Characters have Minds of their Own!

It seems my sequel has turned into two sequels.  Originally, the sequel was supposed to go back and forth between what was happening in the 1860s and the late 1960s.  But, as I have found out, these stories write themselves.  Whatever I may have in mind for my characters, they demand to have some say in how their story is told.  So, there are now two sequels.  The first, about Lotti, Wesley, and Charles that takes place before, during, and after the Civil War.  The second, continues the story of Julianna and her friends into the early 1970s.  The connection between the two worlds unfolds as the stories develop.  Hope you will all enjoy them!

Russian Audience

Well now, I see I have a Russian audience.  That is very exciting!  Since I do, I would like to share something with them.  If  you've read my first chapter, then you know what it was like to be a child in America growing up during the Cold War.  Interestingly, around 1979 I was at a dinner meeting where two Russian dissidents were the guest speakers.  After listening to them, for the first time, I realized that the people who live within a country are not the government.  That I had been wrong to view the people of Russia as my enemy.  It was their government that was the enemy of my government. 

They did not agree with their government and were in the U.S. to tell us what it was really like to live there.  This was at a time before the Internet.  I found it fascinating to hear their point of view.  Would love to know what it was like on the other side.  Were you as worried as we were?

Count Your Blessings

Years ago I bought my first Christmas album on a cassette tape.  It had songs by Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Johnny Mathis, but it also had a song by Rosemary Clooney called, “Count Your Blessings.”  As I was a teenager at the time, I don’t think it had ever occurred to me to count my blessings.  But it was Christmas season and I was alone in the car on the way to or from a college class and listening to this song.  I guess it had always been natural for me to focus on the hardships in my life.  I stressed over college, family, finding a job, paying for college, and a boyfriend who had a dysfunctional family of his own.  I had never really thought about the blessings I had in my life.  I had a home, clothes on my back, food in my stomach, friends and family that cared about me. 

This song made me feel . . . at peace.  I felt this calm come over me and thought, this is a much better way to look at life.   Perspective is important. 

Sure, reality is there to look at every morning when you open a newspaper or turn on the TV.  Look at the news over the last few weeks:  a boat turned over and the children trapped in the cabin died, a cement truck crashed into a school bus, and a mad man opened fire in a movie theater.  In an even wider perspective we see nations becoming bankrupt, glaciers disappearing, and uprisings against totalitarian governments.  We focus on these things, and rightfully so.  These events call for re-evaluation, for action, for change.  And in our own lives the same is true.  When things don’t go as we planned, when we are stressing over life and our hardships, it’s time for re-evaluation, for action, for change. 

But at the end of each day take a moment to remind yourself of what you do have.  Of what is right in your small world.  This perspective will give you hope, and the drive, to keep what is right, right and to make it even better.

My son was in a different movie theater at midnight watching the same movie that those innocent victims were watching in Colorado.  How easily could it have been the theater he was in?  I was driving to a wedding last week and there was a lot of traffic, then I took a wrong turn, and I was stressing about being late.  But after getting the car turned around and as I approached a toll booth, I saw smoke and then flames.  A few moments before, a car had crashed into the toll booth and exploded, putting both the car and toll both on fire.  If traffic hadn’t been so heavy, if I hadn’t made that wrong turn, would I have been right there when it happened?  Last year lightning hit my elderly neighbor’s house and burned the room she was in to a crisp.  She was lucky, she was still awake and was able to get out in time.  Each day obstacles and dangers are put in our path.  Each day we take our chances, whether if we go out into the world or stay inside our own homes.   But we live, and all of that is part of life. 

As Paul McCartney sings, “Life is what happens while we are busy making plans.”  We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.  We plan and hope our plans will pan out.  But tonight, look at it all from a different perspective.  At this moment, if you have enough money for food, if your children are safe in their beds, if you have a new chance to make things right or better tomorrow, than, as Rosemary Clooney sings, “Count Your Blessings.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3V2O6ulYbUw

Frustration Happens . . .

I was watching the news this morning and saw that there is another family drama unfolding in Michael Jackson's family.   Something is going on between his mother, his siblings, and his children.  At the center of this drama, there appears to be two motivations: the children and money.  Two, very powerful, motivators.  While opposing members of a family may mean well, sometimes, the frustration that leads to anger ends up destroying more than it is saving. 

Frustration happens . . . when one feels trapped;
Frustration happens . . . when one feels that they are not being heard;
Frustration happens . . . when one feels deceived;
Frustration happens . . . when one feels that obstacles are being put in their way;
Frustration happens . . . when one has strong feelings and little power.

When frustration leads to anger, the result can be devastating to the individual, the object of their frustration, and the desired goal. 


