Funeral Flowers & Ancestry

Uncle Bob called tonight. He received the note and picture of Connor and Sierra in their Easter outfits. He mentioned that Sierra looked bigger. I had noticed the same thing, but it wasn't until I was writing and thinking about all the fraternal twins in my family that something else came to mind.

Fraternal twins run in my family, the Cornwell side of the family. Doral and Dorothy, Carol and Cary, and Connor and Sierra. Fraternal twins skipped my generation, but we had lots of boys, which is also strange for our family since a plethora of girls tend to be the norm.

The female twin is always dominant in every case, and I could go back generations and find the same thing. It's sort of a family legend Great Grandma Cornwell, the corncob pipe smoking matriarch of the Cornwell clan when I was a child, imparted to me when we would visit.

Doral died at 10 months from a congenital heart defect and pneumonia, the same pneumonia that took his mother, Dad's mother. Cary was born with his brain visible beneath a thin membrane that separated his brain from the outside world; the skull had not completely formed on that side of his head. Cary was mentally retarded and had seizures all his life. Carol was and is quite robust. Connor, my son David Scott's child, died this week from unknown causes. The ME's report was inconclusive, no attributable cause of death -- but they're still testing.

As I was writing about this family legacy, I suddenly realized that the males in fraternal twins in my family do not fare well. Females have been dominant in numbers as well as in fraternal twin births and that has not changed. Is there something in the genes I passed to my son and he passed to Connor that caused his death? Am I the reason he's dead?

These are the things that pass as thoughts right now. I want to find a reason for my grandson's death. I need to find out why or how his young life was cut short. We all want to know why.

All the females in my father's family are dominant and have been dominant for centuries. There is also a legacy of female shamans from our Cherokee heritage, and a few fraternal twins in that ancestry as well. We females are survivors and most of us are and have been gifted.

Until there are answers, all this is conjecture, and bloody-minded conjecture at that. I sit here and wonder why I am still alive and my sweet grandson dead. I will never understand it, especially with so many questions left unanswered, and so I go down dark paths ready to take the stroke that will scythe me down if it comes. It won't bring Connor back nor will it change anything.

I bought flowers for Connor's funeral this evening. As I looked through all the pages of sprays, wreaths, casket covers, and arrangements, the smell of funeral flowers fills my nostrils. Every funeral I have attended in my life comes back to me in vivid memory. The overpowering reek of dying flowers, the clash of perfumes and colognes and after shave, the sights and sounds of grief and pressured laughter as people move farther and farther from the casket, turning their backs, putting objects, people, and distance between themselves and the deceased.

David Scott told me last night that when he went to Mom's funeral he didn't get closer than 3 feet to the casket. "She didn't look like Grandma," he said. I filled the heavy silence with a joke. "Well, then you didn't get your York peppermint patty from Mom's coffin." I could hear his disbelief and shock. Candy from a dead woman, and they were the rest of her candies. She was on a York peppermint patty kick at the time. She always changed her candy obsession, but never gave up the junk food or the candy.

How will he be able to bring himself to get close to Connor's casket? He will have to find the strength somewhere because Sierra and Alanna will be at the funeral. It's the whole point of an open casket. He will have to be strong, to override his fear and pain, and bring them to the casket so they can see Connor and know, at least as far as their 2- and 3-year-old minds can comprehend, the meaning of death and why Connor will never come home. How much will they understand? Whatever it is, we will not shield them and there is no way for anyone to go and buy a Connor that looks as close to the original as possible so Sierra and Alanna won't know the real Connor is dead. Oh, how I wish they did not have to see death and know it so soon.

What I understand is that this family, my family, is hard on males, especially when they are one of a set of twins. What could I have done to prevent his death? What could anyone have done?

I am tilting at spiked windmills knowing that it is a hopeless fight and yet I tilt on, confused, sad, and empty with a Connor-shaped hole in my heart.

It has been 2 days since my grandson Connor died. Time weighs me down and numbs my brain. I can't think. I don't want to think. I don't want anything, except for Connor to be alive, for all of this to be a hoax, a mind warp, an alternate reality, an aberration of this reality, my reality. I want Connor back.

And I want to hear from my son. I'd left messages for 2 days with no response. I was jealous of Beanie because David Scott returned her call and not mine.

Julie's dad called me this morning while I was passed out from lack of sleep and grief. I didn't hear the phone and I'm a light sleeper -- on a normal day. These have not been normal days. Mr. Larkin wanted to know if I had heard from David Scott or Julie. I hadn't. My first thought was they had dived into twin bottles and were on a binge. He was considering calling the police and reporting them as missing. My heart raced and then stopped. I wanted my son to be all right. I cannot lose anyone else.

I called Beanie to ask if she had heard from David again. No. She sent him a text message but he had not returned even that. Two days. No word. What could he be thinking? Where the hell was he and what was he doing? I called David Scott one more time, not even hoping the phone would be turned on this time. I waited for voice mail.

"Hello?"

It was David Scott. I should have known what he was doing, what he always does when he's in pain. He was hiding. Not communicating. Curling into an emotional ball around his pain and shutting down.

"Where the hell have you been?" I yelled.

As angry and worried as I was, I was happy to hear that petulant tone in his voice even as I told him not to yell at me, to moderate his tone.

Julie tried to throw herself off the balcony, to kill herself after having turned on everyone else, blaming them for killing her son. My son responds by hiding like an octopus pulling his tentacles and his amorphous bulk into as small a space as he can find. My daughter-in-law responds by cursing and lashing out at everyone and anyone who comes within her sight.

David Scott has been staying with a close friend, meeting with his sponsor and great grand sponsor (recovering alcoholic), and Julie has been in the hospital in the psych ward on a mandatory 72-hour watch because of her suicide attempt. No one knew what was going on. Now we know.

This has been a trying time for all of us and more so for my son and his wife because it is their child who has died. It doesn't help to know that Connor's cardiologist didn't know of our family history of a congenital heart murmur or that my father's youngest brother, a fraternal twin like Connor and Sierra, died when he was 10 months old of pneumonia complicated by his heart defect.

It may not have been Connor's heart. I still think the autopsy will show an aneurysm that burst while he slept. But it doesn't matter what caused his death. He is gone.

Everyone is blaming himself or herself and casting blame around like a hot potato. No matter what medical science will tell us, it will not assuage our grief. My 2-year-old grandson is dead and nothing, not even medical science, will bring him back. All we have left is questions with no answers and grief and my son and daughter-in-law are not dealing well with them. In spite of their ages, they are not equipped to deal with this. I am much older and, despite my seeming calmness in the face of this tragedy, I am not equipped to deal with this. I know there is a logical reason and I know that there is no reason, at least not a reason my heart or my aching soul will accept.

Death is never easy and I've had a lot of it to deal with this year with Mom dying in January and now Connor. Last year it was my half brother and a close friend. I expect to lose people, to lose family at this stage of my life, and yet I don't expect them to die. It is not logical; it is emotional, and I am very emotional right now. I doubt I will ever be un-emotional where this is concerned.

In the larger context, Dick Clark, the immortal Dick Clark who was hundreds of years old, has died today. In the end, even he was not immune to death's final embrace. So why do I feel like in the end it will be cockroaches, moths, and me left on this planet? I always thought it would be Mom.

It's Monday and I expect bad things to happen. It's Monday.

This morning brought some good news. My tax refund was deposited in my account 3 weeks earlier than expected. With the good comes the bad and this morning it came in the form of a phone call from my son David Scott. I could barely understand him he was crying so hard. His son, Connor James, was found dead this morning.

Connor wasn't in an accident and he didn't do drugs, unless you consider milk a drug. Connor was 2 years old and he was fine last night. This morning he was gone, lost to us and to his twin sister Sierra. She wants to know where Connor is and there are no words to help a 2-year-old understand that her womb companion, her brother is gone.

My son and his wife are devastated and I am thrown back nearly 30 years to the call that came to tell me my sister's son Brandon was dead. Brandon was 3 months old. He died of SIDS. His loss still touches us and his brothers, Ants and Cody, will never forget him even though Brandon was born first.

My son is devastated and wants someone to punish for his son's death. He wants to know where God was when his son was taken and why God allowed this to happen. David Scott wants vengeance.
There is no rhyme or reason to Connor's death. When the autopsy results come back we will know what happened in Connor's final moments, but nothing will ever help us understand why him, why my grandson, why my son's only son, why a child had to die, why Sierra's twin was chosen on this day of all days.

It doesn't help to know that thousands of children died last night and this morning and will die today and tomorrow and all the tomorrows to come. I don't know those children. I feel sad when any child dies, but this is personal. This death devastates my family, not some third world or privileged child anywhere but here.

