Give 'em some love, y'all.

A call came in from my daughter’s school a couple of weeks ago while my daughter was at school. No, my daughter wasn’t sick. No, she wasn’t in any sort of trouble. No, there was no problem whatsoever. So, basically, I was tricked into answering the phone.

After The Phone Incident, I called my husband, Mark, at work.

“I just got a call from the school,” I said, and I could hear every cell in Mark’s body shifting to give me his full attention.

“Uh huh,” he said, as in, Go on. I’m listening.

For a few seconds, I thought about saying something like, Our daughter has been bitten by a rat at school. (He has a thing about rodents.) This would’ve launched Mark out of his office chair and into a seizure-like fit brought on by debilitating disgusted-ness, which would’ve lasted for at least ten minutes. What can I tell you? It’s very rare for me to have Mark’s full attention like this – and also, ours is an unusual relationship. But ultimately, I decided I didn’t have time to wait the seizure out, so I went with the truth, knowing that even though the truth wasn’t nearly as disgusting, it was almost as unbelievable.

I said, “I’ve just been put in charge of food and flowers for a banquet for 100 people, in the school cafeteria, in two weeks.”

“Oh……really?” Mark said, in a way that pretty much meant, You’ve GOT to be kidding. You? Have they met you? What could they possibly be thinking over at that school? Did all the other moms say no to this? Did they have absolutely NO OTHER CHOICE? (Now is probably a good time to mention that I’m not the most social person on the planet, that my cooking skills are minimal, and my baking skills are nonexistent. And flower arranging? Ummmm…yeah…whatever the question is, I’m pretty sure I don’t know the answer. Unless the answer is writing a check to my local florist, which I totally know how to do.)

“I know,” I told Mark. “It’s crazy.”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “You’re gonna need help.”

Let me just take a moment to point out that although my husband did recognize that I needed help (good job, honey!), he did not offer to help me in any way. Which almost caused me to say, Oh yeah, AND your daughter’s been bitten in the eye by a possibly rabid rat at school. But I didn’t. Because although very entertaining, a seizure wouldn’t actually help me, and what I needed more than anything else right now was help. Serious help. Luckily, I knew where to get it.

I immediately began contacting other moms, moms that I suspected actually had some social, cooking, baking, and flower-arranging skills, unlike moi.

A couple of moms I called pretended not to be themselves over the phone, saying, “Oh, she’s not here right now. May I take a message?”

I resisted the urge to respond by saying something like, Um, we’ve met…several times…so I recognize your voice – BUSTED! or, Do you, by any chance, suffer from multiple personality disorder? And instead, I sweetly played along, leaving a – rather lengthy – message, with the mom, for the mom. (Score! Two points in social skills! Yay, me!)

One mom, when asked to bring something for the banquet, said, “Uh…I work.”

I thought, Yeah, we ALL work, sister, but what I said was, “That’s great! Then we have something in common, because I work, too! So you’ll help me, right?”

There was a growly sound on the other end of the phone, which I interpreted as, “Right.”

But most of the moms and a few teachers (who are also moms) mounted their noble steeds and rode right in to save the day. Which is how the school cafeteria ended up being banquet-ready last night. (Perhaps you require proof – and I don’t blame you, not even a little bit.)

PROOF

Yeah, moms ROCK. Without them, there would be no banquets, no Thanksgiving feast, no Christmas feast, no holiday parties, no twinkling holiday decorations, no gifts (okay, there might be a few gifts, but they probably wouldn’t be on time and they definitely wouldn’t be wrapped!), and no Christmas cards – not to mention no dinner and no clean laundry. So give ‘em some love, y’all.

For my part, I am, right this very moment, sending love and thanks – with my heart – to all the moms who worked to save the school banquet (from me), to my own mom and her mom, to my step-mom and her mom, and to every mom who’s ever lifted my spirit with her very mom-ness. The world would be a dreary place indeed…without moms.

This is why writers aren't exactly known for their mental health.

I need to vent, so here I am. This is not what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I’m supposed to be working through my fifth revision of a novel – my fifth! – but I keep getting distracted. I keep thinking, Revise? Or stab myself in the neck with a pen?

And I keep thinking that surely other writers don’t go through this many revisions. Surely real writers don’t do this. Surely. I mean, five revisions? That’s ridiculous, right? Show me one mentally healthy professional adult who would willingly work and work and work, with no end in sight, no pay, and no real guarantee of payment at any point. Besides me. (And by the way? Thanks, but your idea of “mentally healthy” obviously differs from mine. Did you read the part where I said I was thinking of stabbing myself in the neck with a pen? You too? Hunh. You must be a writer. With revisions in front of you. And behind you. God bless you, my friend.)

Anyway, that’s what I keep thinking, and I may have actually said some of it out loud, to my literary agent. Yeah, I must have, because she told me how the last middle grade novel she worked on with an author went through eight major revisions that took two years. Eight revisions. Two years. Two. Years. I think we can all see what caused me to actually pick up my stabby pen. But then I got distracted again and wondered if this other poor author is even still alive – as opposed to dead from pen or keyboard inflicted injuries. So, I put down my stabby pen, just for a sec, to check on this other writer. Great news: she’s alive! (Good for you, honey! Way to hang in there!) And not only is she alive, but the resulting novel – eight revisions and two years later – was a New York Times bestseller, a National Book Award finalist, and a Newbery Honor book. So I’m thinking that even if she went a little crazy, maybe whacked off an ear and mailed it at some point during the revision process, so what? People overlook little things like that when dealing with award-winning, bestselling authors – or painters of priceless art – right? They don’t refer to these artists as crazy; they refer to them as eccentric. And either way, this other author can probably afford therapy now. Lots and lots of therapy.

I, on the other hand…well, I’m trying to work through my problems here in bloggyland, instead of curled up on some therapist’s comfy couch with a cup of herbal tea and a soothing voice to calm my nerves. But since I aspire to be on that couch, have never been especially fond of my ears – aside from the obvious benefit of actually hearing – and am therefore willing to trade one or both of my ears, in addition to endless amounts of time, to reach literary success, at which point I will become eccentric instead of just plain old crazy…well, I guess I’ll go do my work now. Right? Thought so. Okay. Thanks for the affordable – free – counseling.

P.S. If you are the person who keeps distracting me from my distractions by calling, hanging up, and calling right back? I’m convinced that you are pure evil. And just because I’ve decided not to stab myself in the neck with a pen – at this particular time – that doesn’t mean I won’t stab YOU.

P.P.S. And Caller, if you are a teenage boy hoping to reach my teenage girl, know this: she plans to be a WRITER. She is a writer, just like her mother. Perhaps you should take a moment to really think about that. Go ahead. I’ll wait. (This is me waiting..............waiting………….waiting.) Have you thought it through? Good. Then you’re thinking of calling some other girl right about now, aren’t you? Good.

