Romance or Pornography?

I have been reading Jean M. Auel's Earth Children series, beginning with Clan of the Cave Bear and continuing through all the books, now that they are out. I am halfway through The Stone Shelters and had to put it down to read a couple of books for review. I am anxious to get back to it.

Recently, I found a taped interview with Jean Auel about the series and some of the research she did for the book. I listened with rapt attention as she described the painted caves of Lascaux and various archeological digs she had been on. What really caught my attention was the skeleton she saw and on which she based the beginning of what was originally supposed to be a short story, a story that ran to 450,000 words the first time out. That is when Auel knew she had to write a series of books to tell Ayla's story.

The skeleton had an amputated arm (not torn off or a birth defect, but an arm that had been cut off by someone with medical knowledge), was obviously blind (the eye was gone) and looked like Creb, the way Auel imagined him. Creb, The Mog-ur of the Clan of the Cave Bear, the most powerful magician of the Neanderthal world and the man whose hearth Ayla was adopted into when his sister Iza, the first Medicine Woman among the Clan, found and took care of a child of the Others (Cro-Magnons) whose family (and probably her people) had been killed in the same earthquake that had dispossessed Brun's (Creb and Iza's brother) group.

Auel always knew that the main character, Ayla, would be a strong and independent woman, and that Creb would be a part of the story, a very important part as it turned out. Ayla would not need to be protected or rescued and she would be a survivor -- and Ayla is a survivor still since the series is mainly about her life and journey .

During the interview the host took calls and one caller asked why Auel had put so much sex in the books. The caller obviously did not like the sex and had not allowed her daughter to read the second book, or any of the books following, because of the sex scenes. The caller's voice sounded disapproving, but she also sounded disgusted and felt the sex scenes brought down the tone and readability of Auel's series. The caller was downright vehement.

I do understand how she feels, coming from a family where sex is a taboo topic and anyone who talks about sex or in any way condones promiscuous sexual behavior is as much a whore as the person committing the breach of morals. I agreed with the caller for about a minute before I asked myself why sex should be dirty or bring the tone of a good book, or series of books, down. I don't know about anyone else, but I do know how I feel -- or rather felt. Embarrassed.

My embarrassment comes from two sources: my upbringing and my discomfort with explicit sex, no matter how it is rendered. I did laugh from time to time when Auel described Jondalar's penis as his manhood and his organ, but what really got to me was the description of the sexual details as though the act was romantic, which it was.

For some reason, many people react as though they are teenagers and sex is the mysterious wonder that their parents will not discuss openly in front of them or hide, like their father hiding his Penthouse and Playboy magazines, tittering over anatomic pictures in medical books and dictionaries. Some people thoroughly enjoy sex in their books and makes no bones about it and the rest are shocked by the filth that some writers will put in their books. "How can decent people write such stuff?" they ask, even though the writer has gone to great pains to use more euphemistic terms (manhood or organ). It all reminds me of She-Devil with Meryl Streep when she is sitting at a table outdoors trying out different words for clitoris (love . . .). I am sure Streep's author also used safer words for penis, vagina, clitoris, scrotum, etc. After all, she was writing soft porn for housewives, as one interviewer said.

There is sex everywhere in our modern world. Men objectify women, although often tastefully, to sell cars, fencing, John Deere harvesters, and so many other things that have nothing at all to do with sex, and the public buys it. The prudish sector of the public decries such blatant pandering and likens the women (and often young teenagers) posing for such ads as whore, tramps, and worse.

Shows like Queer as Folk  and Mike & Molly that treat sex as a biological function that everyone should enjoy are cited as pornographic. I still do not get what is pornographic about two consenting adults coming together to make love or even to pull off a quickie in a bath house or restroom stall so pornographic, especially since no penises were in evidence, and more's the pity. But that's just my preference. I figure if the media can expose women from top to bottom and full frontal then men should be treated the same way. Equal rights -- for the viewing public. I am still miffed that The Full Monty did not show anyone's full Monty. They were men and penises, hard or soft, are the enemy. Right! Tell me another one.

While sex is vilified in the strongest terms by the religious types who save sex for marriage and always behind closed doors, eschewing the possibilities of sex on the kitchen table or the living room floor, violence is front and center and few people complain. Oh, there are complaints, like teenagers not old enough to see violence in movies, though they are exposed daily to graphic violence in books and on the news every day, and the pacifists among us complain that violence is unnecessary. No one is more vocal or condemns quicker than the anti-gun supporters while they are standing in line to see Stallone, Schwarzenegger, and Daniel Craig at their violent best in the movies.

When you come right down to it, there is no easy answer why the sensitive, and graphic, love scenes in Jean Auel's books will upset people more than the latest Tom Cruise testosterone fest as he plays super spy in his most recent action packed gun and bomb fest.

I think it all comes down to modern religion. It cannot be the ancient religions when sex was permissible anywhere and as often as possible between consenting adults (adults being women who had reached the age of menstruation -- usually about 10-12 years old -- and men who had been tasting the Mother's gifts ever since they began having wet dreams and spent time with the local woman who taught young men what women want). Sex was a biological urge and it was not hidden from young children, but celebrated and engaged in while children were present. After all, there is only so much you can hide behind a ring of rocks or drapes and room dividers. Sounds carry and children are curious enough to peek.

Part of the reason is likely also because people understand that babies are not a gift of the gods, or the Great Earth Mother, but the product of sexual relations between men and women. As Ayla describes it, babies come from the essence of a man when enjoying Pleasures with his mate or any woman he has shared Pleasures with. When men discovered they were part of the process, I am certain they decided that making sure a woman had sex only with them to ensure their fatherhood of the progeny and began to see sex not as a pleasurable activity that honored the life giving force, but a possession. As long as they could continue to enjoy Pleasures with any woman that would have them, they would still make sure that the only man their mates had was them. Enter patriarchal prerogative and women as possessions instead of thinking, intelligent beings in their own right who also happen to have cornered the market on nurturing life in their bodies.

Before this becomes an anti-patriarchal diatribe, I should also explain that this is conjecture. I am pretty sure of my theses, but I am also certain that men will be offended by being cast as promiscuous sexaholics more than willing to chain and lock up their wives' and girlfriends' sexual options.

What it all comes down to is conditioning. We have been conditioned to think of sex as private and naughty unless it is between consenting adults, and preferably married adults. I know I was. Too bad I did not follow the training forced on me, as evidenced by my oldest son who is the product of a 7-month marriage.

It is no wonder people view sex in books and movies and in actual fact as something dirty (sometimes a little bit and sometimes sin city), and that is not only because of sexually transmitted diseases. As one friend often reminds me, life is a terminal sexually transmitted disease.