Yes, I am angry. Yes, I understand that my grandson will never grow up and kiss a girl (or boy), will never go to prom or graduate high high school or college, get a degree, meet someone and marry, have children and grandchildren. All his tomorrows are null and void; they are gone.

Sierra doesn't understand where Connor is. Her days and nights and everything in between have been filled with her twin. What does her 2-year-old mind understand? What will she understand now? She will know a void in her life that can never be filled. Something will always be missing and she may not know what; it will be a Connor-shaped void, a much bigger void than the Connor-shaped void that fills me, my son, his mother, and all the people who knew and loved him, who will miss him now and all the days that follow.

I'm selfish. I want my children to be happy and for their children to be happy grow up and have happy children. Now all I can think about is the Christmas stocking I cross-stitched and finished 2 months ago for Connor. He'll never get to use it. He will never hang it on the mantelpiece every December and take it down Christmas morning filled with little gifts, fruit, nuts, or candy. I can't send it to my son because that is not a pain I want him to feel. He does not need tangible evidence of the future he and his son will never share. No, I'll pack it away and put it on a shelf and I will never look at it even though I will see it for the rest of my life without opening the box and taking it out.

My mother died 3 months ago on Friday 13th. My father died 5 years ago March 1st. In the interim, I have lost aunts, uncles, and close friends.

My grandson, Connor James Woodard, died April 16, 2012.

There are no words.

Beyond the Sling and Other Child Rearing Mishaps

I wrote about some experiences that came up while reading Beyond the Sling by Mayim Bialik, PhD yesterday and both times, since I was working on a laptop, everything disappeared. It is hard enough to write humor without having to do it twice and failing to be funny or even the slightest bit interesting. I'm going to give it another try with a real keyboard instead of the laptop keyboard and see where that takes me. Let's give it a go. At least there is no touchpad to keep fouling up the works and I might get a whole post down.

First, let me say that I enjoyed reading about someone's experiences who mirrored my own, especially when it came to following my intuition and having to deal with all the people, most of whom had raised children, who knew how it was supposed to be done and done right. My mother was the most vocal of the group and I tended to defer to her judgment in everything with my first born child that now I wish I had ignored politely and done my own way. It all started when she arrived shortly before my due date and dug in to wait for her first grandchild. I was completely beside the point. I was just the one delivering the blessed grandchild, an after thought according to my mother.

She and Hoity-Toity moved into our little apartment across the street from the base in Denver where my husband was going to tech school. It was crowded, especially since I was as big as a house (pregnant) and a bit uncomfortable, what with the swollen feet, changed center of balance due to my frontal girth, and being stuck together in a 3 room apartment, one of which was the kitchen, with my mother and sister while being miserably, hugely pregnant.

During one of our outings I fell so hard my son (or sons since the doctor told me I was having twins and possibly triplets, thus explaining my house-sized girth and being unable to sit any way but sideways in a booth at restaurants) was knocked out of the birth canal where he had been making himself comfortable before making his long awaited (and long overdue -- 5 days overdue) appearance. Time was getting short (and my temper shorter) and Mom decided to move things along. Enter orange juice (my favorite juice) and castor oil. These 2 liquids, and I use the term liquid loosely in the case of castor oil which is not so liquid but more viscous, do not mix. When the first dose did not work, my mother insisted on a second dose. She had a life to get back to and was determined to be at her grandchild's birth.

Mayim Bialik, she of Blossom and The Big Bang Theory fame, also was talked into (forced) to drinking castor oil to move things along. My experience was exactly like hers and the smell of castor oil produces the same smell that root beer does -- violent retching -- because root beer smells exactly like Fletcher's Castoria, a potion my mother dosed me with repeatedly and nearly nightly to help move things along. I couldn't drink orange juice for years because the smell reminded me of castor oil. Not a pretty sight in restaurants especially when the other patrons begin retching in sympathy. I could clear a restaurant faster than someone dropping dead in their omelet due to food poisoning.
At any rate, things moved along and the cramping and discomfort I had been feeling for 2 days became full out labor -- for 36 hours. Well, there was that short period when my labor slowed and stopped and it felt like days but was only about 90 minutes before getting a good running start before turning my insides outside of everything but the baby, who was hanging back and hanging on.

As soon as the baby was delivered and Mom and Hoity-Toity had a good look, they were gone and I was alone with nurse Cratchet, she of the spatulate fingers and no sense of boundaries who made it her job to humiliate me in every possible way. There was the first day when she walked blithely into the bathroom, wrenched the wand with which I was sluicing my torn and stitched nether regions and proceeded to pry my knees apart and lay me open to comment and scorn with the bathroom door still open and people milling in and out looking at my roommate's child and glancing in through the doorway while Nurse Cratchet continued to sluice my stitches. At least she shut the hallway door and pulled the curtain when she once again pried my tightly locked knees apart and spread my hooha wide open to position the sunlamp just so to dry out my episiotomy stitches, but it was too little too late.

I had decided to breast feed my son and was sitting in the rocking chair, baby cradled in my arms, and trying to get him to latch on to my nonexistent nipples. Unlike most woman, my nipples do not stick out like thick erasers. My nipples are more like suggestions than actual nipples even when responding to cold, arousal, or rough fabric. They are still mere suggestions. At least they aren't inverted.

Nurse Cratchet flung the door open as if entering an old western saloon for a bar brawl and grabbed my generous areola and began stuffing it into my son's mouth, her thick spatulate fingers treaeting me as if I were no more ground pork stuffed into a tight casing for sausage. I was completely extraneous and obviously had no sense of feeling or feelings. She lectured me about giving my baby enough to latch onto while she grabbed more of my breast and continued stuffing, grabbing and stuffing as my son continued to suck as though tucking in the ends and until it seemed as though half my very generous breasts were in his little rosebud mouth, which looked as though the jaw unhinged as he latched on and on and on.

It hurt. A lot. But he was nursing so I gritted my teeth and stayed out of Nurse Cratchet's way while she oversaw the process, repeating it a few minutes later when I transferred him to the other side and she began stuffing my breast into my son's mouth. I could wait to get out of there. Sooner would be better, but I had lost a lot of blood during delivery -- and after -- and the hospital refused to let me go until my blood counts were closer to normal. And presumably until after Nurse Cratchet had finished humiliating and stuffing and manhandling me sufficiently.

When I did get home, nursing was difficult. My nipples cracked and bled and I wish now I had read Beyond the Sling and knew that my milk would heal my almost nipples and soothe the ache and raw pain of nursing.

Two weeks after my son was born, my husband graduated from tech school and we packed the car and made our way across the frozen flat space of Kansas while listening to the OSU-Michigan game on the radio and me nursing our son with a cloth diaper draped across my shoulder and over his face so truckers wouldn't be treated to the sight of my child attached to my naked and very sore breasts.
As soon as we reached Ohio and my husband unpacked my son and I from the car, my son was snatched from my arms and began to cry. My mother decided he was hungry and I needed to nurse him, all the while undressing me in front of all of my relatives, and my grandfather and Dad, and urging me to just ignore everyone and take care of my son. It wasn't long before she decided he wasn't getting enough nourishment and needed food, real food. How could he get any nourishment when me breastfeeding him was such a circus and my milk seemed to clot in my breasts no matter how much I massaged and yanked them about the way Nurse Cratchet told me I should when she manhandled me to free the milk ducts. Personally, I think she just enjoyed playing with my ample breasts.

I caved. My son began eating rice cereal mixed with cow's milk in his 3rd week of life. I didn't know that my breast milk was sufficient for him until he was a year old and that he didn't need baby food until then. What did I know? I was a new mother who, utterly exhausted from my son's every 2 hour feeds (the books said he should be fed every 4 hours and no one mentioned 2 hours), broke down and slept with him rather than have to get up from the bed and go across the room to the bassinet to pick him up, settle him before baring my breast and feeding him yet again. I was utterly fagged and often fell asleep sitting up while he was still nursing. Sleeping with him just seemed the natural thing to do.

According to Mayim Bialik, it is the natural thing to do -- sleep with your newborn child. There's nothing lazy or wrong about it and my son was calmer and less fussy when he was asleep in my arms or when I curled around him while he slept. He was perfectly safe and it was convenient when he woke up in the middle of the night -- every 2 hours -- to nurse.

I wish I had had the sense to dig in my heels and find people who knew more about children and nursing instead of caving. What is a new mother, worn to the merest nub and exhausted beyond words or the ability to make a fist, to do? My mother knew more than I did; she had given birth to 3 children and nursed and raised them. I knew nothing and my instincts were not reliable.

