A Litany of Love for All Women on Mother’s Day

I first published this essay two years ago on Mother’s Day. It is still relevant, so here it is again.

We are surrounded by images of a Happy Mother’s Day. TV commercial s and print ads shout at us with dozens of gift ideas. We see pictures of happy children and even happier mothers. It can be a great feel-good holiday, despite the over-commercialization.

But not all mothers are so happy this day.

There are mothers who are estranged from their children; mothers who have lost their children due to illnesses or injuries. There are mothers whose children have been ripped from them by abduction and murder.

There are women who would give up everything they have to become a mother, but it has not happened for them.

And there are women who have chosen not to become a mother. They often endure guilt trips and judgments about their choice, even though no one knows what is in the heart of a woman.

This litany celebrates all women today. Happy mothers, sad mothers, tragic mothers, women who are desperate to be a mother, and women who have chosen not to become a mother. God bless all women today.

To all mothers, may you enjoy a day of delight with your children—Happy Mother’s Day

To all grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and great-great-grandmothers, may you revel in the joy of the next generations of your babies– Happy Mother’s Day

To all godmothers and women who have taken on the role of mother, may you feel the gratitude of those who call you Mother in their hearts– Happy Mother’s Day

To all mothers whose children have passed on, at no matter what age, may you cherish the memories of your children– Happy Mother’s Day

To all children whose mothers have passed on, may you make peace with the loss of your mother– Happy Mother’s Day

To all mothers who do not know where their children are, by choice or by tragedy, may you keep hope alive that in this life or the next, you will be with your children again– Happy Mother’s Day

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The Mimi Chronicles—The Guest Room

“Thank you, Mimi, thank you, thank you!”

This exuberant greeting started off my latest Face Time session with my daughter and my sweeties.

I could hear the girls shouting, and see them trying to crowd out their mommy so they could get into the picture.

As I smiled and said “You’re very welcome,” I racked my brain for why. I hadn’t sent them a package lately. There had been no holiday for me to have mailed them a card (with dollars in it, of course.)

Over their excitement I caught my daughter’s eye and whispered, “What are they thanking me for?”

“For their new guest room at your house.”

Um, yes indeed, we were going to have our guest room back. Older son (S1) had gotten his own place and would be moving out in a few weeks. I was going to put back the twin beds that had been in the room, along with the plaid bed clothes that had been on them.

I told my daughter earlier in the week that the next time they visited, the girls would be able to sleep upstairs rather than crowding in a single-size pull-out sofa in the same bedroom where their parents and baby brother slept.

Somewhere in the translation, the girls had determined that it would be “their” room. And they were thrilled.

When I told S1 and Husband what the girls had said, S1 laughed and said he would go out and buy a can of pink paint and some child-appropriate wall decals. He was joking. And so was I. At first.

We rarely get overnight guests other than my daughter and her family. Why not turn the guest room into the sweeties’ room?

Before the evening was over, I had gone online and ordered two Disney princess (their favorites) comforter/sheet sets, two sets of princess wall decals, and a matching night light.

Photo from Amazon.com

 

Husband and I then decided to move all the Barbies and assorted paraphernalia that the girls play with when they visit into “their” room to leave more walking space in the living room. Their toddler brother thinks crayons are a gourmet treat, so I also decided to put the little table and chairs in the “girls’” room so they could color without everyone worrying about the little guy munching on the crayons.

And so, many years after my own children are grown and have left their childish bedrooms behind, I will again have a princess-themed guest room for my darling sweeties.

And I’m loving it!

 

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My Wish is His Command

I hereby nominate my husband for Best Husband in the Whole Wide World.

Last week, I wrote about my search for brightly colored Adirondack chairs, like the ones that were all over Hatteras Island last year. I had not had any luck in my quest, until I found some children’s chairs. I snatched them up and put them on my deck, happy just to be able to see their bright colors as passed by the kitchen door.

Just one day later, Husband came home and started a guessing game. “Lilac, cantaloupe, and pink,” he said.

“I need way more than that,” I grumbled.

“Chairs,” was the next clue.

I blinked a few times before it set in.

“MY chairs?”

His grin was the answer! He had gone to the drugstore to pick up some prescriptions, and outside the grocery store next to the drugstore were stacks of the chairs I had been searching for!

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go get them.”

And so just like that, three bright chairs are now waiting for the weather to get warm enough for me to pour some sweet tea, or a margarita, and sit outside relaxing.

He’s the best, I tell you, the very best!

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The Mimi Chronicles—Through the Eyes of a Child

This week has brought a couple of occurrences that prompted me to take a fresher look at the world around me. Children do that so well, don’t they?

