Windsongs of the Heart

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T07:37:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should update my blog since I last wrote. It is, after all, Christmas Eve. The NaNo event long over. I finished just before Thanksgiving, came back and wrote a few thousand more words and then the bottom dropped out. This is my second Christmas without my Paul. Last year, he died and was buried just before Christmas. Two of my daughter's were with me through the Holidays and it was so busy, so much to do, and with all of us trying not to stress the other over losing their dad, my husband, we did put up the tree for a few days and reminisced.

This year I'm totally on my own. The first three weeks of December this year, I shut down completely. I buried my head in the sand so to speak, hoping not to have to go through this experience. About a week ago, just passed the 1st anniversary of his passing, I came out of my fog. I went to the cemetery, laid a rose on his grave. It was a most dismal day, weather-wise, until we neared the National Willamette Cemetery, which sits on a hill up past Portland. There the sun was shining and it was near 50 degrees. It was a wonderful moment of sun and blue skies up on that hill, overlooking Washington across the Columbian River. The air was so clear we could easily see three snow capped volcano peaks. Mt. St. Helen, nearest, Mt. Rainier just to the right, and then more to the right, Mt. Adams. As soon as we left, however, the sun moved on and we were back in the dismal fog and dark, log hanging clouds. My spirits had been lifted, not just for that brief moment in time, but the sunshine, even though otherwise still dark and dreary most of the week, has remained in my heart.

I never put up my tree or decorations. I fully intended to, but as each day passed, I talked myself out of it. No matter, I do have gobs of cards placed on all exposed pieces of furniture, and dozens of Christmas goodies. I won't be able to eat them all and everyone that comes by I pawn off a few samples here and there. I did put out red end-table mats and some red and white candy dishes and a pair of birds in winter garb and wearing ice skates. The mats, red candy dishes, and the skating birds I bought new this year.

The last two weeks I've attended church. That helped. Tomorrow we'll have the Bell Choir as part of the Christmas program again. I'm looking forward to that.

I've been rising early in the morning and pretty much staying up most of the day. Yesterday was a long day, as I never seemed to be able to nap. But when I laid my head down to sleep, I was asleep within minutes.

I've returned to where I left off drafting the novel for NaNao—Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend. It feels good to write again. And today I just intend to write, work on my scrunchies. Later I will open the presents I received and have some low-fat eggnog. I'm watching out for my gall bladder. So nibbling will be at a minimum.

Merry Christmas family, friends, and all….

2011-10-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

Has a year gone by already? Is it really going to be November 1st the dayafter tomorrow? Yes, and that means I've signed up to participate in anotheryear of the frenzied National Novel Writing Month. Beginning November 1st, justafter midnight Monday night, I will start drafting the next novel in theMallard River Bend Murder series. This will be number three in the series. Deadin the Water at Mallard River Bend, A Campground Murder Mystery.

I'm excited and a bit melancholy at the same time. Just eleven short daysafter I finished last year's NaNo draft, I lost my husband to Kidney failure.It's been a hard year for me, and even though I'm looking forward to writingthis draft, I'm may not be moving through it as fast as I usually do. Mycampground aficionado will not be here to cheer me on and answer endlessquestion on campground equipment, cars, boats, etc. My easy-answer-man is outof range. That means more research.

I'm usually much further along in my pre-writing preparations by now. But I'mokay. I've got enough research and profiling done to at least get startedwriting. Dead in the Water is going to be a Father's Day Fiasco at Spit andDolly's campground. Lots of things will be happening, including a couple ofmurders.

Wish me good writing days ahead. I'll be busy for the next thirty dayspounding keys, staying up late, and sleeping late. This year I've added a pink sequinedcap to my writing tokens. I'll disappear into my writing cave with Glorian, mywriting cave-dragon, wearing my flashy pink cap while I let go of my mind andcreate another make-believe world of mayhem and disaster.

For those moments that I am in the real world, I'll still be buildinginventory for Christmas on my Etsy Shop site. Watch the sidebar for new itemscoming up. This will be a test to me to see if I can keep up crafting inventoryfor my shop and spend the necessary hours at the computer to reach my goal of50,000 plus words by the end of November.

Use It or Lose It

2011-07-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

I've found it very hard to get back to blogging in the past seven months. Even though I'm still grieving my forever friend and companion, I feel a little more alert, relaxed, and trying to enjoy the memories my hubby left for me to enjoy and remember him by until we meet again. Now, if I could just learn to sleep again...

So, between a new venture, crocheting beaded scrunchie for ponytails, fancy scrunchies, on my Etsy.com/shop/DeesFancies, I've managed to get my little dirt patch out front cleaned up and replanted. We've had one or two days of summer so far and here it is the middle of July and we've dipped back down to springtime temps with some summer rain showers off and on.

This is my garden for now. I had to replant some flowers, and they haven't had a chance to take hold and prosper yet. As you can see, I've downsized quite a bit. Less to water on hot days. Which we haven't really had yet.

4th of July Blues Hair Scrunchie

2011-06-08T04:28:00.000-07:00

4th of July Blues

Still working on 4th of July scrunchies. This one is royal blue with the red, white and blue seed bead mix. Size large (2 inch elastic). See details on my Etsy shop, Dee's Fancies--here

U S of A Hair Scrunchie (Large--2 inch elastic)

2011-06-06T02:41:00.000-07:00

U S of A

Much like the Red, White and Blue scrunchie posted previously, but in a large size. The beads are larger also. To learn more, go to my Etsy shop here. More on the 4th of July theme coming up.

Feeling Patriotic? Red, White, and Blue Hair Scrunchie

2011-06-04T03:34:00.000-07:00

Red, White, and Blue

Small (1 inch elastic)

For that picnic, parade, or just shopping, dress your hair in Red, White, and Blue for that patriotic spirit in you.

This one is size small (1 inch elastic) Working on a large (2 inch elastic) that should be up in a day or two.

Come on over to my Etsy shop and see whats available.

Baby's Breath Hair Scrunchie

2011-06-03T01:04:00.000-07:00

Delicate Pink Hair Scrunchie

Handmade in the USA. Soft pink with transparent pink glass beads. Cotton crochet thread No. 10.
Check out my Etsy site here for more colors and sizes.

Ronny's New Love and Goodbye--

2011-03-12T15:35:00.000-08:00

By the middle of summer, Ronny was doing beautifully with weight, appetite, and personality. He was definitely coming into his own personality.

His favorite food was still Kibbles and Bits but his new loves were red grapes and Chips Ahoy cookies.

There had come a day, or rather I should say a night, where Ronny wouldn't be put away in his cage, no matter what the bribe. So, he was a big boy now, and I figured, it's time. He's old enough to stay in the trees if he chooses.

Well, he just had to choose the largest tree we had and the scariest to climb down. Several times after dark we took the blue Chips Ahoy bag and stood under the tree shaking it and calling for him. With the aid of the flashlight we could tell where he was, but the look on his face said two things: I'm having a great time up here and I'm not budging, and oh, yes. Cookies! But he stuck by his first resolution and that was to stay in the tree all night, alone. Finally, about midnight, we gave up and left him alone. We had a terrible summer storm that night. Heavy rain, thunder and lightning. I was worried sick the whole night. His cage was outside my bedroom window and I listened for him all night. But to no avail.

The next morning I checked the tree and there he was. A little wet, a little frightened, and very eager to come down. I shook the cookie bag and he started down headfirst. I think that was a mistake on our part for not teaching him which way to come down from a monster tree. He'd get about halfway and stop, whimper, and then go back up. I'd shake the bag and call some more. Finally, after a few more tries, he got to that crucial curve in the tree, and as though he'd known all along that headfirst was wrong, he turned himself around and exited feet first. As soon as his feet hit the ground he lumbered over to me and up into my arms. Eating cookies as fast as I could pull them from the bag.

That was the turning point in Ronny's life. He never went back in his cage. He slept in the trees or on top of his cage, and although it worried us, he was always there at the door come morning—ready for his Kibbles and Bits.

I had to leave him alone one day. Which meant I was gone for hours and he couldn’t find me. My reward for leaving him was a torn open back screened door and a raccoon curled up between the doors with a silly, "It's me!" grin on his sly little face.

One other time he tore open the front screen door from the top and climbed down between the doors and took a nap. Needless to say, I had to rescreen both doors.

Hubby's job was coming to a close. The campground had found a replacement for him, and me, and we needed to move into town. We found a house and started packing. It was sad because instead of going out and playing with Ronny, I had to teach him to follow me to the woods.

Due to a camera operator malfunction, I had lost a whole roll of pictures on my camera—all the last pictures of my now forty-pound furball with hands and teeth. So you'll have to imagine a very large, very heavy raccoon in my arms with his little hands wrapped around my neck. That was the one thing I couldn't get enough of, Ronny hugs, and playing with his tiny little fingers. They were so soft, so delicate, and, at times, very imploring. He still squawked like a baby when things didn't go his way. Especially as he got to be a hefty lump. But he was a good boy. Not once did he snarl or hiss, or try to take a bite of any of us. Total trust between both species. After all, we and the cats were his best buddies, his family.

So now I spent the last week we had at the country house taking Ronny for walks in the woods, showing him the stream, rotted logs, and stones to turn over. When he was younger we had carried him to the woods and tried to show him things, but he didn't want to eat anything that crawled or swam. That worried me a little then. I wanted him to be able to find food on his own, but he didn't seem to care. Now that he was older he seemed more interested to rummage through the leaf litter and dabble in the stream. Yet each time we went on our foraging trips, he'd follow me back to the deck and ate his bowl of Kibbles and Bits, maybe have a few grapes, and always a handful of Chips Ahoy.

I was running out of time. I had to leave in two days. The house would be empty and there would be no one there to feed him—take him in their arms and get "Ronny hugs." There was no rescue help among old-time farm-ville. He was just a pesky raccoon. So this had to work or not. There wasn't anything else I could do.

We had gone for our usual walk that afternoon and he dutifully followed me into the depths of the woods. I sat with him by the stream, talked to him, while he rooted around turning things over. Then I stood up and started back, he followed of course, but then when we got to the edge of the woods this time, he stopped.

I turned, said goodbye, then went on. He stayed where he was for a few moments more then turned and disappeared into the high grass and bramble at the edge of the woods. That night I left his bowl on the deck. It was untouched by morning. The next night I did the same. Still untouched. I dared not go back to the woods to check on him. He had made the choice on his own. It was as if he knew we were leaving and he couldn't go. As if he knew, he was finally big enough and strong enough that he could live without Kibbles and Bits and Chips Ahoy.

I knew he knew where home was, but even after I had spent my final day there, and checked back with people from the campground from time to time, he had never, to anyone's knowledge, returned to the house. Ever pray for an animal to make it on his own? I did. And often.

You can imagine that it did my heart good the following spring to learn that Ronny had made the transition. He had conquered the winter snows, was thriving and often visited a couple of picnic tables at the far reaches of the campground for a handout. At the same time, that was a worrisome bit of knowledge. Ronny wasn't afraid of humans, and if anything happened to him because of no fear, I'd have been guilty of a terrible crime. Letting a wild thing bond with you is something we all do when we come across a motherless little beast. We naturally want to raise it up. Love it and have it love us back.

Would I do it again? I'd have to think about it for about thirty-seconds, but I'd still take that, tiny, orphaned, baby raccoon up in my arms and do what I did for Ronny all over again. Only I'd know a few things about raising a raccoon this time.

To this day I like to think that Ronny had matured and had found a girlfriend. That somewhere out there, there were bunches of little Ronny's running about in the trees and lumbering through the campground at night, looking for mischief.

Ronny Raccoon

Spring and summer of 1993

Note: Now that I've introduced Ronny to you, from time to time, I will write short stories about his side of the story from the time he chose to return to the wild.

Ronny Gets Moved Outdoors

2011-03-11T19:15:00.000-08:00

Ronny was larger now. Summer was upon us and Ronny was in need of a true outside experience.

His antics had increased to non-stop. Keeping up with him in the house was a chore. He was also becoming very nocturnal. Nighttime was now investigation time.

So we built a new cage. One that would sit on our deck, near the back door, where he would stay day and night. But he was rarely in his cage. Most of the time he was following me around getting into things.

In the evenings, when hubby and daughter were home Ronny joined us outside his cage, running up and down little trees, squashing the five kittens, who by coincidence were the same age as Ronny. Only smaller.

His favorite afternoon caper was to chase the kittens up a small tree and see how far out on a limb they would go. Ronny would only go so far out on a branch. I think he knew he was too heavy for the ends. But the kittens weren't and they would dangle from the ends of the young branches like Christmas tree ornaments on a windy day.

Another week and the kittens and Ronny were of one mind. Food and frolic. After a round of chasing, first Ronny after the kittens, then the kittens after Ronny, required a respite and a bite to eat. When they'd gotten their second wind, Ronny's next favorite stunt was to stand over the kittens and then flop down upon them, smashing the kittens under his belly. No harm done. The kittens loved it and would dart out from underneath him and then beg for more. When they got tired, they would scoot through the latticework under the deck, through holes that Ronny was a tad too big to get through.

Next we ended up with two outside cages for the deck. One of our neighbors had found a little girl raccoon about the same age as Ronny. She was found in a piece of outdoor furniture from a garage sale, after she had hitched a ride in a pickup.

Wild Willie (female)

We named her Willie. She was identical to Ronny but lighter in color. And WILD! It was hard to care for Willie because she was a vicious little soul. She used her sharp teeth and charging stance the way raccoons are supposed to. To protect themselves and frighten away prey.

Ronny would have loved nothing better than to be in the same cage with Willie. He was so friendly. But Willie was anything but friendly and when he tried to get close to her all he would get for his charm, was a slobbery hiss in his face. But that didn't stop him. He was just satisfied that he had a fellow member of his species nearby. Eventually, they played patty-fingers with their delicate little fingers between the wires of their cages.

Not long after that, the sun became too intense on the deck and their little cages were confining as both Ronny and Willie were growing literally inches a day. We built a tall cage for Ronny, four by five feet, and placed it in the shade of the oaks and next to a stand of lilac bushes. So no matter how hot the days got, they were comfortable.

We kept Willie in her smaller cage. We knew we would never be able to handle her. She was already imprinted by her mother. So we put her next to Ronny's new, larger cage and left her door open. She spent her days in the large oak trees above the house, but always came down to eat and sometimes sleep in her cage. It was the best we could do for her. Give her as much of ourselves as we could, but not interfere with her wild nature.

Willie hung around for several weeks, and then disappeared. My biggest worry was the road in front of our house.

In the meantime, Ronny continued to thrive.

Ronny's Progression

2011-03-09T22:10:00.000-08:00

Ronny progressed nicely that first week. Solid food was next on the list. We started trying to wean him from his bottle by introducing baby cereal. He wasn't too keen on that alone. Then we had the brilliant idea to add baby apricots. Bingo! He liked it, he really liked it!

Raccoons are not kin to cats. We found that out the hard way. You'd think, or dummies like myself would think, they were more cat like. All Ronny did with the bowl of yummy cat food was spread it around and play with it. Raccoons are more akin to dogs. They will eat anything really, but for a house pet with no market available for raccoon food, we tried Kibbles and Bits next. That turned out to be his favorite meal. As he grew, he ate every morsel.

We added a rabbit-style water bottle to his cage, mostly because putting a bowl of water in the cage with him at night was inviting mischief. With our first try at that, we discovered just how many things a raccoon uses those delicate little hands for. It took a bit for him to understand that the water in his cage was for drinking and not doing the laundry. After he got the hang of drinking from the hanging water thingy, it was time to get a larger cage.

When we were home we left Ronny out of his cage most of the day. His cage was still indoors—in the kitchen, but eventually, putting him to bed at night became more of a chore. He still had his bottle before bed, but if he wasn't ready to sleep or didn't want to alone, he cried like a baby. If we had done our job and sufficiently worn him out through the day, taking him on outings to the lake or just lumbering around the back yard with him, he didn't put up a fuss. It was when he felt he'd been put to bed too early that he threw a tantrum. We started covering his cage and that helped some, but not always. Ronny was into everything, but he was still baby enough to want to curl up in your arms or under the blanket with Amy and sleep.

