On Being a Mom/Mother/Mama/Nana/Grandma/Grandmother-The List Goes On

Billy and me in front of Old College, Aberystwyth

Recently the daughter of a friend blogged about being tired as a mother, sometimes filled with self-doubt, aggravation, and running from hugs one minute to time out the next with her small brood of four, not so small when one considers that for most of the waking day it's a four-to-one ratio.  She went on to add that it was a burden to young struggling moms to have older women return their complaints of exhaustion or frustration with the cherry and oft-spoken, "You'll miss this time when it'is gone."  Though well meaning, and I've said it myself, I could suddenly and totally see her point.  When one is battling for sanity in a sea that threatens to drown, one needs a life preserver and a word of encouragement not a reminder that it is an opportunity for a character building experience. It set me to thinking about my own child-rearing days.  I wrote her a response.

The good news is that all the tough, hard, or they vomited in their bed, you cleaned up, then they vomited in your bed episodes, the times-out, the I-would-pay-cash-money-for-8-hours-of-straight-undisturbed-sleep, and the feelings of helplessness, incompetence, and exasperation become somehow quite funny when retold over holiday tables. Trust me, it becomes hilarious; but at the time it is happening, it is just 'hard work.' Stay the course and know that the Grandma's of the world survived and so will you.

The not so great news is that you'll never stop being a mother, even after they're launched. You become cheerleader, sometimes confidant, therapist, and sometimes "mom-on-a-shelf," who is taken down when needed. But this confusing time is beautiful too. Just when you know how to be a mama, you have to learn how to be a mom/mother to adults that you can't scoop up and put in time out. The frustrations and feelings of inadequacy are equal but different and sometimes you want to scream into a pillow or put your head in an oven (not really, well kinda sorta), but you love over and above, in between, and forever. 

It's this love that is the constant through the confusing stages of life. So hang in there, lovely girl. Take naps with the kids when you can. Be kind to yourself because you are a brilliant mom and just exactly made to order for your little brood. Laugh out loud. Dance. Allow yourself to be human. Motherhood will drive you to your knees, to tears, and to the heights of testimony. It's all part of of an amazing journey. 

Blessings on you from a survivor!

Which then brought me to my time in Wales, away from hugs and kisses and relegated to Skype, email, Facebook, and the occasional letter.  There's nothing quite like a handwritten letter, but I digress...

Our oldest son, Billy. found himself in London recently and generously planned an extra day to visit his mom.  That's me smiling in the top photo.  "I've got a car," he emailed.  "Looks to be about 2 hours from London as the crow flies.  How far is it?"

Well, for one we have rooks in Wales.  They are noisy but had little if anything to do with road design.  The north/south roads were made by the Romans when they invaded Briton years ago.  They have multi-lanes and are fast.  Unfortunately the east/west roads were made by the early Druids, who were either following cattle or sheep, or were so deep in their own thoughts that they went round in the most imaginative curvilinear paths that it is nearly a seven hour drive from London to Aberystwyth, longer if you stop for a picture or a break.

After some checking, I found that there is a "fast" train from London to Birmingham that takes only an hour and another that travels from Birmingham to Aberystwyth that takes only three... so that's four hours each way.  (I didn't know that Euston Station was an hour away from his London based hotel. 

Billy's a good sport, a very good sport.  At 18 months old he gathered toys for the other children in nursery and passed them out.  He grew to be a great big brother... we talk a lot about his big-brotherhood over holiday tables... I now understand much better what all the upstairs noise was after I so lovingly and tenderly put them all to bed and collapsed in a wilted heap on the living room sofa near my husband.  In my case there was an 8:1 ratio for the bulk of our daylight hours.

But back to my post, these are not photoshopped pictures.  They are real.  Billy came to Aberystwyth in spite of the inconvenience and added travel time to his already busy schedule. We shared castle ruins, college campus, St. Michael's cathedral, Old College, a double ice-cream to celebrate his birthday that had just passed and the occasional sit-down to just talk.  We walked the Prom and viewed the Irish Sea from the end of the Royal Pier.  We ate at Wetherspoon's where he ate Dragon sagsage, visited the Ceredigion Museum, and, of course, stopped at the Sweetie's shop to send home British treats for the grands.

