Happy New Year 2014!

The New Year is about to begin and it's time to say goodbye to the old.  My children are no longer children and the last years of precious time as a cohesive family are slipping away.  Little by little summers will be without them, holidays may soon be spent with one or the other, or perhaps, neither.  They will move on with their lives from here.  With them they will take some of the traditions they have enjoyed.  New traditions of their own will be added to the old.

Thankfully, the years go by slowly and we adjust to the changes an inch at a time.  The important things to keep in mind as you raise your children are that they will grow and move on with their own lives.  Enjoy the moments and every stage, because none of them will ever come again.  Take as many photos and videos as you can, they will become your most precious possessions.  Don't regret a moment of it, not the craziness, not the drama, not even the heartbreaks, for they are all the moments you build your family on.

Looking forward, my life will be different but it will always be full.  It is time for my books to take flight.  I will shove them out of their nest and hope that they fly.  It is a time for me and my husband to enjoy our time together.  We have earned this moment.  Our son will leave for college, our daughter is in graduate school, even our dog is entering her last years and will soon leave.  The house will be quiet.  But I look around me at our accomplishments and I can smile and turn my sight to the future.  After all, I have one thought that will comfort me through the quiet times.  They will come back.  Others may come and go in our lives, but we will always have each other, my children, my husband, and me.  Forever.

"It's All Grist for your Mill"

"It's All Grist for your Mill," it's a saying that my husband's grandmother was often heard repeating to her grandchildren whenever they were going through a difficult time.  Grist is grain.  It is raw, rough, and hard, but after it is put through a mill, it becomes flour.  Flour is used in the making of bread, bread that can be used to nourish yourself and others.

We all go through challenges and struggles.  Some are suffered in view of the world, others are suffered in our own hearts and minds.  They are the grist for our mills.  Without them, we never develop true empathy.  Without them, we never learn to look outside of ourselves and build bridges to others.  Without them, we never get to experience the joy of sweet compassion.  Without them, we never get to feel triumph.

When you experience difficult times, don't leave the bitter grist as it is.  Put it through your mill and nourish yourself and the world.

Sewing Hems

I am not the sewer that my mother was.

She went to a high school in Brooklyn that specialized in sewing and cooking, both of which she did very well.  When I was a little girl, I would sit near her as she sewed on her Singer sewing machine.  I'd watch her knee push against the lever that would set the machine into a roar, amazed at how she could move the fabric through it so quickly and keep it so straight.  Sometimes, she would let me help as she laid out a pattern on material and taught me how to cut the pattern "on the bias."  I loved helping her and tried hard to learn what she was trying to teach me.  But when I was in 7th grade Home Economics class, I was supposed to make an a-line skirt.  Our class was having a fashion show for our moms.  Before the fashion show, we were allowed to bring our skirts home.  I tried on my masterpiece for my mother to see .  .  . when I took it off, she brought it to her sewing machine and straightened the hem.  She didn't want me to be seen in public with a crooked hem.

I bought my own sewing machine about 25 years ago.  When I was little, my mom had made many beautiful matching sundresses for my sister and me.  My hope was that I would be able to do the same for my little girl who was born a few years later.  I did make her a Barney the Dinosaur costume and a Little Dalmatian costume.  Both weren't perfect, but they didn't fall apart either.  Unfortunately, that was as far as my sewing talent would take me.

So now I am sitting at that same sewing machine that I made those little costumes on and I am trying to hem pajama pants for my mom.  She will be moving into an assisted living facility at the end of this week.  Although she is surprisingly healthy for a woman of 91, she is suffering from dementia.  The saddest part of dementia is that the person who is suffering doesn't know what is happening.  Her confusion makes it hard for her to have the independence she needs and wants.  Her frustration is heartbreaking for us to watch.  While there is no perfect answer, we are hoping that in her new environment she will be able to have some of that independence restored and hope that the attentive care and activities offered at the facility will help forestall the progress of this disease.

So here I am, sewing hems on her pajama pants.  I would never attempt it if they were clothes she wanted to wear out in the world, but I guess I can handle pj's.  I'm sorry mom, I am not the sewer that you were.  But I love you.

Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving, 1963.  My family is spending the holiday at my grandparents' house in Brooklyn.  My father and uncles are watching football on the black and white television in the basement and enjoying some anti-pasta.  My grandmother, mother, and aunts are cooking in the kitchen and setting the table in the dining room.  My older brothers and older cousins are in the living room, the boys are trying to impress the girls and the girls are acting like they don't notice.  I am playing with my sister and young cousins on the porch while we watch my grandfather read his Italian newspaper with his box of snuff by his side.  I can hear my baby brother crying in the bedroom because he has just woken up from a nap.  The house is full of sounds and aromas.  We are all together.