He didn't run like a puppy, he lumbered. A cat or kitten, will sidle when playing. Watching Ronny perform his play stance was hilarious. I wish I had video camera, but I didn't. Stills don't do it justice, but his attack stance was much like a kitten, but with a bigger, higher butt.

Teaching Ronny to know things of the world, and how to find food, was paramount in preparing him to return to the wild at the end of summer. The one plaything Ronny got the most out of was the bathtub. We'd let the water trickle from the faucet into a water dish and he'd splash about until everything in the room was dampened. After one of our fishing trips, we filled the bathtub with a few inches of water and added some of the minnows that didn't get used. Thank goodness we had a large country bathroom with a claw tub, so we had plenty of room to enjoy the show that Ronny put on chasing the minnows and small fish.

Raccoons grow fast. From a tiny helpless little kit, those first few days, to a week later of climbing and running and washing everything in sight.

On nice days we took him outside with us. He'd follow after as fast as his little feet could carry him, then if he caught up he climbed up the side of a leg. He figured we were his trees those first few weeks. He loved the outdoors, especially when we turned the hose on and let it run.

When it was time to come inside, he'd squawk like a spoiled child. Once inside, dry and fed, he was happy again. Remember, raccoons don't run, they lumber. Their little buts high in the air. Charging is a skill they have to learn for life in the wild. So is washing their food. We never put the water bowl near his solid food. Well, it only took once to show us how un-smart that was. Soggy Kibbles and Bits aren't very tasty, nor easy to clean up after.

Coming up—Ronny moves outside....

You've Met Mike! Now Meet Ronny!

2011-03-08T01:51:00.000-08:00

Mike was a magical cat (stuffed cat really) with amazing eyes. He was adventurous and with the element of cyberspace, he has traveled most of the world. And, as his fans know, he's on an extended vacation with a little boy in a faraway place. Maybe someday, he'll come home with lots of stories to tell.

Ronny, on the other hand, is the real deal. Ronny came to us in an unusual place. Hubby and I were a management team for a camping-resort—a fancy name for a campground in the middle of nowhere.

We had originally lived in a park model inside the campground. After several years we moved into a house owned by the property on a hill at the edge of the woods. The entire campground was set deep in a deciduous forest, but we lived on the edge, overlooking the entire property.

In the spring of 1993, hubby was cutting some rotted trees that had to come down to protect the camping units near them. His father was out visiting and helping—giving direction as father's often do. One of the trees they felled had a mother and some baby raccoons in it. The mother immediately ran off with a couple of them, but one, very tiny one had become stranded. The men backed away and gave time for the mother to come back for the poor waif but she never did. So rather than leave the frightened baby raccoon out in the cold through the night, they brought him up to the house. Amy was visiting with us at the time.

We named the kit, Ronny. Ronny Raccoon. Rather original, don't you think? Ronny was actually named after sassy, Ronny Raccoon, in a novella I had written just prior to finding this animal.

You can see by the pictures how tiny he was when he came to us. He hadn't been weaned yet and we had the privilege of bottle feeding him, teaching him to potty, to eat, to play.

Today, you'll met the baby:

It was May 5, 1993 when Ronny was introduced to us. Amy and me. It was the year I had resigned as the campground's manager after the insistence of my doctor. I'd had a difficult time recovering from an intense back surgery and resuming the 60 to 80 hour weeks I put in as manager wasn't helping my body heal. My hubby, the outside manager, was still working for them until a replacement for him could be found. Meanwhile, little Ronny came into our lives to give us something else to think about besides pain and having to change careers.

Our challenge was to raise this little fella to go back to the wild. The Fish and Wildlife would only suggest that because raccoons were not high on their priority list. In fact, raccoons were considered a pest. So we were on our own.

We estimated Ronny to be between four and five weeks old. After some research we discovered that raccoons don't become weaned until around ten weeks old. Ronny was tiny. We think he'd barely had his eyes open long, and could barely crawl around. He scooted mostly. So we treated him like a baby. He was bottle fed, burped, and cradled until he showed signs of wanting to be weaned. We helped him go potty. Warm washcloths on the belly helped him pee and poop.

We were so enamored with him that we carried him around a lot. He would cry and whine like a human baby when he needed love, attention, bottle, or wee-wee. We kept him in a brand-new pet cage in the kitchen. He had room for a sand box, a sleeping box, and room to climb around and play, for later, when he was able.

No one around us carried anything like raccoon formula. Kitty formula wasn't pleasing to him, so I went to the old standby—half water and half evaporated milk with a bit of sugar. He thrived on that. But in order to keep his bowels normal we eventually dropped the sugar.

He needed fed about ever two hours, through the day and night. He was very attached to our daughter, Amy. Every day was a learning curve. But Ronny proved easy to please and take care of. We were his mother, and he was our baby. Even as he grew to be forty pounds, he was still our baby.

We did a lot of fishing now that we had a bit more leisure, and would pack Ronny up, put him in a pet carrier and take off to the lake. He loved that. He loved car rides. He slept in his carrier on the lakeshore while we fished. Until he got hungry, then he'd put up a fuss. Baby raccoons sound just like children and can get quite loud when they are unhappy or hungry.

He never liked either of us to be out of his sight. He'd come running and climb up a leg until he got in to our arms and was cuddled.

I'm planning on writing more about our experiences with Ronny. But for now you've had a peek at him. My intention is to take you to the point in his life with us that we had to move into town. To the time that Ronny was returned to the wild woods around us. Hopefully, I'll write short stories like those that I did with Mike. Letting Ronny tell us about his life in the woods after we parted.

Surviving--or Pity Post

2011-03-04T23:45:00.000-08:00

Is there anything for me in this life—having survived a loved one, a companion of nearly half a century? I'm tired of surviving.

Things have calmed down now. The kids went home in January, they keep in touch by phone, email, text, and Facebook. Other family members and friends do the same. I made it through two months alone. Without anyone living here with me…my neighbors and some friends do stop in often, so I'm not totally alone. As long as they keep bringing me chocolate, I'm good with that.

I've pretty much gotten my life down to a routine. I watch TV all night, listen to classical music all afternoon and evening. Notice I didn't say all day. My day often starts about two in the afternoon. I work at nothing or something or other on my computer. One, because the room where my desktop sits is warmer than anywhere else in the apartment right now. Two, this is where my husband worked, the very same spot, and all his pictures flash on my screen. Three, I think I need to be in here working on something creative, and for a month I was. Rewriting and revising the novel I just finished. Now I sit here contemplating my next move.

I eat in front of my LCD. I open mail here. I peruse catalogs here. I listen to classical music live streaming on my computer. I had a radio—sound system once. Like everything else at this age, it bit the dust a while back and I have not replaced it.

My two lovely cats are totally pissed off at me because I'm either in bed or in front of the computer. In bed they both sleep on me. In front of the computer there is nowhere but my face for them to be, to get my attention. They eat a lot. I don't.

At my doctor's recommendation, I went to meet with a Grief Counselor on Monday. It was more of a meet and greet session. A short session. She was nice, and probably knew her stuff, but it wasn't what I thought it'd be. I'll have to think on that one some more. People of late tend to look at the illnesses and other life trauma's I've survived and tell me I'm a strong person. Independent. I will be fine. I'm a survivor. Did I mention I'm tired of surviving?

Well, I'm not fine. I'm not independent, and I swear that the next professional person who tells me how strong I am, I'll slap them silly.

Now I'm living a life of financial catch-up. Catching up after the car I so desperately wanted to keep decided it needed a few things—immediately. Tires and then brakes. I have some family members and dear friends that are earning extra money with content writing, or making and selling their crafts. That's cool. I figured the content writing would be good for me and bring in the extra money I need. I once did that, only back then they called it advertising and magazine articles. But after checking out the content writing I think I'm a hopeless cause. I't made me feel as if I don't have anything to offer anymore.

I'm bored with the crafty things I do, so that's not even a consideration. I'm a fiction writer, a storyteller. Sometimes dabbling in poetry and prose, but the area of life I'm most comfortable in is storytelling. And I do that. I've started my 15th novel; unfortunately none of them is exactly polished to the point of catching an agent's eye. I just finished revisions for The Wonder of Jane, and sent it out to beta readers. Dust bunnies don't bring in the bucks, either.

Okay, while I wait for Jane's return, I've started the 3rd book in the Campground Murder Series, Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend. I've got a lot of work ahead of me and a lot of character profiles to create. I'm terribly distracted, however, and don't stay focused on the book, rather preparation of the book, for very long. I've only written the opening scene, the first 4 or 5 pages.

So back to wanting to be a media content writer. I have a friend guiding me, but from what I've read and seen so far, I'm not the right person for the job—and so hoped I would be. But I have to face facts. My children tell me I'm like the writer in Nim's Island. I never leave the house. I travel in my imagination. That can mean one of two things. Exciting or depressing. Oops, I've used that Depressing word. I said I wasn't going to say I'm Depressed. I did that in front of the doctor and he immediately wanted me to take a pill. The grief counselor wanted me to take pills, too. I take enough pills, thank you very much. So My imagination is one of two things: exciting or boring as hell. I guess I'll just have to tough it out. One of these days, I'll catch up.

I'm hoping that spring really does come soon. Last year it barely made it before summer was over. I need warm breezes and sunshine. I need to stand under the tall fir and cedar trees out here and listen to the music they create. The stories they tell.

Now here's what I really want to do. Yes, we know I want to write fiction. But I also want to tell short stories about cats. I want to take the laptop to the park and watch and learn and write. I'm almost scared to death to do that, but I know that if I am truly as strong a person as I've been told, if I truly am a survivor, then I must go out. And often. After all, I didn't pay all that much-needed money to fix the car, just to leave it parked in the driveway.

I also want to get back to painting and illustrating. My hands and arms are somewhat more reliable now, so I think I can trust that my brush and pencil strokes will be just that—reliable. I also have decided that I want to join a book club. I'd rather join a writer's group, one like I belonged to in the last place I lived. But there are none close enough to me. I might even take a painting or sculpting or pot throwing class. Three things I've always wanted to do my entire life and haven't yet. We'll I guess that's it then. I've survived long enough. I need to get busy and live. Be productive and independent and strong.

And to my eternal mate, whose shipmates tell me he is now on eternal patrol—"I love you today."

When Did They Become So Wise?

2011-01-02T12:46:00.000-08:00

I look into my grown children’s eyes

and see the babies I once held in my arms,

gurgled on their bellies to make them laugh.

Was that when they became so wise?

Did they come into their little bodies

with wisdom unleashed?

Or was it when they started school

and learned to speak and read and write,

and learned to challenge the world?

Could wisdom have been there all along

and I’d not seen?

not heard nor suspected?

Were they wise when they received their diplomas?

dressed in a line of shimmering black,

excitement in trembling smiles.

Had they made it thus far only to go out in the world

and learn everything all over again?

Gathering true wisdom?

Was there a worldly character lurking nearby,

with outcast hands of forbidden fruit?

“Eat this, it will make you wise.”

In our solitude moments gathered by grief

I see the wisdom in their ways,

I see the wisdom in their tenderness and love.

The Miasma of Dawn

2011-01-01T12:23:00.000-08:00

When midnight rolled around

my head was clear, full of gaiety, frolic, and fun.

When the clock struck twelve,

I opened the door

threw the old year out

dusted my hands of past deceptions,

lost dreams, and trauma.

Two-thousand and ten was finally dead to me,

dead as the man I’ve loved close to half a century.

Yet, the miasma of dawn for twenty-eleven

brought only a fog of reality,

a hazy future,

murky at best,

with a fine pall of hope .

I'm Thinking--Artist!

2010-12-30T12:42:00.000-08:00

My Auntie Ami is in town and decided to do a painting while she was visiting my mom bean.

She’s a very good artists. I think I’d like to try that when I grow up.

2010-12-27T11:31:00.000-08:00

Little Treasures Here and There

Besides the ordinary;
the drawers of socks,
the stash of belts and ties,

my beloved departed and
left me to sort through things

he’d left behind,

here and there,

in nooks and crannies,

tiny treasures can be found.

a pouch full of military medals

darkened with age;

envelopes filled with pictures

from days long gone to present;

a tattered little box

filled with very old pocket knives;

rings of keys

a number of wrist watches;

a handful of Canadian coins

perhaps enough to buy a sandwich in Alberta

a jar full of marbles,

not the ones he’d lost as a boy

but new to replace

the joy

there’s more treasures to be found

here and there

we just have to search

and we shall find.

The Ring Left Behind

2010-12-26T11:17:00.000-08:00

The ring.
The one piece of his jewelry
I now wear around my neck
on a long gold chain.

If I were in my teens, still,
I’d proudly wear his massive, blue stoned ring,
on my left-hand ring finger
for all the world to see.

I’d have wrapped it multiple times over
with strands of white angora yarn
so it would not slip off,
be lost, and bring tears of a break-up.

Forty and four years, wiser,
still a wide-eyed teen at heart,
I wear it now around my neck,
close to my breast.

He is no longer here, you see,
to hold my hand,
to kiss my lips,
to say I love you ten times a day.

He left behind his favorite Navy ring
for me to find and remember
the touch of his hand,
the twinkle in his eyes
and to say, ten times a day,

I love you still.

Shoot the Tiger!

2010-12-25T13:34:00.000-08:00

The year of the Tiger will soon be history. For a while at least. And a hellish Tiger year it has been, ending with the death of my husband on December 11, 2010. The year of the Rabbit promises to be tamer and calmer and more prosperous. Let's hope so.

Forever Fishing
and on Eternal Patrol

(USS Cusk and (USS Wahoo)

I finished the draft of Jane at the end of November and was starting revisions in December but didn't get far. My beloved friend and spouse of 44 years died of an infection in his heart five days after entering the hospital with just a fever and a cough. He was End Stage Renal Failure to begin with, and for this past year he'd had more downs than ups. I knew the day was coming but I hadn't figured it to be so soon. It hadn't been quite two years after starting dialysis in March '09.

His funeral was held December 16, 2010, and he was buried with full military honors at the Willamette National Cemetery in Portland. I guess that means I will be buried there also--some day. Hopefully, a long someday away.

Two of my daughters were able to make it here, from the snowy Midwest, the night before he died and were able to spend some good quality time with him. Family and friends were there the next day when he was taken off the respirator for good. Within an hour and a half he had passed. Homeward bound, surrounded by kinfolk and friends of all ages.

My daughters are helping me sort and clean and even have a bit of Christmas. It was just yesterday that we decided the Christmas tree HAD to go up. And it did, and it's pretty, and I'm sure my dearest is happy that we did that, mostly for him. He loved Thanksgiving and Christmas. He made it through Thanksgiving but not Christmas. My girls will leave for their homes soon and I'll start my new life. Hopefully, the transition will be easy. Burst of sadness mixed with the joy of remembrance of the good times, often sneak up on me and I have to grab the tissue box. But overall, for now anyway, I am doing well enough. It will be another story, I'm sure, once I'm alone. No matter how I'll be affected by widowhood, I will be returning to writing with vigorous ambition.

But for now, this is Christmas Day. Spirit of dad, Christmas tree, turkey and dressing, and pumpkin pie. Later, perhaps we'll go to the park to feed the birds.

Merry Christmas.

In the Winner's Circle Again!

2010-11-30T19:03:00.000-08:00

I did it! I didn't really want to write at the beginning of November, I was in a funky funk and kept telling myself that I had to do this. I had to write the story that my favorite aunt had ask me to write earlier in the year. I'd put it off all summer since she sent me the outline. But for NaNoWriMo, I decided that was the time to start this story.

By the end of the month I had accumulated 70K words. I got to make two great new friends, Ben and Jane. The main characters in the story titled The Wonder of Jane. Dedicated to my Aunt Liz and Uncle Buddy (deceased).

I'm really happy with myself. One: for coming out of my writers funk. Two: for accomplishing something for someone special to me. Three: for putting another Winner's Certificate on my wall. For all those that participated in NaNo this year, it was fun, wasn't it?

