You might be a bad neighbor if…

Let’s preface this with some background:

  • I’m a known introvert
  • I no longer have kids at home so have no reason to walk next door to tell said kids to come home for supper
  • There are few kids on my street so the people who live in the surrounding houses, like myself, don’t just hang out in the yard. We prefer air conditioning.
  • Most of our socializing is accomplished with a wave of the hand in passing. Just to be friendly.
  • My road used to be a dirt cut-through road from the main road to the little Quaker church at the bottom of the hill. Thus, some of the houses date back to the late 1800s and placed in a kinda willy-nilly arrangement. My backyard faces my neighbor’s side yard.

Hays.NeighborThief.7.13.20121I’m either the world’s best neighbor, or the world’s worst. You’ll never have to worry about me being all up in your business. I’ve lived here several years and only know three neighbors by name. The neighbor behind me, the one whose side yard faces my back yard, used to bring me vegetables from their garden and we would chat a few minutes. She’d comment about how pretty Sam was and I’d offer a compliment on her and her (presumed) husband’s garden.

To this day, I don’t know the woman’s name. Or her (presumed) husband’s. He brought me some okra last week and it made me stop and think for just a moment that she didn’t bring me anything at all last summer. I remember wondering at some point last summer if he was sick because the garden would sometimes look a little unkempt. It was that thought that pushed me to mow my own yard. I felt if that poor old elderly man (still don’t know his name) can work a garden in this heat, I can mow this yard. And so I did.Garden-Bounty

Flash forward to yesterday. Sam was bugging me for a walk so in the heat of the day, I obliged. I almost grabbed my earbuds and logged into Spotify on my phone, but didn’t. I thought, and those of you who aren’t dog people may think it silly, but I thought I needed to spend the time with Sam—he needed my attention, whether a word was exchanged between us or not, he needed me to be there with him. So I left the earbuds at home and decided I’d just enjoy the sounds of being outdoors, walking through my tiny little neighborhood.

One neighbor was having a yard sale. I waved and smiled as we walked by. The other neighbor, one of the three I know by name, was working in her yard. I stopped and chatted for a moment. She offered Sam a dog treat. We talked about everything, and nothing. Then she told me the girl at the end of the street was moving out. I confessed I didn’t know her and said I really only knew three of my neighbors, her included. I told her I knew the old married couple behind me and that the wife used to bring me food from the garden. I then said something along the line of “I don’t think their garden did so well last year. She didn’t bring me anything at all.”

My neighbor looked at me strangely and said, “She died last spring.”

Probably why she didn’t bring me anything.

My neighbor then proceeded to tell me the sweet old couple were never actually married although they had been together 40 plus years. And the man had 26 kids at last count scattered over the country, most of whom he had contact with. He was a jazz musician in New Orleans back in the day.

Who knew?ostrich-head-in-sand1

 

 

 

Where do you go when you’re not here?

My daughter Nina started having “episodes” back in January. I called them episodes; she referred to it as “watching t.v.” so it wouldn’t alarm the two oldest kids, Landon and Ava. “I watched t.v. twice today” sounds less dramatic than “I blacked out.” Episodes, watching t.v., black out spells…regardless of what we call it, the medical profession calls it seizures

The type of seizures Nina has are called complex partial seizures. They may last for a few seconds, or a few minutes. She may have one or two a day, or a cluster of several on one day and none the next. There’s no body-going-stiff or falling-in-the-floor thing going on. The best way to describe it is an old cliche’—the light’s on but nobody’s home. If you didn’t know what you were witnessing, you’d probably think she was just ignoring you, or daydreaming. When she’s having a seizure, you can’t “shake” her out of it, or shout loudly at her to bring her out of it—believe it or not, this IS the first instinct when witnessing one. It has to run its course and usually lasts for seconds but can last for several minutes. Those are the scary ones.

And when she does come out of it, she knows she’s had a seizure but has no knowledge of the length, or what happened while in its clutches. She has no memory 0f the time away.

The Epilepsy Foundation says this about complex partial seizures: These seizures usually start in a small area of the temporal lobe or frontal lobe of the brain. They quickly involve other areas of the brain that affect alertness and awareness. So even though the person’s eyes are open and they may make movements that seem to have a purpose, in reality “nobody’s home.” If the symptoms are subtle, other people may think the person is just daydreaming. Some people can have seizures of this kind without realizing anything has happened. The seizure can wipe out memories of events just before or after it.