Monday was Earth Day. Did you celebrate in any way? Did you even know? I have to admit that my answer to both questions is no. At least not until my daughter shared some pictures of what my five-year-old sweeties chose to do on their own. They go to afternoon kindergarten, so early that morning, they suggested to their mom that they go to a local park where they often play to pick up trash. “Let’s make it cleaner for us and our friends to play,” they said.

This wasn’t a school project, or a community activity. Just two little girls thinking on their own that they actually had the power to make their surroundings better for themselves and for others.

Grownups tend to lose that assumption somewhere along the way, don’t we? Not entirely, of course, or else we would be living in chaos. But we get discouraged with political processes, from the local to the national and in between. We get so busy with our daily lives that we allow others to spend their time keeping the PTA and Little League and church activities going. It is so easy to get overwhelmed with the bigness of the world and the enormity of our challenges that we forget that we do have the power to make a difference.

I remember feeling that I could change the world, believing in my youth that if everyone would pitch in, all of life’s problems could be fixed. I felt powerful and energized. But I, too, lost those feelings as time went by. I still worked hard in a career in social services and as one of the “regulars” of the PTA, et. al. But as time went by, I narrowed my view of what I could actually accomplish and lowered my expectations.

My sweeties reminded me of the bliss that comes from naturally and child-ish-ly believing that the world is mine to enjoy and to influence. Maybe if we can somehow hold onto that assumption and couple it with the practicalities of adulthood, we can use that feeling to fuel a renewed commitment to contributing to our world in meaningful ways.

So, enough of the seriousness. I want to share an absolutely hysterical video I stumbled upon this week. This is one child who knows her own mind!

My guess is that this young lady has been reminded, perhaps numerous times, to worry about herself! She does have lovely manners, though, doesn’t she? She remembers to add the “Thank you” after her sternly delivered “No!”

Thank you, Ryan Hunley, for posting this!

Here’s a picture of some joy I stumbled on myself this week! 

Ever since visiting the Outer Banks last summer, I have been searching for the regular size of these chairs, which can be seen all over the Hatteras Island. Their colorfulness makes me smile. I haven’t had any luck, however, in my search. Not until earlier this week, when I discovered these children’s versions. I just had to have them. Although I can’t fit into them, every time I see them when I walk past my kitchen door or window, I brighten up, excited for the approaching summer.

Laughter and joy. They come so naturally to little ones. And they can spread to us like pixie dust if we just take the time to slow down and breathe it in.

Happy spring! I hope you find lots of pixie dust on your way to summer!

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The Mimi Chronicles—A Day in the Life of Liam

It’s not easy being Liam. No, indeed, it is not. I mean, think about it:

You are smart, curious, and quick-witted, yet between being only 20 months old and being surrounded by life forms much, much bigger and stronger than you, it is so hard to get away with all the mischief that bombards your young mind.

You are transfixed by what objects look like when they are floating in the tiny lake that the other life forms call the toilet, but the big people seem to get all bent out of shape when you toss things in there. They try all sorts of ways to thwart your efforts, and you only get away with it one time out of at least ten tries. What buzz kills they are. You did get a good one in at Mimi’s a few months, ago, though. You chortle remembering this one. Ma Ma was in the living room reading, and Mimi was in the kitchen cooking. You were able to get by their radar and into the first floor bathroom. Quicker than anyone could see, you got two, count ‘em two, whole rolls of toilet paper in the toilet before somebody yelled out “Where’s Liam?” After they find you, Ma Ma says to Mimi “I thought he was with you!” and Mimi says, “I thought he was with you!” That was one of your better ones for sure.

And what’s with that tiny little seat with the too-tight belts they strap you in when you ride in the van? What’s up with that? It’s not bad enough they stuff you into a coat and try to make you wear a hat and gloves, then they try cramming you and all that padding into a seat that totally prevents you from picking up the stray fruit snack packs that your sissies occasionally leave behind. The big people don’t like it much, but you really can’t help yourself from screeching the whole time you’re in the van. They get annoyed with you and they don’t even care that it’s their cruelty in putting something yummy in your eyesight but out of your reach that makes you yell like you’re being tortured. Which you are.  Serves them right to have to listen to your protests!

That Mimi, she can get on your nerves, sometimes, can’t she? You have such beautiful hair—long, silky, and curly. Your sissies have long hair, too, and they’re always putting something nice in it—barrettes, hair bands, bows. Mimi always tells them how pretty they look, but she doesn’t like it when you get Ma Ma to put pretties in your hair just for play. No, indeed, Mimi does not like that! Ma Ma says she never lets you leave the house with the pretties, but Mimi still doesn’t like it. You say to Mimi “Suck it up Buttercup.” Well, that’s what you would say if you could talk.