I eventually gave up nursing 3 months in and didn't nurse either of my other 2 boys, suffering through mastitis and sterilizing bottles instead. I wish I had stuck it out and had someone to tell me that my instincts were right.

Except that they were. Okay, they weren't reliable when I called my father in a panic to ask him what to do when the plastic bell fell off the head of my son's penis and his penis looked like a swollen, pussy, and grave worm white thing instead of the head of a normal penis. I had no experience in boys, except for my husband, and I didn't often examine his penis even during the most intimate moments. But my other instincts were right.

While Mayim Bialik's fondness for elimination communication (EC), or the belief that babies already are potty trained but their parents aren't, is a little out there, it does have some merit and I did something similar when my boys had diaper rash. I let them run around naked (when it was warm since diaper rash and summer had something evil in common) while it healed, catching them when they had "that look" and were about to soil the floor (or the bed, the couch, and whatever surface was handiest when they got "that look"), and holding them over the toilet. I've decided to send my review copy to my oldest son. The twins are 2 years old and are bottle fed, but some of the other issues they are facing and have yet to face will be addressed and they might get something useful from Beyond the Sling that I no longer can since my childbearing days are behind me -- far behind me. At least they won't have to listen to horror stories about the mistakes I made and the the way Nurse Cratchet manhandled my anatomically inadequate breasts. Information is a good thing -- especially when it's not intrusive and demanding and belittling. I'll provide the book and they can provide the belief or disbelief and do it their own way.

That's what raising children is all about -- the freedom to ruin your children in your own way without any help from Mom. I made my mistakes; it's time for me to step back and let them make their own mistakes while I provide chocolate and grandmotherly spoiling.

I do suggest you get Beyond the Sling and forget that although Mayim Bialik has made her career in television and doesn't allow her children to watch television, just one of her quirks. The rest of the information is good and she has some experience garnered from raising her two boys. Take what you want from the book and ignore what doesn't work for you or that you take issue with. It is in essence another way of doing things from a mother who has been there and done that and still stuck to her guns. That in itself is worth the price of admission -- having someone your own age in your corner.

We Validate

I just read a blog post about a writer who is answering the question, Why do you want to be published by a traditional publisher? Right off the bat, the writer said, "Validation." She would feel validated because a bunch of supposedly widely read people chose her book to publish. I guess there's no validation in people who actually do read books and are willing to put their hard earned cash on the line to read her book. It might be true that in days gone by that publishers staffed their houses with people who were widely read and knew something about books and how to value books, but those days are long gone, the widely read editors and staff replaced by MBA from Harvard, Yale, and NYU. It's all about numbers and not so much about good books, as anyone who has read the current crop of best selling authors will tell you. Larded in among the authors who actually know how to write are dpeople who rely on gimmicks to entice the reader and authors who have sold their souls for fame and riches and let their characters languish, writing cookie cutter books where the names and places and jobs have changed, but the characters have not. I want validation of a different sort. I want the validation that comes with having written a good book, or books, and people plunking down their hard earned cash to buy my book. That is validation. There is no real validation in a business that is all about numbers and branding and less about the quality of the work, at least in my estimation. My first solo novel was chosen by a publisher and published. My second novel was self-published and I'm prouder of it because people actually want to read and buy and recommend it to other people who buy and read. Yes, I would take a look at the contract if a traditional publisher wanted to pick up my self-published titles, and I might even considering signing it, but I already have my validation. Going with a traditional publisher has to come with a lot more oomph than validation. It would have to come with a great marketing and design package and a lot more money than I can make on my own. I am no longer dazzled by 5- and 6-figure advances because I know what that really means. Big advances are big loans that have to pay off to continue to get big advances, and they are paid in installments. The money doesn't go to the author right off the bat. The author gets a quarter of the money for signing, a uarter for finished book ready to edit, a quarter on publication, and the rest at some unnamed date, or the advance goes in thirds. Royalties aren't paid until the advance is paid off. No one tells you that best sellers often are based on inflated numbers. The best seller list numbers come from number of books contracted for sale and not the actual sale of books. Often the books that go out the warehouse door end up in landfills and on remainder tables or come bac to the warehouse dirty and shelf worn because they didn't sell. Yes, consumers can be lemmings, but not always. When an author self publishes and sells tens of thousands or even millions of books, those numbers were actually bought and the books delivered and read. There is a lot about publishing that still has some value if you believe well read individuals with a track record for excellence have chosen your book, but it's smoke and mirrors. I'm mercenary come to that. I prefer my validation in dollars and cents -- and in people talking about my books and the characters and asking me when the next book is coming out. Publishing traditionally or self-publishing is about learning the game. Mistakes will be made, but I've learned that being on the upswing is far better validation than being on the down swing.

Heed the Urge

Free advice, it's the one thing that most people rarely fear to give and balk at accepting for free, the idea that something you've done is wrong or inappropriate, or worse, that you need help, especially with writing. That's what I'm offering this morning, a little free advice.

I've been writing most of my life and have been published for more than a few years. I've learned a thing or two, although it seems they are mostly bad habits. Writing is a lot like dieting or, in my case, ignoring the body's needs. In this case, it's the mind's needs, although the body works into the mix anyway.

When I was younger, I thought I could lose weight by starving myself. I didn't count on the bred in the genes part that thought I was starving. Well, I was starving, but there was plenty of food around. I chose not to eat it because I wanted to lose that extra 10 or 15 pounds. What I didn't count on was how my body would rebel against my rebelling against food. My body clamored for food and I ignored the signs, the empty stomach, the cramps, the desire to chew on anything, even cardboard, if it would fill me up. All I thought about was the way I'd look when I lost the extra pounds. I was ignorant. I didn't realize that while I was virtuously denying myself food, eating only 2 ounces of cheese and drinking lots of water (which did nothing to curb my cravings), I was damaging myself.

The starvation gene had kicked in after the first week and was storing up every calorie it could find, lying in wait for an influx of food to store more against future famines. I lost 10 pounds and celebrated with a normal sized portion of dinner. Breakfast followed the next morning and I followed that with lunch and dinner, eating small portions, but eating at last. The taste was so good I wanted to lick the plate or bowl or glass clean. I held myself back in deference to the way I was brought up, but the urge was strong . . . and the scales crept up to replace the 10 pounds I'd lost and pack on a few more, so I starved again, eating after I lost the weight, and gaining even more weight every time I went back to eating normally. I finally cut out breakfast and tried every diet fad coming down the pike, but the results were the same: brief weight loss followed by increased weight gain.

It took me years to figure out what I was doing to myself, years and a lot of reading. Losing weight is even harder because of the damage I did to myself all those years, and I refuse to consider weight loss surgery to correct the issue, so I plod along, eat as healthy as possible and give my body what it needs. I learned too late.

Writing is similar to losing weight in some ways. Ignoring the urge to write for a day or a week or even a year does have an effect. Writing becomes more difficult. It is harder to sit in the chair every day, or on the couch or in the bath with a table across the sides, or wherever you feel most comfortable writing, when you ignore the urge to write. Unlike dieting, you don't end up with more words than when you started, but a habit of quitting early, taking notes and doing endless research and balking when it comes to sitting down and beginning a story or book. You've replaced the urge to write with an urge to write when you get around to it. You can always write after you do the laundry or the dishes, after this show is over, or when you get back from vacation, never realizing that you are hurting yourself and your dreams of publication. Without the words and the filled pages, there will be no books, no stories, and no publication, unless you hurry up and throw words onto a page without worrying about plot, characterization, or even whether the words are spelled correctly and the sentences aren't a mishmash of whatever came to mind.

Having words down on the page is not enough. It might be all right for a blog or a quick article, but what you put on the page is as important as what you put in your body when you eat. It does matter if the grammar is barely there and the details right. It matters.

I should know. I have a good case of putting it off until the last moment because I have a job that sucks the energy and creativity out of me every day. I muddle through, make notes, write down snatches of dialogue, description, and background, but it's not like writing every day. I've lost the fire to write, the fire that kept me writing all night long, going to work tired and empty of words and energy. I've come to the point where I have great books brewing in my head and ignore the urges to put it on paper. Not scribbling it down, but actually forming sentences, paragraphs, and pages full of well crafted words. I mean to do it, but I just can't get myself to the computer and get it done. I've fiddled with my time, filling it with nonsense and work that could wait, and made excuses.