I missed my good friend TL for this year's challenge. She's been my writing buddy for a long time and to do NaNo without her was a little scary at first. But she kept up with my progress and cheered me along the way. So thank you, TL/KS, I couldn't have done it without you and hope you'll have time for NaNo next year.

Now the real work begins. I need to find an ending that I like. But first I will need to read through and edit and proof to find the ending that fits the best. But I figure, after all the spit and polish, it should come out to about 70-80K. Good word count for a little romance. I hope to have it readable for my Aunt by Christmas. So like it or not, I'll still be spending half the day each day on The Wonder of Jane.

It's NaNoWriMo Time!

2010-10-31T23:55:00.000-07:00

National Novel Writing Month has kicked off for another year. It's not quite mid-night here, but in a few minutes I can begin my new draft for this year. I'm calling it The Wonder of Jane. And yes, it's a romance. A gentle, wounded solider meets right girl novel, or novella. In my aunt's words a Plain Jane--Lives Happily Ever After story.

I'm not sure if I will take it beyond the required 50K this year or not. I'm doing this story, instead of the third book in the Mallard River Bend series, for my 89 year old aunt. Years ago, she and my uncle who died over a decade ago, had come up with this idea and outline. At the time they couldn't decide upon the War that Ben Smith should be wounded in. I've decided to make it the Korean War. You'll see why when the story gets going.

Anyway, this story will be dedicated to my Aunt Liz and Uncle Buddy. I need to get this finished before she joins my uncle on the other side of our earthly veil. Wish me luck. Things aren't all that great with me right now and I'm hoping I don't have to pull out of this years Write-a-thon and have my pacemaker replaced. That is another long, boring story that I won't go into. My friends know what is going on and that's enough. I'd rather think about more pleasant things.

Happy writing, participants! (I'll be without a buddy this year.)

Look Up!

2010-10-09T02:23:00.000-07:00

Although I feel I have become lost to the world

I am still right where I am.

Where I was yesterday,

where I was days before.

The sun still shines.

The clouds still drift across blue horizons

giving shape to imagination.

Then darken and release life-giving raindrops, soft and cool.

All I need do is go outside and look up,

Look up and see what I do not see shuffling my feet.

Look up and feel my heart soar with clarity of a clear blue sky.
Look up and find my muse in the world that surrounds me.

Fills my eyes with color,
Whistles pass my ears in song,
Blows away the pity pall surrounding my heart,
Warms my skin and hair.

Reminds me love and friendship are real
with hugs warm and tender.
Sincerity still lingers in thoughts and good wishes,
reminding me to touch the keyboard and smile.

It is time to take back my muse.
Time to bring the dragon home.
Time to clear the clutter from my mind.

Time to clear the desk of piles of promises.

It is time to bring back that spark.

The one that holds me a willing captive,

with fingers flying across the keyboard.

Time to buckle down, lift my chin, and write.

Gloran, spread your powerful wings and take me on an adventure!

Award and Such

2010-06-14T20:17:00.000-07:00

Thank you Thomma Lyn for the award. Sorry it has taken me so long to get it up.
I'm supposed to make something up about the four people I'm sending it to. I'm afraid I'm at a dull place in life to think very hard. But besides TL, Littlewhitebear is also my soulmate. She has been from birth, 40 years ago.

The middle of June is tomorrow. Can’t say as I’m happy summer is here, because it isn’t, not really. We had one day in the 80’s on Saturday, but by evening yesterday, we’ve had to close the windows and once again take the chill out of the place by running the heater. Ugh!

Only a few flowerpots are planted. Three of them died a mysterious death. At three dollars apiece, they just up and keeled over.

I’m still reading a lot. Latest read is JA Jance’s, Ali Reynolds series. Edge of Evil. I’m loving Ali every bit as much as J.P. Beaumont and Joanna Brady. In fact, I miss Beaumont and Brady being in my life a few hours every day.

In regards to the pacemaker, I’m actually doing somewhat better these last few weeks. I have surges of energy now and find I can do things without discomfort. I still have funny little moments when I move or change positions too fast. My overactive thyroid problem isn’t improving, and that counteracts any long time energy burst I might have. As much as I hate to be cut on again, I wish they’d take the darn thing out and just give me Synthroid for the rest of my life. The way things are now, the anti-thyroid medication is causing significant problems elsewhere.

I really sat down to post today because I had just gotten my Deadly Retreat manuscript back from my pal, TL, and I’ve been anxiously making corrections as well as enjoying the comments she was kind enough to give me. My big letdown, however, is me. I’m dyslexic to the point of tears and it took a long time and a lot of hard work over the years to overcome most of it. But when I’m tired, and in pain, which seems to be the case most of the time now, I am very dyslexic to the point that I’m embarrassed to have anyone read my drafts. If it weren’t for my kindred spirit, TL, my best friend and writing partner/buddy, I think I’d give up writing all together. The dyslexia has gotten worse this past year. I’ve gotten sloppy, or rather my eyes have gotten sloppy. Or is it my brain?

I think I’m seeing and typing things that I’m actually not. I know the focus is gone. I need to work on focus. Now that I’ve had a good six months off from writing, it’s time to return and concentrate even harder. The computer screen doesn’t help my eyes any, and I depend far too much on spell-check than I should to catch mistakes. I do know how to spell, I’ve just gotten sloppy.

I’ve got to stop sloppy and work on perfection. I know, it was only a rough draft that TL had looked at, but I’m still sloppy. Sloppy doesn’t get published. I keep teetering back and forth on whether or not I really want to be published. I love writing. I really do. I love creating new stories. But I’ve let things pile up (due to the heart thing that is now fixed) and getting back to things “as normal” is a challenge. I have two new books in the starting position. DR just got returned and I’m anxious to bring that up to speed with focused revisions. And MMRB, the first book in the mystery series could stand a little more sprucing up, again, too. Then there is the last Scrungy book dangling in my brain, seeking attention. Focus. DR and MMRB are more important than the rest. I feel good about them and think they are what I should focus on. Yet other days, wimpy days, I’m torn as to where to start again. Maybe having a real summer will help?

It’s the middle of June and I’m still wearing my flannels and socks.

And by the way? I have upgraded Vista to Windows 7, and I have to say, I love it…especially the feature where I can run two documents side by side and work on them simultaneously. Having a wide screen really makes a difference. Since my eyes give out before the rest of me, I can use larger print on the big screen than I can on the laptop.

Recharging Sunday

2010-05-30T16:25:00.000-07:00

Gretchen chose the "to-be-filed" basket for her afternoon nap.

Even though the day is overcast with clouds, we're expecting more rain later this afternoon, the temperature at least got up to 68 degrees. I'm not running the heater, but I don't have the window's wide open either.

Still recuperating to some extent from the pacemaker thing, and having a horribly bad cold to boot since the middle of April, I'm beginning to have a bit more energy and my creativity is starting to spark. I'm starting a new novel, one my favorite aunt wanted me to write. I still have not title. I'll be spending some time getting to know some of my characters, and mapping things out before I get started with the actual writing process. This novel wasn't in my summer plans, but I've been asked to do it, so I will . . . in honor of my aunt and uncle. My uncle has been gone for some time now, leaving my 89 year old aunt alone with her memories. I'll be using her ideas, but it will be a work of fiction. I'm assuming, at the moment, it will be a love story.

I'm getting ready to start reading the 11th book of the Joanna Brady series, Exit Wounds, by JA Jance. I've got 4 books to go before I finish the series and will, like Jance's J.P. Beaumont series, miss the new friends I've made since the beginning of the year. These books are hard to put down once you've opened them. It's hard not to go to each one in succession. Both series are great. I like JA Jance's style. Each book get's better than the last. Which is the kind of writing I hope to achieve one day.

3WW Flash Fiction - Today's Sunset

2010-05-27T21:21:00.000-07:00

Hastily written for 3 Word Wednesday. Prompt words: abandoned, gradual, precise.

May 27, 2010 from my living room window

As twilight worked towards its end,
I abandoned my work
and set about
to close the blinds for the night.

Hands on the cord to drop the shades,
I stood and watched
the gradual decline of the day
into the night.

It’s a wonder
how precise this world
was made for us.

Assured that the sun will rise
and set each night,
whether covered by clouds
or the open, bright blue.

We can count on it being there for us
to stand and view,
to take a deep breath
and whisper our thanks
for the beautiful skies
at the end of the storm.

Sunday Scribblings - What's His Name?

2010-04-19T00:37:00.000-07:00

This is my first piece of flash fiction for Sunday Scribblings. The prompt is Wonder.

What's His Name?

In my sleep, I sometimes see him. His name long forgotten—many nights spent trying to remember, and when I think I'm close his name escapes me again.

I knew him for only three days. Three wonder filled days. I first kissed him high above Kailua on the lookout of the Pali. Dark below, but starts to light the way, above. Stars in my eyes as I looked up at his handsome face. The face I can't see anymore. The name I don't remember.

I have often wondered what my life would have been like from that point on, from that star spangled night, onward. I met him on a Friday driving a fancy red convertible. We were waiting at the church parking lot for a carpool across the Pali to a huge Honolulu church sponsored dance.

He was so tall. I've never forgotten how tall he was. A tall man, better than anyone I've conjured up in my dreams, held me in his arms late that night atop the Pali, against the Pali winds, and kissed me. I wonder what possessed him. I wonder what possessed me. I was engaged to a man at the time. I had to be loyal. But that wonderful kiss . . . Engaged? To who? Oh, that midnight kiss. And oh, another. Again, once more.

He held my hand in the dark while we reminisced about the dance from hours earlier. Tall, good looking, a great dancer. He was in my book of dreams somewhere and at that moment he was in my arms, or rather I was in his. It's hard to remember. I just know it was hard to let go.

Engaged, remember . . . but to whom . . . I'd forgotten. For three days and two nights, I'd forgotten whose ring I wore.

I wonder sometimes what we did that next day. I know we must have gone sightseeing around the island. I lived there, he was passing through on his way home. Why didn't I meet him before? Why couldn't he have been the one to place that pretty little ring on my hand.

He was leaving on Sunday morning. He begged me to leave with him. To marry him. Right then. Go home to his ranch in the west. Sight unseen. His large family of mother and father, grandparents, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins, and I'm sure, many, many friends.

How tall. How wonderfully tall he was. How wonderful he danced. How he loved everything I said, how I loved everything he said. "I'm engaged," I said one last time. And one last time he asked me to marry him. Then he was gone.

I've forgotten his name, what he looked like, what he felt like, what he smelled like—his lips were soft. I've forgotten the things we talked about—his voice soft and kind. But I haven't forgotten that I knew him for a few days out of eternity—he held me close every chance he got. I often wonder on moonlit nights, when stars are so bright they make your eyes hurt, if I will see him again someday . . . some place along the path of forever. Will he have forgotten my name? What I looked like, what I smelled liked, what our kisses were like? I wonder.

3WW Flash Fiction - Meatloaf Monday

2010-04-18T18:14:00.000-07:00

I'm a few days late with 3Word Wednesday but at least I'm trying to get back into the grove of things after my pacemaker was put in and my husband's heart attack last week. The prompt words are: Brash, Lubricate, Saint.

Meatloaf Monday

Strange to think that not so many years ago, most likely in the days of dial telephones, usually one per household, that meals were planned by the day of the week.

The same era that saintly mom’s wore aprons and fixed regular meals—on the table by five. Everyone sat with clean hands and faces, napkins in their laps, elbows off the tables . . . salivating.

Sundays were most likely something out of the ordinary, like fried chicken, roast beef or ham, because company was expected at the noon meal, from church or family, or just dear old friends stopping by. Therefore, because Sunday’s were special, fried chicken was often relied upon the most. Even down to the linen tablecloth, with matching napkins, the polished silver and the best dishes. Even the gravy boat was called into service on those special days.

Saturdays were hard to gage what meal would be served. It had to be something hearty and healthy, but easy to fix. After all, mom had spent the day shopping in town, while Pop worked hard all day on the household repair list--aka--the Golden Honey-do Lists. Often, if pop had done well lubricating the hinges on the front door or some other starred item on his fix-it list, there would be hamburgers and hot dogs . . . or even a steak. It was often a late summer’s afternoon, where the grill was wheeled from the garage and filled with charcoal. Manning the grill was left to the Appointed One—the man of the house, while Aunts or neighbors stayed busy helping mother fill the picnic tables with every casserole imaginable, and kept the sweet tea and lemonade glasses filled. The uncles or manly neighbors stood around the grill with Pop, sizing up the meat—medium, burnt, raw, “oops, is this one okay to eat? It only hit the dirt for a second?” Once the charcoal was a frothy white, the administrator of the grill laid out the meat, in awe of his peers. During the next few moments of silence, while the meat began to sizzle and drip, flame up a time or two, the men hovered nearby, moved in circles around the grill, and waved the smoke from their faces. Brash youngin’s were not allowed in the mix until everything was ready and they were called to “come and eat.”

Growing up in those days, the menu for the rest of the week seemed rather mundane, the deliciousness of it masked the fact that you were having Meatloaf every Monday, Spaghetti and Meatballs every Tuesday, Tuna Casserole every Wednesday, Pot Roast on Thursdays, and Fish on Fridays.

I looked forward to the meatloaf days, the spaghetti days, and the casserole days. They were comfort foods. After a taxing weekend of high-end meals, mom’s were tired and relied on order and the easiness of routine.

There were no fast food places nearby. No drive-through windows to quickly grab a meal of hamburger, fires, and cola, and head for the movie or the beach . . . the local picnic spot at a city park, of fishing lake at the edge of town. A time or two, mom would fry up some hamburgers, boil up some dogs, slather them with every known fixin’, wrap them in individually in waxed paper, stuff them into a brown grocery bag, grab a bucket filled with ice and a slew of sodas. Then we’d all pile into the station wagon and head for the drive-inn theater. Cost less, you see. Scads more fun.

As time has moved forward, TV dinners, Pizza, and even Taco nights were added. Pushing the meatloaf night off the menu. I miss the meatloaf night. How about you?

Gretchen's Turn

2010-03-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

I'm always showing off Sophie lately and today I decided it's Gretchen's turn. I did a ton of laundry and she's taking advantage of the warmth from the towels. It's like she lives for laundry to grace the sofa.

Three Word Wednesday - The Well House

2010-03-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

Using the prompt words pulse, shard, weary

The Well House

Spring would arrive soon. Three days of bright sun and mild temperatures, warmed the earth and air enough for John William to leave the warm kitchen of his house and spend a few hours in the well house. Its door faced southwest, he would be warm there for an hour or so before the sun moved on, leaving his sanctuary in cold shadow.

John William had lived on the same two acres of land for nearly forty years. That particular winter had been colder, windier, harsher than most. He had grown weary of staying inside the house with the Mrs. She worked on quilts the entire winter. He often helped, but mostly, it was sheer boredom. A good thirty years ago, he and his sons had built the well house almost immediately after the wellhead had gone into the ground and the concert set around it.

A small, white-sided, single room replica of the farmhouse stood at the edge of the manicured lawn some hundred feet from the back door of the two-bedroom house and attached garage. John William's passion, since his retirement from the oil fields, had been landscaping his property around the house and tending to his half-acre vegetable garden and his small orchard of pecan trees. A white stone gravel drive led to the small, one car, attached garage, and then circled around near the front porch and back out to the street again, by the mailbox. Dozens of rose bushes of varied colors and varieties lined the street side of the circular drive.

The roses. John William rose before dawn every day of his life and retirement was no exception. Breakfast was always at five-thirty, chores in the hen house and garden followed, and then it was time for his roses. He worked among his beauties until it became so hot he was forced to return to the house for dinner, the noon news on the black and white television, and then a two-hour siesta—in the well house with his newspaper.

John William made the well house his home away from home. Lined with shelves on each side of the door, from floor to ceiling, it was found overflowing with neat rows of rusty tin cans and empty glass jars filled with every possible thing a person could think of. Beside the usual collection of nails and screws and tacks and staples, John William collected string, rubber bands, pebbles that struck his fancy, arrowheads, marbles and toy soldiers the grand children often left behind after summer visits, buttons, silver gum paper wrappers, and neat stacks of useable paper. There was even a five-pound coffee can filled to the brim with pretty shards of green and blue glass from years of window repairs. Some day he had planned to create something with them. When he had the time.

