phone have changed. Maybe something good is awaiting me instead of frustration and discourtesy. I feel better.

I really am more at peace. I like myself better. And as weird as that may seems, the new attitude makes it easier to deal with telemarketers and unwanted phone calls. And it is spilling over into other aspects of my life. Peace comes from within. Only we can control the way we act or react to others or situations. And as much as you want to say, "No I can't, it just freaks me out...."

Yes, you can control your emotions, your actions, your reactions.

We can chose to go angry and belligerently into the world, or we can seek the bliss of knowing that 'this too shall pass,' but your imprint on the people you encounter could last a lifetime.

Many people have crossed paths with me in this life -- they might be surprised what I remember about them. I would like to think I left them with a pleasant memory. Some days I still freak out -- but on those days when I can find my balance, my smile -- peace surrounds me like a protective force.

In this world of turmoil and greed, struggle and war, I hope you will strive to find your inner peace. The key to unlocking your peaceful center -- a smile -- real or forced. It is a magic thing that seems contagious, like turning on the tap for happy juice.

The sixties had a great greeting and farewell: Peace. What a great way to start and end an encounter.

Peace.

Give me the writing life!

Ahhh the writing life. Every day dawns bright with opportunity.

So many of us put our butts in the chairs every day and put words on pages. Sometimes the words get along, sometimes they sing. Sometimes they fight like bullies on a playground. Other times they just simply refuse to cooperate. Sullen and unresponsive they sit like lumps of spitballs stuck on a blackboard and dare me to find a way to make them turn into something significant.

Usually I click delete and close the document. I know when I'm beat. Words, my toughest opponents, roughest coworkers ever my pleasure to work with.

Non-writers think writers are solitary figures, working alone with our thoughts. Instead we have all of the words in the world whirling around us, daring us to catch them out of the air and confine them to a page, to a paragraph, to a sentence. "Put me into something original. I dare you," they smirk. They pound their little alpha-chests and scoff, "Who do you think you are to try and wrangle me?"

But when they cooperate, ahhh. When they embrace their fellow words, sing a little Kum-ba-ya, and gather around the campfire of an essay, imparting their wisdom, their inspiration, their treasure.... Oh what beautiful music to their creator.

Today was a day of rejection. An essay I poured my heart into didn't work for an editor. It happens. It happens alot. After all of these years, rejection is a shrug of the shoulders, an "oh well," and acceptance that I won't be buying that exquisite $5,000 sewing machine I fantasize about. I probably won't be ordering much pizza or take-out and I'll probably be refreshing my taste buds with peanut butter sandwiches instead of steak. But I will be writing. And I will be thinking about that essay. I'll either be figuring out what didn't work or think of a market that will appreciate it, or maybe some of both.

The week hasn't been all rejection. Christian Science Monitor accepted another essay, another of my favorite word songs.

My first acceptance -- 1981 -- Bluegrass Unlimited -- a terrible, horrible article about the Blanchard Valley Bluegrass Boys. I put everything in that article including the kitchen sink. When the check arrived I screamed, I cried, I danced on the bed of my sleeping husband. He worked nights and wasn't quite as thrilled at a check for $126 as I was.

But of course all writers know that it wasn't about $126. It was about validation. About succeeding at something so elusive, something as fragile as butterfly wings. Something I wanted so badly I still get tears thinking about that break-through moment.

I don't get quite as worked up with each acceptance these days. Yet, seeing my work in print, makes me smile. It is a smile that goes right to my soul.

So tomorrow I'll be back fitting words together and hoping to come up with a lovely picture -- like those thousand piece jigsaw puzzles my husband loves to slave over and our cat enjoys sleeping on. Will my picture be of cute kittens? A lovely landscape? A lighthouse? My mother's hands?

Ahhhh, the opportunities are endless.

Five Good Reasons to Lose Weight

Jamie Lee Curtis says, in an interview for Ladies Home Journal's July 2007 issue, that she regrets contributing to the focus on the obsession on people's bodies. "I perpetuated that," she said. "I feel badly that my early career was so focused on what I looked like and my body. I do regret the message I sent."