I no longer skim the sex scenes in Jean Auel's books. I enjoy them. I am no longer titillated but I do feel a little nostalgic and a bit deprived. I see each sex scene as evidence of the deepening relationship between Ayla and Jondalar and essential to the plot, as proof that their relationship is loving and how the bonds between the Stone Age pair are forged.

Jean Auel reminded the outraged caller that there was a brutal rape in Clan of the Cave Bear when Broud forces Ayla to "...assume the position" to satisfy his urges. Although she was taught to be subservient to the men in her world, she knew deep in her soul that Broud's sudden interest in her had more to do with control and violence than in sharing what should be a romantic moment. The caller never did respond. Like so many of us, the caller was more comfortable with the rape scene than with the sex scenes in subsequent books. What does that say about the caller -- and indeed about the rest of us?

Earth's Children is not soft pornography or pornography of any kind. The sex scenes are not dirty, although they are a bit funny in the use of substitutes for anatomical body parts; the sex scenes are most definitely romantic.

When I was growing up I was taught that my curiosity about and interest in boys (kissing, holding hands, etc.) was unnatural and I was not a nice girl. Nice girls waited to have sex because it was special and the first time should be with someone I loved. While I agree that the first time should be special and with someone I cared for or was attracted to, I do not agree that sex is only permissible within the confines of marriage. Given a choice, I would prefer to be initiated by someone experienced in sharing Pleasures in a world where sex is a biological act that is pleasurable and to be desired. That is most definitely not pornography but romance, and it is and should be romantic, even if I decide not to marry (or mate) my sexual partner.

Save Me From Myself

Once upon a time, about 1998, I began volunteering as an editor for The Rose & Thorn, an ezine that began on Jasmin Randick's, the original owner, AOL page. That was back in the days of dial-up and my own limited experience with websites and the Internet. I had a computer that I used mostly for work and writing. I still have the hard drive from that computer, but it has long since gone to the computer graveyard in my office closet, along with the many keyboards I have used to death, old hard drives, floppy disks, and other computer equipment. There is also a bit of ham radio equipment in that closet, like the blind key that an old friend made for me to help me learn Morse code. I found it's easier for me to learn by doing than just by memorizing. It helped me to pass my Morse code test with a good score when I went for my redo test and the final test for my current Amateur Extra license. So much knowledge, so little time, but that's another story altogether.

When the R&T (Rose & Thorn) became the sole property of the co-managing editor and finally decided to move from those AOL pages to world wide distribution of its own domain, I offered to take over as webmaster and redesigned the ezine. On the books, since I signed up for and owned the domain name, I was also co-owner of R&T. It was a sharp learning curve for me to code all those old pages, freshen the links and create new pages, but I succeeded in bring R&T to the Internet in its own domain. I redesigned the web pages and the whole look of the ezine and garnered quite a few awards during my tenure, a job which I gave up with some misgivings, in 2004 with the last edition I put together in Spring 2004.

R&T went on alone and got another redesign, using my basic templates, which I had left for the new webmaster, and he did me one better, cutting out all the stuff I originally dumped and was told to put back in. The R&T now inhabits a new URL and is called Rose and Thorn Journal in its own domain and is about to yet again move to the precipice over the abyss after the spring 2013 edition.

Ever since I found out the news I have been bothered by the demise of an ezine that has stood the test of time (and a few owners) and showcased some of the best and brightest fiction, commentary, poetry, and art of the 20th and 21st centuries. I was proud to be associated with R&T.

Last night, I woke in the middle of the night, voided, and went back to bed unable to sleep. The R&T was on my mind. Thoughts kept swirling around in my head and I knew that I had to make a serous attempt to save R&T. I knew if I didn't I would regret now and for a very long time to come. That's why, this morning, I emailed the current owners and asked if they would be willing to hand over the reins -- to me. A part of me is still screaming, "NO! NO! NO!" and a part of me feels like now I could sleep, except that I have about 2 hours until I have to start work, so no joy now, but maybe tonight.

Taking over as owner and managing editor (again, but this time for real) is terrifying and exhilarating. I can delegate much of the work but I would like to add a new twist to the combination of art and story/poetry by enticing artists to lend their work to the words and work with the poets and writers. Many of the writers have been nominated and won Pushcart prizes and I'd like to see at least one, and preferably more, winners of the Pulitzer and a few other prizes awarded for the talented writers and poets that are showcased on Rose and Thorn. It's a lot of work, but I know it's worth it.

Okay, I'm out of my mind. As if I don't have enough on my plate right now. Some things need to be preserved and R and T is one of them. I can probably coax, cajole, and coerce much of the staff to remain. They don't want to see the end of Rose and Thorn either. Cross your fingers, not for my impending and incipient insanity, but for R and T to rise from the ashes once again -- new, brighter, and better than ever.

Are You a Real Writer?

I've been a writer for decades, quite a few decades, but one person kept telling me that no matter how much I published, how much I wrote, I wasn't a REAL writer because I didn't have my name on the spine of a novel. The 15 anthologies didn't count and neither did the hundreds, even thousands, of articles I had written. Not even the shelves of journals I had been writing for decades counted as me being a writer. None of the speeches and PR work I'd done counted as writing and certainly not the stories and books I'd written as a child when I dreamed of being a writer.

I should thank the person who kept upping the stakes because out of need to prove myself a REAL writer I wrote more stories for more anthologies and several books, the first of which was picked up by a publisher and made it to the book shelves with my name on the spine. I have since ended my contract with the publisher and am getting ready to self-publish the book (with appropriate additions) and written and published another novel, the sequel of which comes out this year -- at last. I also have several other books nearly ready to publish that will be released one at a time this year to help raise my author profile, but . . .

I have always been a writer since I picked up that pencil and wrote my first book as a child of 8 about a girl who is lost in the jungles in Central America and stumbles into a lost city. I was a writer every time I penned a story or wrote an essay that was published or won awards, and there are quite a few of those. Mom kept them all.

So, what has me going back over this old chestnut? An article by Kristen Lamb: Lies That Can Poison Your Dreams: Don't Eat the Butt. It's a funny article, but it's also very serious about writing and what being a writer means, as well as when you have the right to call yourself a writer.

I am always reminded of Emily Dickinson who never published a poem during her lifetime. She wrote poetry all her life and kept them from view in a trunk in the attic of her home. She also carried on a tremendous correspondence and critiqued other poets' work. She was a poet, not after she died and her work was found and published, but when she put pen to the paper and wrote the first words that became a poem.