And so I take a lot of pictures and I document the silly things the kids do—and yes, I post them all over Facebook. I refuse to let the seizures rob her of one second of these babies’ lives.

Of course there are things she’d probably rather not remember. Like Casey painting the wall with poop. Or Ireland getting stuck with duct tape to the side of the bed. Don’t ask.  Or any one of Ivy’s historic meltdowns. Or Ava’s broken arm. Or Landon’s disappointment when he struck out at bat.

But at least when she wants to look back at all these moments—the good, the bad, and the ugly—she’ll be able to.  Like any parent, you turn her head for a split second and you’ve missed the moment. And I miss them, too. My camera, or energy level, doesn’t capture every moment but I think I do okay in capturing a decent variety.

Landon and Ava know about the seizures now.They knew something was wrong and wondered what mom “watching t.v.” had to do with why she couldn’t drive anymore. The three youngest, Ivy, Casey, and Ireland, are still too young to know anything is different. They don’t really care who’s driving the vehicle as long as mom is riding shotgun.

 

Hopping from here to there

I’m participating in the World Blog Hop this week with several other writer friends. Thanks to Tanya Stowe, a fellow writer with Pelican Books, for asking me to play along. Please take a moment and check out her blog and books…you won’t be disappointed!

Tanya is an author of Christian Fiction with an unexpected edge. She fills her stories with the unusual…gifts of the spirit and miracles, mysteries and exotic travel, even an angel or two. No matter where Tanya takes you…on a journey to the Old West or to contemporary adventures in foreign lands…be prepared for the extraordinary. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Hearts Haven Books

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now a little about my writing and the process…I am the author of the best-selling True Crime book, Unholy Covenant (Addicus Books, 2000), and an award-winning fiction author. My debut novel, The Rising (Pelican Book Group, 2013), won the 2013 Grace Award for Excellence in Faith Based Fiction. It is also short-listed for an INSPY award. My private eye novel, Wink of an Eye, won the 2013 St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best 1st PI Novel competition. It will be released through Minotaur Books, Nov. 18, 2014. I am honored to be represented by Michelle Johnson at Inklings Literary Agency.

Currently, I’m working on a new mystery called NoBody’s Baby, about a small town newspaper owner involved in a murder investigation. I hope to have it finished by the end of summer. I think one element that sets my work apart from others is the way I use description. I try and make it become part of the story rather than an information dump. I also feel setting should be a secondary character. Having a character see a handmade sign reading Jesus Saves along a dirt road says much about the area the story is taking place in. I enjoy writing mysteries because I enjoy peeling back the layers until everything is exposed and the ultimate truth is revealed. To me, a mystery doesn’t have to have a murder or some other heinous crime to be considered a true mystery. Life itself is a mystery so there’s so much more to it than how the detective is going to find the killer. When I start a new novel, I know the beginning and end. I’ll do a rough outline to fill in the middle to help me get from point A to point B. I’m not one of those writers who crank out 5000 words a day, or five pages, or some other number. More power to them. I just can’t do it. I may go two or three days without writing anything at all, but when I sit down at the computer, what I do write is carefully thought out. I struggle over every word. Although it takes me longer to complete the first draft than perhaps other writers, when that first draft is complete, it doesn’t need nearly as much revising as if I had just thrown it out there. I guess it’s an either/or situation.

So that’s how I do it. Next Monday, June 30, you’ll be able to find out how three of my writing friends work their own brand of magic. Check out their links below:

Chief Silverii2

Scott Silverii:  Chief of Police Scott Silverii, PhD passionately lives a positive life. With over 24 years in policing, he has the experience and vision to believe there is always an opportunity to help people. Scott’s passion flourished while growing up in a close-knit community within south Louisiana’s heart of Cajun Country.

Scott’s life is seasoned by the Mardi Gras, hurricanes, humidity, and crawfish boils. This gumbo of experience serves up a unique perspective in his writing – but don’t let the smile fool you. Chief Silverii spent 16 of his 24 years working in policing’s special operations groups (SOG) with thousands of undercover narcotics and SWAT missions. He’s bought dope, banged down doors, and busted bad guys.