I guess what I'm saying is that there are joys and challenges that are part of each stage of motherhood.  Would I trade the downs if it meant I'd miss the ups?  Never.  How would I come to recognize the sweetness?   Would I trade the plethora of reasons that created sleepless nights?  No, because they brought me to my knees and taught me faith.  Families come in all shapes and sizes, each with an assortment of personalities, challenges, and enough"growing experiences" to fit all comers.  I love my family with all its good and not so good.  Why?  Because they are mine.

Thank you, son.  Your visit was just the best.

                                               

January 2013 - Home to Home - Part I

Clock Tower near Birmingham, England

 An epic journey home to the West Coast of America marked the beginning of my holiday hiatus.  Thinking to be quite clever, I spent a bit more on tickets, choosing to fly to Amsterdam and then take a direct 13 hour flight to Portland.  Alas, arriving at Birmingham hours early to accommodate international travel, I was greeted with the news that it was snowing in Amsterdam.  Lovely, I innocently thought.  Not only will I see the country of my forefather's origins but it will be very Christmassy!  This is, however, when I learned that planes do not fly in the snow if they can help it and that one of the things that the Brits do best is "queue."

Used to American efficiency and a certain amount of impatience in being thwarted by one's travel plans (did I say that nicely?), no one else in line seemed to be at all surprised when we had to wait for someone from KLM to show up to reroute us... all 200 plus of us.  I fortunately was in the beginning of the line (early arrival has its perks). The someone from KLM showed up and was just that... one...  someone.  There were actually two but one was shunted off to the side to handle elite ticket holders, class will out!

 I met the loveliest people in line: a young blond, blue-eyed student going home to Finland and three British South Africans journeying to visit family.  The nearly three hours in queue passed pleasantly.  I was rerouted to Dublin, a four hour layover, then Boston, and finally home.  Flight time was up 50%.  So much for expensive tickets.  But at least I was going home or so I thought.

Flight into the morning

Arriving in Boston, I was told to take the shuttle to the ticket counter.  Being inexperienced, I did.  "I'm sorry, madam, but your gate is closed."  "Yes," I replied hopefully.  "Call them and tell them I'm here and have them hold it please."  "That is not possible.  The gate is closed."  "My luggage is on that flight.  I've been in these clothes for 24 hours.  I have no American money with me. Can I speak with your supervisor?" My American impatience was beginning to crack. Failing to impact Boston, I began to cry (didn't work!).  "I don't even have a toothbrush," I exclaimed.  Boston mumbled something about not scheduling adequate time between international and domestic flights, arranged to put me in a hotel overnight, gave me a toothbrush and a small packet of sundries, and a $6 meal voucher for dinner and another for breakfast.  I walked to the hotel, dropped what little I had in my room and went downstairs to eat.  $6 voucher + Boston prices = a very nice dinner salad and since they didn't take pounds Sterling, I now have $1.42 on my American Express card.  The next day I was rerouted to Atlanta, Georgia, before being sent homeward.  Fourty-six hours all totaled!

And the hours traveling faded like dew on a sunny morning when my little three-year-old grandson rounded the corner of the kitchen and saw his Nana sitting on the kitchen floor playing with his cousin.  He looked like a young fawn startled in a thicket.  I raised my arms.  He ran and buried himself in my lap.  The journey... what journey?  That moment filled my heart, healed my aching body, and brought me fully home.

Please join me next week for Part II of "Home to Home" or "What I Did On My Christmas Vacation."  See you then.

Week 7 & 8 - Remembering

November 4th - It snowed during our early afternoon visit to the Rollright Stones in Long Compton, which is about halfway between Stratford Upon Avon and Oxford.  When visiting here in 2008 with a college class, it was just a little side trip, a blip in a well-planned theatre tour itinerary, a gift from a bus driver who thought we ought to see standing stones.  Yet it sparked an idea for a novel, which formed part of my application to Aberystwyth and is currently being completed for my PhD Thesis.  Our journey through life form a complex tapestry.

As I walked around the stones and counted them - the legend states that they cannot be counted three times with the same number - I was drawn to the magic of being in Wales and in England.  The very ground of the United Kingdom breathes myth, mystery, and magic.  NOTE:  These are two separate countries that form part of the UK!  As well as Scotland and Northern Ireland and there IS a great deal of national pride.  Do not refer to Wales as part of England - It's like saying Oregon is part of Texas!)

King Stone

 

Whispering Knights

Greeted with snow, rain, sodden ground, and a cold that penetrated our winter jackets, we retreated to the Crown and Cushion in Long Compton for lunch by the fireside. Again I was struck by the very British tradition of visiting.  One eats and then one sits and shares their life, thoughts, dreams, news, family, and self.  A table near us was filled with a collection of locals, raising a pint as they laughed and talked.   We in America rush through life with instant this and that.  What shall we remember at journey's end?  I take more time now to see, to listen, and to enjoy.  