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The Mimi Chronicles–When Is a Mimi Not a Mimi?

When she’s a Grandma, or a Grammy, or a Nana, or a Nonni, or…you may be surprised at how long the list is. I know I was. Google says there are about 28,000,000 results[i]  to my query of names for grandmother. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take Google at its word, I simply don’t have time to check their math. I’m too busy being a Mimi.

Six years ago, when my husband and I were waiting to become grandparents for the first time, I thought about what we wanted to be called by the children (our first grandchild was actually two—twin girls). Husband resisted choosing any name, insisting that the girls would decide for themselves. I, on the other hand, insisted just as strongly that we had to start with something; I thought it would be unseemly for us to refer to ourselves as “Hey, you”until the girls started talking. And so, for a while, we became Grammy and Pap Pap. Eventually, the girls started calling me Mimi and Husband is Pap, except for when Harper is being silly, then he is Pap Pap or even Pappy.

Ever since the girls dubbed me Mimi, I’ve been interested in grandmother names. When I was growing up, there wasn’t much variety that I could see. Most people I knew called their grandmothers Grandma. That’s what my sisters and I called our mother’s mother; we called our father’s mother Nana—pronounced nuh-nuh.

Four generations of my family, all with various names, all full of love.

As I grew older, I learned that most Italian grandmothers were actually called Nona as opposed to the Nana we called our Italian grandmother. I always wondered why, and on a trip to Greece several years ago, I finally learned the reason.[ii]  Other than that, I didn’t see much in the way of any other names.

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The Mimi Chronicles—The Pleasure of Your Company Is Requested

We’ve all received formal written requests inviting us to various functions—weddings, showers, graduations, birthdays. Sometimes the invitations are engraved, sometimes printed, and sometimes the details are filled in by hand on a packaged card.

At this point in my life, I’ve received probably a couple hundred invitations. But by far and away, the best request I’ve ever been given is the letter hand-scrawled, complete with phonetic spelling, written by my sweetie Molly.

I recently spent a week with my daughter and her family. She had gotten a new, full-time job, and needed some help while she arranged permanent childcare. The sweeties and I, and their Pap, always have a great time together. The girls were so excited about my visit that Harper declared my arrival as “Mimi Day,” even insisting to her mother that she write it on the calendar.

On my first day there, the girls emptied their backpacks as they do every day after school. Of course, I looked at every picture and oohed and aahed appropriately. The last paper was an assignment the children had in school that afternoon. Molly seemed particularly excited about that paper.

Keep in mind that Molly is left-handed and writes many letters and words backwards, as well as phonetically, at least to her ears. Here is Molly’s paper, verbatim:

“bear mom anb bab. I wot to go out for binorr. On the last bea that mimi is her. I rile wot to go rof rrnid.”

 

Here is the edited version, for those of us who have trouble deciphering the backwards letters and phonetic spelling:

“Dear Mom and Dad, I want to go out for dinner on the last day that Mimi is here. I really want to go for dinner.”

Now, I ask you, who among us could turn down such an invitation? I quickly and with delight, assured Molly that we would, indeed, go out for dinner Saturday evening.

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The Mimi Chronicles–Is the Easter Bunny Real?

Welcome to the newest feature of this blog–”The Mimi Chronicles”. Using the writer’s adage of “write what you know”, I’ll be talking about my life as Mimi to three rambunctious grandchildren. Being a grandparent is full of joy, hope, delight, and sometimes exhaustion. Sometimes all at the same time. It’s a way of life I’ve quickly come to love. Of course, I’ll also be telling stories about my sweeties, who provide me with an unending supply of antics to entertain you with.

Today’s story is an update of an earlier post. When my children were growing up, I endured the typical tough questions that all parents face–Where do babies come from? How did they get there? My friends said Santa Claus isn’t real, is that true? As my youngest child entered high school, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was done with that stuff. Or so I thought.

A few years ago, for reasons known only to her, one of my granddaughters decided to ask Mimi about the Easter Bunny. I managed to get through it, not necessarily unscathed. I now have my radar on at all times, wary of another ambush. Here’s how it folded:

“Is the Easter Bunny real?”  That’s the question Harper asked me last Tuesday when I was on Skype with her, her  sister, and her mother.

Harper and her twin sister, Molly, were three-and-a-half years old at the time.  How can she ask such a question already.  And especially of her grandmother.  Isn’t that a question for a child’s parents, for heaven’s sake?

The girls’ mother, my daughter, and I were blind-sided by this question. What parent or grandparent wouldn’t be when the child is only three?