There is no doubt that my great great grandmother Amanda was a writer, though she never had anything published. She too carried on a large correspondence and bred in her children the desire to be more than immigrant farmers from eastern Europe and end up breeding more farmers and food animals. We need farmers, but we also need dreamers and writers and Amanda was both. I wrote about Amanda a very long time ago. I wrote about the letter I was given that sparked the essay that was published in A Cup of Comfort for Adoptive Families. The essay was originally called Anna's Seeds but was changed to Amanda's Seeds for publication -- the third time.

Colleen Sell, the editor of the Cup of Comfort series, read the essay I sent her many years ago and she kept it because she knew there would come a time when the right book would come together. Colleen wanted the essay to be featured in a different anthology than the one I submitted the essay for: A Cup of Comfort for Writers. She finally found a place for it and contacted me for permission to use the essay. I say yes, of course. I was a writer even before the essay's inclusion in the anthology.

I am a real writer. Every time I put fingers to keyboard or pen/pencil to paper and write, I am a real writer. I make no apologies for my dreams or for the results of my dreams, most of which can be found in the Library of Congress. I need never look the person in the eye who kept raising the bar and challenged me to prove myself. I need never have listened to her, but I did and the results are there for everyone to read, in anthologies, novels, and magazines . . . and here on Red Room. I am a real writer and I have been for nearly 50 years, ever since I picked up a pencil and wrote a story about a girl lost in the jungle.

J M Cornwell, Writer

We Are What We Eat

The first new year's resolution on most people's lists is lose weight. James Strauss made a connection between the growing problem of obesity in the United States and the use of growth hormones and antibiotics in the food chain. I don't know why no one else has asked that question, but it is a good one.

A quick Google search provided me with some interesting information. Enhancing animal and poultry farms with growth hormones has been going on since the 1960s and factory farming really took off about the 1980s to become a widespread business, pushing out generations of farmers that worked the same land for decades, and even a couple of centuries in some cases. Fewer animals fed growth hormones to get the most meat, dairy products, eggs, and poultry out of the fewest animals. It sounds like a good idea unless you begin to connect the dots. Add antibiotics to the mix and the growth of antibiotic resistant strains of bacteria, like MRSA and MSSA, and a picture begins to form that no one, except James Strauss on one of his rants this morning, seems to have seen.

MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) and MSSA (Methicillin-sensitive Staphylococcus aureus) are of nearly epidemic proportions in the U.S. and in the world, and no one is immune. Once these bacteria get into your system, treating the disease assumes the proportions of stopping a wildfire with bucket and shovel. And these are just two of the super bugs that have been spawned in recent decades.

I have read that these bugs and bugs like them are the result of the indiscriminate use of antibiotics. I think the problem goes deeper, right back to our food sources. Evidently, Europeans feel the same way because they have banned the use of growth hormones and antibiotics in food animals, but what about the effect on humans.

According to the studies I read this morning -- and I didn't get to all of them, there are just too many -- the amount of hormones and antibiotics remaining in tissue after it has been processed is negligible. First, I'd like to know what constitutes a negligible amount and, secondly, I want to know if there have been any studies connecting hormones to the current problem of obesity in humans.

I have seen photos of dairy cows with massive udders and pigs, chicken, beef, and lamb twice and even 3x the size of the same types of animals just a few decades ago. The animals are bigger and have more meat on their bones, and a considerable amount of fat. The animals eat less but their bodies grow and fill out faster, which means less money in feed for more meat on the hoof. That must make those corporate farming bean counters very happy. Unfortunately, it also seems to have a direct effect on humans.

Haven't you see children at the age of 5 or 6 that are bigger than 10- and 12-year-olds 30 or 40 years ago? I have, and it's frightening. More and more people point to sedentary lifestyles and eating more fast food, but I'm beginning to see a very different picture emerging. Sometimes it takes just one question in the right place to set the wheels in motion.

What I see is factory farmed animals and the eggs and dairy products from factory farmed animals full of growth hormones at the heart of the obesity problem facing most Americans. Some people seem to be more resistant to the growth hormones, but there are other additives in their causing equal problems, additives like steroids. Ever hear of 'roid rage? I'll bet there is a connection between steroid use in factory farming and the increase of violence and road rage in the past 30 or so years.

I eat less now than I ever have and weigh more than I ever have. I don't think it's the yo-yo diet syndrome, although I have been down that road a few times. I mostly eat organic, but spent too many years eating the same things everyone else eats, and I didn't spend a lot of money on fast food. Once upon a time, I ate more sugar, more fat, and a considerable amount of food, but I stayed in the plump region. Now I eat less and eat as healthy as my budget allows, but I keep gaining weight. It's not about how much I'm eating but what I'm eating, and the damage done to my body by factory farmed food. The weight increase has become worse in the past 20-30 years than it ever has been before, and I didn't have a weight problem until then. (I don't count baby weight as the problem I'm currently struggling with.)

It all goes back to one maxim. We are what we eat.

Look closer and more problems begin to shake out. The increase of autism, immune deficiency disorders, multiple sclerosis (MS), fibromyalgia, lupus, etc. Chronic diseases that were statistically rare in the population now affect more and more people every year. Add to that, the over use of antibiotics and the increase of super bugs and we probably need look no farther than the factory farms that produce the food we eat for the root cause of most of our modern ills.

We can give up eating fast food, go vegetarian, work out like we're planning to compete in bodybuilding competitions, and eat only organic, but the damage has already been done. It may take another generation before the tide is turned and the damage begins to heal.

Factory farms are profitable, but we were all healthier when our food came from family farms and not corporate farms focusing on making more money. I'm not saying that farms shouldn't be profitable. What I am saying is that profit should not be the only reason for a farm to exist. We need to ban the use of growth hormones, steroids, and antibiotics in the food chain and get back to the basics. Corporate farms may go the way of the dodo, and good riddance, but at least we won't be poisoning the well any more.

We are what we eat.

Think about it.