I remember a time when I would wander off during a family gathering, pull a notebook or journal from my purse, and write, rushing to the computer the moment I got home or the guests left, so I could write. I wrote every day, and sometimes all day, finishing a 100,000+ word book in a week, revising it and fleshing it out until it was done. I've had my share of books that failed in the middle and had nowhere else to go, but I learned and kept writing. I never stopped writing -- until recently. I kept telling myself I'd get to it. I don't even blog every day the way I used to do, but I'm not a complete dilettante. I do journal nearly every day, even when I'm ill. The urge to get up and fill the pages so I can open a new journal and begin again is too strong. At least there I haven't failed. I can't completely ignore the urge to write because it has been such a part of me for decades.

In a way, this is not only free advice, but a declaration for myself, a promise that I will write, mostly because I am writing now. The need to write is not yet sated and I don't think it will be any time soon. Oh, I prefer to be comfortable when I write, but most of the time I don't notice my surroundings when I'm writing. I'm in the zone where hours pass without comment and day turns to night and turns back to day while I pound out another story, a book, a blog post because I do love the words and the way they come together. I'll miss a few grammar points, but that is what my editor is for; she keeps me honest and puts me back on track.

I have one piece of advice for every writer. Do it every day without fail. Don't ignore the urge or you will one day stop feeling it. I have to remind myself to eat regularly, especially when I'm writing, because of all the years I ignored my body's demands and urges. It is much harder for me to hear them now. The urge to write is still strong and it clamors for my attention nearly every hour, invading my dreams when I ignore it when I'm awake. The urge hounds and nags and makes itself known in every way possible. I'm glad for that because without it, I'd be fat and an automaton going through the motions of living, doing the laundry and dishes, running the errands, working my scheduled hours, and devoid of any sign of life, caroming from one chore to the next, piling up money to spend without having anything I really want to buy. That's no life for a writer.

Okay, I have 2 pieces of advice besides "write every day without fail" and that is read voraciously. A writer should read and read widely. Venture into new territory and it will show up in the writing, not only in better construction but more mature and well rounded stories.

Writing is a process, a discipline, a calling, and a gift. Don't ignore it. Heed the urges and put your backside in the chair and write. Even if you don't think you have anything to say, just the act of writing is enough to stimulate the little grey cells and words will come. You can throw them out later, but write them down. Every day, write them down. Carve out some time. Make writing a habit. Words will come and with them will come paragraphs and pages and stories and books. Heed the urge.

Dragons, Troy, and Theft

I woke up late this morning -- for me -- logged onto my computer and checked emails, one of which gave me a bit of a surprise. I don't remember signing up for Match.com. I'm not in the market for dating or mating and called the company. Someone, pretending to be me, used my card to sign up for services. When will these idiots learn that it doesn't pay to phish my information because I am onto them in a trice?

This trice ended with my card being banned from their site and me having to contact my bank and get a new card issued, which will put bill paying in a bit of a muddle until the card arrives. Now I have to learn a new card number, which I've done in the past and will continue to do, but damn! I wasn't supposed to have to do this for 4 more years. Oh, well, chaos can be good when it means exercising the brain.

I've been unable to work since that computer has keyboard issues and I'm waiting on a new keyboard that arrives today. It will be difficult but I've decided to back everything up on the account I seldom use and clone the drive so I can use it on this computer if problems occur. I don't like having backups, and if the company has a problem with me backing up the drive and their information, they can deal with it. Better to have me working than not working.

I finished Black Ships by Jo Graham and I highly recommend it. Using the Aeneid as a guide, Graham has crafted a wonderfully engaging story told from the perspective of Pythia, the handmaiden of Death, who is one of the first wave of captives from the Trojan war brought back to Greece as a slave, or rather her mother was. She was born of rape and the violence surrounding the destruction of Troy. Graham uses the new information on the supposed site of Troy, and specifically Troy VI and Troy VIIa built on the ruins of Troy VI, which is likely from the famed Trojan War that features in Homer's Iliad. Troy VIIa is the shanty town built on the ruins of the more splendid city. Once the Greeks returned to plunder Troy again, after Agamemnon's death, the survivors, sailing black ships, break through the blockade and return to Greece to rescue their people after 18 years of slavery.

This rag-tag fleet then sails away after a short battle with the remaining Greek soldiers protecting the city and sail away to Thera, the Island of the Dead, and then to a couple more cities to winter before striking out for Egypt in the dead of the night. They suffer losses and escape Egypt to rescue the people in a small town in Italy from which they established the mighty city of Rome.

I had chills and moments where the story became all too real for me and that is due to Graham's use of language and the reality of the character, time, and place. The settings were wonderful and the main characters jumped off the page. Black Ships is an elegant portrayal of difficult times that never breaks character or jumps out of the time and settings of the ancient world of 3500 years ago.

Now I'm back into George R. R. Martin's A Dance With Dragons. I'll let you know how it goes, especially since there are such mixed reviews. I liked A Feast For Crows but was well aware of its flaws, like needing a good editor. There was a great deal of extraneous material that could have been cut without harming the story in the least and a leaner book would have allowed the part Martin cut away to create A Dance With Dragons. I'll take it any way I can get it, and that means being excited that the 2nd season of A Game of Thrones premiers on Sunday night and I will be there.

I've watched my own collection from the 1st season and am up to date and read to go with season 2. I do so love fantasy and even a bit of sword and sorcery -- and dragons.

And now I'm off to clean my scales and check my fire breathing. I've a phisher to burn.

That is all. Disperse.

Ostrich Syndrome

A man of my acquaintance has 2 boys, both of whom are the product of a marriage where their mother has Huntington's disease, a progressively debilitating disease that affects the brain and body and ends in death, but not before destroying every ounce of humanity and personality. In the television show House, 13 had Huntington's, as did her brother and mother, and she went to prison for euthanizing her brother at his request. She asked the same from House, to ease her out of this world when she could no longer live her life as she wished.

One of the things I remember most is from Jacqueline Susann's novel, Valley of the Dolls, when Tony, a singer and actor, who had Huntington's, suddenly lost coordination and ended up in a sanitarium, something his older half-sister had prepared for, and Tony's wife worked in French art films to subsidize.

The question is whether a parent, who knows his children may carry the gene for the disease, has the right to deny his children early detection. Is a parent obligated to find out if his children carry the disease and pass that information on or is it all right to follow the path of not knowing being the best defense?

Since Huntington's strikes in the 30s and mid 40s, it would at least give his children a chance to live and to explore all options for treatment and mediation of the disease. I've always believed that knowledge is power, especially when not knowing could mean the difference between making informed decisions and choosing whether or not to have children. There is a 50% chance of both boys having the disease and being a carrier, passing the gene and the disease on to their children. Is it irresponsible to bury his head in the sand and refuse to have the boys tested? Does it not continue the cycle of disease in future generations, and what does that say for disease eradication?

There are some people who believe that if a person carries a degenerative disease that is transmitted to future children, they should be sterilized or at least not have children. By so doing, the disease is rooted out much like rooting out a dangerous plant and destroying its chance to propagate. That does interfere with free will and the right to choose one's life, but what is technology for if not to detect and prepare for potentially life-altering diseases?

That brings up another issue, genetic therapy. Genetic therapy has done wonders for so many illnesses and near catastrophic situations, like restoring natural tissue after extensive burns. Instead of the corded, ropy scars of yesterdays' burn victim, genetic therapy can bring a person's natural skin back so there is no discernible evidence of being burned. Genetic therapy has also progressed to the point that the tip of a finger that has been amputated can be regrown, fingernail and all, with only minor differences in length. Genetic therapy continues to progress and there could well be a treatment for those afflicted with Huntington's disease, but how would you know unless you were diagnosed before the disease progresses to the acute phase?

Some people would rather not know the worst -- or anything at all -- than to have to deal on a day to day basis with the facts of a devastating diagnosis like cancer, brain tumors, or Huntington's. Are they helping or hindering the process of future treatments or being irresponsible, not to mention cruel, to themselves and their children? Who is to say?

I know what I would do. I'd have my children tested and then sit down and discuss the situation with my children one way or the other, give them the information necessary for them to make a decision about their own lives and future. If it means not having children, then its best to make the decision early and not subject a future partner to the news that offspring have a 50% chance of being born with the disease.

What if both people weren't told they had Huntington's, or some other genetic disorder, and by marrying they have increased the odds of their children getting the disease?

Knowledge is power. Yes, the news could be difficult for a children, even teenagers nearing the time when they will finish high school and move away to make their own lives, but knowing, in my opinion, is better than not knowing. From my point of view, not knowing is tantamount to playing Russian roulette where most of the cylinders are filled with bullets.

The children may not have the disease. Wouldn't it be best to know that and to know whether or not they are carriers?

It's always a matter of choice and not choosing or making a decision is a choice. A bad choice, not only for one's children but for any future children and the progression and spread of genetic disorders like Huntington's.