He’s new to the world of fiction writing, but entered with guns a blazing with his most recent project – A Cajun Murder Mystery Series. This episodic adventure takes readers behind the badge and along the bayous of south Louisiana. As Chief Silverii likes to say – Laissez les bons temps rouler – Until somebody gets killed of course.

Chief Silverii is also available and appreciates the opportunities to work with authors looking for honest and authentic information on police procedural and cop character / culture questions. You can contact him at his website noted above.

Lynette Hall Hampton aka Agnes Alexander:  Lynette has never considered herself a Christian fiction writer, but instead a Christian who writes fiction. Under the name Lynette Hall Hampton she has published 16 novels – mystery, romance, romantic suspense and inspirational. Though she still writes a variety of genres, in 2011 she decided to concentrate on writing what she most likes to read, Western Historical Romance. She chose to write these novels under her pen name, Agnes (her grandmother’s name on her mother’s side) Alexander (her grandfather’s name on her father’s side). In 2012, her first western, “Fiona’s Journey” was published. Since then she’s had six more published and has two under contract to come out in 2014. Me

A life-long resident of her home state of North Carolina, she counts traveling as one of her passions. She has visited 48 of the 50 States and says Alaska and Hawaii are on her bucket list. Of course, she loves to read, but tries to limit herself to one or two books a week. Besides traveling and reading, Agnes enjoys jewelry making, watching old movies and spending time with her family, especially her two grandchildren.

 

 

 

Nicky LaMarco:  Nicky LaMarco is a freelance writer who’s written for a variety of magazines, newsletters and websites. She specializes in writing articles, blogs, books, and essays. Nicky lives in Maine with her husband and two kids. headshot

My dad

Just some random memories of my dad I thought I’d share this Father’s Day…

Coming down the mountain

When my kids were in school there was always a teachers’ workday around the third week in October. If you live in NC, you know that’s prime mountain time. I would take a day of vacation and would load the kids, and daddy, in the car and head to the mountains. Mom didn’t care for the winding roads so she didn’t care to go. On one particular trip we headed to Grandfather Mountain. I drove because by this time, daddy had lost most of his vision to macular degeneration. So we did our thing at the mountain and when it was time to leave (to drive down the mountain), I froze. I had a panic attack to be all panic attacks. I was terrified to drive down the mountain. So daddy drove. And although the man was considered legally ‘visually impaired’, I felt more safe with my daddy getting us down that mountain than I had confidence in myself to do it. Down at the bottom of the mountain, he pulled over and we switched drivers like it was nothing.

Is that Johnny Cash’s house?

We took a family vacation every summer. More often than not, one or two of my friends would go with us. One of those vacations was to Nashville, TN. Susan went with us that time. Susan was always a big picture taker and was snapping pictures of everything. So we’re doing the drive by tour of some of Nashville’s greatest stars’ homes and we get to Johnny Cash’s house. Daddy slows down so Susan can take a picture. But she can’t quite get the shot so she asks daddy if he would take it from the driver’s window. Sure, he says. So she hands him the camera and he clicks away. Later, after we’re back home Susan has her pictures developed and there’s one we can’t figure out. It’s of something rather odd looking we can’t identify. Then Susan starts counting the shots she’s missing and realizes she doesn’t have the shot of the Cash house. We go back and look a little closer at the odd one and sure enough, if you turned it this way and that way, daddy had taken a perfect up-close picture of his ear. I think Susan added to her photo book as “Johnny Cash’s house.”

That’s one ugly kid

When my son Garey was born, daddy spent almost every hour staring through the nursery window at his new grandson. Proud isn’t a strong enough word to describe him at that time. So like a lot of the new grandparents. he had to point out to every stranger sharing space at the window which one was his grandson. Keep in mind, my dad would strike up a conversation with anyone. So he’s at the window chatting up this other man and points to this baby in the nursery and says something along the line of “bless his heart – that is one ugly baby.’ Well, yeah. The ugly baby was that man’s newborn son. My dad could talk his way out of a lot of things but I think that one time he just shut up.

Ham biscuits and conversations

Back in the early days of owning the newspaper, daddy would ride with me and help me deliver. He suggested adding a few stops up along Randleman Road, coincidentally there was a Biscuitville right up the road. So every delivery day, we’d hit Biscuitville and he’d get a ham biscuit and small Pepsi. Then on the stops where he’d take the papers in, I’d sit in the car an extra ten or fifteen minutes waiting because he’d strike up a conversation with whomever was there. Sometimes I even had to go in and gently remind him we still had several more stops.