Preview: Snow Shadow

Snow Shadow
ONE

Thomas Wolfe wrote that you can’t go home again. He probably should have written that you can go home again, but it won’t be pleasant.
For Meredith Godwin, coming back to Manitou Springs stirred up memories best left to rest. For five years, she had been free of her grandmother’s—Miss Frances’s—iron rule. No matter how hard she tried, the rules stuck even now that her grandmother was dead. One thing that wasn’t on the to-do list this trip was visiting Miss Frances’s house. There was no need now that she was dead and the house sold to developers who turned the grand old Victorian into apartments. Maybe the new tenants were able to exorcise the ghosts Meredith had been unable to outrun when she moved to Ft. Lauderdale. Some ghosts, like some habits and her grandmother, were impossible to outrun. The past caught up with her and dragged her back to deal with a legacy that hadn’t been part of grandmother’s will. It involved a legacy left in trust by her father Stuart Godwin. It should have been settled twenty-five years ago when her parents died, but had been overlooked. The worst part was that it couldn’t be handled long distance, necessitating a return trip to a place Meredith had sworn she’d left behind.
The snowy streets of Colorado Springs passed in a blur of colored lights and red and green banners. Tourists and shoppers darted in an out of antique stores and shops on Colorado Avenue looking for post-Thanksgiving holiday bargains. Past the shops of Old Colorado City and the fast food restaurants, the wide, well maintained four-lane city street dwindled down to a two-lane highway pitted with potholes filled with dark, slushy water. The road curved off the main drag and under an overpass for Route 24 past aging motels that had seen better times and down into the narrow streets of Manitou Springs. Turning off 24 onto Manitou Avenue and then onto Ruxton, Meredith pulled up in front of Victoria’s Keep and parked.
The air was sharp and cold, laced with the smell of wood fires. Meredith closed her eyes and breathed in. Oh, how she had missed the crisp, clear air and the brilliant blue skies. Florida’s skies were a pale blue smudged with pollution and exhaust that seldom freshened even on the white sand beaches. Pikes Peak dominated the landscape in Manitou as it dominated the southwestern horizon everywhere in Colorado Springs. Rising above the snow dusted pines of the lower peaks, Pikes Peak’s craggy sides were solid white. The wind raked tears from her eyes. Meredith set her jaw and dashed them away with one gloved hand while she unlocked the trunk and pulled out her luggage.
She was not going to cry. There was no reason. If Miss Frances taught her anything, it was to keep her emotions buried. “No sense putting on a show, Meredith. It only makes you look weak and foolish,” her grandmother told her over and over. She branded the lesson by giving Meredith something to cry about, usually a sharp backhand and exile to her room without supper as a small child and withering disapproval when she was eleven or twelve.
Inheriting her father’s tall stature gave Meredith an edge over Frances Godwin’s five-foot-five height, but no amount of height could stand up to the glacial silences and iron determination that gave everyone who faced her grandmother in a boardroom or in any establishment the length and breadth of the Front Range. No one stood against the Godwin money or influence for long unless they were simple-minded or foolhardy, and Meredith was neither. All she wanted was to get the legacy business finished and go back east.
For now, breakfast, a hot bath and a few hours of sleep was what she needed before facing Lawrence Charlton at three. With luck and fortune on the side of the angels, in two days the wintery slopes of the Rockies would be little more than a memory in the balmy breezes and afternoon showers back in Florida. Two days, she could handle that.

After an ample breakfast and a hot bath in the Parlor Suite, Meredith turned down the bed and set the travel alarm. Out the window, the Miramont Castle looked like the inside of a snow globe dusted with falling snowflakes that whirled around the turrets and gables. Pulling back the drapes for a better view, Meredith climbed into bed and watched the soft drifting snow dance outside.
One of the few things she missed about her childhood was high tea at the castle with her grandmother. Although wearing white gloves that never seemed to stay clean for more than a few moments and frilly dresses and hats were out of character, Meredith endured the weekly ordeal of bathing and dressing just for the privilege of a half hour prowling the rooms after a delicious tea. She would have endured more to be able to savor the delicious cakes, sandwiches, Earl Grey tea and a walk through the castle rooms instead of the simple and bland daily fare Miss Frances considered proper for a child.
Meredith often wondered how her father turned so unaffected and happy. Where Stuart was concerned, his mother believed he could do no wrong. She doted on him and never hemmed him in with rules and social convention. Stuart had been a happy child with a winning personality and easy disposition, so there was no need to restrict him—until he fell in love with Daisy Yarborough, a nobody transplanted from Berkeley, California. Worse yet, Daisy was the daughter of artists working her way through college.
It didn’t matter that the Yarboroughs owned a successful gallery or that Daisy ran it at a profit, attracting celebrated artists from around the world. All that mattered was that Daisy came from the wrong kind of family.
For the first time in her life, Frances Godwin didn’t get her way. Stuart and Daisy were married in a quiet ceremony in the Garden of the Gods among the “riff-raff” and two years later Meredith was born. From what Meredith remembered, they were a happy family. Life was full of color and laughter until the day of her sixth birthday when Frances swooped down on the celebration with the news that Meredith’s parents had been killed flying home from a show in Montreal. Stunned by the news and before they could gather themselves, the officious little man in black tagging along behind Frances served the Yarboroughs with custody papers while the chauffeur swooped in and hustled Meredith in a Lincoln Town Car and away toward a cold stone and glass mansion built into the bloody-faced cliffs overlooking Manitou. The Yarboroughs were allowed to visit once a year on Meredith’s birthday, but the visits stopped three years later. The Yarboroughs just stopped coming. Miss Frances told Meredith her grandparents moved away and left no forwarding address. By that time the nine-year-old knew enough not to ask questions or make a fuss. There was no point.
Meredith glanced at the clock: eleven o’clock. At this rate, it would be time to get up and dress. Pounding the pillow into shape and closing her eyes, she counted her breaths in an attempt to relax. With nerves strung tighter than a drawn bow, sleep stayed out of reach. One and two and three and four and one…. She focused on her toes, tightened and relaxed, moving upward counting each breath. One and two and three and four and…. Heartbeat slowed and knotted muscles loosened and the first drifts of sleep fuzzed her mind.