So if we throw out the need to maintain a perfect body for ornamental reasons, what reasons are there to lose weight?

1. Health. Yes, yes, we have all heard that one. So, if you have diabetes, that means you give up sugar. If you are a couch potato, you get up and start walking. If you smoke. Quit. But there needs to be a bigger motivator than health for those of us who overeat, because food is not just a bad habit, it is a need in itself or it is fulfilling other needs -- physical, emotional, spiritual, sensual. So what do you replace that comfort food with?

Love.

2. Love yourself. If you learn to love YOU, the importance of food will diminish. You will find the things you really wanted to be doing when you were eating. The first step to loving yourself is getting acquainted.

"Self, this is me."

"Me, this is self."

Can you sit down and write a list, without hesitation, of the things you love and hate? Or, maybe you are more like me, I can give you that list about the people I love -- but me, I just haven't taken time to think about me. What is my style? Who am I? Why do I eat? Why don't I put as much energy into taking care of me as I do everyone else?

In that same magazine, a photo spread and article about Princess Diana, made me realize that what a great example she is of a woman coming to know herself. We got to watch her go through several transformations, several bouts of self-flagellation and abuse, before she came to terms with the elegant, caring, mother/woman/humanitarian that was Diana. You can do this for yourself. Each day take care of yourself as you would take care of others -- with love, caring, concern, forgiveness, and most of all with consistent responsibility for this one life you've been given.

3. Body function. When you're eight years old you are as flexible as a rubber band. You are agile and have wonderful skin. You bounce back from skinned knees in minutes. Even at age 18, you're starting to lose some of that wonderful youthful function and by the time you've seen four or five decades, everything starts to give you trouble -- unless you've read the owner's manual and have taken care of this one body, the only model you will ever own.

A physical therapist taught me without saying a word the value of a well cared for body. She, in her thirties, performs a physically demanding job every day. She looks exquisite, healthy, thin, toned, tanned (its Florida after all) and most of all full of energy. She did not maintain her body in this manner so she could be beautiful -- being beautiful was one of the benefits -- a side benefit of healthy living. If she wanted to do her job well, she took care of herself. If she wanted to ride a bike, swim, tumble with her child, make love with her husband -- she needed a healthy body. She lives life fully. She's ready for anything.

In that same issue of LHJ, the advertisements for diets, Jenny Craig, clothes, hair products, makeup, all proclaim the same mantra of "beauty, do it for beauty." I was never that vain and beauty opened a Pandora's box of temptation that I'd rather avoid.

Good health, a body that allows me to participate in whatever comes my way, now that's a different proposition.

But this one healthy woman, devoted to helping other people use their bodies more fully, works muscles and bones and knows just by touch what is best for each body-- including her own.

4. Finances. It is cheaper to be healthy and thin than fat and disease ridden. I must buy a sack of potato chips. I drive to the grocery store, buy the chips, drive home and devour them. I've polluted the environment as well as my body. Now, if I plant a garden -- peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, radishes....I nurture the garden which requires physical exercise and effort, takes me out in the fresh air, and harvesting then eating that harvest adds to my good health. Plus, I can buy quite a few seeds and plants for the cost of a couple sacks of potato chips. (I get the $3.19/bag kettle chips).

Or, if you don't want to garden -- check how many veggies you can get for the cost of a bag of chips and a six-pack or a pizza or whatever your weakness is.

The cost of plus size clothes -- much higher than petites or misses.

The cost of buying two seats on an airplane so you can fit comfortably in the seat.

The cost of doctor's appointments, high blood pressure medicine, diabetes meds and testing equipment and then the treatment of side effects on eyes, circulation, kidneys, even moods and well being.

The cost of regret for a life not lived.