Today is Thanksgiving, 1973.  My family is spending the holiday at my parents' house on Long Island. My father is watching football on the television in the living room munching on some chestnuts.  My mother is cooking in the kitchen while my sister and I set the table.  The anti-pasta is placed in the center.  My younger brother is hiding a cassette recorder under the table in his attempt to catch some dinner conversation without any of us being aware of the recording.  My older brother is with his wife's family.  My oldest brother is far from home with a young family of his own.

Today is Thanksgiving, 1983.  My family is spending the holiday at my mother's house.  My father's seat is empty.  He passed away several years ago.  My older brother and his wife and my sister and her husband come over with their children.  My little nephews add new life to our family.  The men sit in the living room and watch football on the television.  The women are cooking in the kitchen and I set the table.  My older brother is sitting at the table eating some anti-pasta.  My oldest brother is, once again, far away with his own family.  There are some funny jokes during the day that make us all laugh.  There was the one when my sister found a bag of giblets inside the thawed turkey and thought it was a baby, there was the one about the cheesecake that my mom made (let's just say it was a little heavy), and I think there was another about something that had turned bad but my brother-in-law started to eat it anyway because he didn't want to say anything.  The family is changing.

Today is Thanksgiving, 1991.  My family is spending the holiday at my mother's house, but I am not there.  My older brother and I are not speaking.  So I spend the day with my husband's family at his grandmother's house in Queens.  My husband's father and uncles are watching the football game on the television in the living room while they sample some sausage pie.  His grandmother, mother and aunts are cooking in the kitchen.  I help his cousins set the table.  The house is full of people.  After dinner my baby daughter is passed from hand to hand around the living room as we all sing to the sounds of the player-piano.  I love this family, but I miss my own.

Today is Thanksgiving, 2003.  My family is spending the holiday at my mother's house, but now it belongs to my younger brother.  My younger brother, brother-in-law, nephews, and husband watch the football game in the living room.  My sisters-in-law are cooking in the kitchen.  My sister and I set the table as my mother and older brother taste some anti-pasta while they wait for the main meal.  My children and the younger cousins are playing downstairs in my mother's apartment.  My oldest brother is still far from home but we speak to him on the telephone.  I have a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.  I have reconciled with my older brother and I have survived an illness that had brought me within breaths of death.  I now understand the full meaning of being thankful on this holiday.

Today is Thanksgiving, 2013.  My family is spending the holiday, each at their own house, with their own families.  My mother is with one of us, but her memory is fading.  Someone reminds her of the Thanksgivings we used to have in Brooklyn and she smiles when she recalls a precious memory that is still there.  I spend this holiday at the home of our dear friends.  There are seats empty at their table too.  Together, we try to fill the empty seats.  The men are in the living room watching the football game while eating anti-pasta.  My mother-in-law chats with my friend's parents.  My friend is cooking in the kitchen.  Her daughter and my son are watching television downstairs and catching up on their lives now that one of them is home from college for the holiday.  My daughter is far away from home, but spending the day with my husband's sister and her family.  I look around at how "family" has changed over the years.  I'm thankful for past Thanksgivings and I miss the people who are no longer here.  I stop for a moment to wonder about what changes will take place over the coming years.  Then I find my friend lifting out a 25 lb. turkey from her oven and ask her if I can set the table.

Wherever you go . . .

One summer day, my daughter and her friends were riding their bicycles up and down the block in front of our house.  The girls stopped in our driveway and walked up to the front door speaking among themselves in a conspiratorial way.  Slowly she opened the door as her friends stood just outside on the front porch.  "Mom?" she said.  Wondering what was coming next, I looked down at my little girl and took a deep breath.  "The girls want to ride around the block.  Can I go with them?  Their moms said it was okay!"  I looked into her face and could see how important this was to her.  But at the same time, the thought of her being outside of my view, without another trusted adult to make sure she was safe, was terrifying for me.  It would only be a matter of ten minutes or so, but they would be very long minutes for me.  Finally, I told her, "You can go, but I want you to remember something.  Wherever you go, you take my heart with you.  If you are hurt and you get broken, my heart gets broken too.  So promise me you will be careful and take good care of my heart."  She smiled and hugged me, told me she loved me, and went off with her friends.  My eyes did not leave the front window until she came back in sight once again! But that, of course, was just the beginning.  She has been to Europe and the Amazon without me now, but still she knows that wherever she goes . . . she takes my heart with her.