A tinny jangle seeped into dreams where Meredith wandered through chilly rooms and fireplaces burned with cold blue flames. Tears froze on her cheeks.
Meredith reached out and knocked over the travel alarm. Somewhere a bell jangled insistently. She sat bolt upright unsure where she was for a moment. Out the window snow piled up on the sill and the solid stone angles of a castle appeared and disappeared amidst a whirling white vortex. Right. Back in Manitou and back to the old dreams. A strident bell jangled again. The phone.
“Hello.”
“Miss Godwin, you have an urgent message from Mr. Charlton’s office. Your appointment has been canceled due to the storm. His secretary suggested you call and reschedule in a couple of days.”
“Two days?”
“Yes, miss. The city is shut down. We’ve had over a foot of snow in the last hour and the forecast is for two to three feet.”
Resisting the urge to scream and curse, Meredith thanked the woman.
“Since none of the local restaurants will be open, until the storm is over and the roads are clear, we will serve lunch and dinner.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.” Two days. Stuck for two days. Just what she needed. At least work wasn’t going to be a problem.
Meredith got up, dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket and called her assistant. “Clear my calendar for the next week. I’ll be here longer than I expected.”
“I heard about the storm. Tough luck, Meri.”
“No doubt, Carla. I can tell your heart just bleeds for me.” Meredith stifled a giggle picturing her assistant looking over the books and trying to figure out which of the shoots she thought she could handle on her own. She’d been promising Carla a chance to try her hand at one of the easier sessions, but only if she could be there to keep an eye on things. Carla had talent, but she needed seasoning and a year out of school wasn’t seasoning enough. “No, before you even ask, you cannot take the gallery shoot.”
“It’s an easy job.”
“Not that easy, especially not working with Francois.” There was no doubt that the reason Carla wanted to work with Francois had nothing to do with photographing the show and everything to do with schmoozing Francois. He was good looking—too good looking—and he was married, a fact that didn’t seem to matter to Carla or the dark and brooding Frenchman. No, Carla wasn’t ready to go out on her own, not when she still hadn’t learned not to mix business and pleasure.
“I can handle Francois.” Carla practically purred.
“There’ll be no handling of Francois. Clear my calendar and take the rest of the week off. I’ll call Francois and explain the situation to him.” Carla’s pout was obvious even over the crackle of static. “Don’t forget to set the alarm. I’ll call if there are any changes.”
“Right. Yeah. Whatever.”
There were times when Meredith wondered why she had hired such a novice, times like this when Carla’s lack of experience, youth and attitude were so evident. She wanted everything now and had little to no self control, especially where men were concerned.
There had never been time for men, or boys for that matter, growing up. Life consisted of school and study. Dances were forbidden and dates were out of the question, even if there had been time for dates. Miss Frances supervised all activities and chose the curricula and the one extra-curricular activity allowed: skiing. To bed at nine and up at five-thirty. After school there were lessons in how to behave and endless lectures on cultivating a public persona. College was chosen for her, as were classes and wardrobe, and Meredith did as she was told. Fighting her grandmother wasn’t an option. It’s no wonder classmates thought her odd and out of step; she was.
After Miss Frances broke her hip during senior year at college, Meredith dutifully visited the hospital and then the rehab center while her grandmother recuperated and regained her strength. It was a short reprieve and Meredith determined to make the best of it, accepting an offer to go to one of the professor’s gallery showing and ended up feeling awkward and uncomfortable.  Her classmates seemed so polished and worldly, so at ease in tight, short skirts and cleavage-baring, skin tight tops. It wasn’t just the clothes—she had beautiful clothes, her grandmother saw to that—it was the way the girls flirted and wound themselves around the men like opportunistic ivy, slipping into dark corners or into the shadows out on the street to kiss, fondle and exchange numbers. She’d never been comfortable around boys, or men, half afraid Miss Frances would dust her for fingerprints.
The only time she had been allowed on a group date at seventeen, Miss Frances made the boy brave enough to walk Meredith to the door come in and watch while she checked her neck, shoulders and breasts for love bites. At least the boy, Trevor, was safely gone before her grandmother lectured on the evils of premarital sex while grilling her about where and how Trevor had touched her and then shoving a hand between Meredith’s legs to check for evidence of arousal. Humiliated and furious, she had endured it all until allowed to get a shower and go to bed. After that, turning down offers of dates was easy. All she need do was conjure up her grandmother’s rough poking and prodding hands and any thoughts of dances or dates or getting close to any boy died a quick death.
There was no way she’d be able to retain her sanity shut up in this suite for two days. Being in Manitou was bad enough. Not here even eight hours and already she had fallen back into maudlin thoughts and old habits. Lunch was over and dinner was a few hours away.
Wind howled and whistled down the chimney in the parlor. Ghostly golden lights winked against the sheer white of the storm. She’d never make it the two blocks to downtown in the storm, but she had to do something.
Dressing quickly and tucking the room key in a side pocket of her purse, she shouldered the bag and walked out into the lobby, locking the door.
“Miss Godwin, lunch is still laid out in the dining room if you’re hungry. There’s coffee and tea on the sideboard and I can whip up some hot cocoa if you’d prefer that.” The owner led her into the dining room. “There are movies and quite a few books in the parlor if you’re interested.”
“It’s so quiet.”
“Well, there’s only one guest other than you.”
The buffet was laden with sliced ciabatta and sourdough bread, cold meats, cheeses and an assortment of condiments and sandwich fixings. A large bowl held fresh strawberries, apples and a fruit compote. Meredith made up a plate while the owner went to the kitchen to fix a pot of hot cocoa and sat down at a table near the window looking out onto the wraparound porch. The bread was fresh and the fruit compote a fresh and delicious contrast to the silky richness of the cocoa.
“There’s more if you’d like.” The owner topped up the cocoa.
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Meredith thanked her and turned down seconds, lingering over the hot cocoa as she watched the snow pile up against the window and bury the cars parked on the street. For the first time since arriving, she felt at ease and comfortable.
Taking the drink into the parlor, Meredith looked at the books and movies on the shelves, choosing a documentary on the Trojan war. And then she spotted it, a romantic comedy Gavin took her to see on their first date. The idea of watching a movie wasn’t so appealing any more.
Heady with a first taste of freedom since her grandmother died, Meredith had ventured onto the social scene with a few friends from college intent on cheering her up. Six months was long enough to mourn they said, never suspecting she wasn’t sad or depressed, quite the contrary. She was free, but leery of enjoying that freedom too much. There was the ever present fear that Miss Frances would appear with a chilly smile and look down her long, straight nose with a disappointed and disapproving frown, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow disdainfully arched and Meredith would tuck her tail between her legs and follow ashamed and contrite to accept punishment for having smiled or laughed or thought for one second she was free to do as she pleased.  Taking a chance, Meredith agreed to meet her friends in Vail for a ski weekend.
She’d gone on ski weekends when Miss Frances was alive, but always with her grandmother, never alone. It was a safe first venture.
The night before, a storm dropped a little over two feet of powder and the lodge and slopes were crowded with snow bunnies. Managing a couple of good runs before the slopes got too crowded, Meredith and her friends met in the main lodge. After lunch, Sheila and Frederica decided to lounge in the hot tub. They agreed to meet for drinks before dinner and Meredith decided to run into town to get her bindings tightened. She hadn't expected to run into Gavin White Wolf.
Or to come face to face with the past.

Sneak preview: The Remittance Man

The Remittance Man

By J M Cornwell

Chapter One

Twenty years should have made a difference. It hadn’t. Jack Cain had not changed and neither had his habits. I expected towering stacks of newspapers and magazines and books and Jack weaving a path through a darkened room to the door, not that I could see him until he opened the door, but I was not disappointed.