“Of course he is,” I answered.  “Where do you think  the candy comes from?”

“Have you seen him?” Harper pushed on.

“Well, no, he’s magic. I can’t see him.”

“He comes when you’re sleeping, like Santa Claus does,” her mother finally chimed in.

“What color is he?”

“I don’t know, Harper, I’ve never seen him.”

I looked to my daughter for help, but she just shrugged her shoulders, letting Mimi carry the ball on this surprise.

“Maybe he’s blue,” Harper offered.

“He might be, ” I answered.

The look on her face and the tone of her voice told me that I had fallen into her trap.  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head.

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Ring Them Bells

A big part of my Christmas decorating is putting out the miniature village. There are houses, stores, a church, gas station, and diner, among other buildings. Figures of people, gas lamps, trees and other miscellaneous items fill out the tableau. It’s quite a mix—a hodge podge collection of buildings and people from different periods. And because they’re all from different manufacturers, nothing is in scale. Nevertheless, Husband and I think it’s beautiful.

I have a tradition of putting out the small ceramic Nativity set first, followed by my favorite piece—three figures ringing the bell with the Salvation Army kettle. 

That piece didn’t start out as my favorite, but after an encounter with a young woman several years ago, the piece took on a special meaning for me.

Many years ago, I worked at the Salvation Army as director of a transitional living facility for families who were homeless. I loved the work, but after a few years of 24/7 on-call, pulling an overnight shift when someone called off, and just working in crisis all of the time, my family rebelled and wanted me home more. So, I moved on to an administrative position elsewhere in the community.

My heart was still with the Salvation Army, and the people it helped, so every Christmas, I volunteered to “stand kettle”, as the Salvation Army refers to ringing the bell and collecting donations. I loved talking with the people who stopped to chat while putting their donations in the kettle; so many of them had stories to tell of how the organization had helped them or someone in their family.

Shortly before I moved to another part of the state, one young woman in particular made a gesture that I will forever cherish.

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The Shrimp Family Has a Merry Christmas–A Stop on Terri Giuliano Long’s “Meet the Family Holiday Blog Hop”

This week, I’m participating in Terri Guiliano Long’s “Meet the Family Holiday Hop.” I’m so happy to be part of celebrating families and their holiday traditions and celebrations.

It’s hard for me to believe, but it’s been two years since the Shrimp Family made their initial appearance in my kids book Tales From Shrimps. I thought it would be fun to visit them this Christmas and see what they’re up to.

I hope you enjoy the surprise the Shrimps have and the extra reason they have to celebrate this holiday!

Please visit the other blogs in the hop by clicking on the linky at the end of the story. And make sure to use the Rafflecopter link to enter the drawing for the great prizes! It’s going to be a week filled with wonderful holiday stories!

The Shrimp Family Has a Merry Christmas

One day, Mama Shrimp said, “It’s time to get ready for Christmas.” Harper and Molly Shrimp were so excited. This would be the first Christmas for their new baby brother, Liam Shrimp.

Mama and Papa bundled all the little Shrimps in their winter coats. They were going to the Magic Forest to cut down their own Christmas tree. 

Molly and Harper ran from tree to tree. “This one, Papa,” cried Molly. “No, this one, this one,” called Harper. “Ba, ba, ba,” said Liam.

Mama and Papa found the perfect tree. It was tall and fat. It had enough room to hold all the special ornaments the Shrimp Family treasured.

When they got home, Papa put the tree in the stand while Mama prepared a snack of Christmas cookies and hot chocolate. “Thank you, Mama,” said Harper. “Thank you, Mama,” said Molly. “Ba, ba, ba,” said Liam.

After the Shrimps finished their snack, they carefully hung the ornaments on the tree. “Here, Mama, put on the talking Santa ornament!” exclaimed Molly. “Papa, Papa, look—put the bell on next,” cried Harper. “Ba, ba, ba,” called Liam as he tossed the wooden soldier ornament out of the box.

Soon the tree was full of ornaments and lights and tinsel. It was beautiful!

Mama and Papa gathered the little Shrimps around the tree to sing Christmas carols. “Silent night, holy night,” sang Harper. “Jingle bells, jingle bells,” sang Molly. “Ba, ba, ba,” sang Liam.

And then they went to lunch.

Shrimp Family Portrait by Stacy Kelley

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Happy Thanksgiving–Pass the Subs, Please

For the past month, at least, I’ve been collecting recipes on Pinterest, deciding where to spend Thanksgiving, trying not to guilt Older Son into traveling to Daughter’s with us, assuring Younger Son (and myself) that I really do understand why he’s staying in Utah a little longer even though his seasonal park ranger position has ended…You know, the typical holiday rituals families undertake each year in some fashion or another.