5. Disease avoidance. Everyone at sometime or another says, "If only I had done things differently." Once you have diabetes, sore joints, high blood pressure, heart disease, sexual dysfunction, and all of the other nasties that obesity contributes to, you've wasted too much time. Ask my cousin who almost died a couple of years ago which was the better life -- her years spent eating and watching life go buy from her couch in her home, or now, after losing 100 pounds, getting her health back and involved in not only the maintenance of her own self, but also now an avid participant in snowmobiling, walking, yard care, camping, and whatever she feels like doing. And at her new svelte self, anything she feels like doing includes quite a long list of things to do.

And she's kept that weight off and maintained this new lifestyle for a couple of years, now.

One added reason to lose weight: so you can teach your children to love and care for their bodies without saying, "Do as I say, not as I do."

Both of my sons have poor eating habits, a direct result of my inability to love myself and exchange food for what I truly needed to make me happy. I regret passing on this legacy of obesity to my kids.

Happy Father's Day

Derrol's an anti-holiday kind of guy unless you're talking the biggies like Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. Those he embraces whole-heartedly, especially Christmas. But the other holidays he considers fabricated marketing ploys by Hallmark and related florists, diamond vendors, and generic retailers.

So when it comes to Father's Day, he says "Forget it. It isn't a real holiday."

We always remembered his and my fathers on this day. We attended the get-together his grandmother planned at the Harrod Park for her rapidly expanding family. And he would open the gifts our two sons lavished on him -- ties, VCR tapes, CDs, tools. (Usually the gifts were paid for by Derrol, directly or indirectly.)

But he always behaved like this holiday was not about him.

Now we sit miles away from family and truthfully, holidays don't mean much without family to share them.

Let me set the record straight. Derrol deserves the title Father and the good wishes that go with it, as no other father I know. Of course I know this guy a bit more intimately than any other, so take this endorsement as slightly suspect because I also love this guy.

From the day we married, he shouldered the burden of bread winner. Not because 'I'm a man and you're a woman.' But because he's a responsible kind of guy. We worked together. And when our first child was born, he stepped right up and took on this child's care and comfort without hesitation. That may sound like a given, but not every father does this. He shared the care -- dirty diapers and midnight feeds and all.

He did without to provide for his kids. And yes, he would give his life for his two sons -- and me. Maybe he has.

He gave up his dreams, and worked in a factory to pay the household bills. He gave up his friends, his sports, his weekends on the golf course to be with us, to fix failing appliances, rehab a house, mow the lawn, and provide memories for our kids. He worked days and studied nights to earn a college degree so he would be better prepared to provide for his family.

Whenever our adult sons, who live hundreds of miles away, need help, my thrifty, frugal, accountant husband, reaches for the checkbook and asks, "How much?"

He knows those gifts mean a tighter budget for us, but he wants to see our sons succeed. We both do.

If he were there, he would be helping them rehab their own houses, inviting them over for meals, lending them tools, giving advice and encouragement, sharing sports with them or horror movies, or music. So the only thing left is reach for the check book.

So this Father's Day morning as Derrol sips his coffee, finishes off his cinnamon roll and watches Tim Russert's news show, I wish him good health, a happy day. And with a thankful heart, I say, "Happy Fathers Day" to the only love of my life, the strongest man I know and the best example of fatherhood I have ever seen.

Of neighbors and lawn care

We, my husband and I, moved into our little house in Florida in December, 2004, following a record breaking year for hurricanes. We hunted for our new house beginning the day after Hurricane Charley hit, so we saw quite a bit of the devastation in Central Florida. The last truly disastrous hurricane in the area had been 40 years before.

In that one hurricane season of 2004, neighbors rediscovered the art of neighboring. They came out of their houses after each storm and surveyed the neighborhood. They shared food that defrosted in freezers bereft of electricity. They cooked on their grills in a giant block party and sweltered together since none had air conditioning to draw them inside of their individual homes. At the end of the day they joined together by the light of tea candles. The damage to properties repaired more easily with many hands. All chipped in where they could.

We missed out on this neighborhood bonding. But we heard the stories.

But by the time we waved good-bye to the moving van and settled into the work of turning a house into a home, we had met everyone who lived in the houses closest to ours. The sense of community still set strong in their thoughts.