P.P.P.S. To my husband: yes, it’s too late for you to call some other girl. You’re totally stuck with me, with or without ears.

P.P.P.P.S. To my literary agent: ditto – I hope!

I Don't Do Windows

I don't do windows.

Scary, right? Happy Halloween!

(Relax, Mom. This window isn't actually mine. I took this photo at Waverly Hills Sanitorium -- one of the top ten most haunted places in America. And I'd just like to point out that by comparison, all my windows are sparkly clean. Yeah, by comparison, I'm practically a neat freak! Your dream has come true, at last, at last!! But...um, if you're coming over...you should probably call first.

That's right, friends: Moms don't change; they just adapt. They go from making you clean your bedroom, to making you clean your dorm room, to making you clean your apartment, to making you clean your house. Now that is super-scary, right? Scary and true. BOO!)

Remembering Mama Joy

You probably shouldn’t read this. I’m not feeling very fun or funny or even slightly entertaining these days. I’d pretty much decided not to blog, but then I thought my parents – and perhaps a few prison inmates – might worry and wonder what had become of me. (Thank you for your concern, parents and prison inmates.)

So here I am. With a story my husband, Mark, recently told me about his mom. (What? Mark said I could use it. Well…okay, he would’ve said I could use it… probably – dontcha think?)

Mark grew up in a military family, so he moved around a lot. The family had just moved again, when one morning, Mark, a teenager, was pulled over by the police, while driving his mom to work. Mark had never been pulled over before, had had no experience with the police whatsoever, so he was naturally nervous. When the officer arrived at Mark’s window, asking for license and registration, Mark said only, “Yes, sir.”

The officer informed Mark that he had been pulled over for not having a sticker on his license plate that was required in that particular state, but not in any other state. Mark said only, “Yes, sir.”

So, Mama Joy (his mom) leaned over Mark and began telling the officer – rather loudly – how she felt about that sticker, in light of the fact that they’d just moved. Apparently, the police officer was not in the mood for this, so while Mama Joy was talking to him, he turned on his heel and walked back to his car.

Did Mama Joy let that stop her? No, she did not. She got out of Mark’s car, walked back to the police officer’s car, and proceeded to yell at him, as he was writing Mark’s ticket. As she was yelling, the police officer rolled up his window. Did Mama Joy let that stop her? No, she did not. She began banging on the officer’s window with her fists.

At the time, as a teenager, Mark said he was beyond mortified. But as an adult, Mark says he knows exactly how that police officer felt: You didn’t want to be on the other side of the window that Mama Joy was banging her fists against – you really, really didn’t.

What I know is this: No matter which side of the window you were on, at any given moment, if Mama Joy loved you, then above all else, she loved you. Fiercely.

So, in the wake of Mama Joy’s death, I’ve decided to love a little more fiercely. I’m going to love my husband and my daughter and my sister and my nieces and all the Paynes here on earth twice as hard, for Mama Joy.

Meanwhile, I know that Mama Joy is loving fiercely – and dancing often – in heaven.

(Mark's parents, Dean & Joyce Payne, as they were, and as I imagine them to be now.)

Are We Still Doing This?

Today is my daughter’s first day of eighth grade. At this very moment, I’m picturing her sitting in a classroom, writing an essay entitled “What I Did This Summer”. Actually, now I’m picturing kids all over the country, all over the world, bent over their desks, hard at work on their “What I Did This Summer” essays, lamenting the fact that they have to write this same essay every year, as every kid has since the beginning of time – or writing/ drawing tools – there are probably caves out there covered in “What I Did This Summer” drawings. Can you imagine? “What I Did This Summer by Cave Kid: Hunted, fished, took a bath, got a new loin cloth, moved to a new cave, tried not to get eaten by dinosaurs.” (I’m terrible at drawing; use your imagination.)

Are we still doing this? If so, here’s what I did this summer, in honor of the first day of school:

Spent the night at Waverly Hills Sanatorium in Louisville, KY, one of the top-ten most haunted places in America. (Note that I said I “spent the night”, not that I slept. I do not recommend sleeping at Waverly Hills. Or eating. Or being. Sleep, eat, be somewhere else – that’s what I recommend. I recommend somewhere with fewer spiders and bats, and more lighting and air-conditioning – or just some – any at all would be good really.)

















Needle-pointed this belt for my daughter, who outgrew the belt at some point during the process. (Note to self: Do not needlepoint belts for people who are still growing. DUH.)



Visited Natural Bridge, Natural Bridge, KY.



Drove through famous Nada Tunnel, in Powell County, Kentucky. (This tunnel was largely hand-carved in the early 1900’s.) Because Nada is too narrow to accommodate two-way-traffic, drivers must stop; turn on their headlights, and honk, before entering the tunnel.)




Visited Red River Gorge (part of the Daniel Boone National Forest) Red River Gorge, KY.

Turned 38 in style, thanks to stylish gifts like these sunglasses! (Left to my own devices, my “style” is probably best described as “dirt-poor college student…minus cuteness, plus wrinkles”.)


Toured Mammoth Cave, the longest cave system in the world, in Cave City, KY - and received warming hugs from my hubby throughout – the interior of Mammoth Cave is 54 degrees year round.


















Planted raspberry bushes in honor of my Mimi (pictured below) who grew the sweet raspberries of my childhood.



Visited and toured My Old Kentucky Home, a former plantation, built by Senator John Rowan in 1795, in Bardstown, KY.





















Saw "The Stephen Foster Story" (an outdoor musical that’s been a tradition in Bardstown, KY since 1958, and a tradition in my family ever since my mother played Stephen’s love interest in the show, when I was three years old).




















Read and read and read – I’m pretty sure I could live on books alone – well… books and ice cream cake for sure!



Was signed by literary agent, Emily van Beek (http://foliolit.com/s-emily.php) who is brave, brilliant, and beautiful – and she possesses dual citizenship – how cool is that? (You know how sometimes you meet a person who’s so much better than you – smarter, prettier, more stylish, more interesting and worldly – and then that person seems to actually like you, and you just can’t understand it? Me, too.)

Fed the hummingbirds and butterflies. Here’s the view from my office just this morning!



Took long walks to admire the fields of “summer snowflakes” surrounding my house. (Yes, I know that these are actually weeds, but I still think they’re pretty!)




Became the proud owner of my own boat – with oars! (http://wherethebluegrassgrows.blogspot.com/2010/07-i-highly-recommend-oars.html) – and I’m off in it!



Happy first day of school, friends!

Were You at WalMart Last Night?