What keeps me grounded is the memory of the Thanksgiving I wrote about in this post. We tend to get immersed in the flurry of traditional foods and who cooks what and who hosts. Those things are just the trimmings around the main event–the giving of thanks. And we can do that whether we eat scrumptious turkey, MacDonald’s hamburgers, or sub sandwiches.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and your family and friends! And always remember–it’s not what you eat that makes a holiday, but with whom you share your table! 

(For the record, I have been successful in my efforts to assure both sons, and myself, that it’s their holiday, too, and they are free to spend it in whatever way they like. Our love transcends time, place, and choice of meals.)

I love to eat and I love to cook. The upcoming holiday combination of both can make me high.

I watch every Food Network show, and print stacks of recipes. I love to visit people to sample what has piqued my friends’ and family’s culinary interest. And I love to have company to show off what has caught my attention.

I also fall back on a few of my “secret” recipes—store-bought cookie dough, already made into cookie shapes so that all you have to do is plop them on a baking sheet and pop them in the oven. And there are a few box mixes I just can’t live without.

When all is said and done, though, for me, food is fuel. When I travel, the smallest part of my budget is always for food. I’d much rather spend my money on museums, ancient ruins, and subway tokens to get to those places. I love sitting at sidewalk cafes, watching people go by, even if means eating the cheapest item on the menu.

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Sweet Dreams

I have a new prized possession. On the face of it, you might see it as no more than a lumpy square of stained scraps of fabric, but if you look closer, you can see its beauty.

 Two weeks ago, I spent an overnight visit with one of my sisters. I noticed a small round quilted pillow on her couch, but trying to keep up with my five-year-old twin granddaughters, who I had brought along on the visit, quickly distracted me from mentioning the pillow.

The next day, we piled into the car and drove to a nearby park to celebrate the high school graduation of the daughter of another sister, the reason for my trip.

I come from a large family, and now that I live in a lovely out-of-the-way part of rural Pennsylvania, my closest family member is over three hours away. I was looking forward to spending time with four generations of my family—my dad, my sisters, many of the “cousins” as my parents’ grandkids are called, my own grandbabies, and those of my sisters. I was especially looking forward to meeting my newest great-niece for the first time.

At graduation parties and meeting-baby-for-the-first-time occasions, guests are usually the ones who bring the presents, and of course, we came with plenty of those (although I did forget a special “just because” gift for my dad). But I walked away with one of the most special gifts.

You see, the pillow I had noticed at my sister’s was not one-of-a-kind. Another of my sisters handed me a bag with a similar pillow in it. And a story. Our baby-est sister (AKA the youngest of the six of us), who wasn’t able to make it to the party, had left a pillow for me, as well as all of the others.

Seems that baby-est had a quilt that was made by the woman who raised our mother’s mother, after our grandmother’s own mom died when Grandma was just two years old. My mother always referred to her as “Grandma Kidwell.”

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What I Did on My Summer Vacation—Part One

Arches National Park

Last month, Husband and I drove from our home in Pennsylvania to Arches National Park in Moab, Utah, to visit Son Two, who is a park ranger. He has a ranger hat and everything. So cool.

But, I digress. I thought I’d throw out a few random tidbits about that vacation before leaving in a few days for another adventure—a week at the beach with Daughter and her family—her husband, nearly five-year-old twin girls and nearly one-year-old boy. Now, that’s going to be a whole ‘nother kind of escapade, don’t you think?

Grand Canyon

So, back to Utah. If only. It is so incredibly beautiful. As are the Rockies, and the endless fields of Missouri and Kansas. And the Grand Canyon. I can barely find words to do justice to the majesty and beauty of the Grand Canyon.  The United States is such a geographically diverse country, and all of it so gorgeous in its own unique way. From endless miles of flat plains to snow-covered mountains to lush green rolling hills, we oohed and aahed our way back and forth across the country for two weeks. Before we were even home, Husband was planning next year’s trip, and he’s never been a big fan of traveling.

Chinese food by the scoop

I experienced a number of firsts on this trip, some hard to believe given my age (early grandmother-ish), but all true. I ate Thai food for the first time, as well as my first corn dog. Chinese food delivered to my hotel room was also a first; not for the Chinese food itself, but Chinese food delivered. (I also learned that Chinese food can be priced by the scoop, at least according to the sign outside the Chinese restaurant next to our hotel in Moab. Who knew?) Oh, and duck and tamales; in fact, it was a duck tamale that melted in my mouth at dinner one evening. We ate our way across the country at some of the greatest little diners America has to offer. Diner food is our absolute favorite food ever, and we indulged every chance we got. Milt’s Stop and Eat in Moab has awesome burgers and I don’t know what they do to their tater tots, but you won’t find any better anywhere, I’m sure. If you ever stop to visit the Oz Museum in Wamego, Kansas, make sure to go across the street and have lunch at the Friendship House Bakery and Catering. 