After lunch, a warm sit within the cozy atmosphere of C & C's pub, and clearing skies, we journeyed back and visited The King Stone and were delighted to find David Gosling’s newly placed art installation, the witch who tradition says turned the king and his men to stone.  Our photo fairy was working overtime as we got just the right angle to see the witch look eerily out of the branches that compose her body.  

The Whispering Knights are across the road from the King Stone and a field away from the King's Men stone circle.  It is said that you can hear your future if you listen quietly to the whispers of the Knights.  Evidently the legend holds, as the fallen stone in front was liberally peppered with coin of the realm from pence to pound.

Late that night, we watched the Cotswold Druids perform their Samhain Ceremony, circling the stone with drum and rattles.  Calling for the four portals to be opened, they honored their kindred dead, shared refreshment, and danced beneath the cloud covered sky.  Researching, I sat unobtrusively on a fallen stone and watched three female Druids dance with fairy lights to what sounded like a medieval rendition of "My Lady Sleeps."  Eerie, haunting and beautiful.

British Sky

Week 8 was taken up in intense classes back on campus, while I tried to unpack the impressions of the Druidic celebration and to convert emotion into text, imbuing words with the magical setting I had witnessed, and trying to remember, to capture, and to give form to the gift of this experience.

The colors are changing and this past week-end was spent just outside of London with new friends, a road trip of colors and comraderie.  I was introspective as I thought of the passing of life, remembering my loved ones who have passed the portals of mortality, combined with the joy of the present as I see my two newest grands learn to crawl and my first grandchild accept a mission call to Brazil... at 4 AM... on Skype.  Life is good.  

London LDS Temple Grounds

Remember to live, to love, to witness life.  One of my daughters gave me the gift of a song years ago.  It is by Leeann Womack, "I Hope You Dance."  I'd like to recommend the lyrics to you... "... and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."  See you on the dance floor.

 

Week 6 - In Being Different, We Are The Same

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by

demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die,

it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other,

we may even become friends.

Maya Angelou 

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/travel.html#HyCYYFCOvILyizgV.99  

Mile Post

Aberystwyth Train Depot

Travel, it is said, expands one horizons.  It does.  The train station at Aberystwyth transports one not only to parts north and then across the UK but it also pleases the eye and enlivens the imagination.  Yet those who live here, just see it as Aber with the glass-sided building being merely a second hand shop or Charity Shop as it is called here, rather than a repository of human stories.  I feel I've stepped back in time and would be unsurprised by a horse and buggy clip-clopping down the street.  It is becoming more than quaint.  It is becoming comfortable.  The sign post above, I pass by on my way to classes.

Language can be a bit of a barrier.  The neighbor referred the other day to a person being "turfed out."  Immediately golf course came to mind.  Must have been the look on my face as an explanation quickly followed that they had been evicted.  Teaching "your grannie to suck eggs" is to try to do the impossible.  I felt, however, that this expression translated pretty straight across when asked by a professor in class if I knew to what he was referring.  We all laughed.

What perhaps doesn't translate is distance.  In the US, at least in Oregon, we think nothing of visiting Portland and returning in the same day.  Approximately 90 miles away, it takes an hour fifty minutes to two hours each way.  This past Sunday found me on the way to Merthyr Tidfyl (Mur tha Tid vil), a journey of under 50 miles as the crow flies; however, crows did not design the roads.  Sheep did.  It was just over two hours when we arrived and it was said that we made excellent time.  There are A roads and B roads and motor ways.  It is difficult to upgrade to wider roads as porch steps often front the existing roads.  From Aber one must travel east for an hour so that one can travel north and south.  It is one of the prices for living in another place in time.  I for one enjoyed the ride and provided great entertainment to the others by exclaiming over hedgerows, sheep, and general terrain; and the fact that, when we arrived, there was actually a water cooler.  "Jan, you are hilarious."  "Well, it's the first one I've seen in Wales."  It was.  The Welsh do not have water coolers in their buildings.  The water comes in separate faucets sporting either frigid or scalding water (it actually steams coming out) and never the taps shall meet.  I can now wash my face but it is a process involving great timing.  When I asked about this, the estate keeper explained that having a joined faucet was a bit unsanitary; but that in the newer, posh homes, it appeared to be catching on.