Were you, by chance, at WalMart last night? Because I was, and it seemed to me that everybody else in the world was there, too. Of course, we were all there for the same reason: to buy school supplies. But since I hate all shopping and put it off as long as possible – until my family is forced to live on tap water and mustard sandwiches made with burger buns – I also needed groceries.

My daughter and I arrived at WalMart around 8:30PM. By 10:00PM, we had two carts full of stuff, and I began sending my husband cranky, I’ve-been-shopping-at-WalMart text messages, while he was out fishing with a buddy.

Here are the exact text messages that were exchanged:

Me (10:07PM): Okay, I can’t find two of the things on our list, but I’m leaving WalMart without them because if I have to stay here any longer, I’m going to start ripping out handfuls of my own hair.

Hubby (10:08PM): Ok. (Smart answer, no?)

Me (10:09PM): It’s like Black Friday here. I just got in line to pay. BEHIND ELEVEN OTHER PEOPLE! ELEVEN!!!

Hubby (10:09PM): LOL

Me (10:20PM): The very mature – old – man behind me, who is thirteenth in line, has begun complaining LOUDLY that WalMart should have benches for people waiting to pay. Everyone can hear him. No one is looking at him. We don’t want to encourage him, I think.

Hubby (10:21PM): LOL

Me (10:31PM): Hey, do you think it might be Pajama Day at WalMart? I’m pretty sure the ladies in front of us are wearing pajamas. Pretty sure as in POSITIVE.

Hubby (10:32PM): Send pictures. (Apparently, my husband assumes that we are in line behind the Victoria’s Secret models, who have come straight to WalMart from their VS pajama shoot.)

(10:32PM): My daughter snaps a quick pic of the woman in front of us, who is wearing hot-pink pajamas, covered in hearts, and sends it to my husband.

Hubby (10:33PM): Don’t send anymore pictures.

Me (10:47PM): Our daughter just sat down on the floor! In WalMart!!! Apparently I completely failed in my attempt at explaining The Theory of Germs to her. Repeatedly. Don’t worry: I’m not making a scene. Yet.

Hubby (10:48PM): Deep breaths.

Me (10:52PM): Your daughter, who is now covered in WalMart germs, just touched me! I’m trying not to freak out. Do you think WalMart sells Hazmat suits?

Hubby (10:54PM): My daughter? She’s MY daughter now?

Me (10:55PM): We - YOUR daughter and I - are now eleventh in line because the pajama-people in front of us abandoned their cart and walked out chanting, “Kro-gers! Kro-gers! Kro-gers!”

Hubby (10:56PM): LOL

Me (10:57PM): The WalMart workers are now walking around handing out free cookies and cupcakes from the bakery. They are saying things like, “Take as many as you want.” This is bad. This is very, very bad.

Hubby (10:58PM): You’re right. Leave your cart and run for the nearest exit. Please take my daughter with you.

Me (11:02PM): I just learned that all the computers are down, and WalMart doesn’t have a plan B. I suggested adding machines and calculators from the electronics department. They looked at me like I was an alien – and I’m not even wearing my Hazmat suit!

Hubby (11:04PM): Abort mission. Leave your cart where it is and get out.

Me (11:05PM): No way am I leaving my cartS! That would mean I would have to come back, and I plan never to come back here as long as I live. IF I live.

Hubby (11:05PM): LEAVE THE CARTS.

Me (11:06PM): I can't. YOUR daughter got thirsty - it's probably all the germs sucking the juices out of her - and I let her get a soda out of the cooler in the check out area. She drank it, and we haven't paid for it. I have to stay and pay.

Hubby (11:06PM): Augh.

Me (11:20PM): Honey, if I don’t make it out, I just want you to know that I’ve had a good life and I love you.

Hubby (11:21PM): Sniff. Sniff.

The computers came back up in the moments that followed – hallelujah! – and I was never in my life happier to hear the sound of barcodes being scanned. Everyone in WalMart clapped and cheered and threw their arms around one another. Really. No kidding. There was actual clapping and cheering.

My daughter and I arrived home safely, with food and school supplies, around 12:40AM. My husband generously unloaded the car and put the groceries away, while I sat in a corner hugging and rocking myself. (I have mentioned that writers aren’t exactly known for their mental health, have I not?)

Random Thought Thursday

Guess what, friends? It’s Random Thought Thursday! (What? That is totally a thing. Because it’s my blog and I’m making it a thing. Today. It’s called Artistic License, people. Take some for yourself. Really. Go ahead. I don’t mind. What? It’s Saturday? Well, I’m calling it Thursday. Artistic License, I tell you. Stop being so difficult!) Okay, ready? Random thoughts, here we go:

1.) How did “cool beans” become a saying? For those of you who have never heard this saying, it usually goes something like this, “So we’re all set here? (Nod.) Cool beans.” What in the world could’ve caused the creator of this saying to say “cool beans”? Was this a camp fire situation? Were the baked beans too hot? Had someone’s mouth been horribly burned and permanently mangled while trying to eat beans? Were beans a major safety concern, followed by…say, s’mores?

Since I’m not a campy kind of girl, I reject “cool beans” as a saying. I’m creating my own saying. It’s “cool peppers”, as in “So we’re all set here? (Nod.) Cool peppers!” Isn’t that SO much cooler than “cool beans”? I know. Feel free to use it. Go forth into the world and spread the coolness, my friends!

2.) How do all little boys know how to make such great sound effects with their mouths? Think about it. All little boys know how to mimic the sounds of hand-to-hand combat, gunfire, explosions, and car crashes perfectly. Do their fathers teach them this? Or are boys born with these skills? Also, does Steven Spielberg know about this? Because if I’m Steven Spielberg, I’m saving a bunch of money by hiring all little boys for the special effect sounds in my movies. (You’re welcome, Steven Spielberg.)



3.) Why do you think my daughter gets so excited when I’m about to exercise? She’s all like, “You’re going to do your exercise DVD now? Wait! I gotta get some potato chips! Don’t start without me!” Then, she sits on the couch, eating potato chips and laughing, like she’s watching the funniest show ever. Except I’m the show. And I’m not finding the exercise funny, or even fun. I’m not even smiling, not even a little bit. (I distrust people who smile while they exercise. I’m pretty sure they aren’t real people. I’m pretty sure that “people” who smile while they exercise are really alien life forms, masquerading as happy exercise people, so that they can lure us all into a life of…well…exercise – how awful!)

So there you go! Happy Random Thought Thursday! Saturday. Whatev.

I Highly Recommend Oars

Over the Fourth of July weekend, my family and I hopped in our boat and headed up to a nearby marina for dinner on the lake. It was nice. UNTIL we started home. Our engine sputtered and coughed like it was dying a painful death, and then…it died. So, there we were floating in the channel, in the deepest lake in Kentucky, and the sun was going down – fast.