The only thing left to do is pray. For that family in this situation, there are no other options.

Ribbons and Lace and Flounces

Once upon a time, when I was pregnant with my second child, I began making dresses, lots of frilly, beribboned, and flounced dresses. I had lots of material, a gift from my mother, and plenty of time, and so I cut and sewed and accessorized the dresses with buttons, ribbons, and embroidery. I even made a christening gown and embroidered the beautiful sleek satin. I couldn't wait for the baby to be born so I would have a little girl to dress and teach how to dress, even though I was fairly certain, with me as her mother, she would be more interested in climbing trees and building forts than frilly dresses.

On April 10, 1975, the baby was born after a fairly unexpected labor. I still had 6 weeks to go before my due date, but the amniotic sac had ripped and I was leaking fluid. Good thing that was the reason because I thought I had lost control of my detrusor muscles and was wetting myself all the time. No, it was amniotic fluid.

Several hours later I was presented with a beautiful baby with golden hair and deep blue eyes who just happened to have a perfect little penis. He was pretty enough to be a girl, but there was no doubt he was a boy and my husband was quite adamant about me putting him in the dresses I had made over all those months, even just to try them on and see how they looked. The sweater sets would also have to go into a box with the dresses until the next time I was pregnant.

The box ended up in some relatives hands who had been able to give birth to girls. I ended up with 3 boys, all of whom are very masculine males with no interest in dressing up in girls' clothes. A dream unfulfilled -- a girl wearing dresses not my sons wearing dresses.

Now I have a lovely little 2-year-old granddaughter and I've been contemplating dresses again. Frilly dresses with lace and flounces and ribbons and flourishes for Easter. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. It's just about something pretty for her for Easter. I'm looking at suits for her twin brother, Connor, too. I'm an equal opportunity grandma, but I must admit I do enjoy looking at the dresses and the little accessories and frilly underpants (although she is still in diapers) and everything girly that I never wore when I was old enough to voice my own preferences. I was a tomboy and dresses get caught on branches while climbing trees, get dirty when belly crawling in the dirt while playing soldiers or pirates, and tend to stand out when hiding in the falling dusk while playing hide-and-seek with the boys. 

I did have several dresses and I liked wearing them, almost as much as I enjoyed designing them for clients in later days. I never had the slim and svelte figure to wear the dresses I loved to look at and handle. I had a more Brigitte Bardot or Sophia Loren figure and that wasn't quite as sexy and attractive once Twiggy made the scene and everything was straight up and down; the love beads wouldn't swing the right way. Reminded me of Julie Andrews in Thoroughly Modern Millie when she got into flapper gear. I was not about to strap down my breasts either. (Julie Andrews again, this time in Victor/Victoria when she complained her breasts would end up two flat wallets because she had to strap them down to be Victor, although they were quite upstanding when she bared them in SOB. They looked quite perky -- or that was a body double with perky breasts. Nice points.)

Anyway, getting back to my situation with my granddaughter, I find that old feeling welling up inside me that wants to dress Sierra in frills and lace and flounces and ribbons and bows and soft cashmere shrugs to go with sleeveless dresses (always prepared for any weather in style). I'll probably not get her any dresses and just send a card since I cannot afford to buy dresses for my other granddaughters: Alanna, Victoria, Addison, Savannah, or Nonny. It wouldn't be fair to buy for one and not for the others and there's also the issue of buying suits for Aidan, Ian, and Jordan if I buy a suit for Connor. I guess I'll leave it up to the parents and concentrate on the funny, cute, and beautiful Easter cards I bought and have already addressed and stamped ready to go out next week in celebration of Easter, and yet I keep looking at dresses and dreaming of how they will look on my newest granddaughter.

Maybe a hat. I can afford to buy them all Easter hats with frills and lace and flounces and ribbons and bows. And maybe a discreet feather or two in pastel colors. No, hats lead to dresses and that's out.

There's always chocolate.

Rich is hard

One of my favorite movies is Black Widow with Debra Winger and Theresa Russell about an FBI agent, who is more of a geek than a field rep, and a woman who changes her appearance to trap and marry wealthy men and then kill them without leaving a trace. Her favorite poison, I believe it was methadone, is injected into bottles of liquor they would drink and they shuffled off their mortal coil in their sleep. Only one victim was murdered with penicillin; he was allergic and she was in a rush because she knew Debra was onto her.

What really struck me is what she said to Debra when they were together. "Rich is hard." I suppose anyone who is rich would think that rich was hard, but it doesn't seem like that to those of us outside the 6-, 7-, and 8-figure bank balance club. For us, rich would be very easy. No worries, able to buy what you want when you want, the ability to help friends and family, and live lavishly. Rich is easy for us -- until you get there.

The whole trickle down theory of economics was based on the idea that when you're rich you employ people, putting money into the economy and filled jobs on the roster. You have money that you spend so that other people can have money to spend and the economy booms. Not so with the current class of the wealthy who seem to want to find every possible way to keep their money while still buying whatever they want through tax loopholes and shell companies and all sorts of financial shenanigans. They aren't playing the game the way it is supposed to be played. After all, "Where is the noblesse oblige?" one friend asked me. That's what I'd like to know.

I believe in the idea that when you're wealthy you spread it around. There is no sense in having millions or hundreds of billions if you don't spend it. With that kind of money, it would be a major task to spend even the interest on the principle and still not have millions or hundreds of billions left. You can leave some of it to your children, but the best way to immortalize yourself and your money is to put it back into the economy. That's what it's for -- spending.

I'm of the opinion that should I be worth millions, I'd still live simply, but with some help around the house, and a little bigger house than the one I live in now. A housekeeper would be necessary and a gardener for the yard, and a handyman to take care of things around the house and grounds (and by grounds I mean a fairly substantial yard, but without the hedge maze, trout stream, and haha). A couple of cottages on the grounds to house the help if they want to live on the premises, someone to come in when there are guests and tend to their needs, and people on tap in the town nearby to service cars and do maintenance on any number of things that need taking care of. I would spend prodigiously on books and be able to help friends and relatives and still live comfortably. I'm not the ostentatious type and wouldn't need bodyguards, but I would need first class accommodations for travel and I would be traveling quite a bit. I have places to go and the world to see so I can have something to write about.

The point is that the people who have millions and hundreds of billions are stingy with their wealth as if they're afraid of spending too much money. They don't stint with paintings by masters and the finest food, furniture, and clothing, not to mention the odd Lear jet and fleet of cars, but they do stint with putting money back into the economy -- the U.S. economy. They wriggle and writhe and manage to get more than they spent back from the government that allowed them a bit of latitude in order to urge them to put money into the economy. How much of $200 billion dollars could they spend in a lifetime, really?

Trickle down economics doesn't account for stingy and greedy people who are determined to keep making their wealth grow because they're not sure they're really rich unless they can buy and sell a senator or two and buy options in presidents and governors, and buy mayors and judges, all so they can keep their money -- and some of yours, too.

What happened to noblesse oblige? They obliged themselves of more of our money and decided to keep it for themselves by buying homes in foreign countries and keeping their holdings in Swiss and off-shore banks so they don't have to report it. They fund few business and no manufacturing and strangle the economy with their morning coffee and croissant over the Wall Street Journal and coffee while planning a day of golfing and a trip to Ibiza with the latest mistress they have showered with furs and jewels, who is busy bedding the cabana boy while waiting for the fatted calf to arrive.

Instead, they should be buying up failing businesses and making them run again, hiring Americans to work on their various properties, and funding medical research, or even helping NASA to realize their goal of sending up something other than probes to Mars and the outlying planets in search of mining and terraforming opportunities. They should be funding shuttles to the moon and building space stations and finding a way to make the land grow food and support the poor instead of living it up on your and my dimes while we languish for lack of jobs and opportunities, while the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. They should be shoring up the middle class and spending some of those hundreds of billions of dollars on something other than themselves since they didn't make the money without the help of billions of people in the first place.

Rich isn't hard. Nor is greed, selfishness, and self-serving meanness. Rich is easy. Spread it around and make yourself and the world around you richer. Trickle down economics works, but only when the wealthy stop hoarding all the money and sending it offshore to hide their worth. Put it back to work and send the economy booming again. It's not hard. It's easy.

The problem with being rich is that when things get really hard, the rich fat cats are first on the poor's menu. The hard part will be saving your life when the ravening hordes come crashing through your gates for a day of the locust.

Review: Forgotten Country by Catherine Chung

There are few things more confusing, awful, and wonderful than family, few places more dear than home; Chung brings them together in a heartbreaking tale made memorable by its simplicity.