 The first time I went to the market to get eggs, I couldn't find them.  When I asked, I was told to turn around for the eggs were right there on the shelf.  "Oh," I continued.  "I mean the real ones.  The refrigerated ones."  I consider myself moderately intelligent but that is not the look I received.  "Eggs are not refrigerated," I was told.  I wondered how all of the UK was not dead.  They don't refrigerate them when they get them home either.  They vaccinate their chickens against salmonella.  Clever.  After two weeks, the eggs were still quite good.  However, old habits won out and the new batch are now safely stored in the refrigerator.

Bacon is called rashers.  American bacon is called streaky bacon because it has so much fat in it.  The students, who have spent time in the US, love our crispy bacon and wish it was easier to purchase here.  I, however, love rashers.  Less fat and the flavor is amazing.  I've used it as a base for a bean stew as well as for potato soup and in a sudo-German potato salad.  Lovely.  Just lovely.

Tonight I try to make a lamb stew.  Wish me luck for I've never done it before.


Outside my window there is a cacophony of gwacks each morning.  I've been trying to figure out how to reproduce/spell the sound of these birds and that is the closest I've come so far.  I've been told that they are crows but they don't really look like and certainly don't sound like American crows.  Can crows have accents?

Further research reveals that they are actually Rooks, a member of the crow family.  Many have left the area but when I arrived there were swarms  which worked like a perfect alarm clock each morning.  I was sorry to see their numbers diminish with the departing leaves.

Fall color, drifting leaves, wind singing in the eaves comfort and lull me to sleep each night.  I do miss my laundry at home but, in spite, of sore muscles, I'm beginning to enjoy the pace, the walking to do laundry, check out a book at the library, learning to read a bus schedule; but mostly finding that people are kind.  They want your stay at Aber to be enjoyable and go out of their way to help a stranger.  The bus driver is Barry.  The librarian is Joy.  I'm beginning to fit, to breathe, and to mentally unpack... which is a good thing.
 

“Not all those who wander are lost.” — J. R. R. Tolkien http://exploreforayear.com/inspiration/55-quotes-travel

Week Two - Journey in Fairyland

October 1, 2012

Just east of Aberystwyth/University of Wales, a steam train stops at a reasonably level station - Wales consists of hills that go on forever.  It was only, however, a short walk to Devil's Bridge and Mynach Falls.

 There you will find three bridges.  The first was built by the monks of Strata Florida in Medieval times.  In the early 1700's the second bridge was built and in the Twentieth Century the third, a wider bridge for cars, was completed as the topmost bridge.  One can easily drive or walk across the narrow ravine oblivious to the hidden jewels that lie beneath the triple span.  Corroding iron turnstiles on either side of the road mark the way down.  Don't let the antiquity of the gates fool you.  It's still ₤2 to enter.

There is, of course, the name and the myth, which I will recount in my own words...  

In ancient time an old woman lost her cow on the far side of the river and was bemoaning her loss and how she could reclaim her property when a man appeared and offered a most miraculous proposition.  He would build a sturdy bridge over the torrent during the coming night but she would have to agree that the first living thing to cross would be his.  Wishing her cow back in her possession, the old woman agreed, turned, and journeyed to her home.  As the night wore on, she reconsidered the bargain she had struck; however, her need to reclaim her cow overcame her concerns as to how the man might accomplish all he offered.  The next morning, she rose, wrapped a loaf of bread in her skirt, and accompanied by her dog followed her way back to the river to find a fully completed stone bridge with her cow standing just on the other side.  It was truly amazing.  The woman, however, had not become old by being foolish.  She approached the bridge, unwrapped the loaf and threw it across the expanse.  Her dog joyfully ran to the other side of the bridge to gather his treat and disappeared.  The Devil, for such was the man, stormed and stamped his feet for the dog was the first living thing to cross the bridge and he had lost the woman's soul in spite of his cunning hard work.  It is said that the old woman and all who came after have used the bridge undisturbed, as the Devil, shamed at being outwitted by an old woman, was never seen in these parts again.