Our experiences before moving to Florida had been primarily with farm folk and agrarian societies who will do anything for you in a crisis, but respect your privacy to the point of isolation during good times. So it was with awe and a few tears in our eyes that we looked on as the neighbor men brought their tools to our yard and set about helping my husband learn the art of manicuring St. Augustine grass.

Up north we eradicated such tough, viney, leggy, crabby grass, but down here in the land of sand and sun, apparently it is the grass of choice. John with his edger and Bill, armed with weed whacker, together they cleaned up our yard in short order. They talked with my husband who had just finished mowing the grass. I visited with Bill's wife. Then they all went their separate ways.

A couple of disaster-free years passed and we had all fallen back into the habit of doing our own things. A friendly wave, a smile, a short conversation, but for the most part, life kept us busy and headed in our own directions.

But, in the past few months, my husband's disability has reached the point where he can no longer pretend that all is fine. Our yard has turned shabby, our house needs painting. And that pesky St. Augustine grass vines nicely onto the sidewalk while growing unevenly and in patches throughout the yard in front of our house.

We hired a painter to take care of the house. And a co-worker at the office where Derrol works, volunteered his teen aged son to come and mow our lawn. It sounded like a good plan, if temporary, but better than getting warnings from the neighborhood homeowners association -- another new experience for us farming types. This son agreed to mow our lawn tomorrow afternoon.

Good, that's taken care of.

I chose not to look out on our shabby lawn and busied myself in the closets that needed cleaning.

A trip to the kitchen and a glance out of the window stopped me short. There, in our front yard, John and his lawn mower were making short work of our grubby looking lawn. By the time I shut my mouth and wiped the tears from my eyes, he whisked his machine back across the street and continued working on his immaculate lawn.

I could wonder if John had just gotten sick of looking at our ill-kept lawn -- its possible. But knowing his strong faith, his belief in being a good Christian, and his soft heart. I could learn alot about neighboring from John. I believe he guided his mower across the street and into our yard simply to help out a fellow neighbor who now leans on a cane and will soon be powering around in a wheel chair.

I believe that human kindness is still alive and well in our little neighborhood and that gives me hope for the rest of this battle scarred world.

As for John, I know my hugs and slobbery tears would make him uncomfortable. So I'm looking for just the right way, the right moment, to say thank you.

Library's Summer Reading Program

Times have certainly changed.

Young and old have embraced blackberries, Ipods, cell phones that do everything including phone calls, and wireless hookups. I’m so techno-unsavvy that I’m sure this little list is out of date.

For someone like me who lost the technology battle in the era of Transformer toys, it is heartening to know that some things have not changed. One such tradition, the summer reading program, has begun in libraries across the United States.

Readers and wanna-be readers gathered around the table in the heart of our little Florida library to fill out the color coordinated forms. Then they searched the shelves for new reading adventures, and began fulfilling the requirements to read for twenty days and earn a free book.

If you see the ‘free books,’ you will realize these readers are motivated by more than the flimsy paperback books offered as rewards.

Reading is its own reward.

Holding a book in your hands, getting lost in the story, learning new facts that expand your world, meeting characters, visiting exotic landscapes – whether interior or exterior, will leave readers forever changed.

There’s nothing more exciting than introducing a child to books, or for that matter, introducing others to a favorite author.

Not long ago, while I shelved books as part of my library page job, I saw two women sitting together at a table. One was obviously teaching the other to read. They came to that same table every morning for several weeks and often as I worked, I could hear the one middle-aged woman sounding out words, fitting them together into sentences and stumbling over this new ‘technology.’ Her table mate nodded and murmured encouragement or offered assistance.

Figuring out this business of reading gave that woman such pleasure, more, I suspect, than deciphering the secrets of computer-generated technology. When the sounds and the rules began to fit together into recognizable words, her face would transform into a smile that lit the entire room. Her teacher’s face glowed even brighter.