The Hope Chest, Chapter 1: A Peak at my second novel (a prequel to the Tin Box)

The Hope Chest                               1865                                       Chapter 1

The incessant rain seeped into the ground in an attempt to wash away the blood that had caked up on the well-trodden square.   Once tidy homes had lined the narrow streets and dusty roads had led to plantations just beyond the town.  She looked toward her own home, just a few blocks from where she now stood.  Her family had moved as much as they could before the cannons had blasted holes through the walls.  She wondered if the rest of her possessions were still safe or if her home had been looted like so many others.  She prayed silently that her hope chest was safe, still there, but hidden in a space between the walls.  It had been filled, over the years, with treasures meant to carry her into her married life.  But it had been too heavy to move quickly, so it had to be left behind.  Of course, the chest was filled with material things and they couldn’t compare with the treasure that was now housed in their cave.  After all, her father, mother, brothers and sister were all still alive.  Not all families had been so lucky. 

As a child, she had often played along the river, while her mother shopped in the town.  She reminisced, now, about the time Jeremy’s hoop would surely have been lost to the river, had it not been for Wesley’s quick response.  His young agile frame, quick and lean, scooped up the hoop just before it touched the muddy water’s surface.  She had held her breath for a moment as she wondered if he would tumble into the swollen river after the toy.  But with great balance, he had righted himself and flashed his disarming smile in response to her gasp.   He tossed the hoop back at her little brother and sauntered away with his cousin, Charles.  Taking Jeremy by the hand, she had looked toward the cousins with some consternation. 

While she should have been grateful simply to have had Jeremy’s hoop returned to him without damage, in truth, she had felt annoyance at the boy who had retrieved it from certain destruction.  While they had once shared every thought and dream with each other, he barely looked at her anymore.  She had led Jeremy toward the shop where their mother was purchasing some cloth and thread, but couldn’t help looking back toward Wesley and feeling immensely disappointed that he hadn’t felt the need to, likewise, follow her with his own eyes.  She had walked carefully with a newly perfected sway to her hips; hoping that his head might turn, just once, to glance back in her direction. 

The scene from her childhood faded away as she took in the view from the cave’s entrance.  The summer of 1858 had been a time of innocence that would surely never return to this place.  She bent low to enter the cave and wet her fingertips to smother the wick at the entrance.  In the course of these past five years the country had been ripped in two.  Charles and Wesley now stood, far from home, on opposite sides of a war.  And now that war had even found its way to Vicksburg.

The Tin Box: Chapter 4 (Copyright 2011)

Chapter 4                                                                     The Tin Box

          Heather and I walked down the block toward Petra’s house.  Mrs. Conner waved “hello” as she meticulously washed the window on her front door.   I could see her father-in-law sitting in his wheelchair by the bay window and staring out at us as we passed their house.  A while back, he had had throat cancer and had his voice box removed.  I don’t know how he communicated with his daughter-in-law, but I supposed she did enough talking for the both of them. 

As we neared Petra’s house, I felt a ripple of trepidation tingle up my spine.  The high gothic windows embedded in the Victorian façade seemed to be watching us as we approached.  For twenty-five years this house had been left to languish and it was in sore need of repair. The worn roof drooped low, exposing gaps where lost shingles had long ago blown away.   Dark moss crept up the steep angles of the roof line.  Ivy grew on the tall chimney, choking the bricks as it wound its way up; the ivy’s appendages beseeching release into sky.  This certainly did look like a house that a ghost would feel at home in.  For the first time, I thought perhaps I should have listened to my father and met Petra at the library.

          “I wonder which window belongs to Petra’s bedroom.”  Heather mumbled. 

          “I just hope it’s not in the turret,” I replied.

Even before I knew that Petra’s grandmother had been found dead in the granny attic, this house had given me the creeps.   Miss Tandy’s simple clapboard farmhouse sat next to the daunting Victorian structure.  The cozy screened-in porch filled with piles of magazines and old newspapers was a sharp contrast to its imposing neighbor.  Miss Tandy had a hanging porch swing that she and I would sit on during hot summer days.  There was always a cool ice-filled pitcher of iced tea on the wicker table next to the swing, waiting for any guest who might stop by for an afternoon chat.  

“What’s wrong with the turret?” Heather asked me. 

“I thought you knew.  Petra’s grandmother poisoned herself in the granny attic.” 

“No way!  Do you know why she did it?” asked Heather.

“I don’t know.   But Petra’s mother was just a girl when it happened.  I heard that she found her mother’s body when she came home from school.” 

“How horrible!  Who told you what happened?”

“It’s just gossip from the neighbors.  My mother told me about it, but it happened before my family moved here.”

“Wow.  What a shame, it’s such a cool house!  Just look at all the property around it.  I bet you could have a mean game of ‘kick-the-can’ and have plenty of places for all the kids in the neighborhood to hide out.” 

          “Yeah, I guess.” I tried to take my mind off of the tragic history of the house and, instead, concentrated on spending the day with my friends.  