Head tilted to one side as if awaiting an answer to a question, Jack looked the same, exactly the same. I guess that had a lot to do with his mother being the CEO of a cosmetic company, although I thought he only got a check once a month and not product, so his lack of aging could be due to good genes.

I felt swept back through the years to the first time I saw Jack Cain when Dad took me to see him at his apartment in Colon. Then as now, he wore an Egyptian cotton shirt the color of half lit shadows, khaki pants, and slip-on canvas shoes the same color as the shirt. His buzz cut was faintly threaded with grey and he wore the same black horn-rimmed glasses. I’d half expected contacts over his squinty eyes, but he clung to familiarity like a life preserver, especially now his mother was dead and his younger brother controlled the family fortune.

What I had been able to glean from gossip among the scattered friends that were once so close they lived and partied as a single-celled organism was that Jack’s brother had cut him off, no more monthly remittance checks and no more exile. That was what brought Jack back to the States, lack of funds, so he mined his friends for money using their secrets for trade. Who knew a bunch of middle class noncoms and civilian contractors could get into that much trouble with their families in tow. I certainly didn’t and wouldn’t have found out any of the sordid details had my father not decided to bring me in to deal with Jack, hoping I could twist him around my little finger the way I had always twisted men into knots. Since Jack likely still saw me as a nine-year-old child instead of a woman grown, I’d have an edge. I hoped Dad was right, but more than that I wanted to get rid of Jack as quickly as possible and spare the scene that Mom would cause if she found out Jack was back.

Mom had never trusted Jack and she didn’t like him. That much was obvious in her stiff posture and the way she shrank in on herself when he got too close, too close being within thirty feet of her. She acted the same way with spiders, mice, and other vermin. She sometimes acted that way with Dad, but that was their problem and not mine. Dealing with Jack was my problem.

“How do you do, Mr. Cain?” I asked after he opened the door and said hello. “I’m here on behalf . . . . “

“I know why you’re here, Maria. Did you bring the money?”

“May I come in?”

He stood back. “No sense discussing business in the hall.”

Jack hadn’t been in town long. The piles were only halfway up my shins and I’m a tall girl, five foot ten inches barefoot. Since I was wearing heels, add another three inches. Jack was still taller, but only by a couple of inches. His white skin reminded me of an albino cockroach I once saw crawl across his dining room table from beneath a stack of books the day Dad took me with him to Jack’s apartment. That hadn’t changed either, nor had the prickly feeling at the base of my neck or the gooseflesh racing along my arms and down my spine. The hum of fans and multiple air conditioners gave the room an arctic chill that added to my own internal chill in spite of wearing a thick vicuna coat, cashmere sweater, and the usual complement of lingerie. It didn’t seem to matter to Jack that it was autumn outside and the weather a bit on the cool, crisp side.

The apartment was sparsely furnished with whatever the lease had provided and was accented with a few of Jack’s extensive collection of Japanese screens and a select few Miros, Picassos, and his favorite framed da Vinci sketches. I wondered briefly how he had managed to get the carved mahogany screens with their fragile silk panels and mother of pearl inlays onto the planes.

Sensing my curiosity, he answered without hesitation. “My screens. I never leave home without them,” he said. “I pack them in coffins when I travel.”

As if Jack wasn’t creepy enough, that admission would have pegged the creep-o-meter in three seconds flat.

“The paintings are carefully crated and the rest,” he swept out his arm to include the paper bundles and stacks of books, “I leave behind. They provide company and information, but aren’t good traveling companions. For that I would need to travel by C-5 and I am not suited for such discomfort.”

No doubt. “That’s why you’re here, Mr. Cain, to alleviate further discomfort.”

“Just so.” He pushed his glasses up his aquiline nose and ran the hand across his bristly scalp.

The glasses had carved furrows on either side of his head above his ears with a look that spoke of years of etching. Though Jack was a bulky man, he wasn’t fat, except above his ears and at the nape of his neck where small hillocks of fat heaped above the slender column of his neck. He was a man of contrasts, from his black hair and eyebrows, a five o’clock shadow at nine in the morning, and the pallor of his skin. He wasn’t muscular, but there was evidence of steel beneath skin only visible when his languid movement turned sharp and decisive.

There is power in silence and I was determined to make Jack speak first. I crossed my legs, folded my hands in my lap, and looked wide-eyed at him. He spoke first.

“You’ve changed a great deal, Maria. It suits you.”

I nodded and smiled. “You’ve not changed at all.” You got a good bargain for your soul.

“Tranquility is the key. Tranquility and a quiet life.”

“And you’d like to continue your tranquil and quiet life.”

“Just so.”

Dad didn’t tell me what Cain had on him, but it must be big to warrant the substantial payment I carried in my bag. I wondered how many securities Dad had sold to raise that kind of money, but didn’t dare ask. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” He rose and took a couple of steps towards the kitchen. “You’d prefer coffee or cappuccino? I have a machine.”

I wanted vodka. The sharp, hard, quick bite would steel me for what I must do.

“Tea would be lovely.” I might not want to know Dad’s secrets and yet concluding our business prematurely would be a mistake. I had to impress on Cain that this would be the only funds he would receive and nothing, not even revealing some dread dark secret, would prevail in the future. Cain had to disappear and not return. He could feed in other waters. The sooner the better. There were no other options, not as far as I was concerned. Cain had to go one way or another.

“Just so,” he replied.

Had I not been watching him as he moved to the kitchen, I would not have heard him. That, too, I remembered, the way he had of appearing and disappearing so swiftly and quietly. There was something ominous and deadly about the way he moved, as though his appearance was a deception cultivated to lull victims into discounting his physical prowess and power, both of which I was keenly aware of. I still remember the strength of his hands and the way he nearly jerked my arms out of the sockets when he rescued me from the eels converging on me where I’d fallen into the water during a group fishing trip. My feet had been lacerated by the coral I fell onto, but the accident would have been much worse had Cain not stepped in and intervened. I owed him my life and I was grateful, but such debts weigh nothing when a daughter’s love for her father is on the balance.

“So pensive,” Cain said. “Just like when you were a child.” He set a lacquered carved tray on the table laden with petit fours and everything for tea. The tea set was an ornate silver affair that had a patina of oft polished age about it and Maria doubted it was less than two hundred years old from the style of the workmanship. “There now. A proper tea.”

“For this hour of the morning?”

“For any hour.” He set the table for tea, declining Maria’s help. He was obviously preferred playing the grand host and he did it well. It made me uncomfortable, so I excused myself and followed Cain’s directions to the bathroom, which was no less grand than the rest of the apartment.