Many mornings I worked, hidden by book shelves where I listened to her, hearing not just the words she sounded out. But also the growing joy in her voice as she mastered something her children had been doing since kindergarten. I could see her world growing with each session. Her steps lightened, her posture changed from victim to CEO of her world. Reading will do that for you.

For some reason the reading program is especially popular this year. The parking lot fills before the library doors open each morning. I step over little kids lying on the floor of the children’s section, their eyes never leaving the pages of the books in their hands. Parents and children hunt through the nonfiction section for books that will tell them interesting facts.

Several of our regular patrons bring in their fat record books that list every book they have read and another list for those they want to read. They meticulously search the collection, checking off books as they find them. Commuters hunt through our collection of audio books on cassettes and CDs, so they can enjoy books on their long drives. One admitted to driving several times around the block before turning into her driveway because, “I’d just gotten to a good part and had to find out what would happen!”

All walk out of the library filled with enthusiasm about the books clutched in their hands. Books they will step into, lose themselves in once they’re at home, or at the beach, or on vacation, or combating insomnia.

And all of those tiny little faces entranced by picture books as parents snuggle close and read to their sons and daughters. Is there any part of parenting better than that? I don’t think a cell phone, Ipod, or even blogging can compare to a good book, enjoyed alone or shared with someone you love.

Cultivating Delight

In a previous blog I mentioned my delight in a turn of phrase, new perspectives and book discussions -- among other things. But books and writing truly excite me and none more exciting than a recent read: Cultivating Delight: A Natural History of My Garden by Diane Ackerman.

On her website, she's described as an 'intellectual sensualist' -- exactly what I strive for in my own writings, but fall short. Ackerman's ability to create a scene, instill it with details for all of the senses, provide information beyond superficial, adding to what you thought you already knew about any topic, makes you fall in love with whatever she describes.

The Internet Writing Workshop's creative nonfiction list are discussing an essay Clothes Encounters by Donna Milmore that appeared in The Boston Globe's Coupling column. The simplicity and tone of both writings convey issues that speak to our souls. Milmore tells of recovering from the sudden death of her husband and Ackerman discusses deer surviving the winter and her relationship to them. When speaking of survival and love, simplicity certainly works best.

Ackerman takes her opening essay beyond the garden wall in her first sentence: "I plan my garden as I wish I could plan my life, with islands of surprise, color, and scent...."

And closes on a note of hope:

"Nurturing...gardeners are eternal optimists who trust the ways of nature and
believe passionately in the idea of improvement....Small wonder a gardener plans
her garden as she wishes she could plan her life."

[Photo at Hollis Gardens, Lakeland, FL by Derrol Goldsmith]

Seasons

In the Midwest we had Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter seasons. In rural areas we also had planting and harvest seasons. But down here in Florida we have a new division of time. Currently we are in the moment when Love Bug Season meets Hurricane Season. I'm rather hoping that the upside of that convergence is that the love bugs will stop their passionate mating and swarming and the hurricane will blow them out to sea.

Car wash enterprises are as busy as retail stores the day before Christmas. Trying to get smushed bugs off of grills and windshields can become a consuming passion when driving down I-4 and all you can see is bug guts smeared across the windshield. Any price seems reasonable if someone else will remove their little innards from your car. I hear that the bodies turn to cement and must be chipped off if someone takes too long getting around to washing them off.

Florida's seasons also refer to wet and dry. We're entering the rainy season, just left the dry or as some of us call it 'fire' season. Hopefully today's mild rains are enough to extinguish the multiple scrub fires that have ignited across Central Florida.

Whatever season we're in. My three cats and I have learned a secret to judging how severe or risky the day will be. We watch the anoles. Those adorable little bug-eating lizards with detachable tails. Nothing seems to shake them out of their complacent lives, except maybe the shadow of a hawk hovering too close. Otherwise they go about business as usual.

When the anoles disappear, its time to start preparing for nasty weather. Thankfully the anoles look blissfully happy.