At noon each day, the Mrs. still prepared a huge meal. Enough to feed the entire herd of grandkids and their parents that often visited during their summer vacations. For nine months out of the year, however, it was just John William and the Mrs. Without complaint he always ate whatever was on the table. He'd lived through the depression and food wasn't a luxury. It was a necessity. So with a scrap of a buttered biscuit, he mopped his plate of every morsel, often after second helpings, then the leftovers were stored in the fridge until supper. After he and the Mrs. ate all that their stomachs would allow at supper, the leavings were then scraped into a small bucket, which John William promptly shared with the white leghorns in the hen yard.

Supper was always on the table at five and John William was always feeding the hens their scraps by five-thirty. After a few more chores and tending the roses and the garden in the cool of the evening, he and the Mrs. sat in the late shade of the pecan trees, on whitewashed lawn chairs of his own design that resembled Adirondack chairs, sipping sweet tea.

It was not quite spring yet, and John William was weary of the cold, of being stuffed inside with nothing much to do but read the paper, plan out next year's garden, and grumble at the people on the television. He longed for the warm summer days where he could spend the latter-end of his seventy something years outside. He longed for the pulse of the pump that kept him and the well house cool on hot West Texas days. He longed for the cadence of the rocking chair he'd reclaimed from the street somewhere, sometime ago, and had restored and painted it for the well house, planting his scrawny frame in it, rocking and thinking, napping, dozing, and whiling away the end of each decent day in utter peace and quiet.

John William thought of all those things that early spring afternoon, on the first day he felt warm enough to sit and rock a spell in his well house. Just before supper, the Mrs. found him under the newspaper he'd gathered up around him for added warmth. John William was where he wanted to be at the end of his seventy-seventh birthday, at the end of his life. John William was finally at peace in his home away from home . . . his beloved well house.

Deedum Wannabe

2010-03-17T00:36:00.000-07:00

With the help of Sophie, I've returned to work on revisions on Scrungy: Journey, the third book in the series. Deedum is a gray cat in the story. I think Sophie is going to be a good look-a-like for Deedum when she grows up and fills out. But it feels good to be working on something these days, while I'm waiting for my ticker to get fixed.

Blessed With the Sunset

2010-01-31T17:34:00.000-08:00

Sunset on a calm, moderatly cool, January's eve

towards the Pacific Ocean.

Like snowflakes

each sunset is one of a kind

sinking quickly

never to be seen

again.

Granny Apple Gone Wild

2010-01-21T13:47:00.000-08:00

Red Delicious not Granny Smith

Bring on the New Year! I Think I'm Ready.

2009-12-31T22:29:00.001-08:00

December 29, 2009

The end of a year. Twelve very long months.
The end of a draft in less than 2 months. Attached "THE END" on the last page of Deadly Retreat with 111K on Christmas Eve.
I quit making resolutions years ago.
I do better at my age just getting as much stuff done in the year as I can possibly do. If I don't? We'll, if I'm lucky, I'll have another year to try.
I do have a to-do list, of sorts.
In two years I've written 3 novels, and completed 1 new draft.
My hubby nearly died in March. If he can suffer through dialysis, he has a good chance of another year.
In the fall, Hubby brought me a 4 week old abandoned kitty from the farm. He lost his earthly battle just 4 days later.
Two weeks after Rosy went to the Rainbow Bridge, a friend brought me another kitty. She was 12 weeks old and it only took 3 days for Gretchen to accept Sophie into our family. She's growing like a weed, is healthy, active and smart as a whip.
I was well enough this year to put up Christmas decorations.
Then I got the cold of the century and may have some trouble taking down the Christmas decorations. If I didn't need the space the tree takes up I'd just leave things up until next Christmas.
I've read good books,
Good poetry,
Even tried my hand at some prose myself.
Enjoyed another year with good friends.
We even had 4 inches of snow a few days ago. Not exactly a White Christmas, but close enough.
My children and their children are all doing well—head-butting life as hard as they can.

My to-do list?
Polish 3 novels.
Begin revisions on my latest draft.
Begin again traveling the road of finding a publisher/agent who would be interested in my work.
Draft two more novels.
Write lots of short stories and some prose.
Pick up a watercolor paintbrush and create some new art. The old paintings in my living room are faded and yellowed.
I'm dying to work on oils again, too.
I've got a ton of books on my shelves yet to read. I want to read as many as I can this year so I can warrant buying new books.
Improve my word building skills.
Fix the spiritually lacking self that's been hanging out in my body lately.

These are not resolutions. If I can strike off just one of the things on my 2010 to-do list, I will feel satisfied.

Happy New Year.
And happy beginning of a new decade.

P.S. and get back into the swing of blogging again. I almost gave up this year.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-24T20:14:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone has a really nice holiday and stays safe in their travels. Hubby and I stayed home this year. We're still kind of contagious with our colds. Plus, just feeling plain icky. I think between the two of us we've gone through about ten boxes of Kleenex.

I'm near the end of the draft for Deadly Retreat. I'm hoping to get the epilogue at least started tonight. I'm torn between doing nothing and reading a book or getting busy and finishing the draft. I'm pleased with the word count, and I'm now looking forward to the next book in the series, and I've already picked the title.

I think the shortest amount of time it's taken me to complete a first draft was about three months--and that was years ago. This time I've finished in less than two. Well nearly...I still have to write the epilogue. I opted for an epilogue this time, since it's basically about tying up loose ends.

I'm grateful for another year, and have hope for a bit of smoother sailing for the coming one. I've still got a lot of work ahead of me, searching for a publisher or agent for Bubba and Bean and Murder at Mallard River Bend. I'll also be revising Deadly Retreat, and I'd like to free up some brain cells to write a few short stories, too.

Merry Christmas all, y'all. You's guys, and folks.

Checking In

2009-12-16T00:04:00.000-08:00

I'm still working on the Deadly Retreat draft. I'm nearing the end. About four more chapters, and I think ought to wrap it up. I'm hoping by the weekend, but not pushing myself. I still make the effort to write around 2,000 words each day. Right now I'm sick with a miserable cold, so I'm a little less enthusiastic.

I did manage to get some decorations up before I got sick. The kitties, Gretchen and Sophie, are enjoying the place reserved for them under the little, 4 foot Walgreens tree. It's pre-lighted and I enjoy it much better. I'm finally beyond fighting with lights and space to put up a big tree. It's going to be a quiet Christmas, which I'm looking forward to. Christmas shopping hasn't happened yet, but the Christmas cards are finally done. For a while, I was thinking about skipping the card event this year, but then realized I can't. The cards are my own creation, therefore, becoming a sort of gift for my family and friends.

I'm looking forward to being finished with my WIP and making more time to blog. Once I'm on a big project like this, my puny brain doesn't have the room for extra creativity.

End of NaNoWriMo! Yay!

2009-11-30T01:42:00.000-08:00

Are we there yet? I'm worn out. Being a writing assistant is hard work, you know. Afterall, I'm just a kitty. I'll be older next year, right?

At the end of Nano.

I usually enter my word count in the middle of the night, like it's 2 AM where I am now. But if I think of it I can enter what I write tomorrow night to my total if I do it before midnight. Otherwise, I am done!

I officially got my word count verified for 50,000 on November 21st. My word count is now 68,000 and will continue to go up because I'm not done with the story. But it has been a good run. I'm happy with my progress and I'm glad I was able to participate in this years writing marathon. It was fun. My writing buddies were fun and I'm looking forward to next year where I will probably use NaNo to draft the third book in the Campground Mystery series.

I'm hoping to be finished with the draft of Deadly Retreat by the end of the year. I'd like to hit 100K but won't be upset if I don't. There will be many revisions and edits over the next few months

Meantime, I have three novels waiting for edits after getting them back from my beta reader. I'm hoping to put my next efforts into getting them ready and looking for an agent or publisher. I'm just not into the business end of writing, but I'm going to get more serious about looking in the next few months...after the first of the year.

Update: I ended up posting a total of 70,000 words before the sun had set on NaNo. I feel good about reaching 70K. Now the work continues.

My Writing Assistant

2009-11-08T22:48:00.000-08:00

Sophie has many talents. She watches TV, puts all her toys away in a corner of the kitchen when she's through playing for the day, and she is my writing assistant. Between Sophie and Glorian (my cave dragon) I've been making good progress on Deadly Retreat. Each day of the writing event I've completed a chapter. Tonight I will work on Chapter 8. I'm making my daily quota and here and there I'm able to move ahead a bit. My mind and dreams are on nothing else at this point. Well, there is sleep. Several naps, too. There's a lot of snaking going on, also, however, I need to cut back on the snacking.

Blog Blast for Peace

2009-11-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

An may we have it, too!

What Moon is This?

2009-11-02T00:44:00.001-08:00

Comanche Moon

The brightest moon of the season, one for stealing horses.

So my Aunt tells me...

There's also a book

and a Movie

Who knew.

End of October--Beginning of Nano!

2009-11-01T01:48:00.000-07:00

Gorgeous skies for the last day of October

The night I've been waiting a whole year for...NaNoWriMo started at midnight. I managed a meager 1,780 words. I've only just begun. Yay! But I'm not staying up this late to write anymore. I just couldn't go to bed and let the midnight hour pass without a few words in the new draft. Tomorrow I'll be more sensible and work in the evenings, going to bed at a decent hour.

2009-10-27T22:33:00.000-07:00

Sophie has been with us 2 weeks now. She's vibrant, busy, messy, stinky, and loveable. Gretchen has accepted her and they play constantly. Well, as much as a sedentary older cat can play.

Countdown to NaNoWriMo.
4 days to zero hour.
Can't wait!

I've been re-organizing and mapping and plotting and planning for several weeks now. I'm getting anxious to get into the meat of the story. So…if you don't see much of a blog from me for the next 34 days, then Glorain (my hot and ready fire-breathing cave dragon) and I will be furiously writing. My goal is 2000 words a day, more than needed, but there will be days when I won't get that much written. To reach the 50,000 in 30 days, it takes 17,000 a day—every day. Last Nano I did the same—I shot for 2K and ended up being ahead of schedule. That's a good thing. You never know what life's little drama's will trip you up with in 30 days of brain-twisting, key-pounding, world building.

Deadly Retreat at Mallard River Bend, is a campground mystery. The second in what I hope will be a successful cozy mystery series. This 30 day writing marathon will only be the start of the story. My ultimate goal is 100K—plus. When Nano officially ends on November 30, I will continue to work on Deadly Retreat but at slower pace.

I will be posting my word count on the sidebar…so watch it climb.

Wish me luck!

Giving the Second Cat Thing Another Try

2009-10-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

I waited a few days to see if this was going to work out. As you know, Rosy came to us a few weeks ago and was sick. He only lasted four days. On Tuesday a friend of mine had a healthy, four month old kitty-girl for me. I purposely did not blog about her right away fearing I'd jinx her stay with us.

So, that said, here's Sophie. 4 months old. Bluish-gray, black whiskers, black nose, black pads. Deep bronze-gold eyes. She has a purr motor to rival a Harley. Has only used her squeak-voice three times in the five days we've had her. Once she let out a yowl like a Siamese. There's no plea in her mew, or yowl, just demand.

Right away, by a look that could not be matched, Gretchen showed her disdain for me over bringing anymore live, playthings into the apartment. She did her usual hissy, snarly, growly fits the first day and a half. Sophie made the mistake of checking out the space under our beds and Gretchen took advantage of that by guarding the door, not letting her out of the room. Poor Sophie ended up having a potty accident on my bed, before I figured out to make space for a litter box in my room. So, Sophie took over our room for three days. For the past two days, Sophie began using both potty boxes, Gretchen's and hers. So now, Sophie is officially out of our bedroom and her potty box is next to Gretchen's potty box.

Day three was follow the leader day. Day four was almost ready to play day, and today? Rough and tumble play, thundering herds of elephants play, like they'd been playing together all their lives. Not one hiss, growl, or whap. Now they've exhausted themselves and have sought out their sleeping places to nap. But I can't tell how happy this makes me. It only took five days.

Gretchen will get daily exercise now and perhaps some of that kitten in her will come back. At five years old, she was just getting to be an old lady-cat that just lies around sleeping and eating. The world beyond the windows was even beginning to bore her. Sophie is just the key we needed. Not to mention that Sophie is a delightful kitty-girl and has taken her place in our hearts. She's a cuddler, a head-butter, and just plain precious. A keeper!

Activate the Senses Friday

2009-10-10T00:47:00.000-07:00

Awake and see
the mosquito eater spent the day
with me.

Amplify and listen
the chick-a-dee-dee returned to sing
for me.

Arouse and taste
how succulent, beef-dip sandwiches
sates me.

Astound and smell
the odor of a distant dairy
sickens me.

Alive and feel
how my lady-cat's soft fur
delights me.

Making Time Thursday

2009-10-08T23:19:00.000-07:00

Only two clouds against a sea of azure,
one here
one way over there
hard pressed to spot.

Clatter, clang, commotion,
auditory sense harassed
drowning chirps
hard pressed to hear.

Too salty
too sweet
too bland
hard pressed to sate.

Last bit of fragrance of
roses neglected
and worn,
hard pressed to remember.

Clicking, clattering keys
against fingertips worn,
plotting, planning, scheming,
hard pressed to stoke some fur.

Tantalizing Wednesday

2009-10-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

What caught my eyes today?
A red bi-plane flying northeast in a soft blue sky.

What fell upon my ears today?
Birdsong, birds in the bushes, jays on the fences.

What savory flavors titillated my taste buds today?
Grilled Seven-bone roast, potato salad, iced lemon pound cake.

What odors tickled my nose today?
Charcoal briquettes, lighter fluid, a lighted match.

What did my fingers caress today?
The soft fur of my furry-purry cat.

Tuesday's Senses

2009-10-06T23:38:00.001-07:00

Pale blue sky
clear
cool
calm.

Frogs singing
voices
chatter
croaking.

First pumpkin pie
fresh
cream
Shari's.

Early wood smoke
again
lingered
somewhere.

Seasonal annuals
soil
water
fur.

Monday at Midnight

2009-10-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

About Monday:

It is a slightly less full Harvest Moon,
the last image of the day
on this cold clear night.

I could see my breath,
they say it might frost tonight.
The midnight air smells slightly of wood smoke
damp earth,
turning leaves.

Yes, I think the leaves of
early fall emit a certain

familiar odor.

The sounds of traffic,
nearby construction,
voices of neighbors,
backwards beeping of
the Comcast Truck
the Medical supply truck
the Garbage truck
have all faded now.
Quiet . . .
accept for the slow,
low sounds of the clock on the wall
reminding me of the hour,
bed awaits.

The things I touched this day,
besides the dusty contents of
a huge catchall closet,
the piles of fresh laundry
spread across the sofa
waiting to be folded.
Maybe tomorrow.
The warm dishwater,
the soft fur of my
Girl-cat as she dozed
upon my knees.

The taste of Monday
still lingers on my tongue,
the remnants of
my birthday cake.
Coconut,
coconut crème in between
six fluffy layers of
vanilla cake
slathered with a
melt-in-your-mouth butter crème.
Oh, the calories.
Ah—well,
what are birthdays for,
if not a gift of twenty pounds.

The last things my heart has felt
this early October night,
is gratitude for life,
for sight, hearing, touch, taste
and a warmness
of heart
for the beauty of life
the beauty of fall
the beauty of
grace.

For but the grace of God,
go I.

Four Days is Not Enough

2009-10-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

Only Moments Left with Rosy

My heart is tearing in two.
I wrote a fictional story about adding a found kitten
into my life.
Into my five-year-old lady-cat's life, as well.
That story,
a week old and never finished
until two days past
when magic intervened.

My heart aches with inability.
The desire to share the cat story has left me.
My life has changed,
my lady-cat's life altered.
She was just getting settled with our new little charge
until in the wee hours this morning

the illusion vanished.