It wasn’t the expensive fabric on the walls and at the windows or even the plush carpeting on the floor that made me want to take off my shoes and walk barefoot, but a sense of style and wealth that was understated and more noticeable because of its subtlety. If I didn’t know he arrived in town two weeks ago, I’d think he’d been here for years, except for small stacks of printed material. That’s a dead giveaway.

I finished as quickly as possible, placing the thick plush hand towel back on the rack as neatly as possible. I suppressed the urge to wipe down the sink and went back to the dining room.

“You look much more refreshed, Maria.” He indicated her seat and offered the burgeoning tray of petit fours, which were delicate spring confections decorated with tiny flowers and leaves. “Cake or biscuit?” He offered a small plate of macaroons.

I took one of the macaroons and accepted a cup of tea. After refusing sugar, milk, and lemon, I sipped the piping hot tea and nearly swooned. Ginger, jasmine, and the complex oolong tea lingered like a balm on my tongue. “This is good,” I said and nearly bit my tongue. I wasn’t here for a tea party. This was business and we’d better get to it.

“Mr. Cain,” I began.

“I’d prefer we wait until after tea. Pleasure first. Business after.” He sipped his tea and closed his eyes in delight before settling comfortably against the back of the chair.

I fretted at the delay but saw no other way to handle things. He was calling the tune so I’d follow along as long as my patience lasted. I took another sip and nearly choked.

Cain smiled. “Mustn’t rush,” he chided. “Enjoy the fragrance and the taste. It’s better when enjoyed slowly to get the full effect.”

I gritted my teeth and smiled. “It is lovely and the cookies are very good, but I really must get back to the office. I only came here . . .”

“Such haste. You were much calmer as a child.”

“Was I? I remember it differently.”

“You were such a precocious thing, all eyes and ears, but respectful. You were special, too special to be Stephen and Helen’s child. I often wondered how they missed the changeling in their midst, especially with Stephanie lurking always about. Now there was a nasty piece of work.”

I shrugged. There was nothing to say. I was my father’s daughter and my sister Stephanie was all Mom’s. Stephanie even looked like Mom in certain lights and people often mistook her for their mother. The acorn didn’t fall far from that tree. I suppose I should’ve defended my sister, but there was no need. Stephanie could defend herself. I certainly wouldn’t.

“You and she were as different as night and day.”

“Blondes always stand out.”

“Not at all. You were the one everyone noticed.”

“Only because I was climbing trees or getting into trouble.”

“I would not have saved Stephanie from the eels. The eels would have needed saving.”

A chuckle slipped my control and Cain, completely out of character, winked at me. His dark brown eyes danced behind the thick lenses of his glasses, almost twinkling with humor, and I laughed.

“Now that is a pleasant sound. You should laugh more often.”

Maybe it was our shared dislike of my sister or knowing that at least on that point we were in agreement, but the taut muscles in my shoulders and jaw relaxed and I began to enjoy the tea and the company so much, I chose a petit four when Cain offered. I had to admit he was being quite hospitable and even likable in spite of the business at hand.

As a child, I found him fascinating. He was so different from my parents and their friends, still and composed no matter the surroundings. There was something odd about him to be sure, but nothing frightening and I never felt wary in his presence. My mother hated him and the way he ate chicken of all things. Cain chewed off the ends of chicken legs and sucked out the marrow. I’d tried it once. The marrow tasted rich and buttery and I liked it, but that habit stopped before it got started. My mother forbade me to do it ever again. She had looked at me with disgust and shuddered, the same way she had looked at Cain.

“As a child, you were a bud and now you have flowered into a stunning woman. I knew you would.”

A heated blush flared across my cheeks and my ears were hot. “Thank you.” I inclined my head in thanks and didn’t dare say another word for fear of appearing silly or, worse yet, stupid. I actually liked Cain, not for saving me or for his gracious hospitality, but because I sensed his compliments weren’t empty. He was just who he appeared to be and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“The tea and cakes were lovely,” I said, glancing pointedly at my wrist watch. “I do have a busy afternoon.” I looked up and he closed his eyes and nodded, a look of resigned sadness on his broad face. Putting down the tea cup, I took out the envelope and laid it on the table between us. Cain continued sipping his tea, avoiding looking at the envelope. “I’d appreciate it if you’d count it.”

“No need of such vulgarity between friends.”

“Mr. Cain, please understand. There will be no further payments.”

“And no need for you to return?”

“I . . .”

“No need for words.”

After opening the envelope, Cain thumbed through the bills with practiced ease. There was no doubt he knew exactly how much was there, not because it was the amount he specified, but because he had counted it that rapidly with a minimum of movement and fuss. He was businesslike when the situation called for it. His movements were fast and economic, as much to preserve his delicacy and satisfy my request.

He looked up at me and his look asked if I was satisfied now as he slipped the envelope beneath the tray.

“Would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” I wanted to stay. I wanted to go and put all this behind me and yet there was something else here and it wasn’t only the views we shared of my sister Stephanie. She was a sneak and reveled in manipulating people, especially our parents when she wanted something and one of them denied her. A few carefully chosen words and our parents would end up fighting each other while Stephanie walked away with whatever she wanted.

Telling Mother and Dad what was going on always ended up with my lip bloody or Mother’s handprint scalded on my cheek, or both, and more punishment would follow. Dad seldom stepped between us; he knew better. Mother’s wrath would fall on him next and he had to sleep with her. I didn’t. I could take my wounded pride, anger, and betrayal to my room where I’d end up spending a few weeks or a few months, depending on how angry Mother was at the time. Stephanie stayed to watch the show and gloat over yet another triumph until I got smart and kept my mouth shut. If they couldn’t see what Stephanie was doing, I wasn’t about to tell either one of them. It always ended in tears: mine.

Yes, Cain was right and I felt sorry for him. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand or clasp his shoulder, offer to come again, but I knew I wouldn’t come back. In a different situation, I’d welcome his friendship and could appreciate it more now that I was an adult. That would not happen. Not now. Not ever. Not as long as blackmail stood between us. It was just business.

“Mr. Cain, our business is concluded. There will be no further payments or gifts. I hope you understand.”

Cain put up his hand. “I shall not return nor shall I be here long. I have appointments elsewhere.”

I am glad he stopped me. Leaving on such a note would have been difficult after all his generosity. I almost laughed. His generosity was paid for by his friends and now by my father.

Teeth clenched against the angry words about to spill out, I stopped. He was right. There was no need of words. Our situations and the unfortunate circumstances that brought us together now made anything more impossible.

How did we get here?