Star Gazing

by Dawn Goldsmith

Deadlines, errands, cleaning, cooking -- all vie for my attention along with the people I love, work, pray, live, and commute with. Determinedly, head down, I set my jaw and bull my way through each day, multi-tasking, hugging kids while pushing another load of laundry in the dryer. By evening, I'm ready to collapse in front of the television and zone out.

I recall a summer evening. It beckoned to me. This particular night followed a non-stop day of canning tomato juice, gardening, house cleaning and baking. My sink overflowed with dirty dishes, pots and pans, but I stepped outside. Just a few minutes of fresh air and then back to work, I thought.

A gentle breeze shooed away the bugs and cooled my face. I sighed deeply and stepped from the porch into the yard. My hand brushed against a scented geranium and I inhaled the herbal rose fragrance that sprang into the air. I raised my arms and stretched, eyes shut, head back. With one particularly rejuvenating back bend, I opened my eyes and gasped. The sky above my head glowed.

Stars dotted the dark sky, an endless expanse that diminished everything. Our isolated Midwestern home, set amidst dusty fields of corn and soybeans, retreated into shadows while invisible crickets and peepers communicated their familiar night sounds.

The stars, glowing and twinkling, beckoned me to name, identify and sort out the planets from the stars, the satellites from blinking airplanes.

Assured that I can always find the Big Dipper, I searched for the familiar connect-the- dots outline. The North Star, pointing the way for navigators, glowed brightly. Venus loomed on the horizon, Mars pulsed red. And that was the extent of my astronomy prowess.
I called to my husband who had completed an intro-to-astronomy class in college. "Where did you say the Five Sisters are?"

"What? Where are you?"

He followed my voice and soon stood beside me. I pointed up. "The Five Sisters. Didn't you say that was a constellation?"

"Yeah." And he looked up. The serene night hugged us. We fell silent as we gazed at the stellar display. "There. There it is, I think. And over there, that's Leo. And there's Orion."

"Where?"

He drew close behind me and pointed over my shoulder. I felt his warm breath on my hair, and for the first time that day I relaxed into his strength and the beauty around me.

"Hey Mom! You're missing your favorite show!" My son shouted. "Mom? Mom? Where are you?"

I heard the door bang. "Out front," I directed, shouting into the dark.

He soon stood beside me. My techno-wizard who usually stared at a television or video screen stared open-mouthed at the sky. "What's that, Dad?"

"Orion. You see it?"

"Yeah. We learned about that in school."

We stood together, heads up, arms resting on each other's shoulders. "Look, a falling star! Did you see that?"

We all laughed and oohed and ahhhed. "There's another."

"That's cool."

"Cool."

Our words stilled and we moved closer together, content just to gaze at the sky and let the night's calm wash over us. My arms rested on my son in front of me, and I leaned against my husband -- a family sandwich. Our eyes focused upward on those tiny shards of light that had traveled billions of miles through space to light this particular dark night.

"God's in His heavens," I quoted, awed and wondering if Robert Browning had looked at a magnificent sky like this when he wrote those words.

The breeze turned cool and with a shiver, we looked earthward, coming back from our trip to the stars, refreshed and reconnected and soothed.

"All's right in the world." my husband added.

And it was.

Can't Anyone Make Pies Anymore?

Maybe it was the homegrown vegetables that triggered my taste buds. Maybe it was my cousin's email telling about visiting a U-Pick strawberry patch and making a strawberry pie as good as Big Boy Restaurants could make. Whatever it was, my hunger for pie became an obsession. Cherry. Yum. Or Strawberry, my husband's favorite. Or Rhubarb? Ohhhh my, I'm drooling.

I didn't want to start from scratch, I just wanted a piece of pie. So where to go and get a great piece of homemade pie? Mom has packed up her rolling pin, I can't get her to make me any. So which restaurant?

I called around. Boston Market? "We only serve apple."

Woody's Barbecue? "We have sky-high pies -- coconut cream and peanut butter."

Sonny's Barbecue? "We only have cobbler -- peach and ...."