Although I love traveling, as well as tourist-ing, as I get a little older, I also get stressed when I have to sleep away from home. I get a little anxious when I don’t have my evening routine, and my favorite TV programs, and my own comfy bed. It helps this part of the story to know that I’m a borderline germophobe, and truth be told, when it comes to hotels, I easily cross the border into full-out crazy. One day, we figured that by the time we were done driving for the day, we’d be in the middle of two fairly populous areas, leaving open the possibility of not finding a motel. (We were living on the edge; on the way out, we made hotel reservations for each night, but we threw caution to the winds and were “winging it” on the way back.) Realizing that such an approach would be too much for my stress load, we discussed, twice, stopping around Amarillo; we decided, twice, to stop around Amarillo. And yet, for some reason known only to Husband, I was left watching Amarillo in the rearview window, as we continued on to…

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The Books That Made Me Love Reading–”In the Night Kitchen” by Maurice Sendak

In memory of Maurice Sendak, who died this past week, I’m reposting a review of In the Night Kitchen. More than just a review of the book, this post is a commentary on how Sendak introduced me to the concept of censorship for the first time. I’d like to think he’d be pleased with my story.

In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak was published when I was in high school. I was too old to read it as part of its target audience; a 15-year-old is far removed from preschooler.

But the book did leave an indelible mark on me.  It may not have shaped me as a reader (that die had been cast many years earlier), but it did awaken in me a strong loathing for censorship.

As a picture book, the emphasis of In the Night Kitchen was the illustrations. Sendak’s matter-of-factness in drawing Mickey, the main character, naked and anatomically correct (for the most part) set off a firestorm. In addition to the furor over the naked little boy, there were also accusations that there were sexual undertones to the story, but at age 15, I was clueless about that.

What I didn’t understand was how or why a book would be banned. In the 10 or so years that I had been reading, I had a bounty of books from which to choose. There was the public library, where I spent a great deal of time, the library at my grade school and then high school, not to mention the large collection of books at home. I had never been denied access to any of them.

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My “Baby,” My Guide

Husband and I are early in our two-week odyssey across the USA, driving from our home in Pennsylvania to Moab, Utah and back again.

The primary purpose of our trip is to see our (Y)ounger (S). YS is an interpretive park ranger at Arches National Park in Moab Utah. This is his third year working at a seasonal position in the park.

We left our home in north central Pennsylvania five days ago, arriving in Moab late yesterday afternoon. I have many stories to tell about our experiences on the way out to Utah, and I will be telling them over the next several days. But the story I want to tell first came to me yesterday on our last leg of the trip.

As we got closer to Moab, I started thinking about the nature of visit. We were going to see our “baby” (at twenty-six years old, he is the youngest of our three children) in a professional capacity.

Seemingly out of the clear blue, YS took to the semi-wilderness of the rural mountains of Pennsylvania when Husband and I moved there six years ago. We had raised our children in cities, as we had been. We never took more than an infrequent day trip to one state park or another.

YS was already in college when we moved, so his time in our new home was limited to school breaks and one summer when he waited too long to find a summer job so he landed with us for a couple of months. Those few months seemed to have flipped a switch for him.

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The Books That Made Me Love Reading Challenge—“Busy Day Busy People” by Tibor Gergely

When Emlyn Chand, author and publicist, introduced her year-long challenge for folks to re-visit the books they loved in childhood that made them love reading, http://emlynchand.com , I thought back not only to my own favorite books as a child, but to my children’s favorite books as well.

There was no bigger favorite for my daughter than Busy Day Busy People by Tibor Gergely. I wish I had a nickel for every time my husband or I read that book to our daughter. I could be writing this from my own private island, gazing out into the azure tropical waters.

Busy Day Busy People tells the story of the ins and outs of daily life. Through words and very detailed illustrations, we learn about people working in stores and hospitals. We see pictures of auto mechanics and circus workers. Farmers grow our food and chefs prepare it for us in restaurants. And construction workers build new buildings in the city.

Ah yes, those construction workers. I have never figured out why a two-year-old girl was so fascinated by construction workers, but my daughter adored them. A new car wash was being built not far from where we lived at the time. Every day, my daughter strongly insisted that we go watch them for a while. So every morning, we either walked up or drove by to see what progress had been made from the day before. And each evening, we read, again, Busy Day Busy People. She was so taken by construction workers that she named her first goldfish, you guessed it, Construction Worker.