Built by medieval monks or the Devil, himself, to peer over the rail of the topmost bridge, the view is daunting.  There are two trails - a long and a short - both treacherous to say the least and one must choose based on how adventurous they feel.  The short trail, pictured here, takes only 10-15 minutes and, wanting to take my time and explore, I chose this one and was greatly rewarded by nearly unbroken solitude and a chance to stop, sit, listen, and write - pages of pent up emotions that softened the bands that bound grief and fear within my heart.  I wandered the trail, sat repeatedly to write, inhaled the green of Wales, the magic, the wonder, the eternal nature of the water as it swirled in the punchbowl and forced its path through the narrow divided cliff faces.  A newly turned autumn leaf floated down and with a soft but audible scritch landed on my open journal.  "Hello, mom," I murmured.  I could feel her joy that I was here in this place; and bittersweet, I knew that part of her joy was the renewed companionship of my father, who recently joined her on the other side of eternity.

Healing was not the only jewel I added to my collection of memories and wonders during my hour on the slate stairs.  The sound of fairies was in the rush of the torrent, the rustle and bite of the Welsh wind in the tree tops, and the sight that met my eyes around a bend in the path forced me to stop.  This was truly an enchanted place.

I had just framed a scene in my iPhone when I very nearly dropped it.  Peeking over the top, I questioned the play of light, a trick to my eyes.  Could I be seeing what I thought I saw?  Buried beneath the varied flora, I saw... what?  You tell me - a sleeping dragon, nose almost touching the iron rail that guarded the path to the falls.  I walked back and forth, peered into the depthless eyes, and finally in wonder touched the outstretched snout in blessing.   

     

Imagination is a powerful thing.  I had come on the student trip wishing only to see some of Wales, to overcome my fear of travelling alone, and disappointment that my husband could not yet join me as planned.  Instead, I found childlike wonder as I stood between worlds - the beauty of our Father's creation and His gift of imagination.  Until next time, I will continue to follow my path where it leads.

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat… how about a burning car?

(Excerpt from The Deplorable Child by Jan Nerenberg)

Mothers, usually, are not deplorable. They are all things to their children: Chief-cook and bottle-washer, doctor, lawyer, counselor, nurse, taxi driver, cheerleader, dryer of tears, mender of tears, etc.  The list goes on… forever.  In fact, she almost walks on water, just ask any florist on the second Sunday in May.

However, and in spite of the above facts, including innumerable school plays and endless Little League games, track meets, and basketball games, I’m a slacker.  I’ve missed performances and milestones in the lives of my multitudinous progeny.  I admit it.

There was the time our oldest asked for a ride to his high school.  I complied and upon arrival, commented on the packed parking lot.  “It’s nothing, mom.  Just a simple concert.  No big deal,” he said as he exited the car.  Upon arrival home, he had a plaque tucked under his arm.  “How’d it go?”  “Just fine,” he replied as he put his award for 2^nd Chair in the Violin Section on the coffee table.  See!  Deplorable.  Out of touch.  In fact, I had no idea it was the culmination event of his year!

Then there was the black full-length gown I crafted for our youngest daughter.  “Do you want to be a chaperone?” she asked after the concert I DID attend at the local high school.  Hmmm, on a bus with half a gazillion teenagers on a two-hour bus trip each way to hear the same concert?  I declined the honor.  Wrong move.  As I graduated years later from Pacific University, I discovered that my daughter’s high school group had not only qualified for the state playoffs but they had performed on Pac U’s stage all those years ago.  Oblivious to the obvious.

Slow, but I do learn.  I’ve turned over a new leaf.  I try to attend as many historic events in the lives of my children as possible but the fates aren’t always with me.  Case in point, our youngest son’s doctoral graduation.

We are in the winding up stages of reclaiming our home from a 3000-gallon internal flood, getting ready to install lights, preparing an apartment for said son and family, and answering to half a dozen sub-contractors daily.  I set my alarm for just past 7 AM, showered, checked in with the work crew, helped my husband find his missing hearing aid and left for Corvallis at 9:30.  Only a half hour late but I had scheduled an extra hour to account for emergencies.  I always do this, as there is always something!

All was well as we left Astoria.  The car shuddered as we climbed Clatskanie hill.  I prayed.  The motor smoothed out.  I breathed.  We continued.  In Woodland, Washington, the shudder was back.  I was afraid that if we stopped we would never start again, but my husband, bless his decision, pulled into a gas station.  I exited the car as smoke spiraled into the air when he lifted the hood.  The smoke was quickly followed by erupting flames.  I don’t know what possessed me but I grabbed my purse and phone from the now burning car.  Truly deplorable behavior.

A helpful attendant extinguished the flames and wanted to file an incident report until his boss showed up and suggested that we move the car as far away from his station as possible, pointing out that car fires and gas pumps do not make good neighbors.  He directed us to a car repair/dealership, three blocks down the road.  That’s when we met Julie (see epilogue).