Right. The monthly remittance checks from his family, now that his brother was in charged, had stopped and Cain had resorted to the only option left to him, to depend on his friends and their secrets to keep him in the style he’d grown accustomed to.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” I stood, put on my coat, and walked to the door. I heard Cain rise behind me. As I reached for the door knob, his hand was there and I soon stood out in the hall facing him.

“If you find yourself at loose ends, please stop again. I shall be leaving at the end of the month. It seemed a shame not to see more of the city while I am here.”

“I can’t promise . . .”

“No. Of course not. A young woman like you would have many demands on her time, many social engagements. I shall not expect you, merely look forward to the possibility.” He extended his hand and I hesitated for a brief second only before taking his meaty paw. It was neither damp nor unpleasant. His handshake was firm and his fingers and palm strong. I noticed his nails were manicured and buffed.

Resisting the urge to kiss his cheek or hug him, I nodded and left. When I pushed the door open at the end of the hall, I glanced back. The door was closed and I had forgotten to ask him what secret he knew about my father. Maybe that was a good thing. I’d love Dad no matter what he had done, but it would be easier if I didn’t know all his secrets, just as he would never know all of mine. A little mystery is necessary in any relationship, especially a relationship between parent and child.

A raw wind slapped at me and rain spattered my cheeks as I ran for the car before the storm broke in earnest. I’m still not sure if the moisture on my face was all rain. It must have been. Tears would’ve been hot.

There was no reason to cry for Cain or about him. He chose his path and I had chosen mine. We wouldn’t see each other again and that was for the best. A friendship between us was not possible, I reminded myself. Best to put him and the whole business behind me, but the best laid plans . . . and all that jazz.

From The End of the World to Possibility

This last year jittered on the edge of a big bang that fizzled just as surely as the predicted computer apocalypse of 1999. I never believed the whole end of the world portents and fear because I knew that the end of the Mayan calendar was the beginning of a new age and a new calendar. The Mayans were entrenched in the practice of planned obsolescence.  Their calendars lasted for an entire age and, as Xmas is over and the last days of 2012 tick to the end of another year, I am poised for possibilities.

I don't do new year's resolutions because they always amount to the same thing: lose weight, publish more books, become a wealthy and famous author whose name is on the tongues of billions, and write the kind of books that will become -- and remain -- classics. The only one in that list of wants that has any chance of happening is publishing more books. I have 3, and possibly 4, books poised to be published in 2013, one of which was postponed from this year due to death, too much working for a paycheck, and loss of steam. Losing my 2-year-old grandson Connor took the wind out of my sails and it has taken a long time to find the energy and the will to keep going. Sending my son David Scott the stocking I cross stitched for Connor helped a lot. It was closing the last page on a very long book that ended on a sad but hopeful note.

That is where I am right now, poised on a hopeful note as I look forward to 5 days off after working every holiday this year, including Xmas.

The political horizon gives me no hope since the same greedy oligarchs are still in power and moving on with their plans to demoralize, diminish, and destroy the United States of America in the name of greed and ephemeral power. There is little hope on the economic horizon even with the price of gas below $3.00 for the first time in years. And there is even less hope on the war front in spite of more and more soldiers coming home from Afghanistan and the black wars that few of us know about.

If I smoked pot, which I do very rarely (twice in the past 15 years), I could look forward to buying and smoking at least an ounce of marijuana without being thrown in jail. I could look forward to a year without another death in my family, although, considering the past 5 years, I doubt that is realistic. I could look forward to just about anything, but I will hang onto what I know for sure.

The mild winter here in Colorado took a nose dive with a real white Xmas and Xmas snow. That was enough to put a smile on my face and to give me hope for the future when everything out in the real world has been nothing if not daunting. This being my last work day of 2012 also helps broaden the smile and I heave a sigh of relief that I will be able to stop racing against the clock and fretting that I don't have enough time to get settled into the work mode for another night shift. I have 5 days, 2 of them weekend days, to relax and let this year settle, much like a heavy dinner.

My grandson is still gone, and so is my mother, appropriately on Friday the 13th last January, but I have plans. Last year was filled with preparation for this Xmas. I bought the materials and stitched my way through 7 Xmas stockings, a few ornaments for the kiddies, and gathering together the gifts that would go with the stockings (which were a hit by the way). I was surprised that my oldest grandson, Jordan, actually wants a stocking. I didn't make one for him since he's a teenager. I guess my friend Mary Ann was right and kids never outgrow wanting a stocking to hang on the mantel with care even when the hope of St. Nicholas has given way to teenage pragmatism and the belief in Old St. Nick has waned. There is always room for a stocking no matter the age.

I need a new project, or at least a good idea for next year, since this year is going to be hard to top, hence the books. I have let 3 books languish over the past months of this year and it's time to take up my pen, poise my fingers over the keyboard, and get down to business. I'll never become a wealthy and famous author unless I get back to basics: reading, writing, and more  writing -- not to mention editing. The book covers are done. All I need to do is fill the pages that go between the covers, and I can do that. That magical Xmas snow helped put me in the right frame of mind.

There are other plans afoot for 2013. I have to convince Beanie to bring her boys with her and spend Xmas out here in Colorado with me. I want to share an old-fashioned Xmas with my family. I might even invite my boys and their kids -- as long as they understand they won't be able to stay here with me since space is limited. I'd need a much bigger house to host 9 grandchildren, 3 sons and their wives/girlfriend, Beanie and her 2 boys, and maybe her fiance's 2 boys and the fiance, not to mention my granddaughter Sierra's maternal grandparents, since I'm sure they would not want to be left out. Too bad I'm not wealthy already because I could rent one of the big cottages out at the Broadview or maybe a big modern cabin up in the mountains at Tabernash. Now that would be perfect, and another reason for me to get on the ball and finish more books.

That glistening carpet of white beneath the winter sun on Xmas day flashed with emerald, ruby, and diamond lights and the whole neighborhood was hushed. The only mark in the snow was where Santa's sleigh drove through the parking lot that surrounds my cottage (flying reindeer don't leave tracks) and stopped in front of my house. Even though I had to work Xmas day, the time went by quickly and visions of Xmas future grew in my head. I have work to do -- a lot of it -- and I'm ready for whatever challenge 2013 brings. Plans are being roughed out and will be filled in as the new year progresses and next Xmas will be better than this one, especially if there will be Xmas snow.

Whatever you plan for the next year, or even for tomorrow, be ready for hurdles and detours and meet them with hope and a smile. Hope and smiles can cut through the toughest times, especially when the end is a year of family -- and so much more.

Happy New Year. I'm ready for 2013 now.