Um…my finger’s stuck in the door

My dad owned his own heating and air conditioning company and had several doctors as clients. One doctor owned property near Reidsville that had a fishing pond. He invited daddy and some friends to come fishing. I pitched a hissy because I wanted to go, too. So daddy let me go. I got my line hung up in a tree and daddy had to get it unstuck. I wouldn’t bait my own hook so daddy had to do it. I wouldn’t get the tiny little fish I caught off the line so daddy had to do it. I got my line caught in the tree, again, so daddy had to get it unstuck, again. My dad had the patience of Job but I was quickly becoming a pain in the ass. They finally decided to call it a day and packed up to come home. I don’t remember the friends daddy had with him that day but I do remember daddy was riding in the passenger side of the front seat and I was behind him in the back seat. With my little finger stuck in the slammed door. I had been such a pain in the patooty the whole time, I was too scared to tell him he’d shut my little finger in the door! I rode all the way home from Reidsville with it stuck in the car door.

Turn…Turn… Turn!

I was never really good with moving, mechanical stuff. Santa brought me and my sister a little mini dirt bike for Christmas one year. First time on it, I rode it straight into the house. Same with the riding lawn mower. So really, it’s daddy’s fault. He should have known better than to let me anywhere near his motorcycle. I’m bugging him to teach me how to drive the thing so he lets me take it for a spin around the house. Everything is going good until I have to turn. Straight into the side of his Suburban. Not only do I total his motorcycle, I’ve really messed up the Suburban. I remember sitting in the Emergency Waiting Room with him. He didn’t say a word. Not. one. word.

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Daddy and his brother, Sammy Chandler

 

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Daddy helped found and build Woodlake Baptist Church. Somewhere in the walls of that church, before the sheetrock went up, he placed two pocket-sized New Testaments dedicated to Garey and Nina.

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Daddy and Uncle Sammy, 1945.

It’s okay to be average

Facebook didn’t exist when my kids were little. Mark Zuckerberg didn’t exist when my kids were little. Nor Instagram or Snapchat or Twitter. I don’t remember scheduling “play dates” for my kids. They played with one another and/or the neighborhood kids. I don’t remember anything called Mommy’s Morning Out or any other ‘mommy group’.

Sure, there was always that mom in the neighborhood, or at school, or at church who kids’ poop didn’t stick.  Their kid walked when they were 6 months old! Was potty trained before they were two! Had a three-thousand word vocabulary before their third birthday. Could even read on a second grade level before kindergarten. And were so darn cute, their moms were looking at modeling agencies.

Yeah, if you’re a mother, you’ve probably experienced the mother of all mothers. And not only was it their job to raise the perfect kid, they took on the added responsibility of letting you know what you were doing wrong. In subtle, snarky remarks, of course.

Those moms still exist and, lucky us, social media has made it so easy for them to share their perfect worlds. Their perfect nurseries. Their perfect homemade, organic lunches. Their neatly arranged educational toy bins.

More power to you, perfect mom. But I’d be willing to bet there are a heckuva lot more ‘average’ moms out there than there are perfect.

Caseypirate

Here’s looking at you, kid.

Young mothers these days are putting way too much pressure on themselves. Every mother starts out with the grand goal of being perfect. No one wants to be ‘average’. But sometimes, this little thing called reality, gets in the way. That perfect nursery will have crayon marks on the perfectly painted walls and, unless you’re an odor shaman, will smell like pee or poop. The precious little ones will turn their cute little noses up at the thought of a homemade, organic lunch once they get a taste of cheese doodles and brownies. And those educational toys – just wait until they see a Tonka truck, or gads! – a toy gun. And for those mothers who actually have more than one child, kids fight. A lot. They can be mean little snots. Yes – you’re perfect kid may have a mean streak. Deal with it. And, funny as it seems, the meanest kids usually have the most perfect mothers. So there’s your motivation to bypass perfect and aim to be average.

Average moms have a collection of mismatched tiny socks hidden under couch cushions, behind the bookcase, and stuffed in the toy bins. Sometimes even stuffed inside the toys. Their kids eat cereal for lunch. And sometimes supper. And sometimes on the same day. They eat pizza and hot dogs cut into tiny triangles. And they eat a lot of chicken nuggets. They will have more fun with the box a hundred-dollar toy came in than the toy itself, so save yourself the money.