Now I don’t mind telling you that my husband, Mark, and I have an ongoing difference of opinion about oars, and whether or not we need them on our boat. I think we do. He thinks we don’t. His position is simple: We have two motors and two batteries onboard, so why in the world would we ever need oars?

I’ll tell you why: Because when the big engine dies, we use up one battery just trying to restart it. The other motor, which is connected to the other battery, is smaller and less powerful, and while it will carry us for a time, often, it won’t get us all the way home. Which leaves us with no motors and no battery power whatsoever. Then we’re stuck floating on the water, in the dark of night, with other boaters whizzing by, unable to see us because our navigation lights are also dependent on the batteries we’ve used up. (Need I tell you that this has happened before?)

So, there we were, during the lake's busiest weekend of the year, floating on the water, in the dark, with no oars. AGAIN. Other boaters – the ones with really good eyesight – spotted us, motored over and offered to help. But would my husband allow anyone to help us? No he would not. Why not? Hmmmm…apparently allowing other boaters to help you is like allowing someone to give you directions. It just doesn’t happen in Guy World. It’s completely unacceptable behavior. (Which is ANOTHER reason we need oars!!!!)

I do not live in Guy World. I live in Girl World – also known as REALITY. My daughter lives in Girl World, too. Which is why during our three hour ordeal on the water, my daughter and I made up our own lyrics to the tune of that song “Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, here I am at Camp Grenada…” Our song went like this:

Hello Muddah, hello Faddah,
Here I am stuck in the water,
The motor’s shot, no oars to row home,
And Mark won’t let us call for help via his cell phone.

People ask what they can do,
But Mark tells them, “We don’t need you.
I can fix this, please believe me,”
And we’re thinking, No, don’t go, please stay, retrieve me.

We are hungry and getting colder,
We are thirsty and much older.
It’s very dark here, out on a limb,
I wonder if our pride will warm us while we swim!

For the record, Mark did somehow manage to fix our engine in the dark, and we had just enough battery power left to get it started, and get home. But even so, this Christmas, I will be buying oars! Oars for everyone!

P.S. My neighbor told me that if she sang a song like that while she and her husband were having engine trouble on the water, her husband would toss her out of the boat. So I’d just like to point out that to Mark’s credit, he didn’t toss anyone out of the boat. I’m sure he thought about it, but thankfully, the man has a great sense of humor and eventually, he laughed despite himself. (It was probably my daughter who saved me: Mark probably realized that watching your dad toss your mom out of the boat and into the lake, in the dark of night, with other boaters racing around, might be just a teensy bit traumatizing – some realities are recognized even in Guy World, but only some.)

Hooray for Summer!

10 Reasons I Am Loving Summer:

Kentucky mornings...

The canopy of leaves on my favorite stretch of road...


The occasional rainy late afternoon nap...


Kentucky evenings...


Local farmers' market...


Fairs and festivals...


Just this morning, my daughter hopped on her bike and joined a parade!


Fireworks!


My daughter's stage debut as a swan -- Aaaaawww! -- I know, right?

My Baskin Robbins birthday cake is only days away -- never underestimate the joy of cake!

HAPPY SUMMER!

Super-Dad to the Rescue

I got everything I ever wanted for my sixth birthday. I got a silk-like, sky-blue nightgown with ruffles. I got to go to the county fair. I got to eat cotton candy. And I got to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl to my heart’s content – which means I rode the Tilt-A-Whirl until my brain swam Tilt-A-Whirl style, and I no longer had to get on the ride to take the ride.

Luckily, my brain stopped swimming just in time for me to spot the one and only thing I still lacked in life: an ENORMOUS, stuffed PINK dog, with sad eyes and floppy ears. I desperately, desperately needed that dog. (Show me one girl who doesn’t need a big pink dog. You can’t do it, can you? See?)

Unfortunately, my precious Pinkie-Poo was being held captive by the man in charge of the numbers game. I would have to win my dog, by betting money on the right number. My chances of doing so were one in thirty-six, seeing as how there were thirty-six numbers on the game table. Now, I was only six, but even a six-year-old knows that the chance of picking the winning number, out of thirty-six numbers, is pretty slim.

I looked at Pinkie-Poo longingly. She looked back at me just as longingly – can you really blame her? – you should’ve seen and smelled the man in charge of the numbers game. Ew. (Deodorant, people. If you don’t have it, get it, and use it. That’s all I’m saying.)

I squeezed my father’s hand and looked up at him, Super-Dad, Master of the Universe, Righter of All Wrongs, knowing that he was our only hope. (And by “our”, I mean Pinkie-Poo, myself, and pretty much all of mankind.)

Super-Dad smiled confidently, pulled out his wallet, and covered every number on the table with money. And then we took Pinkie-Poo home with us.

Which is why when my first novel was published, and it suddenly jumped to number one in category on Amazon.com, I called my dad to ask him what he was doing right now. He was like, “Huh?” I was like, “Are you on Amazon.com right now? Ordering books? Ordering lots and lots of copies of my book? What in the world are you gonna do with all those books? Do you realize you’re probably going to have to rent a storage facility just for books? Just for my books?” He was like, “Huh?” My dad seemed genuinely confused. (I get that a lot.)

Even so, whenever things work out better than I had ever dared to hope, in the back of my mind, I always wonder if my dad somehow had something to do with it. (How is that even possible? Super powers, people. Super-Dads have super powers.)

And I know that my daughter has these same kinds of thoughts. I know that she sometimes wonders if her Super-Dad donned his cape and invisible shield, and flew in on a secret, top priority mission to save her day. Sometimes my daughter asks me things like, “Did Daddy stop by my school today?” Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. I’ll never tell. Because whether he did or didn’t isn’t the point.

The point is that most of us kids – age six to ninety-six – know that our dads absolutely would swoop in and save the day, if we really needed them. And most of the time, just knowing that Super-Dad is there, ready to back us up, is enough. Knowing this gives us the strength and courage to do what needs doing, and comforts us when what we did wasn’t quite enough – we’ll get ‘em next time, won’t we, Super-Dad? – you bet we will! Look out evil villains!

Super-Dads make us better people, and better people make the world a better place. So, thanks, Super-Dads. Happy Father’s Day, to you, and to my very own Super-Dad.

I Don't Do Facebook

Okay, here’s the thing: When I offered to stalk your crush on Facebook for you, I was kidding. I don’t actually stalk people on Facebook. I don’t do Facebook. Or Twitter. Why not? Because...

1.) I have enough trouble keeping up with my email. Facebook and Twitter are email on crack.