Janie and Hannah have been at odds at some point in their adolescence, but when escapes Janie. They are Jeehyun and Haejin, the Americanized Korean daughters of expatriates forced to leave their home by their father’s actions.  Janie was born in Korea and Hannah in America, but their lives, colored by fairy tales of their homeland, are unmoored from their traditions and roots as they become more and more American.

Hannah disappears without a word and Janie, who was supposed to look after her so her sister would not die as her mother’s sister had died in Korea. One daughter from every generation is at risk, but Janie’s mother never said why or what happened to her. Janie must find Hannah and bring her back; it is her duty.

Catherine Chung writes simply about Janie, Hannah, and their family caught in a complex web of half told stories and family traditions that have lost their power in America. Forgotten Country carried me like a fast moving freight train through the lives of the characters, drawing me toward a conclusion that was brief and jarring. It was a seven-course meal with some of the courses left out, but does not suffer too much by the loss. The sparkling narrative carried me through my momentary questions.

Some of the mysteries were not explained fully, but what Chung does brilliantly is write the minutiae of life and give it power and presence. The clash of Western and Eastern sensibilities is as central to the story as the break between Janie and Hannah. It mirrors the struggle of sisters separated by loyalties, Janie’s to her parents and her filial duty and Hannah to getting as far from her family as possible.

While there were some questions left unanswered, Forgotten Country stays with you in the unique characters and the stunning depth of emotion, the lyrical descriptions, and the all too human emotions offered like priceless pearls. Forgotten Country will become an oft read treasure.

Tilting at Windmills

I've been dealing with a claim against my former employer for unpaid vacation time. The telephone hearing was today, a hearing my employer attempted to stop on several occasions and was denied. I won the claim, not for as much as I should have had, but I was willing to give a little to get my point across. My ex-boss also has to revise her handbook, which was the crux of her case, because the NJ Dept of Labor rep saw it as I did. Vacation time earned/accrued is vacation time that must be paid. I see an overhaul in the future.

I didn't fight this claim to get anything back, other than the money owed, and I'll never see the tens of thousands of dollars I lost on the account I was stuck on, but to win a moral victory. I got that.

My mother always told me to take what I was given and not squawk about it. I've never been good at keeping my mouth shut when moral issues are at stake. I've been fired on a few occasions because I chose to take on the company, but I won my point and the policies were changed. I urge anyone who is faced with a similar situation to fight for what they believe, no matter the consequences. I also fought the IRS and won that, too, saving myself untold grief and several thousand dollars.

You can fight city hall -- and win. You may not win everything, but if you change a bad policy and it helps others, it's worth the fight.

Mom also told me that I should fight against the big guy, that I should knuckle under and keep my head down so that I was less likely to end up with a target on my back or my forehead. I wasn't good at following that advice either. There is really no point to living if living under despotic rulership or being afraid of speaking up is all you can do. Nothing get changed unless someone stands up and says loudly and clearly, "NO!"

What this judgment in my favor cost my employer is a pittance compared to what they owe me and what they owe every other employer they've cheated this way. She didn't like it, and she has 45 days to appeal, but I doubt she'll go that far. She doesn't want to have to pay her attorney only to lose again. Her own words tripped her up.

I could go after her for the double standard when it comes to page and an account that I worked on for 4-1/2 years, but dealing with this issue was strain enough and I know she'd fight harder to keep me from getting the $50,000+ she owes me on that score, just like she fought to keep me from getting unemployment, a case she won by default because I didn't receive the notice of the appeal hearing. I've made my point and will continue to make my point whenever I -- or anyone else -- is being cheated. I will not live my life in fear. I spent nearly 7 years at a company keeping my mouth shut about this issue, except for complaining that I was not getting paid for vacation time I had earned, because I was afraid she'd fire me, and a job in the hand is worth five on the proverbial bush, especially if there is no guarantee I'd get one of them.

I am luckier than most people because I have highly marketable skills and decades' worth of experience at the top of my field. When I was fired, I had a new job within 2 weeks, although it took nearly 6 weeks to get my first paycheck. It was worth it getting away from the stress, hassle, and lies I had to deal with every single day, and to not have to pick up the phone after a long shift and work another 2-3 more hours at regular pay as a favor. I cannot tell you how many times I had to do that, and there was no appreciation from my boss either, just more demands and more expectations for little or no remuneration.

Yes, I am glad I won the claim and I'm even gladder I thanked her for firing me, a thank you she actually used in the case in evidence against me. She missed the whole point. My stress level has dropped considerably, and even more so since the end of the telephone hearing this morning. I don't know how long I could've continued working for someone like that without doing something about it, something more than keeping records of how much money I was losing by being stuck on this one account. I understand why the company has such a high turnover in transcriptionists; it's issues like this one.

It's over now and I can happily take my check and cash it when it comes, hopefully before the 45 days in which they have to appeal. If they appeal, I'll know how to handle things the next time and we'll get this done with a whole lot sooner.

I've always believed in tilting at windmills and my favorite song is The Impossible Dream. What else would it be?

Review: Strong Vengeance by Jon Land

Texas Range Caitlin Strong has a new job. She’s working a desk at the Ranger office because of a high school shoot-out where an innocent boy will never play football again. Caitlin had a choice. Shoot the boy in the shoulder and get the one with the machine gun or let more people be shot.

That the shoot-out happened at Dylan’s school has a lot to do with why Caitlin was there in the first place and it is a moment she will regret and will color her actions throughout the rest of the book.

She’s responsible for Dylan and for Luke while Cort Wesley Masters is in jail in Mexico. Caitlin is all the boy have to protect and care for them, and she does care, so much she takes them on a fishing trip down in the Gulf that ends the way most of Caitlin’s life ends—in death. What she and the boys find on that jack-up rig will force Caitlin to face the inevitable changes in her life and what means most to her. She gets to help solve a murder that happened 30 years ago that her father and grandfather were forced to stop investigating and uncover Jean Lafitte’s legendary treasure. Just another day on the Texas Rangers.

Caitlin continues to evolve and grow in Jon Land’s latest episode of Caitlin and her gun in Strong Vengeance. At the end of the case and the book, Caitlin decides what’s best for her now and in the long run and makes a big decision.

In a family of Texas Rangers with a legacy that dates back to the beginning of the Rangers and her grandfather raising her to know and respect justice and guns, what else could Caitlin be but the first female Texas Ranger. Being good with a gun is second nature, and Caitlin is often accused of shooting first and asking questions later; readers know differently. Caitlin doesn’t have to ask the questions because she knows the answers ahead of time.

The strength of Strong Vengeance is in its characters, not the least of which is Cort Wesley Masters and D.W. Tepper. History and chemistry are strong motivators. What really motivates Caitlin is not just her sense of justice but love. She loves what she does and isn’t happy about being tied to a desk, but Captain D. W. Tepper has to leash Hurricane Caitlin somehow. D. W. is willing to let her loose when the situation demands and the dire situation in Strong Vengeance makes it necessary for Caitlin to reach beyond category 5. How else can the Texas Rangers deal with the massacre of a jack-up oil rig’s crew and the potential for long term damage to the ecology and death and lingering disease for every American when a home-grown terrorist plot is uncovered? The murder of three fraternity boys on Galveston Island Caitlin’s father and grandfather were ordered to stop investigating makes it doubly interesting and even more necessary for Caitlin to solve.

Strong Vengeance shows Caitlin going up against another high powered female law officer and in softer moments with Dylan and Luke that show the wide range of emotions and characterizations that demonstrate just how far the Caitlin Strong novels are ahead of the thriller series pack. There’s something for everyone: mystery, gunfights, terrorists, clock ticking down to the end of days, history, buried treasure, and Caitlin at her best and worst in what may be her last gunfight. General Paz makes a few well chosen appearances and offers his philosophical take as well. What more could you want?

I've been reading and reviewing the Caitlin Strong novels since the beginning and I wonder if there will be any more. I have a strong hope that circumstances and Caitlin's need to get to the bottom of whatever conundrum needs digging out will bring her back, but the stage is set for a graceful exit. Caitlin's father and grandfather quit the rangers eventually and so must Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong. Time passes too quickly to focus all energy on one thing when there is so much more to life, a fact that Caitlin realizes.

If this is farewell, it has been a great ride and Jon Land has given me hours of pleasure and a trunk load of thoughts to ponder. Well done, Jon.  

Strong Vengeance won't be released until July 17, 2012. Be sure to reserve your copy early. This one will disappear quickly.