          As we walked up to the house, Petra came bursting out of the screen door.  She ran across the front lawn and collapsed in front of us in a fit of giggles.  We tried to help her to her feet but she wound up pulling us down on the grass with her.  Lying on her back, Petra pointed up to the sky, “Look at that!  It looks like Pegasus!”  Heather and I lay down next to her and looked up.  Large white puffy clouds broke the blue expanse that greeted our eyes.  Petra was pointing to a cloud that resembled a horse with wings flying across the sky. 

          “Wouldn’t you love to fly!” she exclaimed.

          “Sometimes I dream that I’m flying above trees and buildings and I’m not afraid at all.”  Heather sighed. 

           I thought about my own dreams but didn’t know how to explain them.  Instead I just said, “But then you have to land.  That doesn’t scare you?” 

          “No.  Whatever goes up; must come down!” giggled Petra.  She stood up and then said, “And whatever goes down; must come up!”  She pulled our arms until we were standing again.  “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you around.”

           Behind the front door was a large entrance hall and, beyond that, a stairway reaching up into darkness.  But the entrance hall was full of color, as the sun found its way through the old stained glass in the large windows.  There were beautiful urns and vases in a multitude of colors decorating the hall.  Statues from ancient cities stood guard on either side of the imposing stairway and it looked more like a museum than a house.  Petra’s mom came walking into the hall from a back room that I guessed was the kitchen.  Delicious smells from the oven followed her into the room.  She had an apron on and was wiping her hands on it as she approached.  She put out her dried hand and said, “I’m Lydia, it’s so nice to meet you girls.”  Lydia’s touch was soft, warm, and confident as she enclosed my small hand in hers. 

She had fine laugh lines around her mouth and her eyes, where the skin crinkled when she smiled.  Her large eyes were a deep dark brown and she had lush auburn curls that hung to her shoulders and framed her pretty face.  Her dimpled full-lipped smile exuded a comfortable confidence that drew me to her. 

          I wasn’t used to people touching me, so I looked down at her hand holding mine with uncertainty.  After an awkward pause, I stammered, “I’m Julie and this is my friend, Heather.” 

          Heather tilted her face up toward Lydia and let go of one of her brilliant smiles.  As Lydia released my hand, I felt bereft of the energy that had flowed from her hand into mine.  Lydia took Heather’s hand in hers and said, “Pleased to meet you, Heather.  You girls make yourselves at home and when you are ready, come into the kitchen.  I already made some sandwiches, and I have some chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.”   Lydia walked behind her daughter and put her arms around her.  She caressed Petra’s hair and gently kissed the top of her head before walking back to the kitchen.  When she left, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room with her.  I felt a pain deep in my chest and a burning behind my eyes.  I looked at Heather and recognized the same agony in the rigid lines of her face.  Neither of us knew what it was like to have a mother like Lydia.

          “The library’s upstairs; come with me,” directed Petra.

Reaching out to Heather, I grabbed her hand and together we walked up the stairs.  Petra explained as we reached the second floor that this was where her bedroom was but we continued to climb up to the third floor. 

“Half of this entire floor is the library and that door leads out to a veranda overlooking the backyard.  The other half of this floor is my parents’ bedroom.  Above us, on the fourth floor, is the granny attic with the turret.  There’s a cool widow’s walk looking over the back of the house.  My mom says that you can see the bay from there.”

“What’s a widow’s walk?” Heather asked.

“The story is that long ago, an ancestor of mine who had this house built was a sea captain.  The wives of sea captains often had landings that they could walk on that were near the roof of their homes so that they could look out to sea and wait for their husbands to return.   Being a sea captain was very dangerous in those days and often the men were lost at sea.  So landings like these became known as widows’ walks.”

We walked into the library; its walls were lined with hundreds of books.  Relics from foreign lands were placed on display scattered around the bookshelves and on the walls.  There were African masks, jewel encrusted ornaments, and lengths of exotic fabric splashed across the room.  Soft cushioned dark brown leather chairs were scattered throughout, beside green desk lamps on small reading tables.  Petra had turned all of the lights on and a warm glow filled the large room.  I walked to one wall and gently ran my fingers over the bindings that read, Bronte, Browning, Crane, Chopin, Dickens, Flaubert, Hawthorne, and Hemingway.  A light film of dust covered my fingertips and the smell of old books filled my senses.  Walking across the room I saw books by Shakespeare, Shelley, Steinbeck, Tennyson, and Whitman.  What treasures were accumulated within these walls!

          “Have you read all of these books?”  I asked in awe.