By now I was near hysterics.  Could I rent a taxi to drive the remaining 100 miles?  How about helicopter, Lear jet, police escort?  Once more I had failed. 

I tearfully called our daughter-in-law and explained our predicament.  She said they understood, she was glad we were okay, said the kids were already cranky, and don’t stress.  Our son parked he was driving and called, saying repeatedly that it was okay and not my fault.  I kept thinking I should have somehow known how to prevent this.  He downplayed the importance of the ceremony – it’s only a piece of paper, no big deal.

By now I was gulping for air.  Yes, I am a bit of a drama queen.  (Gad, I can’t believe I just admitted that in print.)  Nevertheless, he told us to return home; they would videotape the entire proceedings.  We could celebrate together on Sunday, his birthday.  My crying slowed a bit.

“Mom,” his voice cut through my clouded thoughts.  “I know you are proud of me.  You tell me all the time.  You are a good mother and it’s okay.”

I sniffed.  An errant thought ran through my head. “Well, at least I was there and on time for your birth.”

Silence.  And then… laughter. 

“Dang good thing,” he chuckled.

Yes, laughter in the face of adversity is good.  I might be a deplorable mom for many reasons but at least I was front and center to birth each of our eight children.

Epilogue:  Julie of Woodland’s Lewis River Motor Company gave us a loaner car and although we arrived halfway through the Oregon State ceremony, we were able to watch our son, Nathan, walk across the stage and receive his PharmD diploma.  God places good people in the world.

 

Congratulations, Dr. Nerenberg

Announcing: American Athenaeum

Friend, cohort and co-creator of The Marran Group, Hunter Liguore is now launching American Athenaeum, a literary journal. It will contain "a variety of fiction and poetry, along with regular columns that run the gamut of American arts. We consider this journal to be a museum of artistic endeavors, filled with cultural appreciation and stories that not only teach, but demonstrate the frailty of the human condition" - http://www.swordandsagapress.com/

I will be managing editor for the YA issue (Young Adult) so sharpen your pens or pencils and/or computers and submit to: http://www.swordandsagapress.com/American-Athenaeum.php

Just look for Submission Manager and choose. AA offers many venues: Japan Tribute, Speculative Fiction, YA, Community, Compassion, and a General Issue. You can also submit to 1 Bookshelf, reviews, and several other categories on Hunter's site.

This is an exciting new opportunity for writers, young and old, new and established. We look forward to hearing from you.

Word-Wright: Keep Paper and Pen Handy

To say it was frigid was an understatement given the allowance that low thirties on the upper Oregon Coast is tooth-rattling, bone-chilling, bitter cold. Add to this that there is no longer a back to my home and that the newly dug basement is currently open-air and occasionally resembles an old fashioned swimming hole.

However, it was the construction workers that had me in stitches, and there I stood without my handy, dandy little notebook. I finally gave up and tore off part of a paper bag, found a flat builder's pencil on the floor, scraped the mud off, and began to write as fast as I could.

When offered a garden rake to move around gravel, one worker declined, stating, "The bigger the tool, the harder you have to work." This quip, among others that will appear in the picture book to come, was funny as the person speaking was one of the hardest working men I've ever met. It was also funny on different levels but I won't go there at this time.

The point is that I now have a piece of torn bag with three quotes, one of which is not exactly printable on this site, that offer me insight into men on the job, blue-collar camaraderie, not to mention memories of a fun albeit cold afternoon. Quotes which I wouldn't have if I'd tried to remember them all. A pocket notebook is invaluable to a writer. It is a second brain, a pocket brain if you will. The next thing you need is a pen. I almost had withdrawal on a plane over the weekend when my favorite pen ran dry.

Remember that the shortest pencil truly has the longest memory!

Right - How we make purchases affects us all

Attention Readers: Please read: "Amazon Should Partner with Independent Book Stores" by Sarah Green in the Harvard Business Review. The web site/article can be found here: http://blogs.hbr.org/hbr/hbreditors/2011/12/amazon_should_partner_with_ind.html

Brilliant idea and one that has potential. Rather than "I'm in this world for what I can get" or "He who dies with the most toys wins" logic, it points a light on being in the world for "the us/collective" and reminds me a bit of Oriental logic.