2.) I take my friendships seriously. Friends require tending and care. 242 friends are too many friends for me to tend to and care for. (Except for you, of course. You’re no trouble at all.)

3.) I’m pretty sure that no one cares what I had for breakfast, that I’m grocery shopping this afternoon, or that I have a date with my husband tomorrow night. The people who do care – like my husband and daughter – know these things already, and the people who don’t know, really shouldn’t care. If they do…well, is it really a good idea to encourage one’s wannabe stalkers in this way? (Not you. I’m not calling you a “wannabe stalker”. At all. You are reading my blog, so of course, you are fine. I love you. And if you just happen to be a teensy bit curious…well, a little curiosity is healthy, right? I had coffee for breakfast; I am grocery shopping this afternoon, and have a date with my husband tomorrow night. Okay? Okay. Thanks. Glad we got that straightened out.)

4.) I refuse to subscribe to the crack-addict-crazy philosophy that if you’re not on Facebook or Twitter, you don’t exist. Of course I exist! Who else could’ve spilled that coffee on the stairs…and left it there – for now? DUH. (Calm down. I said FOR NOW. I’m not awake enough for cleaning yet. I have to work myself up to cleaning. Slooowly. I’ll get to it, okay? I will. I really will. Okay, okay, I’m doing it now! Sheesh! Be right back, stalker friend.)

Okay, all clean. Where were we? Oh yes...

5.) Is it really a good idea to give one’s ex-boyfriends and the like an open window into your life, and the lives of your family and friends? Okay, maybe all your ex-boyfriends are perfectly normal functioning human-beings, as opposed to a-whole-lotta-crazy-going-on. But I had a few lapses in judgment along the way. In my case, it’s definitely NOT a good idea. (I’m not saying that all my ex-boyfriends are kook-a-doodle-doo, only one or two of them. If you happen to be an ex-boyfriend, I’m obviously not referring to you. You are reading my blog, so you’re obviously the picture of perfect mental health and intelligence. Obviously.)

Look, if you choose to do Facebook and Twitter, I’m not judging you. But I choose not to do Facebook and Twitter, and I’ve got reasons, good reasons, all neatly typed, with official numbers beside them and everything! So, don’t judge me either, okay? Thanks.

Oh, and by the way, you are still totally rockin’ those jeans. Really. No, I wasn’t kidding about that. Who jokes about jeans? Not me. I take denim very seriously.

The Benefit of the Doubt

Remember when I said (in my last blog posting) that I give my friends the benefit of the doubt because they are my friends?

Well, first, let me define “friend”. A friend is someone who loves you, someone who would be there if you really needed them, someone who’s honest with you, wants what’s best for you, and tries to protect you – sometimes from yourself. A friend is someone who'd come to the hospital if you were sick, someone who'd tell you – IF YOU ASKED – that yes, those particular jeans do make your butt look just a teensy, weensy, little bitty bit BIG. Ish. If asked, a friend might even ever so gently suggest that you re-think auditioning for American Idol seeing as how you’re completely tone-deaf, but hey, you’re a great dancer, so how about taking some classes and auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance instead? A friend is someone who would totally stalk your crush on Facebook for you, call with hourly updates, and never tell another living soul. But more importantly, a friend is someone you absolutely know wouldn’t intentionally hurt you. (“Intentionally” is the key word in that sentence.)

Inevitably, friends are going to hurt you, make you mad, or disappoint you, not because they want to or mean to, but simply because they’re different than you are. They react differently than you would, express themselves differently than you would, and generally handle things in their own way – which is, of course, not the way you would handle things. You would handle things the right way, right? OF COURSE YOU WOULD! DUH! Yeah, see, unfortunately that doesn’t exactly make your friends wrong; it just makes them different.

But different is good; different is interesting and valuable – you’re exposed to new things and a different point of view, right? I’ve learned all kinds of things from friends – how to dance the Carolina Shag, how to can vegetables for the winter, how to shuffle a deck of cards in the coolest way possible. My friends bring a lot of learning – and laughter – to my life. I enjoy them. I love them.

Which is why when a friend hurts my feelings, or makes me mad, or disappoints me, I usually give them the benefit of the doubt. This is how things go in my head:

Do you believe that Friend X loves you? Yes.

Do you believe that Friend X said/ did that just to hurt you or make you mad? No.

Can you let it go? Maybe.

And then I try. I try to let it go. If it’s something small – like a snarky little comment, I forget about it and move on. If it’s something bigger, something I can’t let go of, then I talk to my friend directly about it. Usually, we’re able to sort things out and move on with a better understanding of one another.

Occasionally, I learn that a person I thought was my friend really isn’t. That hurts. It always hurts. It’s always disappointing. But it’s better to know and move on, than to continue investing time and energy in a person who isn’t my friend either way. After all, I could be investing that time and energy in my family, or a real friend. So knowing is good. Mostly. Except for the heart-crushing hurt and disappointment part. Sorry about that. Really. So, so sorry.

On a happier note, I’m available for friendship. And I’ve learned – as I learn all things: THE HARD WAY – how to be a most excellent friend! So tell me, who exactly should I be stalking on Facebook for you? Oh, and by the way, those jeans look FAB on you! You are totally rockin’ ‘em. Totally.

Avoiding Drama With Your BFF (and Everybody Else)

I learned back in middle school not to take someone else’s word for who or how another person is. Had I not learned that lesson early, and decided to choose my friends – or not – based solely on my own experiences with a person, I would’ve missed out on a friendship that was most important to me, the friendship that sustained me throughout most of middle school, all of high school, and college, too. Honestly, I can’t even say for sure that I'd be alive today if not for this particular friend, whom we’ll call Hillary.

Due to family problems, Hillary had been sent to live with extended family, the summer before seventh grade, which is how she ended up in our school district. She arrived at our decidedly preppy middle school with her hair parted down the middle and feathered, no makeup or jewelry, wearing an old concert T-shirt, and the wrong jeans and shoes – by "wrong" I mean that her jeans and shoes weren’t the same jeans and shoes that everybody else was wearing. And while I know that middle-parts and concert T-shirts are very stylish now, the fact is they weren’t considered stylish back then, at least not at our school – think Stepford-Wives-To-Be.

No, if you were a young girl back then, and you wanted to be accepted at our middle school, you started the day by parting your hair on the side – under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever did you feather it – you made yourself up to look “natural”, put on a tasteful gold chain, a top from either Ralph Lauren or The Limited, a pair of Guess jeans, and middle-school-approved shoes – which consisted of cute sandals, ballet flats, moccasins from L.L. Bean, or Tretorn sneakers.

Hillary didn’t have any of these things. What she did have was a brilliant mind and a sharp tongue, and she used them. Often. If her tongue didn’t get you, the rumor was, she’d use her fists.