          “This library has been here in this house for a long time, but my mom has always had plenty of books.  It seems like she doesn’t ever feel at home unless there are loads of books surrounding her.    She’s been reading some of them to me since I was a little girl.  But of course, I haven’t read these books; although, I think she probably has!  My mom says that these books have the answers to all our questions.  Like, once I asked her what it was like to live during the depression, the next thing I knew we were reading Grapes of Wrath; not my favorite book.  But just bring up a question to her and she’ll have you reading a book searching for the answer.”

“Which is your favorite?” I asked.

“Definitely, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and also, the series of ‘Little House’ books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I’ll never forget reading The Long, Long Winter with my mom.  We called it the Long, Long, Long, Long, Long Winter.” Petra started laughing and shaking her head.  “I didn’t think it was ever going to end!  But it really made you think about how it must have been back then to live without all the modern comforts we take for granted.” 

“That brings us to the topic of inventions,” she continued, “I pulled out a bunch of books I found on past inventions.  Here, let’s each take a couple and look through them.  I thought that maybe they might inspire our thought process.”

          She handed me copies of The Fabulous Story of How American Dreamers, Wizards, and Inspired Tinkerers Converted a Wilderness into the Wonder of the World, by Mitchell A. Wilson and The Picture History of Inventions, from Plough to Polaris, by Umberto Eco.

Petra pointed to some notebooks and pencils on one of the tables.  “Let’s jot down some ideas and see what we come up with.” 

After pouring through a dozen books between us and reading about the inventions of edible tie pins, an automatic hat-tipper, bed-wetting alarms, and an electrical bedbug exterminator, we started to get really silly. 

I said, “How about a soap called ‘cheese’ that’s in the shape of cheese and lasts for exactly 365 days.  You only need to buy one bar a year!”

Heather chimed in, “And the smell drives all the girls crazy like in the Aqua-Velva commercials!”  She started going wild, attacking an imaginary guy who had just used our cheese soap.

Petra laughed and looked forlornly at her blank notebook, “Maybe we should be a little more practical.  How about inventing a machine that does your school projects for you?  All you have to do is just tell it what the topic is and it gives you all the information that you need and puts it all together.”

“Far out!  Then we wouldn’t have to waste time in the library and we could play outside.  It’s spring and I want to be out there!”  Heather walked over to the window.  “Hey what’s that?” 

Petra and I walked over to the window overlooking the backyard.  There was an old wooden structure perched in a giant maple tree.   It was  cradled in a web of huge branches.  Tiny green buds appeared along the maple’s outstretched arms. 

Petra explained, “It used to be my mom’s tree house when she was a little girl.  It’s been a long time since it was used so my dad wants to make sure it’s safe before I climb up into it.  He said he has to add extra supports and replace some weak boards.  Maybe, after he’s finished, we can decorate it together.” 

“Count me in!” I screamed. 

“This is so cool!”  Heather was so excited she tripped over a chair. 

“Let’s go have our sandwiches, we need fuel to think.”  Petra led us downstairs. 

The kitchen had an old white enamel table with cold matching chairs placed around it.  Lydia set out a tray of plastic wrapped sandwiches and glasses of milk as we sat down.  I looked around a room that seemed to be suspended in time.  The white cupboards and big farm sink were from a different era. 

Lydia saw me looking at the kitchen and said, “We have a lot of renovation to do on the house, but I kind of like this old kitchen.  Although we have to update the appliances, I think I will keep this early 20th century look.”  She looked wistful for a moment as if happy childhood memories were passing through her mind.  I started to realize that Lydia had good memories of this house as well as the sad ones.  This is where she had been a child, where she had lived with her parents.  This was her home.

We were busy enjoying our lunch when a man and little boy walked in.  The man had dark hair with grays sprinkled throughout.  He wore glasses over his huge round blue eyes and he had a handsome strong jaw and warm smile.

Petra jumped off her stool and ran over to the man for a hug.  Putting her arm through the crook of his, she introduced us, “Hey guys, this is my dad, John Racine, and this is my little brother, Jack.   Dad, these are my friends Julie and Heather.” 

“Hello ladies!” her father spoke with a dreamy French accent.   He came over to me and took my hand and kissed the back of it.  He did the same to Heather and she giggled because it tickled.  Little Jack, who was a miniature replica of his father, proudly said, “Hi, I’m Jack.” 

“How old are you Jack?”  Heather asked.

He took in a deep dramatic breath and shouted, “I’m five!”  He then ran over and hid behind Petra.  She picked him up, carried him over to the kitchen counter, and placed him down on a stool.   She announced, “Jack is the sweetest boy in the world!”  She protectively placed her arm around his waist to keep him from falling off the stool.  He turned in his seat, kissed her cheek and giggled.

“I didn’t know you had a little brother,” I said.

“Yeah, well, we try to hide him in the basement but he keeps breaking out.” Petra teased. 

“No I don’t!”  Jack took her seriously.  “I don’t like the basement!”