And if you have more than one, call in reinforcements for the big stuff. I went to the beach last weekend with Nina and Allen. With three toddlers, even the simplest of activities takes some planning. Allen and Landon went with Nina’s dad and half-brother out on the boat one day. Nina and I were going to take the three toddlers and Ava to the pool. Then we realized both of us would have to be in the pool at all times holding one or two kids at the same time. So we settled for going to the beach instead, where we figured the kids could at least play in the sand. After parking, only one problem with that…we had to cross the street to get to the shore. Three toddlers, a seven year-old, two bags of towels, fruit snacks, and sippy cups, and two chairs. meandNina

That was an accomplishment. Here’s to the average mom.

 

 

When Writing Becomes a Family Affair

I am so tickled to have special guest C. Hope Clark posting today. Hope is not only a fabulous writer, she’s the brain-child behind Funds For Writers, the go-to proverbial bible for writers in all stages of their careers. I’ve been reading Funds For Writers for more years than I can count and am honored to now call Hope a friend. Welcome, Hope!

 

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Hope and her grandson Jack

Lynn Chandler Willis is as dedicated a grandmother as I’ve ever seen. Family is the center of her world. So when asked to do this guest blog post, I itched to discuss family and the writer, and how the partnership is often crazy, hilarious, and eye-rolling unbelievable.

Blogs and forums abound with writer discussions about how to address the urchins that interfere with our journeys toward bestseller-dom. Of course we love the brats. No questioning that. Like kittens, they’re cute and can’t help themselves. We write around them, knowing one day they’ll grow up and allow us more time to create.

But what do you do when they are in their twenties and still in the way? And what about parents? Sisters, uncles and cousins? Once you publish a book or two, invariably your predecessors, successors, as well as those on the odd bent branches of the family tree, get in your way. And they are not as forgivable as kittens.

Hope Nanu Cookies

Hope with Nanu Cookies and her son Matt

When I released Lowcountry Bribe, the first in my Carolina Slade Mystery Series, family and friends devoured the book, pointing out which character was which relation, enjoying the inside joke they thought they knew. (Except for my mother, who ordered me never to write about her.) My son asked why I made him a girl. The assumption was I had to be the protagonist and my husband the romantic interest. They pointed out “errors” in the story, telling me my children were never kidnapped, so why put that in the book? I developed a list of one-liners in response to these reactions, the main one being, “It’s fiction, people. That means pretend.” They’d roll their eyes as if they knew better.

When Tidewater Murder came out a year later, they quizzically scratched their heads. “Who is this?” they’d ask. “When did this happen?” Only one new character went into that book with a slight resemblance to a dear friend, a friend who’d challenged me to include him. The story was the purest fiction I’d ever written. “What?” they asked. “What fun is that?” “You sure this isn’t our cousin from Mississippi?”

And don’t get me started about the romantic scenes. “Did y’all really get it on, like on the beach like that?” Cue the standard reply, “It’s fiction.” Or consider the time my son said on Facebook about the subject, “Imagine how reading that stuff makes me feel?”

Or what about the ex-husband who won’t pick up the book because . . . there’s an ex-husband in the story. After all, writers “write what they know” and he believes I probably, subconsciously, wrote about him.

The public, and therefore our relatives, think every tale of fiction is rooted in reality, and some instances probably are. We use our experiences as catalysts. But we avoid the use of clones, resumes, and biographies taken from our family tree for obvious reasons . . . hurt feelings, misunderstandings, and the potential for misrepresentation. But what is it about families and their fear they are, yet wanting to be, subjects in a book?

Maybe it’s that desire for the proverbial 15-minutes of fame. Maybe it’s a way of feeling honored by being blood-kin to a famous author (tongue-in-cheek there). Maybe they can’t let loose of reality to spin fable, and don’t understand those who do.

????????????????????????????????????????Palmetto Poison is Slade’s third story, and this time she is full-bore investigating the most complex case of her life. Enter her boyfriend, his ex-wife (also an agent), his sister, Slade’s sister, kids, and a complete family feuding cornucopia of families she investigates for murder, drugs, and political favors.

My family won’t know how to react!