Rosendo (Rosy) was too frail,
too weak to fight any longer
against the slight little cold that plagued him
when found, cold, underfed, neglected.
Not yet four days in our lady-cat's life,
bouncy and unintimidated by her
growls and hisses.

Rosy ate ravenously on Sunday.
Drank water,
shunned milk,
frolicked with a toy mouse from
my lady-cat's collection,
found her feather wand and made it his own.

Monday, a hopeful day for us all.
My lady-cat was calming down,
letting Rosy roam throughout,
her hisses and growls subdued,
letting Rosy explore
even take a snooze in
her favorite places.

Rosy ate less frequently on Tuesday,
drank water a little less often.
Regular meals,
not so famished.
Clean water,
not so thirsty.

Talkative but no so plaintive.

Rosy climbed the furniture
scrabbled across the keyboard as I typed,
kissed the back of my neck
with sandpaper kisses,
looked lovingly into my eyes,
his eyes bright, clear, turquoise.
His nose dryer,
only a tiny snort now and then.

At night, our little man-cat to be
slept in a blanket-lined box
on a pillow to keep him warm,
a sad little teddy bear to keep him company
in the darkness.
Another blanket draped across,
to ward off any chill
while my lady-cat crouched nearby
watching over him,
making sure he was sleeping.

Rosy loved his box.
Whenever he was tired, he went in,
took a nap.
Whenever he was hungry,
he found me,
mewed in his scrappy, rusty-hinge way,
scooted down the hall to potty.

Rosy adapted well in those first moment
of our life.
Taking over,
taking charge,
charming us,
making our life his own.

Rosy ate little on Wednesday.
Drank no water I could see,
I added water to his meals,
only two or three.
His potty habits normal,
his eyes still clear,
his nose a bit wet,
breathing well, still.
A hopeful sign.

Rosy still had energy
to climb upon the bed
testing the limits of his boundaries
with my lady-cat sleeping there,
wearing down defenses,
gurgles and chirps
replaced snarls and hisses.

Well into the afternoon,
Rosy's squeaky-hinge voice
turned weary,
less vocal by evening meal.
Into his box he went
and slept
and slept.
He'd been a busy little boy
the day before.

Four hours later,
worried he might get too hungry,
I lifted him from his box,
placed him in front of his meal,
a bit of water added.
Eating,
a little less enthusiastically.
He trotted down the hall
a bit slower,
used the potty,
healthy and unstrained.
Still hope.

As if in a hurry now,
his crusted nose had cleared,
yet eyes clouded over,
his body,
sadly limp.
I warmed his blanket,
snuggled with him
while he slept.

Thursday,
surprised by his will
Rosy stayed around one more day.
Medicine administered,
supplements plunged into tummy,
warm blankets applied,
Lady-cat wary and alert,
we all began to watch
and worry.

His body too weak,
his will worn down,
Lady-cat watching closer still,
questioning why
he was not poking around.
Ready to show compassion
Finally taking a liking to Rosy.

Midnight,
his breathing shallow
he could not last this night.
Kitty angels gathered near,
his box sits empty,
his crystal dishes
waiting there.

Tears.

Hours pass.
He lies upon my chest
hearing my beating heart,
feeling the ache lingering there,
melting my soul
with deep turquoise eyes
and soft little sighs.

More tears.

Rosy was too weak,
too bony,
too frail,
too long in the wild
without a mother's love.
Too soon to be alone,
too late for life with us,
for fate had taken him
home.

Goodbye little Rosy,
the rainbow bridge
awaits.

Meet and Greet

2009-09-27T23:28:00.001-07:00

Rosy (short Rosendo in Spanish) came into my heart today.
A bit of magic made it possible.
Quite eerie in a way.

Just last week I was working on a new short story for a post.
If you've been around for awhile you may remember I wrote serial short stories about cats and other things last year. Neighborhood Nightlife was one of those stories. I just started back to writing short stories a week ago. I had left Ragpuff dangling since last fall. I had two surgeries last October and November. One under the arm the other repairing a torn rotor cuff. Not only had I left Ragpuff dangling, I left Necco, and her friends in Neighborhood Nightlife dangling as well. Before I resumed Neighborhood Nightlife, Necco's story, Gretchen's alter ego, and her life as an apartment cat, I wanted to change it somewhat, since all her cat friends had moved away in the last episode. I had decided sometime back that I would call the series Apartment Cat 101. I had the piece about half finished and would have gotten back to it this coming week. In the story, Necco's papa human brings a little kitten home. They called her Rosebud. Necco was about to give daily lessons to the kitten in the p's and q's of apartment life. That's as far as I had written.

Today, this morning early, my husband was out at the farm feeding the feral cats that he's done every day for over ten years. There are four mommas out there with litters, but a strange little fellow came up to him and begged in his squeak-hinge little mew, to be picked up. He was too clean, too friendly, too at ease being around humans, to be a feral. It melted my husband's heart and after searching around in case he had a home, he realized by the bony body under all that fur that he had most likely just been dropped off the day before. Abandoned. So he brought the little fella home. My husband did not know that he was following everything I had written about Rosebud and Necco. It was like out of a dream for me. Here I was creating a kitty character for Necco to mentor and today it actually happened the way I'd imagined. The only difference is the story kitty was Rosebud, a creamy kitty with white cheeks and a rosy little nose.

The real Rosy, the new little foundling that we got today, is a Maine Coon kitten, five weeks old, if that, and has a little brown swatch of color across his nose, giving it a dirty appearance or a tan rosebud, if one stretched the imagination. He is thin, bony, but otherwise not really dirt-dirty or infested with fleas or mites. He was clean except for little burr seeds that had become attached to his long fur. My husband pulled out all the burrs before bringing him home. After he'd eaten, not Fancy Feast, mind you, but a can of Friskies I had hoped Gretchen would like but didn't. Rosy gets a spoonful about every two hours. He's using the potty, not the one I put out for him, but Gretchen's. For some reason he likes that one best. After he'd had a little nap and a lot of tender loving care, I decided he needed to have a bath if he was going to be climbing all over me. He took to that as if it was part of his daily routine; he's nice and shiny and smells heavenly now.

One of the odd things about Rosy is that from the time he found Paul he acted like he's never had another life. He rested in the crook of his arm as Paul drove home with him. From the minute he came into the apartment, he walked around like he'd always been here. He is friendly beyond belief and cuddly and likes to touch noses with me on occasion, as he was saying, I love you and thanks for giving me a forever home.

Five-year-old Gretchen, as expected, threw a hissy fit for most of the afternoon. Finally, she gave up trying to intimidate Rosy, who just ignored her growls and hisses and walked up and down the hall in front of her, showing off. Everyone took a nap, and Gretchen has quit her fussing and is going about her business. As long, I think, as Rosy is nowhere to be seen. Rosy has stayed curled up on my chest, under a flannel blanket most of the evening while I've been on the computer. Presently he's sitting next to my right hand, falling asleep sitting up. He's a keeper.

Writing Update:
I finished my last revision on Murder at Mallard River Bend and sent it off to be read, and critiqued. Nano (National Novel Writing Month) is four days and four weeks away. I've decided to continue the campground mystery series for the 2009 Nano project. I'll be planning and plotting and mapping out Deadly Retreat at Mallard River Bend. The nightmare/fun? continues. Murder at Mallard River Bend was originally a Nano project in 2007. Because of my surgeries I only wrote for three days in the 2008. That draft (The Fairy Garden) is on the back burner for a while. I was able to bring MMRB up from 66K to 82K. I'd like it with an even higher word count but perhaps after creating the next book in the series it will help me be to expand the first.

Appendigital

2009-09-22T16:21:00.000-07:00

Put your right hand in,
Shake it all about,
What do you get?
Digits.
Five to be exact.
Put your left hand in,
Shake it all about,
What do you get?
Five more?
Perhaps,
Unless multiple polydactylous phalanges
Dangle from your appendages.

Put your right foot in,
Shake it all about,
What do you get?
Depends,
Horses have one
Cats have four
Octopi have eight.
Put your left foot in,
Shake it all about,
What do you get?
The sum of all your digits.
Something to count on.

The Adventurers of Ragpuff: Episode 5 - Winter Means a Warm House

2009-09-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

Ragpuff has come to another crossroad in his quest for his first home. The place he had loved from the beginning of time, with the funny talking woman and the man who didn't say much, his safe chair, behind his safe window, in his safe house. A house that has blended into memory with his kit-napping and abandonment, the round man and his shack besides the gravel pit, the days and nights spent in travel, and now the warm invitation of home and heart from the tall, thin man with the loose skin. When the snowflakes began to fall, it was time for some serious thinking.

Winter Means a Warm House

At first, I had not planned to stay but a few days, at most, to fatten up for the next leg of my long trek to find my first home. If those wonderful smells streaming out into the twilight had not been so enticing, I would have been, at this moment, on my way still. I did not think that I minded the cold, I was getting used to it, hanging out at night in the upper branches of a string of cotton wood trees that lined a little brook. It was the perfect arrangement, food and shelter in one easy place. My fur was thickening, my pads becoming hardened and furrier. From the tops of the leafless trees, I could see my next day's journey clear.

I had eaten two meals with this wonderful-hearted old man; slept on his bed, surrounded by the softness of a pillow of my own. I had thought about staying, perhaps, until the door opened and I went outside to do my business. At that very moment, at the edge of the manicured lawn and the stubble of straw that surrounded the old house, I had decided that I would go on my way. He was nice, comfortable to be with, and he seemed genuine of heart and spirit. Let me just say, I would have left it all behind, right then and there, if the snowflakes had not begun to fall.

The man's shadow silhouetted behind the glass window, peeking through the curtains, perhaps wondering, hoping, if I would stay with him—at least for a season, was more than I could bear. The snow was coming. Yet even though this would be the first snow every in my life to experience, I was deeply compelled to abandon my journey for a time, and stay. With the idea in my head that at any moment, if I chose to leave again, snow or no snow, I would. It was my choice to make. Like the round man, whom I hated to leave, the thin man touched my heart and senses, as well.

So, that's what I did. After having attended to my bodily needs, I snorted at the snowflake that landed square on my nose, shook my fur violently, then trotted back to the door. It opened immediately.

The only requirement requested of me, a price to pay, I guess, for giving up the wild path in life, was a bath. Through gentle coaxing and throaty sounds, I succumbed to the warm bath waters. Hey, I'm a tough fella. I'm nearly a year old, and I agree, there was no amount of tongue washing that I could do to take away the grime of rock dust, the burs, the fleas, and those nasty little ticks I sometimes picked at. Must have had gotten them from the tall grasses in the fields around my last, temporary home.

I'll admit, I was hesitant at first, when he surrounded me with a towel, when I heard the water running in the kitchen sink, when I smelled the perfumed soap sitting on the counter, when my four paws touched the warm water, giving me a sensation of flight. But as the old man sang, I held still, in the water I sat, up to my belly, not an inch more. He seemed thoughtful like that.

He sang to me as he poured the warm water over my back with a small pot. With that wonderful smell of soap that I had first mentioned, he began to lather my harsh dry fur and skin.

You know? Water, when it's nice and warm, sweet smelling as this was, is not all that bad for a cat. The streams where I wandered each day were cold, swift running, and the rocks beneath, slippery with moss. I had the misfortune of falling in one of those cold streams once and it was such a shock that I plainly made up my mind, right there and then that I would never go into the water again. No matter what!

As the man sang to me, his sweet, rustic words tickled my ears. The only part of me that hadn't been lathered and rinsed; lathered and rinsed until he pulled the plug and the water melted away, along with my dirt and grime, and a few pest that had hitched a ride. His sink would soon have hairball to cough up.

The songs continued, sweet and soft, as he squeezed frail hands gentle against my body, squishing out all the water he could, before wrapping me in a large, warm as warm could be, towel. Wrapped snuggly against his chest he sang as we moved into the living room to his chair in front of the fire. The warm glow lured me to sleep on the man's lap while he spent the better part of that morning brushing me, combing out the mats, the dead skin, the burs and sticks, the dead pest. In front of the fire, my fur dried quickly. When he had finished grooming me, I felt a surge of energy race through my body and into my limbs. I never felt this recharged in my whole life, so far. He must have sensed the need for me to run around the house and show off. He gently placed my four paws on a plush carpet, where I immediately took over the reorganizing of my furs and whiskers by rubbing, scooting, and rolling, over and over; primping and rolling, then running again.

This time the old man sang a new song. A livelier tune. His heart was gay. He sat in his chair and admired the work he'd done. Admired my long, silky, orange and white fur. I admired my soft, sweet smelling self and even noticed that for the first time since I remember leaving my first home, my white paws were as white as the large snowflakes piling up on the windowsills. Clean! Oh, how good that felt. No itching, no grime and gunk on my tongue. Just wonderfully, gloriously, clean.

I don't remember much about my kitten days, my life with the funny talking woman and the man who didn't say much, but I don't think I had ever felt so clean as I was at this moment. I could get used to such pampering.

The tune the man sang soon changed to a soft whistle. Once he had cleared away the washing things, removed the largest hairball I'd ever seen, from the bowels of the sink, one I hoped I would never, ever, have to cough up, he fed us lunch. While he wrapped his tuna between two slices of bread, I got a whole can, juice and all, just for myself. On the table I sat, with my own place, bowl of tuna, and bowl of water. For an extra treat after we'd eaten, he poured some of his delicious, creamy coffee into my saucer and we sat in silence together, lapping it up; he sipped, I lapped, while the snowflakes fell outside the windows, larger and denser. Then the thought occurred to me that I would soon have to go out in that stuff for a quick squirt.

I dreaded the door to open. I stood silently beside it expecting to be chilled to the core the moment I set a clean, white paw onto the icy doorstep. The snow had covered all remaining signs of grass and dirt that a cat needs a few times a day.

The man sang happily, as he left the room, left me standing beside a closed door. It was urgent that I went out. Didn't he know that? No sooner than he left did he return with a large bag of sand, an empty, metal washtub, and some of his previously read newspapers.

Cooing gently again, in a small space at the back of the kitchen, near where his hat and coat hung on a peg on the wall above where his boots lay lined up on a small rug by the water heater, he spread a layer of newspaper, then sat the tub on them. That familiar coo, the only one I understand, "Here, kitty, kitty," beckoned me to investigate. The urge to relive myself was ever stronger as I sniffed the contents of the tub—the sand. Before I realized it, I was squatting happily, smack dab in the middle, singing my own tune.

After burying my remains, the man and I returned to the chair by the fire. Still clean, still warm, I curled up on his lap, then closing our eyes, we rocked back and for, to and fro, until the shadows of twilight filled the room.

This man would be hard to leave, come spring.

Opposition

2009-09-12T18:18:00.001-07:00

I suppose that having
Opposable thumbs
Gives me the advantage
In the food chain
Of life.
Unlike the anthropoid primates
Or their lesser cousins
Hylobatidae
Or sub family of Pongidae,
I have been taught
There is opposition in all things.
Yes.
Therefore, I know right from
Wrong.
I do?
Just look at the moon and sun,
Night and day
The solar system
The universe.
Everything is in opposition with
Everything.
Everyone is affray with
Everyone else.
I need not assume there is
Parasitic opposition
Within me;
I know.
An ameba
Dividing and re-dividing,
Creating some incongruous conflict
Between my brain right
And my brain left.
Fighting
Protesting
Bucking the system.
The inner opposing the outer.
The creative
Opposing the sensible.
Logic clashing with
Desire.
The healthy confronting the bad
The naughty obstructing
The way for the nice.
Disrupting
Peace
Harmony
Life.
Dreams
At variance with,
At interference with
The need for a long night
Of restorative regeneration.
The creative opposes the
Slovenly.
Or is it the other way around.
The slovenly combats the
Creative?
Abhorring the fingers
To move
The eyes
To see
The mind
To think.
Resistance is futile.
Without opposition
Life is a thing of naught.

My Moon of Many Names

2009-09-05T18:27:00.000-07:00

Mensis pulls at my soul
Pinning the days 'till it returns
And lights my path through the snow
On a cold January night.
Old Moon to some,
Moon after Yule to others,
But for the wolves?
January is the Wolf Moon.
Howling with empty bellies
Wolves congregate,
Crying to
Luna,
Mensis,
To Mona,
To Mene,
For mercy.