Which is why I tried hard not to look at, and especially not to talk to the girl named Hillary, who sat next to me in Advanced English. I’d heard all about Hillary, and frankly, I thought she was a little scary. But when she talked to me, what was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to make Hillary mad by ignoring her – she might clobber me. So, I answered her – very politely. When lunchtime rolled around, and Hillary and I were mid-conversation, we naturally sat together in the cafeteria, so we could continue talking.

Soon, I counted Hillary as my very best friend in the whole wide world. I loved her, and for some strange reason still unknown to me, she loved me. We shared our darkest secrets, our highest hopes, and our smallest, most vulnerable dreams, not to mention approved middle school clothing, shoes, and makeup tips.

But looking back, I have to say that the most important thing Hillary and I shared was an unwavering loyalty to one another. Were we both deeply flawed? Yes. Did we make mistakes? Of course. Did we make great big glorious messes of our lives? You bet we did. Over and over again. But we talked openly and honestly about these things, called it like we saw it, called one another on all our crap, and at the end of the day, we understood and loved one another, right or wrong. And right or wrong, I never put up with anyone talking about Hillary, just like she never put up with anyone talking about me. In short, we had each other’s backs, and that is no small thing in the social war zones known as “middle school” and “high school”.

It’s no small thing to me today. I’ve learned that loyalty is rare and precious in any arena – middle school, high school, business and personal relationships – at any stage of life.

Hillary taught me that. She also taught me that you can’t take someone else’s word for who another person is, what they’ve done, or why they did it. You have to judge people based on your own experiences with them. (Yes, I know that we should never judge anyone, but face it: we do.)

Thanks to Hillary, I have friends I might have never given a chance, and I give those friends the benefit of the doubt, because they are my friends. When I can’t give my friends the benefit of the doubt, then I sit down with them, and I ask the questions I need to ask, directly. They tend to answer as I do – truthfully. And then, we move forward with understanding and without drama.

For me, avoiding drama simply means being forthright, dealing directly and honestly with people, and asking them to be direct and honest with me. It pretty much works. Which is good, because I am against drama. In a BIG way.

Thanks, Hillary.

Sentimental vs. Stylish

I’m cleaning up my website, which is a lot like cleaning up my room (translation: not that much fun) and I’ve realized that this little story, as much as I love it, can’t continue to have its own page on my new website. Well…it can, but I won’t end up with the pretty, well-organized room that I want. No, my room will just continue to be mismatched, overstuffed, and haphazard at best. I can be sentimental, or I can be stylish and streamlined, but I can’t be both. I am sentimental; I want to be stylish and streamlined.

Even so, I can’t just toss this little story into the garage sale box and be done with it. I can’t. I just can’t. Why not? Because this little story, this little girl, single-handedly carried me for at least a month – maybe more:

When my first novel was officially released, it received only one immediate review, by Kirkus, who is known for shall we say…tart (translation: downright cruel) reviews. Do I need to tell you that this review was not favorable? Well, it wasn’t. And I felt horribly ashamed, mostly for my family. I mean, how awful to have someone criticize your mother, daughter, sister, niece, or friend, on a national scale!

But worse than the shame I felt, was the knowledge that my writing career was over before it even really began. No one would ever read my little book. Soon, I would be getting letters from my publishing house, offering to let me buy all my books for pennies on the dollar, before they were burned to make room in the warehouse. This is what I get, after all these years, I thought sadly. All these years, I’d worked on the hope that somebody, somewhere, someday, would give me a chance, and finally somebody did. And now I realized – feeling slightly devastated –that the only thing worse than not getting a chance, is getting one and blowing it, so that you never get another one. It was all over. There was no point in ever writing another word. What would I do? Who would I become? A plumber? A real estate agent? A shoe salesperson? – well, I do love shoes!

And then, my very best friend – who is not a reader – called. She said that she’d purchased several copies of my book – as required by The Law of Friendship – but since she’s not a reader, she gave these books away, to local libraries and friends. One of her friends, who received a copy of Something to Sing About – another non-reader, apparently – gave the book to his next door neighbor, who gave the book to his ten-year-old daughter, the day they were leaving for a vacation in Florida. As this girl's parents packed and loaded the car, she began reading.

When the car was fully loaded, and the family was ready to hit the road, the girl got into the car and continued reading. Now, she knew that reading in the car made her sick. Her parents also knew that reading in the car made her sick. So, as the girl continued to read, her parents kept asking her, "Are you feeling sick? Don't you think you had better put that book away, before you get sick?" At first, the girl said that she was fine. Then, the girl admitted that she was perhaps starting to feel a little sick-ish, and said that she would put the book away in a few minutes. She continued to read; her parents continued to ask. The girl kept saying, "Just one more page."

This went on until finally, the girl vomited all over the backseat. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry, but I just couldn't put the book down! I just couldn't!"

The most amazing thing is that when the girl finished the book – out of the car, in Florida – she said she loved it. Loved it! Somehow, that sweet girl found a way to love a book that had literally made her sick!

I consider this my best and most important review ever. (Look, if you knew me, you would understand that it is only fitting that my highest praise comes in the form of puke.) It is the review that carried me through those dark and fearful weeks that followed my first book’s release, before other reviewers rode in to save the day.

(Now if you are reading this, and you happen to be that little girl, well...honey, I am SO sorry. And thank you! Thank you! Thank you! When my next book comes out, I promise to send you a new, signed, non-pukey, copy of Something to Sing About, along with my new one, as well. Just don't read them in the car, okay?)

So, you can see why I can’t just toss this review away. It has great sentimental value, like the tattered chair from the living room of my childhood that now resides in the living room of my adulthood.

Sentimental or stylish? I vote for compromise. And I call it eclectic. Yes, eclectic. (My husband calls it something else. But he tolerates it.)

Happy Anniversary

I couldn't find a card I liked -- I never can when I really need to! SOOOoooo, here I am, in the hope that this will do:

Happy anniversary, with love and gratitude, to my husband who has -- miraculously! -- managed to put up with me for the past 15+ years, most of which have been happy, very happy.