Oh how we tried to get her interested in other books. She enjoyed listening to the other stories that we presented, but the evening reading session had to begin and end with Busy Day. We came to hate that book.

But in that way that families have, Busy Day Busy People became a sort of mantra in our house. Even now, when our daughter is thirty-one years old, my husband and I often say “busy day busy people” when the conversation turns to how busy we are on any particular day.

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Flying By the Seat of My Pants

Today’s post is experimental. I almost never write directly on the blog; I write what I want to say in a Word document first. Some days I spend more or less time polishing it than others, but I always do some reviewing and editing.

Not today. Today I have so much to do, and so little energy, that I will either write directly here or not at all.

I had a nice chat with my Daddy on Skype this morning. I told him I was getting ready for work. Work? Daddy was confused. I retired nearly four years ago. But yes, I am working again. A dream job for a writer and voracious reader! I am now working at our tiny town’s awesome indie bookstore, From My Shelf Books ( http://www.wellsborobookstore.com/ ). They moved from a small, basement-level space to a large, airy, building on the best corner of downtown Wellsboro, and I’m happy to say that I recently joined the staff.

Daddy kept insisting that I didn’t really grasp the concept of retirement, if I was preparing to go to “work.” I was finally able to convince him that since the point of retirement is to be able to do what you enjoy, I had a firm grasp on how to spend my “golden years.” (Truth be told, I think I’m only as far as silver years, but that’s beside the point.)

Anyway, the conversation stayed with me, and it brought me back to some thoughts I’d had a while ago. It seems that I never, ever have enough time to do everything I “must” do. I have more books on my to-read list than hours in the coming year. There is a stack of books that either I want to read and review, or I’ve promised others I would review. And I swear, I will get to that biography of Albert Einstein that has been mocking me for the past eleven months.

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How Do You Define Success as an Author, and How Do You Pay for It?

There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Or, as I like to put it, there’s a price for everything.

In January, I set my writing goals for this year—publish at least one of the two novels I have in first-draft form; find another outlet to get paid for writing essays and articles, since ViewsHound went belly-up; and figure out what I want to do about writing book reviews.

All things being equal, I would love to write a novel that makes all the bestsellers lists. I’d love to go shopping for fancy new clothes to wear as I make the rounds of all the morning news shows promoting my book. It would be so cool if I had to change my phone number to unlisted to avoid the endless number of calls from avid fans. Wouldn’t it be nice to have to decide on how much to charge for speaking fees? (Actually, I have been asked several times what my fee is for reading my kids’ book Tales From Shrimps at day care centers. That is always a rush! [I have no fee; I’m thrilled to be invited.])

But all things are not equal. In the world of writing, as in most other aspects of life, you do not succeed simply by writing a great book. In fact, it seems like writing the book is the easiest part of the journey to becoming a published author.

I participate in several Facebook author/writer groups, some for support and others devoted to sharing the mechanics of self-publishing and marketing techniques. Others emphasize readying books to be submitted to agents and publishers. Blog posts and writing journals and classes abound, offering numerous perspecitives on what writers must, or must not, do (and sometimes, the advice from different sources contradict others).

One of the biggest requirements of achieving success these days is the concept of buliding your platform. An author must have a presence on Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and all the other latest social media outlets.  Numbers are important. How many followers do you have on your fan page? How many Twitter followers do you have? How many blog hits do you get? What’s your Klout score?

Once your book is published, the number chase turns to rankings. Sales rank on Amazon, paid downloads, free downloads, Goodreads members’ to-read shelves. How many stars does your book get in reviews. The higher these numbers, the more successful you are.

Or are you? More importantly, is that what success means to me?

I see how very hard authors work to attain those numbers. They spend an inordinate amount of time analyzing their numbers and determining how to increase them. And those efforts are built around the time they spend actually writing; working a day job; going to school; and taking care of kids, pets, and sometimes parents. I often wonder when they have time to sleep.

I’m happy to see others achieve whatever measure of success they are working towards; they work hard and they deserve it. But I’m not sure that these measures of success matter to me enough to pay the price, because the price is high.

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The Jig Is Up

It’s time to spill the beans. My Daddy reads my blog, God bless him. So, I hope to entertain you all, while I let Daddy in on a secret.

Last Saturday was the second time in two weeks we tried to have a surprise party to celebrate his 80^th birthday, a “real” birthday this leap year, no less.

The first try was perfect. All six of Daddy’s daughters were going to be there. Most of the 18 grandchildren and their spouses would help us fill the back room at Dad’s favorite restaurant. All of the great-grandchildren would also be helping us shout out “Surprise!”