Western thinking is notorious for planning for "now," thinking in terms of weeks, months, years at the longest. A burger and fries takes 6.5 minutes, a law suit takes three years, a pregnancy lasts 9 months (or 10 lunar cycles), most schooling takes twelve years, buying a stamp (well, perhaps that's not a good example), etc. The wisdom of the Far East is perhaps found in its patience. They make plans based on generations. Life is a subtle game of chess, a give and take, ebb and flow.

As a student, mother of many, and grandmother of many more, I am an Amazon buyer but also an occasional local book store buyer. Lucy's Books, Godfather's Books and the new kid on the block - Amazing Stories are small but vital to our community in Astoria, Oregon.

And now to my confession as a writer and avid reader. I have often turned to Amazon when a local store did not have what I wanted right now in spite of their heartfelt offers to have it in two or three days. Where was my logic when I'd trot home and order on Amazon, rounding out the order to $25 to get free shipping, saving a dollar or two on the first book, and then waiting a week to get my order? What was I thinking?

If we lose our local independent book stores, we lose more jobs in an already dwindling economy. There is a word for this when it reaches critical mass. It's called "ghost town." The locals have gone out of business, the infrastructure collapses, people move away, quality and diversity slide into oblivion, and the we/collective suffer in the end.

What gives me the right to say these things? Experience. I once owned a retail business and sold electronics or "brown goods" as we called them. We'd, of course, purchase from the wholesalers who in turn bought from the manufacturers. Then the "big box" stores came into existence and offered prime deals to the wholesalers - "We'll buy 10,000 of these but you have to sell it to us for a dollar less." The wholesalers were in hog heaven. The independents began to leave when in the following years the big box stores bought more but demanded the wholesalers receive less. Our personal critical mass hit when we drove to a local big box store to fill an order for a client because the big box price was lower than we, as an independent retailer, could buy from our wholesaler. Death knell - the wholesalers were cut out when the mega stores began to buy directly from the manufacturer. Many of the independents also went under as they could no longer compete.

Okay, rant over but I do hope I've got you thinking. When you make your next purchase, what are you saving? Who are you saving? What do you want your world to look like? Perhaps as Sarah Green suggests there is a middle ground, a merging of independent business with the convenience of the Internet, a joining of philosophies, perhaps a chance at a win/win situation.

Autumn Upon Us

The cusp of a leaf danced in mid-air outside my window. Curious, I watched it float away only to return. It must be bound to a strand of spider web I reasoned, but where did the ends lead. It had to be attached to something. As if an alien craft, it went out and left, slid right and back. I held my breath as it stopped and hung motionless. Impossible. A stray breeze caught and broke whatever tenuous control the tiny curl possessed and whirled it away, dancing, tumbling, magical.

Musing, I went about my morning, organizing items from my flood damaged home, cleaning, boxing, tossing out damaged goods. I found a dusty picture only to stay my hand from the discard pile. I shook off the dusty coating and discovered my parents smiling back at me. Save. Definitely save.

On the way to the laundry I stepped outside onto the side porch. A yellow leaf drifted past, bright against a rare blue sky. In moments I was caught in the exhilaration of a leaf storm. Fall - upon us. Is it named fall because gravity pulls life back into itself, prepares for wintry blankets, garnering strength for the coming spring and the promise of new life rising. I stood in awe in the midst of maelstrom; my hair flew about my face in the chill breeze.

A trip East last winter caught me in a blizzard of epic proportions and I learned a new word for snowstorm – thunder snow and recently snowicane. Lovely. How we humans love to name things. Perhaps Adam’s divine injunction is encoded in our very genetic fabric. What would I call the falling leaves? Leaf frolic. Zephyr waltz. Tatters adrift. Perhaps… Fall cascade of color?

It was a silent phenomenon, as regular as the seasons. Breathtaking. This dance performed each year since the dawn of time. The miracle was in the observation, a moment to observe the earth spinning on its axis, circling the sun, the galaxy flowing through time. A single woman standing on a porch observing a shower of fall color fly past, paving the way for an unknown future.

What would you call it?

Scheduling writing... just another habit

Do you schedule your writing? Do you get your writing done or like 90% of "writers" do you stories stay in your head, materializing between waking and sleeping only to dissolve when your eyes open in the morning - that great idea becoming a distant and increasingly fuzzy dream.

Suggestions for creating a daily habit.

1) Keep a notebook by the side of your bed. I started doing this as a child and although the light flipping on and off may cause grumblings from the other side of one's bed, that scathingly brilliant idea remains in black on white when you open your eyes to dawn's early light.