Thank you for all the times you met me at the door, and wrapped me in warm towels straight from the dryer, when I arrived home trembling-cold and rain-soaked,

for all the times you held me and rocked me --when nothing more could be done -- as I cried myself out,

for all the long, lazy days we've spent on the lake together, talking, planning, dreaming, reading and fishing,

for -- and this is a big one -- not letting me give up on becoming a writer, (after all those rejection letters, any husband in his right mind would've said, "Honey, I'm sorry: You're not going to be a writer, just like I'm not going to be a rock star. Welcome to the real world. It's time to focus on your real job." And any wife in her right mind, even me, would've understood -- and agreed.)

for letting me work without interruption --mostly -- when I'm under deadline,

for letting me throw the occasional fit, without getting mad (he usually laughs -- a lot),

for assessing and treating my wounds, when I can't bring myself to look,

for holding my hand when we're out in the world,

for paying attention and remembering, whenever I show interest in something, whether it be a book, a scarf, or a one-of-a-kind antique ring (he hunted that ring down, like it was his only purpose in life, a whole year after we saw it -- I had forgotten it by then!)

for driving our daughter to school with the windows down and the stereo blaring, like a teenager on his way to a party,

for being one of those rare breeds of men who isn't afraid to get out on the dance floor and have a little fun,

for making your way home, night after night, to eat dinner and play games with the family,

for being the kind of guy who sometimes brings strays home with him -- cats, dogs, and people -- and for loving the strays that I bring home, too,

for being full of ambition and motivation and fascinating new ideas all the time,

for being an honorable man, a man of integrity, even -- and especially -- when it's hard,

for being calm and brilliant in the middle of all crises,

for loving my side of the family as your own,

and for making me laugh and laugh and laugh.

Thank you for all these things, for all these times, and more. Thank you for all these years. I love you.

What's Not to Love?

I love my home state of Kentucky: rolling bluegrass, four-board fences, magnificent thoroughbreds galloping along the horizon—what’s not to love?

For the most part, folks here are friendly and polite. Men still open doors for ladies, and call us “ma’am” or “sugar” or “honey”—I am not offended by this; I am charmed. Women gladly share homegrown fruits and vegetables, gardening tips and recipes. And men and women alike tend to be fiercely loyal to their families, friends, and neighbors. If someone tried to break into my house during the night, naturally, I’d call the police. But I’d be just as likely to call a neighbor or two while I waited for the police to arrive. Those neighbors would likely come right away, to defend me and mine—and they’d likely bring their shotguns with them. (Just yesterday, there was an article on the front page of my local newspaper entitled “Family and Neighbors Prevent Burglars’ Escape Following Home Invasion”.) What’s not to love?

And of course, one can’t truly love Kentucky without also loving Kentucky basketball. Kentucky basketball is practically a religion here, one I practice actively and fanatically. (For example, at my house, no one is allowed to talk during UK basketballs games, just like no one is allowed to talk during church.)

So, this month, when I inherited a beautiful mahogany bookshelf, with glass doors that had been marred by the placing of a huge sticker pendent belonging to a basketball team other than Kentucky, you can imagine my horror.

I wasn’t the only one who was horrified. When my husband laid eyes on the bookshelf, the first thing he said was, “Who put that sticker on there?” I said that it had probably been one of my uncles. “Why?” my husband asked sincerely, for he truly cannot comprehend why anyone, anywhere would ever root for any team other than Kentucky—what’s not to love?

“I’ll try to get the sticker off,” I told my husband. He nodded and said, “It has to come off.” Try though I did, that sticker had probably been stuck to the glass for more than forty years. The adhesive was long gone, and the sticker had become dry and brittle, which caused it to scratch off the glass only in teensiest, tiniest, little flakes.

I had been working at the sticker for more than an hour when my daughter arrived home, took one look at the bookshelf, and demanded to know, “Who did that?” The way she said it…well, for some reason, it instantly called to mind the Salem Witch Trials. Yes, I am positive that some of our darkest moments in history have been set in motion by someone asking, “Who did that?” in precisely the same way. Since I certainly wouldn’t want my uncles to be burned at the stake for a sticker they slapped onto a bookshelf back when they were twelve, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know—maybe one of our uncles. Maybe.” My daughter made a disgusted face. “Why? Why would they do that?” she said, in a shrieky voice.

I continued working at the sticker, but it continued to prove difficult. Impatient with my progress, my daughter asked, “May I try?” I nodded. She disappeared and returned with a Mr. Clean sponge, which took that sticker off in about 90 seconds flat. “Wow,” I said. My daughter smiled, victorious, and announced, “Yeah, I can fix any problem with a Mr. Clean sponge or Scotch Tape.” Oh to be young!

Thank you, my sweet, young Kentucky fan.

As for my uncles, I forgive you and love you, despite your extremely flawed thinking on the topic of basketball. Ditto to all you Hoosiers, Cardinals, Tarheels, Blue Devils, Volunteers, Bulldogs, etc.

GO WILDCATS! Win or lose, we love you! What’s not to love?

Grrrrrrrrr.

One of the symptoms of my unbalanced life is that I tend to get worn down and sick.

I also tend to try treating/ healing myself first, before I allow my doctor to have a go at it. Which means that I have usually gotten a lot sicker by the time I call my doctor’s office for an appointment.

Which is why I am really, really SO not in the mood to deal Mrs. Grouchy Grump, who always answers the phone at my doctor’s office. I mean, it’s bad enough to feel badly, but then to be treated like a nuisance for feeling badly, for having the nerve to dial my doctor’s office, and make the phone on Mrs. Grouchy Grump’s desk ring, when she has waaaaaay more important things to do than talk to the sorry, sick likes of me…well, it’s too much. It’s enough to bring a sick, sleepy, weepy person to tears.

Now maybe you think that I am cranky with this lady – because I’m sick and sleepy and weepy and all – which causes her to be cranky in return. Not so. I go out of my way to be exceedingly polite to Mrs. Grouchy Grump. I use plenty of pleases and thank yous and yes ma’ams, because I know that in Mrs. Grouchy Grump’s mind, I am asking her for a humongous favor. The conversation on my end usually goes something like this: “Hello, I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Grouchy Grump, but could I please, please, pretty please have an appointment with my doctor, because I’m sick, and I’m under the impression that he helps sick people – is that right? Yes, ma’am, of course I’ll hold. It’ll be my distinct honor and privilege to be placed on hold by you, while you try to sort out this whole disgusting mess I’ve made. Thank you so, so much.”

On her end, there is usually a lot of huffing and puffing, followed by a litany of reasons that my doctor can’t possibly see me today. Or tomorrow. And no, none of the other doctors have time for me either. There is usually one clipped “no” followed by a more dramatic and emphatic “NOOOO” just to make sure I understand – because Mrs. Grouchy Grump suspects that I might be a teensy bit stupid – after all, I was dumb enough to get sick and call on a day like this, a day when the people in my doctor's office cannot possibly be expected to deal with me or my health problems. But, because Mrs. Grouchy Grump is the faaar superior human being here, she will take pity on sick, stupid me, and out of the goodness of her heart, she will generously offer me an appointment with my doctor precisely fourteen years from today, first thing in the morning. Will that work for me? No, it will not.