Lydia stepped in now, “You know I don’t like you teasing your brother” she admonished Petra.   Lydia picked up Jack, gave him an Eskimo kiss and placed him back down in front of his sandwich and a glass of milk. 

Petra shrugged, smiled at Jack, and blew him a kiss.  Jack who had been glowering at Petra stopped sulking, smiled, and blew a kiss back to her. 

Lydia spoke to Heather and me, “I tell Petra and Jack all the time how lucky they are to have each other.  I know sisters and brothers like to tease but . . . it’s so hurtful when teasing comes from someone you love.”  Lydia tilted her head and looked pleadingly at her daughter.

“Sorry mom.”  Petra looked up at Lydia.  Lydia came over to Petra and placed her hand on Petra’s shoulder and gently squeezed her, “I know, honey.” 

That was the end of it.  I couldn’t ever imagine a scene like that at my house.  For my sisters and me, teasing was a competition that we took part in daily.  As hurtful as it was, you just got caught up in the cycle.

 Mr. Racine asked, “So what are you girls doing inside on this beautiful day?”  

“We’re working on a project for school.  We have to come up with a product or service to present to our English class.  We’ve been looking through the library at books on all sorts of inventions but we haven’t been able to come up with anything that would really work,” explained Petra.

“You said it could be a service, right?” asked her dad.

“Yeah.” We all shook our heads.

“Why don’t you develop a research service where you girls would use our family library as the source for your research?  You could offer it as a service to your classmates.” 

“Dad, what a great idea!”

“Yeah, the public library is pretty far from here and the school library is closed on weekends.  We could be the local weekend library research center.”  I liked this idea; spending time around books was no hardship for me.

          “Kids could pay us to look up the information they need for reports.  Then we hand them the information and they write their own reports.  We could even loan out books.”  Petra was getting excited.

          Lydia frowned, “I thought this was supposed to be a hypothetical business?  I don’t know about loaning out our books for money.  You’d have to keep track of the books and what would you do if someone didn’t return a book or if a book got damaged?”   

          “It is just hypothetical; we just have to develop the whole concept.  But you’re right; we’ll just offer to do the research for them.  We could charge by the hour or by the project, what do you think?”  Petra asked.

          “I think we should develop a price list for research that takes an hour, half a day, one day, or the whole weekend,” said Heather.

          “Good idea, let’s do it!” Petra ran up to get her notebook.  After we wrote down all of our ideas we took the tray of cookies out to the backyard to have a picnic. 

          Lydia gave us a blanket and we laid it down on the grass.  The birds were singing and tulips and daffodils were blooming around the edges of the house.  The trees around us were also budding and forming the skeleton of a canopy above our heads.  

          “How should we decorate the tree house?” I asked.

          “My favorite color is purple,” said Petra. 

          “So is mine!” said Heather.

          “Mine is pink!” I offered.

          “Okay,” said Petra, “Then two walls will be pink and two walls will be purple.” 

          “Neat!” exclaimed Heather.  “How about sticking some glow in the dark stars on the ceiling.” 

          “Cool!   We could use some posters too.”   I offered, “I have a Peter Max poster.” 

          “Does the tree house have electricity?” asked Heather.

          “I don’t think so.”  Petra answered.  “But we can bring up battery operated camp lanterns.” 

           I asked, “Do you think maybe your mom would let us use an extension cord or even string some Christmas lights from the attic window?  Then we could have electricity in the tree house.” 

          “Great idea!” exclaimed Petra. 

          We spent the rest of the afternoon planning our tree house.  When it was time to go home Heather and I thanked Lydia and John for letting us use their library.  “Anytime you need to use the library, you’re welcome to come over.  And if either of you ever want to borrow a book to read, that would be fine too.”  Lydia gave each of us a hug and said, “Come back soon for a visit.” 

          Heather and I walked home past Mrs. Connor who was now weeding the garden in her front yard.  “Hi girls, did you have a nice time today?”  “Oh yeah, it was a great day!” Heather gushed. 

“You spent all day in there, what’s the inside of the house like?”

          I nudged Heather to walk faster, “Sorry, we have to get home.  No time to talk right now.”  I whispered to Heather, “Don’t even start with her, all she wants is gossip.” 

          Miss Tandy was rocking on her porch swing.  “Hello girls!  Enjoying the nice day?” she called. 

I spoke loudly so that she could hear, “Hi, Miss Tandy!  It’s nice out today, but I can’t wait for summer!” 

“Me too, be sure to stop by for some iced tea!” 

“Okay, see you soon,” I replied.

We got to my house first and I ran up my front steps, “See you in school on Monday!”  She waved goodbye as she continued on her way home.