C. Hope Clark is author of The Carolina Slade Mystery Series with its newest release Palmetto Poison, available wherever books are sold. Please visit her website at http://chopeclark.com She is also editor of FundsforWriters.com, selected for Writer’s Digest’s 101 Best Websites for Writers for 14 years.

http://www.amazon.com/Palmetto-Poison-Carolina-Slade-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B00IE68F54/

http://www.amazon.com/Lowcountry-Bribe-Carolina-Slade-Mystery-ebook/dp/B007A4CQ1U/

http://www.amazon.com/Tidewater-Murder-Carolina-Slade-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00CHT2PT6/

3books

 

The chicken rode shotgun

It started when the grill blew off the back of the truck…we celebrated Mothers Day on Saturday with a cookout and bonfire and in what’s become our own tradition, chaos reigned. My kids plus their families plus Allen’s family plus my kids’ dad and their half-brothers. Oh, and Nana and her beau.

Everyone brought something. I made a chocolate eclair cake. The other day while doing the school pick up thing, the girls were talking about their favorite type of cake. I told them my favorite was my mom’s chocolate eclair cake. Emma said she wished she was living way back when my mom was alive so she could have tasted that cake. So I made one. For Emma. And she liked it. Maybe we do have our traditions.

So anyway, Allen’s mom and dad, David and Cindy Jones, provided the hamburgers and hot dogs and rolls, plus a killer pasta salad. Nana brought fresh strawberries which the girls ate enough to give them belly aches. Casey thought the strawberry was something totally foreign and giggled like a menace as he played with it but balked at tasting it. Ireland screamed at the plump red berries like we were going to shove them down her throat. It was a thought. Don’t judge.

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Garey’s drunk chicken just hanging out on the grill

Garey wanted to cook chicken on the grill. He’s our grill master and loves going beyond burgers. But not just chicken, he wanted drunken chicken. He figured he’d do three chickens so there would be enough for everyone to have some. But Allen’s grill was going to be tied up with the burgers so Garey figured he’d just load his grill up in the back of the truck and bring it along. It would have made it but a pretty decent storm with some serious straight-line winds came up and blew the darn thing right off the truck. Right on Bus. 220 near the lumber yard. So Garey gets his grill loaded back up and finally gets to Nina’s. The hood is pretty banged up and, well, actually detached, so we now have an issue. Can’t cook the chicken on an open grill. So they decide to cook the chicken on Allen’s grill and the burgers on Garey’s damaged grill. But we have three chickens and you’re only supposed to cook two at a time or it messes with the time involved to cook. We go for it anyway and slap all three of them suckers on the grill.

Cue the part about Allen helping Garey prep the chickens. Have you ever seen a fresh-from-the-package chicken dance?  Ireland was traumatized. I think Nina was, too.

So we get the chickens on the grill. Two hours later, Garey starts checking them. Still a little red at the bone. Maybe a little longer. Meantime, it’s nearing 7:30 now and the kids are hungry so Allen goes ahead and starts cooking the burgers. Maybe the chickens will be done by the time the burgers are ready.

So the burgers and hot dogs are ready. The chickens were still a little red near the bone. Everyone goes ahead and grabs a burger, corn on the cob, pasta salad, chips…everything but the chicken. Everyone is eating, except Garey, who is obsessing about the chickens. The thermometer must not be registering correctly. He asks Nina if she has a thermometer. She pulls this…thermometer…from the medicine and first aide cabinet. Now, in a house with three little ones who aren’t capable yet of holding a thermometer under their tongue, anyone want to guess where that thermometer had been? Allen jumps in and says he thinks he has one in the garage.

I missed the part where they actually checked the temperature of these birdzillas, er, chickens, so can’t say what their internal temperatures were registering. All I know is we had moved on, cleaned up the kitchen, the kids playing on the flood-lit playground, S’Mores over the bonfire and Garey was still checking the chickens.

Around ten p.m., he’s finally got the chickens off the grill. David and Cindy and their crew have already left. Gary, my kids’ dad, and his other two sons Ethan and Wade, have left. So the chickens are cooling on the counter in the kitchen. We’re outside at the bonfire and the girls are scheming for Ava to spend the night with Emma and Paisley. Emma says she wants to ride home with Garey in the truck rather than with mom Ellen in the van. Ellen tells her it’s rude because she needed to ride in the same vehicle as her guest (Ava) so she needed to ride in the van. So Paisley, who rode to Nina’s in the truck with her daddy when the grill blew off, says she wants to ride with daddy in the truck going home. Garey tells her fine, she can, but she’ll have to hold the chicken. The chicken, now done, had earned a shotgun seat. Seatbelt and all. Garey was not leaving that chicken behind.