Behind the Buzz Words

As a child, the most thrilling part of being an Army brat was moving around the world. I spent my early life traveling in Europe when Dad was based in Idar-Oberstein, going to Patton's tomb, walking the streets of Paris, visiting cemeteries and national monuments, and playing the part of a citizen of the world, or at least the child of a citizen of the world. I played in the jungles of Panama and hide-and-seek and pirates in the fortresses left behind by Spanish conquerors and pirates of legend. I lived through riots in the Canal Zone of the 1960s and with fear of snipers every night for weeks after the riots were over. I traveled from the east coast to the west coast of America and continued to travel on my own when I married an Air Force NCO, camp follower to my military husband, making a home wherever we were sent, except for Iceland and Thailand where I was not allowed to go with him.

I never thought about medical or dental insurance because the military took care of us. We had enough food, good (if elderly) lodgings, and a safe community where my children played and wandered the community without fear as I had done wherever we lived. Movies were a quarter when I was a child and not much more than that when my children were young and we went to the movies on base. They were more expensive when we took the kids to the drive-in, but the kids were free. It was a good life for me and a good life for our children. It's hard to say that now.

When politicians invoke the words "military budget cuts" everyone thinks of missiles, battleships, and the hardware of military government used to make war on our enemies and our allies and protect us from the rest of the world. Military budgets do not remind us of the men and women, or their families, who serve day in and day out for less than minimum wage sometimes. Well, you might say, they get dental and medical for free and the cost of their groceries is less than ours. True -- to a point. Cutting the military budget doesn't mean that no more battleships or missiles or arms will not get built and used; it means that families and servicemen and women will have fewer services and more will end up on food stamps. Of course, that does not affect the big brass, but it does the rest of the men and women who serve to protect our country and freedom.

Buzz words seem to be all people hear and no one wants to look further than the emotions those buzz words invoke to what's behind the words. Do you really think that $700 screwdrivers and $2000 hammers will not still end up in the budget? Think again.

This has become a world where the men and women who serve in combat areas often have to beg for money from their families to buy body armor because what's available is out of date and stressed by continuous use to the point of being no more protective than the cardboard shields and armor I wore as a child while playing soldiers as a child. Their families often need food stamps to get enough for their families. Cut the military budget again as is being discussed in Congress now will not end waste, but it will affect the families, men, and women whose lives are bound up in military budgets and who will be the first casualties of budget cuts.

I agree that budgets need to be cut, but it needs to be the precision cutting of a laser and not the butchering of necessary services to the NCOs and their families. These people are the one who do all the heavy lifting and all the work. You can be assured that no civilian employee or contractor to the military will suffer from those cuts. The cuts will come from the people who should be supported and aren't.

Budget cuts will mean that military families, already stressed in the current economy, will have to pay for medical and dental care. The poor on Welfare get better treatment than the military families who give up their lives and their homes to protect this country and keep it free.

Next time you hear the buzz words "military budget cuts" ask what will be included and don't stop asking until you hear the full story. Military budgets include a lot more than you realize and the effect of those cuts on real people, the people who wear the uniform of American soldiers in every branch of the service will be affected. Forget the buzz words. Demand the truth and then let your voices be heard.

The world I grew up in is very different from the current world. I have enough because I work, but I remember the days of travel and living in modest accommodations in exotic locales while my father served over 22 years in the Army. It's a sad world where the poor get more than the people who give their lives and their time to protect us and keep us free.

Childish Dreams, Adult Reality

It was 1963 and I was living in Panama, or at least that is how I remember the moment. I suspect it happened long before that, but I can't remember anything but coming home and finding my dog Tippy gone and visiting him at some secondhand furniture store owner's shop and the Easter egg-colored chicks my sister and I got as Easter gifts or the time the cop from a town a couple miles away brought me home to my parents carrying my little suitcase. I had run away.

Mom had told me it was all right. I don't think she thought I'd actually do it, but that was the first of many surprises she got over the years, like telling me if I didn't like the way things were done to peak up. I did and often and often got smacked for speaking up.

The point is, I remember reading Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and traveling to the center of the earth and to distant places with H. G. Wells and Edgar Rice Burroughs and being so excited I wanted to do the same thing -- not travel to Mars, although that is on my bucket list, but to write. I wanted to spin stories people would read and talk about. I wanted to speak up and keep speaking up even when I might get smacked -- or worse. And I did speak up -- and write -- and I often get smacked.

It was that feeling of having discovered that it was possible to put words on a page and change someone's life or thoughts or give them an adventure they'd never forget. I obviously didn't forget mine since I'm still talking -- and writing -- about it almost 50 years later. I haven't lost the feeling of excitement, the love of adventure, and the endless possibilities that I find in books and in writing. I'm not a really successful author because few people know about me, but I keep writing. That is the one constant in my life -- writing.

I went through the usual changes, as most children do as they grow, evolve, and experience more. I wanted to be an archaeologist, a lawyer, and a Supreme Court justice, but the one thing that remains constant is the desire to be a writer. It was archaeologist/writer, lawyer/writer, and Supreme Court justice/writer, although the writer should come first. Although I never went to college to be any of the other things, I have continued to write and, as you can see on this blog and in the bookstore, I am a writer.

It was that first brush with words and dreams and adventure that sealed my fate. Whatever else I have done and will do in the future, the 8-year-old me wanted to be the one telling the stories and exciting new generations of people to write stories of their own. I don't worry about the competition because other writers give me something to do when I'm relaxing -- read what they've written.

Put All Trash Here

I've an acquaintance online I've known for years and she is quite the business person and blogger. I don't know how she does it, but between Washington D.C. business, traveling all over the world for work and fun, and maintaining a home in D.C. and one in Florida, she is a success -- in everything but her relationship. That is a mixed bag.

I wonder what drew them together in the first place. They have their fun moments, and their fights and differences, but it seems most of it is good -- at least as far as is reported. Nothing is ever what it seems.

We look to the past and say that there were fewer divorces. That's true. There was the Catholic church to consider and ex-communication was not something too many people were willing to face if they divorced, providing the church allowed it, and there were lots of hoops to jump through (and money to be paid) to grease the wheels of ecclesiastical favor. There were also financial issues to be considered, as well as the destabilization of countries if marriages were annulled or the parties divorced. King Henry VIII comes to mind; he had to create his own religion as a result, despite being a devout Catholic, and Harry took it to the limit, marrying 6 times before he died, and producing 2 females that lived to rule. His only sons died young.

Marriages were more about benefits for financial reasons, lands, property, and power, and less about love and fidelity. That was relegated to the lower classes. They could afford to marry for love since they were unlikely to be able to marry for property and power. No wonder the divorce rate as so low. No one wants to give up land or money, and power even less.

Things today are simpler. Fall in love over Cosmopolitans, have the big fairy tale wedding that cost a few years' salary, and divorce before all the thank you cards have been written and sent. Disposable. The real reason was the fancy fairy tale wedding after all. An entire industry was created to service that particular excess of eccentricity and narcissism, which is strange to someone who put together a wedding in 2 weeks and paid for most of it from my savings.

I managed a nice ceremony with 5 attendants, 2 flower girls, a ring bearer, and 5 groomsmen (maids of honor need escorts), and a lovely and almost rowdy reception afterwards, followed by a honeymoon at the local fancy hotel in the honeymoon suite, which turned into a rush for clothes when Mom and a cop came knocking on the door. The cop was my cousin and Mom was carrying my overnight bag, which I had forgotten in the rush to get away from the people trying to overturn the car we were in because it wasn't the one they had decorated (and mined with exploding and embarrassing devices). That marriage ended, but not until after 3 boys, 7 years, and a load of grief from the typical mother-in-law and various and sundry infidelities from the male side of the relationship.

Not that I have a great track record, having been divorced twice, the 2nd time from an abusive spouse, but I do know what counts and what I want. One is not to go down the aisle again unless there are some pretty powerful benefits, none of which I've seen yet.

Every relationship is different. Some people marry young for love and stay together happily (mostly) for the rest of their long lives. They're the ones 75th anniversaries were created for. There are also those who get into marriage at the drop of a hat, usually worse for drink or other substances, and some actually stay together. There are still liaisons that come out of board rooms and social registers where the main focus is money, property, and/or power (usually all three), and there are the regular people who marry in haste and repent as soon as the divorce decree is signed a hot New York second after the ink is dry on the marriage license. Disposable and not recyclable, although sometimes the excuses and the people are as disposable as they are interchangeable.

Disposable is defined as a product designed for cheapness and short-term convenience rather than medium to long-term durability, with most products only intended for single use. The term is also sometimes used for products that may last several months (ex. disposable air filters) to distinguish from similar products that last indefinitely (ex. washable air filters).