We had the best way to get him to the restaurant without suspecting anything. One of the granddaughter’s birthday fell on the day of the party. Her mom, one of my “baby” sisters (actually, all five of my sisters are “baby” sisters to me, as I am the oldest of this bunch) had invited Dad to celebrate the granddaughter’s birthday with lunch out. The rest of us would be lying in wait.

But we fell victim to the lake effect snow that pounds northwest Pennsylvania. Our large, scattered family very sadly cancelled the party. The roads were just too bad.

The cake was my responsibility, and I had gotten a gorgeous full sheet cake, decorated with yellow roses in memory of our mother, whose favorite color, and favorite flowers, were yellow. Now, a full sheet cake is a mammoth of a cake. Whatever was I going to do with that cake? There are four people living in my house, and two of them don’t eat cake. After making a few phone calls around town, I was able to donate the cake to a drop-in center at a supportive housing apartment complex.

I was so deeply disappointed, but the 10 inches of snow that fell that first Saturday confirmed that we did the right thing in canceling the party.

But we’re not a family to be kept down for long. I re-scheduled the party for February 25, same place, nearly same time. We are also a large family, and sadly, many of the folks who arranged to be available for the first party weren’t able to make those same plans for the new date.

This second time, we didn’t have the cover of another family member’s birthday, so I just called Dad and told him my husband and I wanted to come out to visit him for his birthday. I ordered another cake, a smaller one this time, and prepared for a weekend at Dad’s.

Oh, but you know it wasn’t that easy, don’t you? Yes, again, in one of the mildest winters in several years, the ugly lake-effect snow reared its head again, and this party, too, was cancelled. The weather forecast this time was even worse than the previous one. And all too sadly, the forecast was accurate. Driving conditions were horrendous, with nonstop accidents all weekend. Tragically, several people even lost their lives during whiteout conditions, God rest their souls. It made a cancelled party seem so insignificant.

This time, I took the cake to church for coffee hour.  It was a lovely addition to the refreshment table.

So, Daddy, we tried, really we did. If the old saying “It’s the thought that counts” is true, you are swimming in a sea of birthday wishes. Not only are all the people in your family sending birthday love your way, think of all the people who celebrated your special day with a piece of cake!

I’m not a quitter, though. I’m already looking ahead to the next leap year, and the opportunity to celebrate your 21^st birthday. I want to be the first to buy you a legal drink! LOL, as they say in internet land! Much love to you always! And Happy Birthday on Wednesday!

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Friday Musings–Failed Resolutions or Flexible Goals?

I’m so glad I didn’t write resolutions for the New Year. I would have broken every one of them already if I had.

Instead of writing resolutions, I framed them as goals. Good thing. Working towards goals is a bit more flexible. Or maybe I’m rationalizing.

Over the past several months, I’ve gotten way off my usual routine of reading and writing. November had NaNoWriMo, a couple of blog tours, and Thanksgiving. December brought a blog tour and Christmas, with all its attendant preparations. Blogging regularly and working on the editing for the NaNo novel seemed like pipe dreams.

I resolved, er, set goals, to get right back in the swing of things first week in January. I was going to get caught up on Goodreads, LinkedIn, Pinterest, blogging, finding other online publications to write for since ViewsHound went belly up. And, yes, start seriously on edits for Do No Harm, this year’s NaNo novel.

You’ve figured out by now that there is a big “but” coming. Seems I took it easy a little too long after Christmas, and have allowed myself to get lazy.

I don’t do well with moderation. In for a penny, in for a pound is my modus operandi. And so when I decided to relax, I took it to an extreme. The only thing I’ve done with the novel is choosing a passage to take to writers’ group. I have no leads on new publications to write for. And I laugh at myself about all the social media tasks that stare back at me from my to-do list.

This weekend, I’ll be at my daughter’s house, watching the sweeties while she, her husband, my husband, and one of my sons work on some finishing touches on the renovations to her flooded home. Five months with two adults, four-year-old twins and a new baby sharing a studio apartment have gotten really old already. They need to be back home, a newly remodeled home. They have some great treats waiting for them for their troubles—a kitchen that I am so jealous of, beautiful new floors, and central air conditioning.

As much as I will enjoy this weekend, it means that I am pushing back into next week the opportunity to shift gears and flip from being lazy to being frazzled and overwhelmed. The old saying about if you want something done, give it to a busy person, certainly applies to me. I’m much more productive when I can’t tell if I’m coming or going.

And so, I’ll spend a few days with my sweeties, then I’ll be back with a vengeance next week. Really. Really…

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