On Galileo's Mare Tranquilitatis
A man left a large footprint.
Some like me,
See the face of a man smiling back,
Other's see the rabbit skirting up the side.
Whoever is up there,
Talk me though the shadows
Of cold, bare trees.
Comfort me,
Tell me,
All is well, my friend,
All is well.
I'm here now
Go to sleep.

Then comes February
Coldest, snowiest
Of long winter months,
Humans beleaguered
Weary of hunger and cold.
Full Snow Moon
Full Hunger Moon
Their bellies now cramp
And complain.
Soon another cycle has passed,
Mensis gives way.
Full to half
To crescent
To half
And back to full again.

March brings promise
With another full moon.
Men now call him
Full Crust Moon,
Spring thaw with the sun of day,
Ice crust at night,
All at the moons delight.
Others say he is a
Worm Moon.
Earthworms rise up and
Robins come to fatten.
The Native's no best
Full Crow Moon.
Why that name for a moon?
Crows incessant cawing
Signal the end of winter
The beginning of life
Once again.
Yet March is not done
With the naming of Moons.
In lifeless trunks, sap rises,
Timing for tapping Maple trees,
Giving light to the
Full Sap Moon.
For the religious,
Lenten Moon.
One coming too soon
Becomes the Betrayer Moon.
Whatever it is,
Easter is not far behind.

Would you know what month it was?
If I said,
Full Pink Moon?
A tiny ground Moss Pink
Covers the land of spring.
Full Sprouting Grass Moon
Full Egg Moon
Full Fish Moon
April brings life
As does, it's Moon.

May brings flowers.
Thus named the Moon
Full Flower Moon
Milking Moon
Full Corn Planting Moon.
Corn planted by the light of the moon
'Tis said of old,
Grows faster and gives a better yield.
Luna, yield your light to me,
Spare my dreams
Of despair and woe,
Let me have thy light to hold,
Keep me warm from the lonely cold.

Christened by the Strawberry
Comes the Moon of June.
Full Strawberry Moon
Full Rose Moon
Flower Moon
Even . . .
Mead Moon.
Let's all have a pint,
Shall we?
Whatever you are called,
Dear friend,
June is here,
Fairies play,
Summer has arrived.
Time to dance and sing
By the light of a
Midsummer's Night Moon.

Ah, July.
Full Buck Moon for the deer
Full Hay Moon for the farmers
Even Thunder Moon
For the earth is dry.
It is said,
When storms abound.
Celebrations begin,
Firecrackers flirt with the lightening
The moon winking and blinking
Through the darkening clouds.

Then comes August,
Barely passed of July
The Moon hangs high.
My August friend,
You're late to show your face, again.
But name you I must
For the sake of the Sturgeon.
For Sturgeon are plenty during this
Full Surgeon Moon.
Low and lazy in the hazy eve,
Full Red Moon beckons me.
Green Corn Moon and
Grain Moon
You can imagine why.
Then comes the change,
The nights decent into winter.

Moon large and bright,
Once again guides my night.
Whether it be for fruit, or grain or corn,
September or October
The time is right.
Full Harvest Moon
Lingering in the sky
From dusk to dawn
Let farmers reap what they sew.
Cool nights prevail.
The sun is off to play on the other side of the world.

October's Moon known by
Hunter's Moon.
The deer have shed their velvet,
'Tis the season of the rutting buck.
Hunter's of another kind,
Store nuts, seeds,
Whatever they can find.
Bears grow plump and drowsy
Preparing for a winter's nap.
Birds fly south,
Most anyway,
I'm glad for the Cardinal that stays.
Jays squawk and make a huge fuss,
When mice and rodents find their cache
And claim it as their own.
Woodpecker's shove acorns into holes in trees
Forever watching the rising moon.
Glowing orange
Looming large
Over the tree tops,
Out on the plains,
A signal for all to prepare.

Leaves have left the branches bare,

Nights have gathered frost.
November, touted as
Beaver's Moon
Snow Moon
And even,
Frosty Moon.
Mmm, sounds like it's time to visit
Wendy's late-night drive-thru window.
Love those chocolate Frosties.
I know,
It's cold and
Winter is at the door.

December comes too soon.
Giving us the light of the first
Full Cold Moon
Long Night Moon
Full Moon before Yule.
Old Man Winter Moon
Resting highest in the sky
Reluctant to leave the earth
To shudder in Old Man Winter's
Lingering cold and darkness.

So, Mensis,
Full cycle once again,
Where oceans and seas, and women,
Ebb and flow,
Rise and fall,
As the Moon
Known by many names,
Hovers and lingers there.
Enough Moon Beams for all,
He stops and spends a moment
To tell me,
All is well,
All is fine.
Go to sleep.
I am here.

Cliché Anyone?

2009-08-31T00:25:00.000-07:00

I agree with words served up on a silver platter,
Cliché's, trite phrases used over and over
And over,
Are as useless as tits on a boar hog.
But, what's wrong with being born
An Army Brat?
I'm proud of that fact of life.
What if I really was born on
A Dark and stormy night?
Wouldn't that be a truism?
Oh, but I forgot,
Truisms are considered
Trite Clichés.
Flat Platitudes.
But!
It's the truth,
Honest!
While we're at it,
What's wrong with Once upon a time?
That was the language of my birth.
Growing up with these
Truisms, trite, and worn out phrases
Was everyday speak where I came from.
Was I destined, later in life
To become a cliché?
Danged if I know.
(that's a southernism, not a cliché)
In writing dialog for characters in novels,
Stories of any kind,
What is so terrible about the
Character your writing about
Being true to his character?
If I read that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth
Then I immediately know he was spoiled,
And filthy rich.
A brat.
Truism.
Flat platitude.
Cliché.
I already know that
Life imitates art.
I'm Artsy Crafty and proud of it.
So what's up with that?
We can speak in clichés
But we can't write them?
For my two-cents worth,
If a creation of mine wants to say,
He's as dumb as a stump,
When in reality that's the language he knows,
To me it would be quite
Out of character to have
Him to say otherwise.
Pritn'r got that right.
(another southernism--I think)
Sigh of relief.
Truism: If the plots of novels,
Especially mysteries,
Take so many twists and turns,
Then why is it considered
A bad turn
For writers to use such phrases?
And what's wrong with
Killed two birds with one stone?
My grandmother did that all the time.
I know exactly what she meant
When she said,
Don't put all your eggs in one basket, child,
'Cause when I did and I accidently
Dropped the basket?
All the eggs were lost.
My next chore would be standing beside the hen
Waiting all day long for another egg to drop.
Or is that waiting for the other shoe to drop?
And don't tell me there's
Plenty of fish in the sea,
When I can clearly see that there's not.
Referring to available boy types as a youth.
A euphemism.
I know there are plenty of fish in the sea.
I think,
There just weren't plenty of boy-types, so,
If one left me at the altar,
I'd know for sure I was destined
To become a spinster.
I've always had good intentions,
Yeah,
Yeah,
I know,
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
But this baby boomer has always gone the whole nine yards.
I don't think I sewed many wild oats,
But I may have sewn a few.
At least enough for things to
Come back to haunt me.
But, that's water under the bridge.
Truism: Needless to say,
There is no time like the present
To learn to write the
King's English.
Right.
Just read my lips
I won't kiss and tell.
And
Remember the Alamo.
I'll be back!
(a Schwarzeneggerism)

Something Amiss Among the Purple

2009-08-27T18:11:00.000-07:00

Crepuscular creatures stalk my petunias.
Hidden in the day,
Pale brown, winged creatures
Flutter above the purple at dusk,
Planting a single egg in the very center.
Off they go into the gathering darkness.
Infesting another purple
With menacing precision.
Center here.
Center there.
Center across the path.
Winging away before dawn.
Back to Cimmeria.
In morning's hazy gaze
Discovery of misadventure in the night.
The flowers stunning booms.
Scented, spicy-sweet at eve.
Deepening the shadows of the garden.
Cooling.
A carpeted purple oasis.
Suddenly lacy.
Tiny mouths are at play.
Working a lacy pattern from perfection,
As if crafting a snowflake with scissors.
Startled once.
Researched twice.
Evidence: entozoon from the grub.
In finer words: worm poop!
Tiny black specks stuck on fury arms
Of sticky stems and leaves below.
Sickening evidence of a
Hairy-cat plunderer.
Better known:
A geranium/petunia budworm.
Camouflaged by what it eats.
Green for green.
Purple for purple.
Purple budworms relentlessly
Munch happily.
Undisturbed.
First discovered.
Scissors in hand.
Cut away the coveted blossoms.
Away, away, into the garbage can.
Poison not on the menu.
Then wait.
Day after day.
Weeks in all.
The purple shows through.
Once again
Filling the twilight air
With sweet,
Spicy fragrance.
Conquered is the menace.
Showy are the blooms.
Days and days.
Weeks and weeks.
Oh, poo!
More worm poop!
Lacey patterns immerge.
Each new blossom a lunch.
Back to square one.
The season is nearly over.
Do I give my purple another chance?
Is poison a consideration?
Or do I pull and pitch
And replace.
With
Mums.

To Dust or Not To Dust

2009-08-24T21:48:00.000-07:00

Someone said we're made of dust.
Tiny particle molecules that float through space and time.
Minute specks of detritus be-smutching the veneer.
I may not see you, dust bunnies,
But I know you're there.
Feasting upon my gillings,
Breeding and growing in number.
The wind blows and fragments of the stars
Drifts in one window.
Sifts upon another.
Creating domestic dust.
Should I get out the dust mop?
The dust rag sprayed with Lemon Pledge?
How about that Swifter thingy?
Very handy little device.
I like it best of all.
Or would you dust bunnies lurking under the bed
Like to take a ride in my Dirt Devil.
A thrill of a lifetime.
Come one.
Come all.
Free!
Volcano's erupt creating atmospheric dust.
Dandelion's bloom, and ragweed, too.
Becoming allergens.
Lifted by the wind.
Creating a sneeze.
Dust Devils swirl above the dry land
Filling the air with sand.
Dirt.
Debris.
Bits of desiccated insects.
Under the door.
Through cracked and shriveled putty
Along splintered and paint-peeled sills.
Up cracks in the floor.
Air vents.
There's no place to hide.
They'll come again and gather and create.
So, do I let the dust bunnies live?
Or do I dust and sweep.
And vacuum.
And wipe.
And spray.
And polish.
Taking satisfaction that I have conquered
The dust mite.
The dust bunnies.
The hairballs.
The cosmic silt.
Only to have it all return at the end of the day?

Pissant vs Piss Ant

2009-08-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

The dictionary says that a Pissant or Piss Ant is something insignificant.
A vulgar slur.
Worthless.
Of no value or consequence.
Despicable.
You got that right.
A whole line of insignificants invaded my space the other day.
At first there were only a handful of foraging despicables on my kitchen counter top.
The hunt began.
Flashlight in hand.
I couldn't see where on earth the vulgar slurs had entered the apartment.
So I soaped the worthless specks on the counter with Dawn dish detergent,

Plus Odor Control.
Ha! instant death!
Well, a few inconsequentials, I squished with my thumb.
The next day a few more no values were lingering here and there.
Insignificantly.
Again they got the thumb.
On Thursday I hadn't noticed the worthless slurs anywhere.

Job well done.
In the afternoon I put Gretchen's plate of stinky goodness on the floor in the kitchen.
I took a nap.
Oops! One insignificant lowlife had made it back to camp.
When I woke and went into the kitchen
A whole mess of those tiny devils were happily grazing on Gretchen's leftovers.
The inconsequential escapee had brought back the whole despicable gang.
Big mistake.
Their secret had been uncovered.

What to do.
No bug spray on hand for one good reason.
Kill the ant.
Kill the cat.
I just wanted to stop the worthless marauders.
I reached in the cabinet under the sink and grabbed the first spray can my hand touched.
Lavender Lysol Deodorizer.
Killed the ants.
Saved the cat.
Made the room smell like fields of Lavender.
With a hint of disinfectant.
All those insignificant little Pissants bit the dust instantly.
Broom.
Dustpan.
Dead ants.
Trashcan.
Note to self: call maintenance on Monday to seal that insignificant hole.

Glossary:
Gretchen: house cat
Stinkygoodness: house cat's canned food

My Blogging Wasteland

2009-08-21T15:56:00.000-07:00

I've never gotten past the idea that I cannot blog on a regular basis without uploading a picture.
There are only so many interesting photos I can take for one so limited getting out and about.
There are only so many photos I can take of my tiny dirt patch.
Pots empty and full of last year's autumn leaves.

Pots full of newly planted flowers.

Pots of burnt leaves from a recent heat wave.
There are only so many photos of the same piece of sky.
Sky with clouds.
Sky without clouds.
Sky dark with heavy marine clouds that settle over the valley for most of the day.
Yet I call myself a writer and I never really write anymore.
Except, of course, the current WIP (work-in-progress).
Which should be called NIP (Novel-in-progress).
I got that acronym from my writing buddy, Thomma.
But even my NIP has been spotty of late.
One of my offspring had been having the same blogging block as I.
She finally decided to use something akin to the morning pages technique.
Just write stuff that enters the head.
Only just lines of thought.
I forget for how many minutes,
But it's worth a shot.
At least I'd be blogging again.
So I picked a photo off of web images of a plain tuna sandwich,
For that is what I've had so far to eat today…it now being 3:30 in the afternoon.
I've decided that someone should do a piece on how many kinds of tuna sandwiches there are.
Hmmm…maybe that someone could be me.
Perhaps.
But some other time.
When I've awaken at 3 in the morning and can't get back to sleep.
I basically just wanted to empty my head.
Hopefully, triggering a desire to return to my…
NIP

Wordless Wednesday

2009-08-12T19:01:00.000-07:00

Who Does Kitty Love Best?

2009-08-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

I think it's obvious. She loves her dad. I just feed her and scoop her poop. I'm not expendable but I'm not her favorite lately. I think she's hanging out with dad more because of his owies. The tape on his arm is where they stick the dialysis tubes.

Our weather has returned to normal and it's just so nice out. I've been lazing about more and more and not getting a lot done. Writing wise. I do attempt to work on MMRB every few days or so. I'm adding chapters now and they take some thought. I'm only up to 73K but I'm continuing to tweak and add. I usually have to delete a lot but this WIP was written in 30 days for Nano and sat on the shelf for a year and a half with the intention of increasing its size. Harder to do I think than delete, delete, delete.

Dating Myself

2009-07-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

Watching Thomma Lyn's watermelons grow reminded me of one I grew in 1960. The fence was not a problem for it. And yeah, it tasted pretty good, too.

Going to hit the triple digit mark on Tuesday and Wednesday, or so the weather people have been telling us for over a week now. Hot today, still in mid 90's. I'm waiting for midnight before I go out and water my flowers.

Still working on Murder and Mallard Bend...off and on. More off than on lately. I've gotten lazy about pretty much everything, including posting.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-07-08T01:56:00.000-07:00

Full Moon Rising

2009-07-06T22:20:00.000-07:00

Full moon rising

Our sacred guide for the night

Things have cooled in more ways than one around here today. The heat wave of 90 plus temperatures has abated. Now in upper 60's. One way or the other, I'd wish it would make up its mind.

Also cooled is the second draft on Murder at Mallard River Bend. I took a week off after the second pass and now I'm ready to tackle it again. I will be doing a detailed chapter-by-chapter this time, for--oh, however long it takes. I'm not real fond of chapter-by-chapters but they are really helpful. And necessary.

I managed to bring the story's word count up to 70K but not satisfied with that. I would like to see it at around 100K. I'll keep working on it . . . improving and increasing.

Other than that, when it's in the 90's I run the air and just laze around. During our little heat spell I finished reading one book and started another, made a few hair scrunchies and now I'm ready to hit the writing trail again. My cave dragon, Glorian, is restless. He's not happy with these lulls in my work. But for weeks I went from one manuscript to the next without a break, so I figured both of us needed to rest up a bit before we take off again. Besides he misses his chocolate covered coals.