2) Do you keep a morning journal? Perhaps one in the evening? A pocket/purse notebook that can be accessed easily to jot down ideas, inspirations, a new word, a single line from an overheard conversation that set your creative juices flowing. A quote by Mark Twain comes to mind - “The dullest pencil is better than the sharpest memory.”

3) How about timed writings? I set and recommend 20 minutes daily but sometimes I've only time for ten. Ten minutes of writing is 100% more than just thinking about writing.

4) Set up a file folder on your desk top (I've got three currently covering three genres) and then rotate between manuscripts as the mood fits. I get bored easily, love variety, and working hard. I love lists and ticking off the things I have to do. I get depressed when "I" don't make it onto the list of things that need to be done in a given day. As wife, mother, geriatric caregiver, business owner, project manager, CFO, mentor, researcher, editor, and friend (to name a few hats), my writing is often relegated to the back seat.

I now understand why Jane Austen was so prolific - she had no modern conveniences, children, or ran multiple businesses. But the reality is that we all live in today's world and face today's challenges. We have to decide what we will do with the 24 hours granted to us each day.

If we carve out ten minutes before getting out of bed in the morning, write while eating a sandwich at lunch, take a break or leave your journal on top of the magazines in the loo, jot down ideas in a waiting room, commuting (do not write or text if you are driving), or perhaps scribble a few notes the last thing before lights out, you will have accomplished 3650 minutes of writing in the course of a year. That's 53 hours of writing!

The best part is that over time, the idea of writing joins the ranks of brushing one's teeth and eating. It becomes second nature. It becomes a habit, an old friend, something that you just do and when done regularly, you begin to fill your own emotional well, become a happier person, and ultimately accomplish what you've only dreamed of for years.

Quotes, Words, and Feelings

I love quotes. As a calligrapher, I have a small sign on my office desk. It says merely, "Write moonlight." Two words yet it evokes a depth of feeling on so many levels.

Moonlight on a still lake, surrounded by dark woods. Tatters of cloud part, revealing a reflection - green mirrored eyes gleam within the impassable bramble.

"The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding..." (The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes) a longtime favorite of mine. I read it aloud to my children and cried in the telling every time. In spite of my emotion, it was one of their favorites.

Fairies dancing in the moonlight, the yellow harvest moon, Indian moon, a fishing moon, moon ring/fairie circle. Moon, Diana, Luna. Thought to bring on lunacy if slept under, moonlight has always been mysterious.

Today take 5 minutes and write "moonlight." Keep writing. Let your thoughts wander. Free associate. What feelings, adjectives, adverbs, nouns flow from your imagination as moonlight spills across your page?

Making time for writing

From the Kaisen Plan (http://smallstepstobigchange.com/), I recently visited this webpage and was pleased with what I found. Lynn's insights are life changing. My response on Lynn's FAC page.

Lynn: After reading and posting on your site, I did some serious soul searching, changed some things and just added the following as a post on my writer's group.

So... I'm not writing. I keep asking myself, "What's wrong?" I'm getting bunches of "stuff" done every day - living between home office and an RV, meeting with contractors to finally begin work on home restoration, a small surgery, running a business, mail, bills, balancing check books, husband surgeries, being POA on a failing aunt and uncle, yada yada yada... living life but not writing. Then I visited a website a fellow writer(http://skytalewriter.blogspot.com) mentioned: The Kaisen Plan (an Oriental word for "continuous improvement" @ http://smallstepstobigchange.com/

Over the past week, I've asked myself some serious questions. Why is everything more important than my writing? Why don't "I" make it on my list of "To Do Today"?"

I began adding in 10 minute increments of writing and felt ... amazing. Then I pondered my life-style and how I really enjoy working. I enjoy working hard. I remembered that when I did my undergrad work, I did a triple. Yes, you heard right - a triple: art, creative writing and literature. Okay so with eight children, it's a lifestyle now. Not so much a choice.

I needed something more. I rearranged my gmail folder and put "A Writer" filefolder at the head of the list. It's a constant reminder that I am a writer and a reminder that writers write every day. Next I set up two additional Scrivener projects and keep them on my desktop. My YA fiction - "The Questing Pearl;" my non-fiction novel- "The Deplorable Child;" and my craft book - "Right, Write, and Wordwright."

Guess what? I'm writing every day. I'm feeling better, more in balance, more creative. I was trying to pare down life when all I needed to do was balance the scales.

Thanks, Lynn. You remind me of an old adage: When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.