Paisley opted for the van.

10 reasons why I write

Like a good marriage, loving one another sometimes isn’t all there is to it. There has to be more to it than the passion, the need, the desire, and the unrealistic expectations of a life of luxury. So here it is—I’m opening the veins so the non-writing world can see the real reasons we writers do what we do.

  1. We loathe housework. We can’t be expected to dust, sweep, mop, clean toilets and write the great American novel.

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    It hasn’t been used in a few weeks. I think its stuck to the floor,

  2. It gives us an excuse to drink coffee or a mocha in the middle of the day.
  3. So we can put off going to the grocery store until the only thing left to eat in the house is a near-empty bag of stale pretzels.
  4. Exercise? Seriously? I have to finish this chapter before my self imposed deadline, which I’ll push back again and again.
  5. It gives us an excuse to politely bow out of any social invitation. Birthday party? Sorry, I’m under a deadline. Cook out? I have to finish this chapter. Err…wait a minute—free meal? Do I have to bring anything? If not, make the effort. Those pretzels are really stale.
  6. It gives us a reason to google images of ‘hot shirtless men’ for character images of course.
  7. It gives us an excuse to stay up way past a normal bedtime because we are in the zone.

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    Don’t judge

  8. It gives us an excuse after staying up way past a normal bedtime to take a nap the next day.
  9. It lets us legally kill people we don’t like, fall in love with people we’d like to spend a lifetime with, and heal some of the wounds we’ve carried far too long.
  10. For a brief moment in time, we are in control of an entire universe.

So how about it…why do you write?

Traditions be damned

This past weekend we celebrated Easter. There was a time when my kids were small that I dressed them up for the occasion.  Garey wore a tie; Nina suffered through a frilly dress. All for tradition’s sake.

We would have Easter dinner at mom and dad’s. Ham, potato salad and green beans. A dessert or two. Maybe deviled eggs. And the day before, we waited anxiously for the little colored tablet to dissolve in the vinegar so we could dye eggs. So exciting! Sometimes they would use the little wax crayon that came with the dying kit to write their names on their eggs. Fun times. At least I think they were. 20140419_193944

There may have been some tears because an egg was cracked, or I might have fussed because one of the kids spilled one of the cups of dye. But it was a tradition dating back many, many years. Not just for us—for everyone since Paas sold their first dying kit.

It was like leaving cookies for Santa. Dying eggs at Easter was expected. Those parents who didn’t weren’t worthy to be called parents. They were depriving their kids of a tradition.

And what do we do with traditions? We carry them on. Play them forward. Even if we’re left scratching our heads and wondering why we continue to do these things.

So Nina dyed eggs with her kids Saturday night. She asked if I wanted to come help. Sure. We’ll carry on the tradition.

20140419_190826Landon wasn’t too interested so he was in and out. Ava enjoyed helping Ireland, as long as Ireland kept her grimy little hands off Ava’s meticulously dyed, multi-colored eggs. Ivy thought it was the neatest thing EVER! Until Ireland wanted to dye her egg pink, too. Ivy balked because she owns the copyright to pink or something like that. Hissy fit #1. Ireland didn’t understand why she had to dye her egg blue. Casey’s egg was blue. Hissy fit #2.  Ivy didn’t understand the waiting game—the egg has to soak in the color for oh, like, at least 30 seconds. Hissy fit #3.  Casey liked the little metal dipper thingy. But keep in mind we’re still working with him on using a spoon and fork so when he couldn’t get the little dipper to work just right, yeah, go ahead—just reach in there with all the dye and grab that egg. 20140419_190839Oops. That one cracked. Hissy fit #4. So after all the eggs were colored, Ava finds the little wax crayon and wants to know what it is. Ava, the budding artist, writer, songwriter, who will write on anything is devastated. She could have written a whole song on one of those eggs! Or at least her name.

So much for the egg dying tradition. I decided that maybe, instead of picture perfect traditions, our new tradition would be to just give in to the chaos. Just enjoy the ride. One day all these kids will have kids of their own. What’s that old saying? Payback’s hell.20140419_193952