Petunia Moon

2009-06-30T22:34:00.000-07:00

Some of my purple petunias and a waxing gibbous moon around nine o'clock tonight. The garden is so heady with scent of purple petunias. I'll have to take pictures of them in the daylight.

Loving My Little Mouse-ears

2009-06-26T20:58:00.000-07:00

mouse ears hosta in bloom

I'm making great headway with Murder at Mallard River Bend. I'm on my second pass, the first was just a get-acquainted-with-it-again pass, now I'm serious. Added two chapters and will probably add one more before I'm through. I'm loving working on this WIP. With Scrungy: Journey I felt like I was pulling teeth. Now I'm really enjoying working on this novel.

Our little cool spell will be gone tomorrow. Warmer temperatures will return for a few days. I had a feeling when I put out the money for a new A/C this year that I wouldn't use it much. So far, I haven't used it much.

My Kind Of Day!

2009-06-21T22:05:00.000-07:00

A breezy, blue-sky, puffy-clouds, kind of day. The windsong was invigorating. My soul has been energized. Only in the sixties today but wonderful just the same.

I'm still working on Murder at Mallard River Bend, adding subtracting, tweaking, and just plain enjoying myself.

Hubby even had a good Father's Day. Thanks Sue, for the Rice Krispies Treats! You made his day.

Night-Night

2009-06-17T21:48:00.000-07:00

Purple Petunias and THE END for Bubba and Bean

2009-06-17T03:09:00.000-07:00

I'm so thrilled that I planted a lot of purple petunias in my Dirt Patch this year. Actually it's more like a Potted Patch because I don't really put things in the ground anymore. I've got more clay pots than I can count. The purple is deep and fragrant. This picture looks more blue, but trust me, they are as purple as purple can get. Love to smell them at night while watering. The Star Jasmine is also adding its sweet odor to the evening breezes.

Bubba and Bean, at 101,047 words, is officially on the shelf . . . or rather, out the door, because I've sent it out to be read. I finally have an ending that I think I can live with. While I still have the momentum, I'm going to begin revising Murder at Mallard River Bend starting tomorrow. It is my first attempt at a mystery and I'm anxious to get back to it. It's just bare bones at the moment.

Gotta Be a Good Day to End Like This!

2009-06-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

I was just closing the blinds when I saw this. Had to have the picture. Our little pocket in this valley doesn't offer much in the way of stunning sunsets. But when we get one it's breathtaking. Of course, my camera doesn't do it justice. You get the idea.

Birdy Wednesday and Writing Update

2009-06-11T01:14:00.000-07:00

the roses in the background are not mine

I went outside today to take pictures of my purple flowers to send to Thomma Lyn. The Pacific Jay was very accommodating to pose in my picture.

I have officially put "THE END" on Bubba and Bean tonight at 100,313 words. In working on the last few chapters I discovered a slight timeline snafu and will go back over the draft again, starting tomorrow. I also found the need, which is usually the case at the end of a novel, to go back to Chapter 1 and rewrite it. There are also bits of information that I left out about the middle part and will work those in. The word count should go up slightly, only to come down again after extensive revisions.

Once Bubba and Bean have been deemed complete, it will be read and retuned so I can start revisions. Meanwhile, I will unbury Murder and Mallard Bend and start revisions on that. I ended it for the Nano Event at 66,000 words. Again I will set the word count at 100,000 and work towards that end. The Mallard Bend draft has lots of room for growth as it was written rather quickly, in 30 days time.

Bubba and Bean, with all of life's daily dramas, has taken a few years to get this far. I'm hoping that Mallard Bend won't take more than a few months of additions and revision. Crossing my fingers that no more dramas will occur.

Moon Crazy

2009-06-04T17:46:00.001-07:00

I'm not nuts, I'm just crazy about the moon. One of these days I'm gonna have the kind of camera that lets me take better moon shots. This was what I saw about eleven last night, June 3rd.

Humid, hazy night. The moon looked fuzzy.

I've made some significant progress on Bubba and Bean. I got past the block I had when I put back on the shelf a year and a half ago. Planning on having more BIC tonight. It should only take four or five chapters to finish this novel and move on to the next one that's been jelling/baking on the shelf. I call it collecting cobwebs.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-06-03T04:14:00.001-07:00

Wordless Wednesday and Writing Update

2009-05-26T20:32:00.000-07:00

=^.^=

Writing Update:

Scrungy Journey has ended. I finished it tonight, bringing the first draft total to 102,134 words.

I will put it on the shelf for a while and let it collect dust, as well as cob webs in my mind. I decided not to write an epilogue just yet. When I have finished with a few rewrites I'll write the epilogue then, making sure I have all the loose ends woven into place. Makes better sense, to me, at least.

I'm off and running on a novel shelved two years ago. I never could come up with the ending I wanted. Now, I think I can. So out it comes; all 83,640 words of it. I've set the goal for 100,000 words again, or better. Bubba and Bean is a coming of age story; falling in love for the first time. Yes, I have a cat in it. But it's not about cats. Bean is a young western girl falling in love with Bubba, a young southern boy in Savannah, Georgia in the late 1950's.

Reporting Word Count

2009-05-26T03:20:00.000-07:00

Bouquet of Irises a friend brought over

Reporting my word count on Scrungy: Journey. The journey is about over. Tonight, or rather this AM, I've reached my 100,000 mark. I stopped short of finishing the last chapter. Got tired. I stand at 100,038. Tomorrow I will finish the chapter and write the epilogue. Then I'll be DONE! With the 1st draft, that is. It'll go on the shelf for a while then I'll start the rewrites. In the meantime, I have other projects to tackle.

Mirror Blue Review

2009-05-24T16:25:00.000-07:00

I have finished reading Mirror Blue and now it's time for a review.

First of all, I'd like to say that Thomma Lyn Grindstaff is a wonderful writer. She knows how to craft a story well, make you laugh, make you cry, make you hate, make you fall in love, and make you to keep reading to the end. Her writing is seamless.

I was thrilled to finally be able to read this novel as a printed book and not off the computer screen as a manuscript as I had done before: the first time I fell in love with Isaac.

Aphra Porter is an independent young woman with dreams and crushes that come true when she meets and falls in love with a famous author, Isaac Lightfoot, twenty years her senior. Her idol since childhood. Her mentor.

I fell in love with Isaac right along with Aphra. And she's a biker chic—woo hoo! On the side. A web designer in real life. The fact that Aphra and Isaac are both in love with their Harley's gives the story more meaning. A common ground outside of their passion for each other.

The ex-wife factor in this story is well played—well written. Norma is someone you're supposed to hate the mention of. And I did. Her character is showy and bitchy. Just what an ex should be, right? The son, his wife, and Isaac's own Momma treat Aphra's and Isaac's love for each other as nonexistent and they do everything in their power to destroy it.

Chapter 20 is where things turn. Get out the tissues. You'll need them until the end.

Some of my favorite lines:

(a scene where Isaac's momma enters the restaurant late) "Maggie blows in on a breeze of Rose Sachet." I love Rose Sachet and so I connected with this line.

"Silence drug itself out between them like a stone monolith pulled across grinding sand by bone-tired workers."

"Writing, as she'd commented to Isaac earlier, was the ultimate freedom. Worlds to create, bonds to form, lives to mold, How delightful it would be to recreate Isaac and herself in a universe of their mutual making, a universe of pure mind made up of the Ideal Forms which reflected as spectral shadows on the walls of the cave of their everyday lives—a realm where their love, unfettered and unhindered, might be given its fullest expression. With no Norma. No First Family. A place where Isaac was and ever would be hers. All hers."

And of course there are cats in this story. Two: Pilar and Santiago. They have a delightful and supportive roll in the lives of Aphra and Isaac. It's just natural that they would be there for Aphra. And Isaac.

This is a must read romance book by my new favorite, of favorite authors. I give it a full four stars!

You can look forward to reading more of Thomma Lyn's writing in the future. I know I am. And can't wait for the next book to hit the market!

I've been looking for this cartoon image ever since I first read Mirror Blue's manuscript.

It reminds me of Apha and her midnight rides.

Cartoon Rose is Rose by Pat Brady

Adding Purple Rhodies

2009-05-21T21:41:00.000-07:00

The Rhododendron next to the early pink variety is blooming now. A gorgeous purple!

Just love purple!

You gotta click on this picture and see it really close up.

I had a really good BIC writing session last night from eleven thrity until about four in the morning. 4,479 words worth. Getting closer to my goal and end is coming together better than I thought it was last week. It's not easy moving a colony of 70 cats five days cat journey in the wintertime. For awhile I thought I bit off more than I could chew but it's finally coming together. The decision now is, do I make the ending the end of the triology? or do I leave the end open . . . just in case I want to write an additional Scrungy book?

Planted and Reading Mirror Blue

2009-05-18T22:57:00.000-07:00

Pink Rhododendron

Pink Lupins I planted last summer in my neighbor's garden.

All planted. Purples, blues, and whites.

It's got a lot of growing to do, but the faries are out.

And best of all, my favorite author's book came in the mail today. Thomma Lyn Grindstaff, Mirror Blue. I ordered it from Amazon.com. Gretchen likes it, too. It's a looovvve story. Good one, too! I'll give a review here in a few days. Makes me want to fall in love all over again...hee, hee.

Other than planting, I've been buried in writing and reading. I've got to stop and do some research before I go on with Scrungy: Journey, but I'm about 15,000 words from my goal...and to bring the story to a close. Ah...*audible sigh* it's been quite a journey with these cats.

Hubby is doing better, but the dialysis unit used his fitula (enlarged vein in his left arm) for the first time today. It took about a half an hour to stop it from bleeding when his four and half hours were up. I think that worried him some. He still has his catheter in his chest (tied into his jugular vein). They won't take out the catheter until they are sure his fistual will work. Then he'll have to go back up to the Portland hospital to have it removed. With all I've been through I don't think I could deal with dialysis. Chemo was hard, but I only had four months of that. He's got to do this for the rest of his life...bummer!

We've had three gorgous days...warm, almost too warm. Front came into at sundown. Cooler and rain for a few days. But my flowers sure loved the warm sunshine while they had it. Now they'll get a good rain. Less watering I'll have to do. Yay!

Screeching Wednesday

2009-05-12T23:02:00.000-07:00

Ah, Finally, Spring Has Come To My Valley

2009-05-10T15:08:00.000-07:00

A beautiful spring morning. The dogwood at its pink peak, the Rhododendrons beneath it are just beginning to flower. Actually the Rhododendrons have been blooming all over town. The red ones especially. The pink one here is a later variety, the one next to it will begin to open soon and it's purple. So, soon there will be a constant riot of color outside my bedroom window.

After spending three days shopping for mostly purple flowers for my garden, and two days of planting, as I sat on the edge of my bed last night, with aching muscles, especially the bend over ones, (butt and hip) I was treated to a wonderful picture opportunity. So at eleven o'clock at night, standing outside my window in night gown and robe, I held my breath and got this shot. With my camera, if I wiggle the moon looks like an egg. So this really pleased me. I can even see the moon's face.

Moon Shot

2009-05-07T01:39:00.000-07:00

The rains quit about one this afternoon and the sun came out. It was very windy and a bit cool, but nice. I managed to go flower shopping this afternoon and buy some more bags of dirt.

As we traipsed back to the store for something we forgot, around nine this evening, I discovered the moon, little wisps of clouds gliding across its aura. My little camera isn't the best for night shots. My love for the moon keeps me trying to get on camera what I see. Never happen, of course. Not until I get something better.

I managed a couple of thousand words on Scrungy tonight. It was more of a determination thing; my heart wasn't really in it—more like my body wasn't into hours of a BIC (butt-in-chair) session. I was out most of the afternoon in the sun, wind, shopping, and got pretty tired. Still I felt I should keep the momentum going and write tonight. I'm getting so close to my goal that I'm compelled to write every day now. I suppose tomorrow I will go back over the last two chapters I've written and probably revise them a bit. I need to stop and adjust my outlines first. Try and keep track of where I'm going. Rasper, Scrungy, and Rufus (human) seem to want to take the lead and I'm having a bit of trouble reining them in. So better luck tomorrow.

A Few Words Wednesday

2009-05-06T00:59:00.000-07:00

The pink dogwood has peaked

See the moon above the blossoms?

Here's a better view

And...my peace plant has bloomed!

Otherwise, I've managed a small amount of writing on Scrungy: Journey since Sunday night.

Happy 39th Birthday Amy!

2009-05-04T01:44:00.000-07:00

Saturday Already? Ugh....

2009-05-02T18:51:00.000-07:00

my pink dogwood, now fully open...leaves come next

Today was supposed to be flower shopping day at the big nurseries around our area and all I came home with was a few bags of potting soil. We had terrible winds and rains all through the night, this morning a bit of sunshine, by noon, pouring rain, mixed with bits of sun. By the time I got home from the local grocery store, with my few bags of dirt, all hell broke loose. We had wind, driving rain, and thunder and lightning. Kind of exhilarating! Almost reminded me of the Midwest. Except here we rarely ever get thunder and lightning. Gretchen skedaddled under the bed with the first roll of thunder and stayed there for a long time. Now the sun is out and she is curled up on my legs. Her Birthday was yesterday...she turned five.

Hopefully, flower shopping day will be Tuesday. I may end up buying stuff here in town, but I've got red, deep purple, and hostas in mind for this year, so I want to check out the nurseries first.

I'm all shopped out anyway. Yesterday was major grocery shopping day so I've been pooped ever since. Today was supposed to be girl's day out and flower shopping but didn't happen. The girls went out to eat and watched it rain. I ended up back in the grocery store buying more groceries...things I forget yesterday. At least it was in the high 60's today and I could have the windows open at times.

I gave Glorian a few days off, I had too much going on this week to settle into working on Scrungy. Plus, I've been in another funk. I hate those funks, they are very unproductive. I'm hoping to start in a little while. I should have no more interruptions tonight. Hope! Cross my eyes and legs. I'm not that far from finishing the draft, drat it. You'd think I could stay with it. I've written nothing since April 24th. For shame.

Thomma Lyn has started promoting her book as of yesterday's E-book release, and it will be out May 7 in paperback. It can be preordered from Black Lyon but I'd like to see when Amazon gets it in. Much more exciting that way. I think, anyway. Thomma is nervous and excited at the same time. But I know her book, Blue Mirror, will do very well. So mark your calendars for May 7th and get your copy. I can't say enough about. It's good.

It's Official. TLG's Book Release Dates

2009-04-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

As you know, all of Thomma Lyn's friends have been posting and writing about the debut release of her book, Mirror Blue. Well, tomorrow, the E-book version, published by Black Lyon, will be released--Friday, May 1st. Sorry... In most of the US it's already Friday...I'm on the dark side of the moon and we're always behind the times here.

The paperback will be for sell beginning May 7th. You can preorder. All the details are on Thomma Lyn's web page. If it doesn't come out in your book store, ask for it. Ask your library for it, too.

Thomma has been working hard, doing her share of promoting her first published novel. She will have much to do in the coming months to help get the word out. As her friends we can get the book, read it, review it, and tell all our friends about it.

This romance novel is a lovely story between a young woman, and an older man, someone she's had a crush on since childhood. You'll fall in love with both Aphra and Isaac. I did, especially Issac Lightfoot. Wow...

For Thomma... A bunch of blue roses, KS

Contratulations my sweet friend, you've gotten through this month and everything is on target. I'm thrilled and excited for you! KS...good job! You now have an official ISBN number, YAY!

Review of Kim Michele Richardson's book...The Unbreakable Child

2009-04-28T14:58:00.000-07:00

I have finished reading Kim Michele Richardson's first book. The Unbreakable Child. A Memoir. I promised to give it a review on my blog. I was never good at book reports in school, so I hope I can do it justice. This book, once opened, cannot be closed until the end. Except for blurry eyes and the need for a few hours sleep I did not close this book until the end.

A story hard to read if you've ever been a victim of child abuse. At the same time, a beautiful recount of the strength and braveness from such a young child reaches across the written page and touches the heart. Gives strength to those who know. Strength to put such a life past them. Strength to move forward and live the life of their dreams. Strength to "forgive the unforgivable."