Inside, my mother was getting ready for dinner.  I watched her as she set the table and I thought about my family.  My parents provided us with a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food on our table, and a good education.  So why did I feel so numb?  What more did I want?  But now that I had glimpsed the kind of love that families could share, I felt cheated.  It was hard to acknowledge this because I felt guilty about not appreciating what I did have.  Many nights I sat at the table and pushed the vegetables around on my plate and was told that “children were starving in China!”  Sometimes, my sisters and I would complain that we were full.  But my dad would just make us walk up and down the hallway until we had “made some room” for the rest of our dinner. 

I washed my hands and went to sit at the kitchen table.  My father sat down, took off his belt and laid it across his lap. 

“Mary, your mother told me that we’re almost out of shampoo again.  Are you still washing your hair twice each time you take a shower?  If you insist on doing that, then I’m going to take the cost of the shampoo out of your allowance.”  My dad was annoyed with Mary.  Mary tried to explain that she had read the directions on the shampoo bottle that said you were supposed to wash your hair twice each time.  But considering that her allowance was only 25 cents a week, it would take two months to pay for one bottle of shampoo.  So she gave up and said, “I’ll only wash my hair once from now on.”  

 My mother tried to change the subject as she placed the chicken cutlets on the table, “So how was everything at Petra’s house?”   

“Petra’s parents are really nice and she has an adorable little brother named Jack.  We decided to use a service for our English project.   We can use Petra’s library to do research for the kids in class.  By the way, Lydia said I could borrow books from the library to read.” 

“Really!”  My dad was impressed.  My love for reading had been inherited from him.  One time he said to me that the worst thing that could happen to him would be to lose his sight.  He couldn’t imagine not being able to read anymore. 

Mary said, “You’d better clean your room before you start borrowing books.  You’re bound to lose them in that mess.”  Annoyed, I glared at her.  Why did she have to bring that up?  I was having such a great day, now she had to ruin it for me.  I looked at my father to see if he was going to add to Mary’s criticism.

Angie added sarcastically, “More books!  That’s just what you need!  Like you don’t spend enough time buried in the ones you have.”  I felt like it was a physical blow.  This is what we did to each other.  In order to save ourselves, we threw each other to the lions.  Angie shook her head in disapproval and then reached for the bread across the table, “Juliana, you’re a cross-eyed bookworm.” 

My father took his fork and stuck it into the back of Angie’s hand.  “Don’t grab,” is all he said, but he gave me a wink that she didn’t see.

Every night, I mechanically kissed my mother and father on their cheeks before heading up to bed.  It was expected and it was necessary.  Inspired by Petra’s family, tonight I felt bolder than usual.  My parents were watching television in the recreation room.  My mother was sitting on the couch and my father in his recliner. 

I walked over to my mother and put my arms around her in a hug.  She pushed me away with a nervous uncomfortable laugh and rubbed her arms as if to rub off my touch.  Flustered, she said “Good night and don’t read too late, we are going to ten o’clock mass in the morning.”  She dismissed me and looked back at the TV.  

After that, my courage abandoned me.  I dutifully walked over to my father and kissed his cheek.  As I walked up to my bedroom, I brushed quickly at my eyes so that Angie wouldn’t see the tears.   I wondered how I could feel so lonely when I was surrounded by my family, but the fact was, I did.  I said to myself, at least you have them, Heather doesn’t really have anyone.  But in spite of that knowledge, I felt the emptiness engulf me. 

Stages

There are stages of grief,
There are stages of love,
Stages of letting someone in,
Stages of letting someone go.

Ask me how I feel today,
Ask me again tomorrow.
Yet today it may be happiness,
While tomorrow it may be sorrow.

Hurricanes Leave Holes

About ten years ago, I met a couple named Benny and Zee at my mother-in-law's house.  The moment I met this tiny Sicilian couple, I felt a kinship, a connection that has no explanation in the physical world.  They immediately felt like family and they reminded me of my earliest memories of family gatherings in Brooklyn, many years ago.  Just seeing this couple and watching them lovingly banter with eachother made me smile. 

As the years went by, I would see them on their Friday "card nights," either at my mother-in-law's house or at their house.  They lived in a mother-daughter house on a canal on the south shore of Long Island, they on the first floor, and their daughter and her family, upstairs.  Benny and my son developed a close friendship based on my son's fascination with anything to do with WWII and Benny enjoying the fact that a young person was interested in what he lived thru 70 years ago!  Since my son never knew either of his deceased grandfathers, Benny became very special to him too. 

It was natural for my mother-in-law to open her home to Benny and Zee when word came that Hurricane Sandy was approaching and they lived in a mandatory evacuation zone.  They packed for a day or two, also packing Benny's medication because at 91, his health had been failing over the previous few months.  He had recently spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals, but that hadn't damped his spirits and he was still as charming as ever. 