Which is why today, after two days of begging for an appointment with my doctor, I gave up and went to a walk-in clinic. As I was filling out the mountain of paperwork that my regular doctor already has – it was better than having to talk to Mrs. Grouchy Grump again – my cell phone rang. It was someone from my doctor’s office, apologizing, and telling me that my doctor would’ve gladly seen me at any time, if he’d only known that I was trying to get an appointment, and could I come over now? I said something like, “Ummmmmm…well, it’s just that I’m already on page one-thousand-fifty-three of my paperwork here at the walk-in clinic.”

Look, if you ask me, sick people don’t put off going to the doctor because they dread the doctor, fear the germs in the waiting room, or hate the hospital-smell. It’s not the paper gowns, or the poking or the prodding, or even getting on the scale – I know, right? No, sick people put off going to the doctor because the lady who books the appointments is SCARY and MEAN. She hates people, and she hates sick people most of all. And sick people are both of those things.

So here’s my big idea to improve healthcare in this country: Doctors, consider your receptionists carefully. Very carefully. Maybe try to avoid hiring people who look like this:

Trust me, Doc: This is a look that we, your patients, can all feel over the phone.

Glass Friendships

Life is a juggling act. I think we can all agree on that. We all struggle to juggle careers, finances, households, and personal relationships. Author James Patterson took this analogy a step further, explaining that careers, finances, and households are the rubber balls in our juggling act: If we drop them, they’ll bounce back—eventually. But our personal relationships, according to James, are made of glass, and if we drop one of those balls, the relationship is likely to shatter.

As with most things, balance is the key here, isn’t it? Ugh! I’m incredibly unbalanced and clumsy. That must be why there’s so much shattered glass at my feet.

It’s accumulated over the years, and now, I really have no choice but to face the truth: I’m never going to achieve balance on a daily basis. It’s unlikely that I will even achieve it on a weekly or monthly basis. But I am striving to achieve some semblance of balance on a yearly basis. (Hey, it’s better than nothing—and also, is that some broken glass I see around your feet?)

So, in an effort to achieve this annual balance, it’s time for me to climb out of my rabbit (writer) hole. Time for me to give my family some undivided attention. Time to eat a little. Sleep a little. Play a little. It’s time for a nice, long vacation. And for the first time in five years, I’m not taking any work with me. No computer. No notebook. No work whatsoever. So, TTFN, my friends! (You’ll probably never even know I was gone, seeing as how I’m only capable of keeping up with the most LOW-MAINTENANCE—and forgiving—of friends!)

As for the people who used to be my friends: If you dropped me, I totally forgive you. If I dropped you, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for me to get all my balls up, into the air, and keep them there. It’s not an excuse. It’s a fact. And the fact is, there still aren’t enough hours in the day. (I would be a much better friend, if only I didn’t have to sleep! But I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work out well. At all.) So, please just know that if I ever loved you, chances are I still love you, still think of you, still wish you beauty, bounty, blue skies and happiness. And chances are I would still be there for you if you ever really needed me—well, unless I’m in the Virgin Islands, which I will be by the time this blog entry posts—but after that, if you need me, I’m there. Really. Probably.

I am reminded of a teacher I had in high school, who once explained to us, his fifth period class, that his wife was upset with him for not telling her that he loved her more often. His response had been, “Look, I told you I loved you the day I married you. If something changes, I’ll let you know.”

In closing, I wish to say to all my friends, past, present, and future: If something changes, I’ll let you know. I hope you’ll do the same. But otherwise, we’re good, right?

There's No Crying in Writing!

Tom Hanks once famously said, “There’s no crying in baseball!” And he was right. Professional baseball players don’t cry about baseball, because 1.) They’re tough, disciplined, seasoned athletes, and 2.) For those who choose it as their life’s work, baseball is sheer joy.

Just as there is no crying in baseball, there is no crying in writing. Professional writers don’t cry about their writing—much—because, 1.) They’ve learned how to take criticism (gratefully) and 2.) For those who choose it as their life’s work, writing is sheer joy.

So, when I felt tears dripping off my chin as I deleted passages of a novel that I’m revising—as directed by my editor—I was forced to ask myself some tough questions: Are you drunk? (Just kidding.) Have you had enough sleep? Yes. Are you hormonal? No. Have you taken your medication? (Kidding again.) Do you think the passages you have deleted are so exquisite in their perfection that deleting them is downright tragic? Definitely not. Then, what pray tell, is the problem? I had no idea. Scary.

I crawled into bed, where I hid under the covers and cried some more. It was only then that I realized I wasn’t crying for something, but for someone. All the passages I had deleted belonged to a character that wasn’t just a character, but a real person, a family member, that I had loved and lost. Actually, this character embodied four family members that I had loved and lost. It was then that I realized that writing this character into my novel in the first place was my—sicko—way of trying to keep these family members alive, on paper, forever. Therefore, deleting pieces of them felt like deleting people I once loved, people I still love.

Now, I know what you are thinking: My poor editor. I totally agree. So, in an effort to salvage my relationship with this poor editor, who has been nothing but kind, patient, and encouraging toward me—and who also happens to be right right right about everything—here’s what I need you to know:

This is Bernice Payne (with her husband Floyd, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting). Bernice just loved people—all people—and gladly shared her table with anyone who happened to show up around mealtime. She fed us well—with tons of homegrown fruits and veggies—and made us laugh and laugh and laugh.

This is Roy Lanphear, a WWII veteran with a wonderfully wicked sense of humor, who always sang as he worked—and always sounded like Bing Crosby to me—and who loved to play games and listen to political talk shows on the radio…until it was determined that this was bad for his heart and his blood pressure.


This is Ruth Lanphear (with my husband, Mark) who laid down the law about games and political talk shows—after she heard her husband, Roy, ranting and raving on national radio, while she was out of the house. (She said her heart stopped when she heard the host say, "Let's take some calls: First, we'll hear from Roy in Bowling Green, Kentucky.") Among her many talents, Ruth was a superb storyteller, who believed in me and loved me far more than I deserved. She always made me—and everyone else she loved—feel incredibly special.

Finally, this is Joseph E. Stopher. Goodness and warmth sparkled from his eyes and made you want to hug him on sight—whether you knew him or not. He was generous and joyful, and fully engaged in life—an outstanding lifelong student, photographer, furniture maker, farmer, horseman, lawyer, Christian, husband, father, grandfather and friend. He never wasted a single day. Not one day.


Now, they live forever on the Internet, and in all of you, who read and remember their names. Thank you.

As for me, I’ve got editing and writing to do—objective, professional, non-personal, non-crying editing and writing to do. So, I’m gonna put on my big girl panties and do it, in the hope that I might one day make Bernice Payne, Roy & Ruth Lanphear, and Joseph E. Stopher proud.