Disposable is also defined as the amount of money that households have available for spending and saving after income taxes have been accounted for. Disposable personal income is often monitored as one of the many key economic indicators used to gauge the overall state of the economy.

I think the last definition is the most apt here, disposable meaning what is left over after all the bills and income taxes have been taken out of the net income. In other words, what is available for saving after obligations have been met.

I don't think that children should be part of the equation, unless martyrdom is the main point, because children do not thrive or end up whole and undamaged being brought up in an abusive relationship that is little more than a war zone, but the needs of the children should be weighed in and out of the relationship against what is gained or possible to gain.

All these fancy words come down to one thing. Is the relationship/marriage worth saving? How many people stop to ask that question when they sober up or come down of the high of a fairy tale wedding and honeymoon while the 5+ carat rock is still shining on their finger and the glow of nonstop sex and excitement still glimmering in their eyes?

Marriages come from all sorts of reasons, but the usual reason for divorce is boredom. Marriage wasn't quite what they thought it would be. It's drudgery, staying up all night with newborns and sick children, emptying the dishwasher and arguing over who takes out the trash, cooks dinner, or does the laundry, paying the bills, repairs on house and vehicles, and the cost of living together. It's not always cheaper with two people, especially not in the current economic climate when 2 incomes are often not enough. Spouses/partners with no children have to deal with potential crashes between personal and business issues and which house to live in, whose friends are more important, and a thousand other details that end up being a tug-of-war over whose life and needs take precedence, and then there's the sex issue. I don't know why it is, but partners always seem to come from opposite ends of the spectrum, one likes sex and the other doesn't, which is really code for I like sex but not so much with you. Soon, the relationship is on the rocks, which is where it began and remained beneath the haze of wedding festivities, alcohol, and vacation bliss before the real work began. 

Marriage and relationships are work because the people in them keep growing and change, or not growing or changing at all. The old saw about a woman seeing possibilities and what she can do with the raw material in front of her and the man believing the woman will stay exactly as she is, frozen in amber. The same goes for gay and transgender couples, too. One person wants stasis and the other sees potential.

Until marriages and relationships are seen as living things that grow and change and evolve, for better or worse, and until people realize that, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, the commitment is real, people will come together willy-nilly and separate just as haphazardly without realizing that the most important part of their life is finding a way to fit with another human being and work together.

I don't have all the answers. Life is too complex to boil down into a simple blog post that offers enlightenment. All I can do is shine a light into the murk and hope that someone gets it. The "it" is that people are not disposable. We are complex entities with flaws and potential and we need other people, not to make us whole, but to make things interesting -- and lasting. Future generations depend on us and, if all you ever do is bring children into the world or help raise children and teach them that people matter, you've done a good thing.

Some Day When I'm Old and Grey

"They say it's your birthday. Well, it's my birthday, too."

I've always wanted to use those lyrics in something other than a song, and now I've found a way. It's a little self-aggrandizing to mention that it's my birthday today, but all my friends and family live far away and I work at home so there are few chances for me to stumble into a surprise party and be surprised. On the other hand, if I stumbled into somewhere and a bunch of strangers jumped out and yelled, "Happy Birthday!" I would be very surprised.

I know a lot of people here in Colorado Springs, but they are amateur radio operators and mostly men. I doubt they even remember I have a birthday, let alone think to throw a surprise party or even email to offer their wishes for a happy birthday. They seldom remember their own children's or wives' birthdays. I can't expect them to slot me into minds overfilled with electronics, waveforms, and oscilloscope readings. It's too much for them to handle and they might just blow a gasket or three. I wouldn't want them to hurt themselves.

That's the thing about birthdays. As Poppy Z. Brite, also known as Billy, reminded me a couple days ago, things are always better when you're a kid. I was talking about getting Valentines in school because he is down on Valentine's Day, but it is apt for today, too, the anniversary of my debut into the world 57 years ago. Then again, birthdays weren't always so great when I was a kid either, but that's a story for another time.

I have ordered tiramisu and Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream for my own little celebration, which will be consumed during my lunch break since I have to work today, and nothing else will change in my daily schedule. I'll shower and dress, pull up the recycling bin and break down boxes to recycle, check the mail, send some mail out, and put away the groceries, all before I start working. My only hope for a day off is for the Internet or the lights to go out so I have no means to work. I can still eat my tiramisu and ice cream by sunlight and spend some quality time with my Kindle finishing off Terry Pratchett's "Unseen Academicals" and get back into "Black" by Ted Dekker, which is beginning to get very interesting. I might even sit outside if it's not too cold and work a little more on another Xmas stocking for one of my grandchildren or try out the new stretcher frame and stand I got yesterday for the needlepoint. I can't roll that up and work on it like I can with cross-stitch. It requires taut framing so the stitches come out even and the stocking looks right when it's done. I think it's going to be the only needlepoint stocking I will do. I prefer cross-stitch right now.

In the end, birthdays aren't always about presents, although I did get a couple (from Beanie and Mary Ann), but about celebrating another year in the life, which is always better with friends. I have loads of those and they spent a few seconds this morning reminding me of that on Facebook where they typed out their birthday messages to me. One of my sons even remembered I have a birthday; that is a first. Birthdays are also about reminding us that time doesn't wait for us to get with the program or figure out what we're going to do. Time keeps moving no matter how many plans we made for some day. As far as I am concerned, some day is today and I have a lot I'm looking forward to getting done. There will be no boxes, bags, and storage cases with my some days in them. I'll have done them all today.

Happy birthday to everyone who shares February 17th as their natal anniversary. Make it a good one.

Personal Touch

I had forgotten how much fun (and frustration) cross-stitch can be. Since I decided to make Xmas stockings for my grandchildren for Xmas this year I've rediscovered both, and the joy I get sitting down and focusing on something that blooms with color and shape and beauty with simple stitches.

I find myself looking at cross-stitch kits and ooh-ing and aah-ing over the different styles and pictures, wanting to buy them all and lots of frames to hang them in. I see them in different rooms and groupings and want to do them all, but I have a job and while it pays for the necessities and a few luxuries (one at a time), it's not enough to buy them all so I can make them all, not and still have a job.

That excitement and rush to get back to stitching is what I miss about writing. I schedule time for stitching and for writing but for a long time the writing hasn't been enough to keep me excited and looking forward to the next day. At least it hasn't been until recently. I feel that same sense of excitement and I'm anxious to get to the next sentence, paragraph, page, chapter. It's a good feeling and one I miss and didn't realize was gone.

I started cross-stitching seriously about the same time I start writing professionally. In the meantime I have finished may cross-stitch projects that became gifts, some of which are still hanging on walls and decorating Xmas trees and mantles with toys and fruit and nuts sticking out of the tops of the stockings. I wrote hundreds of short stories and a book I couldn't finish because it didn't really have a middle, few of which were published. I gave up writing books and short stories for a while and concentrated on articles, which I continue to write. The cross-stitch was easier and the results less prey to chance.

When I began a cross-stitch project, I knew I'd finish it fairly quickly and that whoever received it would enjoy having it. Not so with writing. I got lots of (long) encouraging rejection letters, but few sales, and one sale died on the vine when the magazine stopped publishing. I'd have to go back through old archived files to find the story, but it might find a home today. There's not telling with writing.

When I started moving around the country, taking my job with me, I gave up cross-stitch and put my organized plastic boxes full of threads, needles, and blending filaments in storage next to the old stories and files full of rejection letters. When I picked the writing up again I didn't pick up the cross-stitch until now, although, five years ago, my mother gave me back the 18" x 36" framed and matted King Tut and Nefertiti I cross-stitched for her about 20 years ago. She wanted to make sure I got it back when she was gone. My dad died a week later, but King Tut and Nefertiti hang on the living room wall, still framed, still matted, and still as beautiful as the day I finished them. They will last long after I'm gone and I'm not sure where they will end up. I'm not ready to go yet, so I haven't decided that yet either.

My stories are different. They will last (I hope) long after I'm gone and they will belong to the people who bought them and kept them to read again and again. At least I chose two creative endeavors that have legs on them and will keep going and making people smile or laugh or simply marvel at the good and bad in both areas.

Life is about change from our first breath and although my dreams of writing and art, in this case the cross-stitch, remain, the way in which I approach and execute them are very different than when I began. My work in both now is nuanced and mature and will continue to gain more subtlety and maturity as I keep working on both, as long as I keep working.

My birthday is tomorrow and, if I have one wish, it is to be able to continue writing and stitching until my last breath. I want to die in harness, so to speak, and will gladly expire quietly knowing that my work has no expiration date. That is a gift I can enjoy every day of the year because it bears the personal touch.