When the lights went out at my mother-in-law's house, they made the best of it, playing cards by candlelight and keeping each other company.  At first, it was a party atmosphere, but as the days went by and the lights didn't come on, worry set in.  Gas was on short supply and the lines were long at the few gas stations that were open.  Food spoiled at the supermarkets and canned food flew off of the nearly empty shelves.  It was a week before I could visit them.  At that point the electricity had come back on at my mother-in-law's house but cable and the phone were still out.  My mother-in-law had borrowed a cell phone because her's wasn't working, but the borrowed cell phone had run out of battery life and she didn't have a charger for it.  So they were all happy to see me because I brought a connection to the outside world.  They were even happier when I showed them that they could watch a DVD even though the cable was out!  I left them as the were ordering a pizza and watching "Cocoon" on t.v.  That was the last time I saw Benny.

The first floor of Benny and Zee's house was destroyed by the floodwaters.  Hurricane Sandy robbed a lifetime of memories and prevented them from returning to their home.  Their daughter made arrangements to have the damages repaired, but it would take months before the home would be livable again.  So Benny and Zee boarded an airplane for Flordia to visit with their other daughter for a while.  Unfortunately, Benny's health continued to decline in Florida and his doctors said he was not well enough to fly back home.  Yesterday, I received a call.  Benny had passed away.  They are now flying his body home for his funeral and eventually, Zee will have to move back into her renovated home alone. 

My son and I will attend Benny's wake and say goodbye to him.  But five months after Hurricane Sandy hit our shores, she is still leaving holes in our hearts. 

Life in Layers

Before I wrote "The Tin Box", I didn't have a clue as to how to go about writing a novel.  I was under the impression that you started out with an idea of how it was going to go, you started writing and then you wrote until you got to the end . . . not so. 

In real life, that's how it’s done.  You start out with a plan, you move forward, and you keep going until the end.  But when you are writing, you can go back for do-overs.  Imagine what it would be like if at 40 you could say, "Gee, it would have been good if I had gone to law school when I was 22." and then you go back to being 22, go to law school, and change your present/future.  Unfortunately, that isn't the way life works.  But when you are writing, it's exactly how it works. 

You’re writing a novel and you get to chapter 40 and say, "Gee, it would have been good if I had my character go to law school in Chapter 22." and then you do go back to chapter 22 and send your character to law school.  That one change sets a whole avalanche of changes in the following chapters.  But that isn't the only way novels are written in layers.

There are layers of depth in novels.  There is a surface story, there is an underlying message to the story, there are themes and motifs, there may be elements of suspense and intrigue, there may be a backstory, and there may be some history woven in to the story where historical research is necessary.  All of these pieces come together as layers in a novel.  You work on developing one and then go back and build in another, and another, and another. 

 Finally, the characters develop in layers.  Their personalities evolve as the story is told and what was a simple character at the beginning of the story ends up being a multi-dimensional character by the end.  An author has to go back and build those elements into the earlier development of the character so that the character can appear to be complex from the beginning.

When all the layers finally come together and the individual threads weave into a story, sometimes even the author is surprised by how it all turns out!

A New Year

Another year gone, a new year to look forward to, a year closer to timing being right for self-publishing.  It's funny how no matter how often life changes, no matter how much you anticipate that change will come, it still surprises you when it does. 

This year my daughter will graduate from college and my son will enter his last year of high school.  My daughter will move across the country, somewhere, to start her life as a graduate student.  My son will have a driver's license and, with mixed emotions, I will welcome his independence.

As my role in their lives changes, I will look toward my books to fill the emptiness that is left behind.  This is what I had planned for, this is what I have anticipated, but whether if I am ready and capable of successfully exploring and navigating this next chapter of my life is still yet to be seen. 

The first novel is finished and I am well on my way to writing the first sequel, which I have determined will go back in time and focus on the previous lives of my characters.  The lives that, perhaps, did not go as planned.  I look forward to seeing the twists and turns that develop as their journeys unfold.  What will they take with them into their next lives?  What will they have learned from their fortunes and misfortunes? 

Once the first sequel is finished, I will focus on the second sequel.  The second sequel will follow the original characters into the 1970s.  As they change from children to adults, my characters, like my own children, will go off to have lives of their own. 

It will be time to start the process of publishing and sharing my characters with the world.  Whether if they will be prepared to stand on their own and to reach successes of their own, will be determined by readers, like you.  But whatever their fate, my characters will have come to life through me.  I will have created them and that will always fill my heart with the pride of accomplishment. 

In the years to come, as both my children and my characters move on, so will I.  I hope I will create more characters and more adventures!  Given enough time, I will explore and navigate many journeys.  Along the way, I hope to touch many lives, and perhaps, even touch them for the better.