This story is well written. The timeline, the way Kim weaves the present with the past, is flawless. The prose, the repeated phrases at just the right moments in the story, touch you to the core. To the center of your heart. It reaches into your soul and brings out sorrow and compassion for the young Kimmi.

Such a young child. Nine years of terrible, unspeakable abuse. Like her title…"unbreakable."
I'm still reeling from her lost childhood. I feel certain, as a child, I'd never have had the strength, the courage, to keep it together.

All throughout the book Kim asked, "Who wears the face of God?" She gives the full answer at the end. I won't tell you, you'll have to read it for yourself. But I will say, this book is a must read. People need to know. People need to remove their blinders. People need to see the signs and respond compassionately. This book will open hearts as well as eyes. It healed mine.

You'll cry, cringe in fear, laugh, giggle, and rejoice with Kim as she turns her soul inside out for you.

God bless you Kim, for sharing your childhood with the world. For being so brave to relive it all as you put the words on paper for us to read. You are a champion!

I wish Kim great success with this book and hopes she continues to write.
From and fan and friend.

Cold Again...But Pretty!

2009-04-22T21:20:00.001-07:00

Open wide!

Welcome first Cala Lily

Paul's surgery went smooth as silk this morning. He got a new catheter in his chest. The fistula in his arm isn't ready for use yet. He got home in time to have lunch and then go to dialysis.

I took a nap. Getting up ealry isn't what I do. But I did it for my pal...

He was somewhat stressed over the whole situation, but now that's it's over, he's happy again.

A cold front has come through and forced us to close the windows and turn on the heat...again. I've paid the highest prices for heating this year than I've ever done since I've been here. The extra need for heat and the price-hike togehter doesn't help. Disgusting.

Coming Soon...More Blossoms

2009-04-21T19:55:00.000-07:00

Pink dogwood is beginning to bloom.

It warmed up to mid-eighties yesterday and today.

The fans were brought out and turned on.

The air conditioner was put in the window.

It's new.

It works.

Hay fever season as started.

Gray and Me was rejected by LL Publishing.

Not the kind of story they wanted for their Cat Anthology.

Should I send another one, or just forget them?

No time.

Husband has to have surgery in the morning to fix his dialysis catheter.

He's in peril without it working properly.

Still have a ton of laundry to do.

No time.

It's either been too cold: to rainy: too warm.

Maybe Thursday will be a better day.

For everything.

It will be cold again.

Happy Earth Day, April 22nd. Gretchen and Mike have the right idea about Earth Day...go here.

A Post About Nothing At All!

2009-04-18T19:23:00.000-07:00

Yoga kitty? or rear-end salute?

Every now and then I feel a need to post. I usually plan one or have been tagged into doing something, but there no is reason for this one other than the fact that I feel the need to do something.

Our weather is warming, the sun tried to shine most of the afternoon, and the windows did get open for a couple of hours this afternoon.

I haven't touched Scrungy: Journey in a week...for shame.

I did finish a book by Mary Higgins Clark, Where Are You Now. It was difficult to pick the killer from this one until he was revealed at the end.

I have now received the latest Diane Mott Davidson book, Fatally Flaky.

I thought I'd better blog first then do some writing on my novel before I dive into this book. This is the author I call a breathless writer. You feel like you've been on a tilt-a-whirl when you've finished the book. She's funny, goes nonstop, and gets into all kinds of trouble. It's a murder mystery...what else?

Amazingly I had the dishes done by seven so I have no excuse not to write tonight. That's where I'm headed now. First I have to wake up my sleeping cave dragon; he's gotten far to lazy this week. Maybe I'll have to stop feeding him dark chocolate.

Good News for Thomma Lyn!

2009-04-13T17:11:00.000-07:00

Today Blue Lyon Publishing announced the debut book of a friend dearest to my heart. Thomma Lyn Grindstaff's book, Mirror Blue, is scheduled for release May 1, 2009. I love the book cover. Yay, Thomma! Time to break out the champagne! It's actually happening and I'm so proud of her! She's a very good writer and you're going to love this book. It will in paperback as well as e-books.

Congratulations, KS...you deserve this. I'm so proud of you and ecstatically happy for you!

Good, Good Friday (And Tag)

2009-04-10T17:04:00.001-07:00

Any day the sun is shining is a Great Day!

The buds on the dogwood are getting bigger!

The leaves on the Japanese Maple are filling out.

Who can help but look up and see?
Blue skies.

What shape can one identify?
Puffy clouds.

Under bright blue skies filled with puffy white clouds
My heart sings…it soars…it resonates with joy!

Happy Blue Sky Day in Oregon!

Scrungy: Journey update:

Glorian has been earning his keep…as long as I keep feeding him chocolate covered embers...that is. He's been a hard task master, but it's been worth his stern reproach.

I've succeeded at getting Journey in a better chronological order. Oh, what a chore that was. Something I put off when I realized at about chapter 12, something wasn't right. Now, I've written 25 chapters and started on 26. I'm finally happy with the flow of the story. But there's a nagging in the back of my mind to go visit Bubba and Bean and give their story the ending that I couldn't do before. I have to keep myself focused on Scrungy, however, hoping to get the first draft finished or close to it by the end of May. I can't believe it has taken me almost a year on this story. I set my goal higher this time: 100,000 words and I am over 57,000 so that in itself is a great feeling. I'm energized.

Keepin' it Real (just tagged by Julia)

Here are the rules:

Take a picture of yourself right now.

No primping or preparing.

Just snap a picture.

Load the picture onto your blog.

Tag some people to play.

NO CHEATING!

If I can do this...you can, too!

Now your tagged:

Sunday Thoughts

2009-04-05T19:17:00.001-07:00

The promise of the Pink Dogwood

The promise of the Japanese Maple

Six months of rain, sleet, snow, rain, cold wind
Broke into spring-blue skies this morning
The clouds have departed
The sun is warm

Leaves breaking forth on the maple
Crocus sharing their luscious scent
Daffodils about gone
Tulips now arising

A quiet like no other
On this Sunday afternoon
Just warm peaceful sun
Shining down on me

Cast open the windows
Let the breeze flow freely
Through musty rooms
And darkened corners

Cast open the windows
Cast out the bad air
Freshen the house
Freshen the soul

Sounds of spring
Promises of summer to come
But I won't think about that right now
I won't think about turning on the AC

I will enjoy the last rays of sun
Laying long arms of yellow-orange
Across the room
A short break from gloom

Thank you God for
A day such as this

Thankful Thursday...

2009-03-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

My desk top picture...my journey into the unexplored.

I had to take some time off from working on Scrungy: Journey tonight to share a comment with you and to express how thankful I am for this life.

I am so grateful to have the four daughters that I have.
Each with a different and unique talent.
Always willing to share their talents and gifts with others.
Making a better place for all who cross their path...including me.

#4 is the daughter who made my cave dragon. She just posted a comment on my Wordless Day post and it brought tears to my eyes for that is exactly how I see the world.

This is what she said....

"If you cast your eyes and do not see,
it's your imagination that has your vision.
Always there;
Always watching;
Always taking notes."

Now I know why I'm so different than anyone else. I register everything around me and then put it in the imagination locker in my brain until it's needed. Thanks Ami...you're a wonder. I love you.

By the way, Ami (Amy) is back blogging again, here. Go by and say hi...

No Word Day...

2009-03-25T03:01:00.000-07:00

Monday Poetry - And Writing Day

2009-03-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

Pretty Words

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathered birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.

-Elinor Wylie

At Last! He's here!

2009-03-14T13:01:00.000-07:00

Glorian

Master of My Writing Cave

original artwork by Ami 2009

At last, Glorian has arrived. My youngest daughter painted him for me when I told her I needed a cave dragon to protect my cave from the intrusions of life while I'm writing. He's more splendid than I had imagined.

Now, you may wonder why a nasty, fire breathing creature like this one has such a girly name.

Glorian was a kitten born in the first novel of Scrungy. His father, Creston, was a rogue whose only quest in life was to overpower king Preylor and take Koac for himself and his minions whom he'd collected along the way. About two months before his march on Koac, Creston had beguiled Drazzle, a beautiful Himalayan female under the king's special protection. Once Creston mated with this gorgeous creature he her turned her out. When time came for the battle over the possession of Koac, Drazzle, then pregnant with eight kittens, was mortally wounded and later died. During the struggle over the colony, Scrungy had killed Creston and the colony was left with eight of Creston's offspring. The last born was an exact image of his hated father. Meeline, Scrungy's sweetheart, wanted no ill feelings in the colony over Drazzle's kittens. She chose the names for each of them, and when it came to the spitting image of his father…the tiniest male, Meeline said he should have a grand name, one that would give him honor as he grew. She named the colony's fiercest rival's son, Glorian. No one could speak evil of a little kitten with a name full of glory.

So Glorian, the little runt with a heavy weight already on his back as a newborn, the stigma of his evil father, becomes the guardian for my writing cave. He is seven months old in Scrungy's third book and is learning just how brave and heroic he can be. Like the creature Ami has painted, Glorian is not a softy and can be fierce when he has to protect those he loves. After all he will grow up to be a loyal member of Koac.

So, thank you Ann for the loan of your cave dragon that I had temporally named Darmon after another young cat in the loyalists' army of Koac. He will return to the ranks of his colony while Glorian takes possession of protecting my writing time.

Thank you Ami for such a wonderful dragon of my very own.

New Temorary Dragon

2009-03-02T15:27:00.001-08:00

Meet Darmon.

My writing cave will now be protected by one of Annie Wicking's dragons. She is quite an artist and I'm honored that she had offered to lend me one of her cave dragons until the one my daughter is working on is finished. Like my life right now, my daughter's life is also peppered with little time sucking dramas. So, it could be a while.

I hope that Darmon, named after a young tom in Scrungy: Journey, will also be a good luck talisman. With someone this fierce and loyal guarding my Writing Cave, how could I not achieve success. Success to me right now is actually finishing up the draft of this third book in the Scrungy series. An endeavor that has been fraught with many setbacks since I began last May. That's right May 21, 2008 is when I started this novel and here it is close to a year later and I've not reached the 50K mark. For the shame...

Normally for me to complete a novel, first draft, takes only three to four months, maybe six if I'm lazy about it. I'm happy to say, however, that I've made more progress in the last two months than I have since last May.

That said...Darmon, my new loyal cave master...do your stuff! I'm ready to obey!

I've Found My Niche Again!

2009-02-16T02:44:00.000-08:00

I've borrowed a few pieces of clipart to make my own Cave Dragon. A temporary one while waiting on the one my daughter is drawing for me. I know I can do it myself, but she's better at it, especially with the way my shoulder and hand are behaving these days...a little shaky.

So, I figured that if I got my own protection - AKA - a protector of my "Writing Cave," like some of my successful friends have, maybe, just maybe, I'll get back into writing like I'm supposed to. And guess what? Finally, I made it over 40K on Scrungy: Journey. I had some timeline problems that were really bothering me. But I found them and I'm on track, moving right along now.

It's the Sweetest Day of the Year! Go for it!

2009-02-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

I Know, I Know...It's Been A While Since I've Posted

2009-02-12T19:00:00.000-08:00

I've been going through one misery after another since October. After starting to feel more like myself again, after two surgeries, in January I got hit by a really nasty, long lasting cold that took all of January to get over. Once the cold was gone and I was well enough to function again I went back to working on Scrungy: Journey. I also finished reading Dewey that I had started before my cold and then read The Lucky One, Nicholas Sparks new book that I bought a couple of months ago. I had started Still Watch by Mary Higgins Clark before the last surgery in November and got distracted for a while. I'm not back to reading it now. I never like to leave a book unfinished, and sometimes that's a hard thing to do when the book isn't worth finishing. However, the books I've just read and the one I'm working on now, are worth finishing.

I loved Dewey, I loved The Lucky One and needed the tissue box to read both of them. My next favorite author, Shirley Rousseau Murphy, has a new book out and it was supposed to be out the first week of February, but after I ordered it I found out it won't be shipped now until March 6th. So I'm kind of bummed that it's not coming until next month. The book is her latest cat series. Cat Playing Cupid. It's a mystery series. All the characters are like my friends and I'm eager to read this book and find out what they've been up to. Another new book from Diane Mott Davidson is coming out in April, Fattaly Flaky. She's another of my favorite authors and this is the next book in her series. You can see I like series mysteries.

And that brings me back to working on Scrungy: Journey. I'm just inches from 40K but I've got some second thoughts about the time line and I'm in kinda of a pickle as what to do to fix it. Part of me says to leave it alone and keep going and the other part says rearrange it now. Egads! I hate things like this. After rereading it last night, I think for now I'm going to keep going and worry about the arrangement of certain events, later, when I'm finished, but I've placed significant markers in the ms to help me to better keep track of the time line, which I will remove later. I'm afraid if I start over now I will lose some of the intrigue and momentum that I've started with.

So, I'm better, but I'm busier. I really want to get back to reading more books each month and keep working on my novel. If you keep seeing this same post for weeks to come, at least you'll know what I'm doing. Reading and writing.

One more thing of note. Actually a note of Congratulations is in order for my best friend and KS, Thomma Lyn. She got picked up by an e-publisher, Black Lion Press/Publishing, for one of her wonderful books, Mirror Blue. I was honored a while back to get to read the ms of Mirror Blue and now I'll soon be able to read it as a published novel. Yay! I'm so excited for Thomma! It's a wonderful love story and deserves to be published, and that's all I'll say for now. You'll have to watch for it to come out later in the spring and read it. You'll need a box of tissues for this one, too. Thomma has more about it on her site.

Goofing Off...Still

2009-01-23T23:14:00.000-08:00

My friend Thomma Lyn had this meme on her site and it looked like fun. Since I have nothing else to say really, a meme is a good idea. I've been goofing off so much lately that I find it hard to get back into the groove again. Gotta do that...soon!

For the meme I'm supposed to Bold the things I've done.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii (lived there for four years/attended college in Laie)
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland/world
8. Climbed a mountain (lots of them all over the states)
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea (does standing on the shore count?)
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb (raised two)
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight (hand in hand with my lover)
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing (do the Great Lakes count?)
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Gotten flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone (toes)
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book (keeping fingers crossed, too)
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one (s)
94. Had a baby (4)
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee (more than once)

I'll leave this tag open ended for those who find it fun to do.

How Do You Sleep? Meme

2009-01-14T16:09:00.000-08:00

I was tagged by Julia for this meme. She got it from Mimi Lenox, the originator of the Blogblast For Peace who also reigns as the Queen of Memes.

1. How long do you sleep each night?
I wish it were that easy to say. I start to bed at around 11:30 or 12, but it's not often I'm asleep before 5 or 6 AM. I sleep at least until noon or 1 PM, sometimes longer if left alone. I sleep 7 – 9 hours.

2. Do you fall asleep easily?
Before cancer and chemo, yes. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was asleep. After cancer and chemo, no!

3. Do you fall asleep at times not in your bed?
Sometimes in the early evening I doze off in my recliner during the news or Jeopardy for at least an hour.

4. Do you listen to music or use white noise to sleep?
White noise….the fan (which my mate hates) is a must in my room. Music will keep me awake. The TV on an animal show or earth documentary will put me to sleep. It's the narrators voice that does it.

5. Do you sleep through the night or get up a couple of times?
I usually get up two times.

6. Do you have trouble sleeping away from your own bed?
Yes. Strange surroundings, not my bed, not my fifteen pillows. Strange noises, smells. No fan. I hate in the hospital because there is NO FAN!

7. Do you need an alarm clock to get you up?
When I was a working girl, yes, most definitely.

8. Do you ever take medication to help you sleep?
Before chemo, no. After chemo, yes.

9. Do you/have you slept with pets?
My cat, Gretchen, sleeps in my lap if I'm on my back, on my hip or waist if I'm on my side. I move a lot lately and she just gets plain annoyed with me and goes over to hubbies warm electric blanket.

As for tagging, I choose, Thomma Lyn, Paula, and Karen Jo