Getting a bit desperate I thought of Baker's Square -- but that was in Illinois. I don't know where to find one in Florida. And Bob Evans? Again. Where oh where would they be located? Does Too-Jay's make pie? They make to-die-for cakes and pastries. Their carrot cakes should win awards. But I don't know about pies. We're running out of time. If I don't get my husband out of the house soon, we'll be eating frozen pizza.

I'm really missing Mom's homemade pies. Her pie crust seems to have gone the way of the Dodo bird. Even if I can find a pie, the crust is either mushy or tastes more like cookie than pie crust.

We finally decided to head to the locally owned restaurant in downtown Oviedo. The Townhouse Restaurant. It has that old Florida ambiance with waitresses who call you honey and worry about my husband's need to use a cane.

Oviedo, Florida, the only community I know that has a law to protect the free-range chickens who inhabit the center of town. Bless their fowl hearts. Their logo involves chickens and everyone must brake for chickens -- even if the traffic light is green. The Townhouse Restaurant, decorated in chicken paraphernalia, looks like a 50s restaurant with booths, tables covered in checkered oilcloth, and a chalkboard listing the desserts including: strawberry-rhubarb pie.

I couldn't wait and ordered pie and cup of coffee to start the meal. My husband, a man who saves the best for last, ordered a chef's salad first. We both ordered chef's salads. And if you're ever in Oviedo, stop by the Townhouse Restaurant -- it has the most amazing chef's salad with big rolls of ham and turkey. Not gourmet, but definitely fresh and hits the spot. (They also have the best breakfasts around.)

And the pie?

I so wanted to give them Mom's recipe for pie crust. The filling was yummy and as obsessed as I was for a piece of pie, the crust was -- still not that good. Sorry, I really wanted to like it. I really wanted to say nice things about it, but it was a bit soggy and had that cake texture rather than the unleaven crust of Mom's wonderful lard and flour crust. But it was close enough for now.

And, the bad thing about saving the best till last? There often is not room for the best.... So my husband waddled out of the restaurant full of salad, no room for pie. Or maybe he just couldn't chose between the peach cobbler or the blackberry buckle....decisions, decisions.

Anyone want to recommend a restaurant's pie? I'm all ears. I'll be glad to go on a taste testing survey.

For those who feel more industrious than me, below is my cousin's strawberry pie recipe.

Strawberry Pie

Rich Pastry

2 1/4 cups sifted flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tablespoon sugar
3/4 cup vegetable shortening
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/4 cup milk

Sift flour with salt and sugar. Cut in shortening until mixture resembles
fine crumbs. Best together egg yolk and lemon juice. Blend in milk. Add to dry
ingredients, tossing with fork into a soft dough. Divide dough in half, form
each into a ball. Roll to desired thickness. Bake at 400 for 8-10 minutes.

Filling
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
3 heaping tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons strawberry Jell-O
Red food coloring (a few drops)
1 quart strawberries, whole
Cook the first four ingredients until thick. Add the strawberry Jell-O and
a few drops of red food coloring; blend well. Remove from heat and allow to
cool. Combine with strawberries. Put into one 9-inch baked rich pastry shell.
Chill.

Fresh veggies

It takes so little to make us happy.

After returning to work following a refreshing holiday, we came home to fix a simple meal and relax. With hamburgers sizzling on the grill -- the new grill, quite a step up from the little $30 charcoal grill bought before Clinton was president -- I picked a few veggies from our garden.

Cucumbers, green beans, tomatoes, green onions, a bit of basil, nothing beats fresh picked. Nothing. And the joy of raising these little goodies. And growing enough to share with neighbors and friends. Priceless.

Our little 4x8-foot garden sets just off the screened in porch. We enjoy looking out at the lush foliage. Just seeing their greenness brings a smile to my face, eases the day's tensions, reminds me that nurturing something or someone rewards the nurturer as much as the object of their attention.

We watch each little flower develop. And then wait for it to turn into 'fruit' or in this case veggies. So big and beautiful, and producing new life that we can eat and grow healthy. What a delightful life cycle.

If only growing healthy was as easy as eating our vegetables.