STEP BACK . . . Take time to think it through.  Don't react immediately to the frustration. 

                                                                 S-A-V-E


SWALLOW YOUR PRIDE . . . It's not about being right.  It's not about power and control.  It is about handling yourself in a way you can be proud of.  It is about compromise and getting to an end result that is best for everyone, not just you.

ANALYZE YOUR GOAL . . . Is your goal worth what you might lose?  You may loose the respect of someone you value.  You may loose the love of someone you care about.  You may loose the trust of someone who depends on  you.

VISUALIZE THE ACTION YOU ARE ABOUT TO TAKE AND THE RESULT YOU DESIRE . . . Will the action get you what you want?  What will be the cost to you and other's around you?  Is it worth it?  Is there a better way of approaching it?  What is the fallout? 

EXIT THE SITUATION . . . If you are dealing with toxic people who are bent on brewing up a war . . . either remove yourself from the situation entirely, or if that is not an option, get a mediator who can deal in a rational unemotional manner to help you resolve the issue.


In our family we have a little magnet and on it is the "Serenity Prayer."   When someone get's frustrated, I hand it to them, or if it's me, I read it myself. 

                                                                   Serentity Prayer

                         God, grant me the Serenity to Accept the things I cannot change,
                         Courage to change the things I can,
                         And the Wisdom to know the difference.

Being a Writer

When someone asks me, "What do you do?"  The answer is never a simple one.  They expect an answer like, "I'm a teacher or I'm a therapist."  But, of course, although I consider myself to "do" both of those things, as well as many other things, I cannot claim to be one or the other.  If I say I am a stay-at-home mom, there is a stigma that goes along with that.  They are wondering, "Is she lazy?  Is she not smart enough to work?"  Even if that's not what they are actually thinking, it's what I think they are thinking. 

Before I had children (B.C.), I worked during the day and attended college at night.  I worked for McGraw-Hill Publishing company in Manhattan as an Editorial Assistant after getting an Associates Degree at Nassau Community College.  Then I attended Hofstra at night while McGraw-Hill paid a large portion of my tuition (that was when companies did things like that).  After I got married, I worked at several jobs on Long Island.  Most notable of those was working for Worldwide Computer Services as a Sales Support Administrator.  Our little office was very successful and we won trips and prizes as we competed against other satellite offices to place software engineers as consultants in various industries.   Later, I worked for Arrow Electronics where I was a Marketing Communications Administrator. Where I produced hardware and software catalogs, newsletters, yearbooks, and pioneered the world of  "Desk Top Publishing."   I graduated from Stony Brook with a Bachelor's Degree.

But then I had my daughter.  This wonderful, beautiful, child whose life and spirit was put into my hands.  I knew that there would never be a job that could compete with raising her.  Nothing would ever be as fulfilling, satifying, or demanding.  So my husband and I made the decision that we would "work it out" and I would stay home . . . for a year.  When she was a year old, we decided it would be okay if I stayed home until she went to pre-school.  When she was three and went to pre-school, we decided it would be okay if I stayed home until she when to Kindergarten.  When she went to Kindergarten, I had a six month old son . . . so I stayed home until he went to Kindergarten. 

I volunteered:  Girl Scout Leader, PTA President, Community Volunteer.  I became a free-lance writer for a local newspaper.  I started researching my family tree.  I fed the need I had to accomplish things, to have a social life, to feel productive, through these things.  But I thought I would go back to work . . . someday. 

When my son was in Kindergarten planes crashed into the World Trade Center.  Then a few months later, I got very sick and nearly died.  I lived in spite of the odds.  I asked myself, why did I get to live and go home when so many other parents didn't get that chance.  What was so special about me?  I also asked myself, what have I not accomplished that I need to before I die.  Two things came to mind, I need to finish raising my children and I need to write a novel. 

As my daughter entered her teenage years, I realized that the network and support system of other stay-at-home mom's had disappeared.  I found that there were children that were close to my children who had homes in which they felt unsafe, or where they lacked guidance, or where they felt frustrated.  I began to understand that you can't help a child unless you can help the parent.  The child, while they stay a child, is a prisoner of his or her environment.  The "system" does not always protect them.  I turned my attention to trying to help these young people. 

When my daughter was 15, I finally figured out what I wanted to write about.  I told her that it would take many hours of each day to write a book.  I didn't know if I could do it.   I didn't know if it would be any good.  I didn't know if it would ever get published.   And this "beautiful child whose life and spirit was in my hands" told me, "Then do it for me, Mommy."  And so I did.

I am a writer.  I wrote a story called "The Tin Box."  It is a young adult novel.  And while it is a love story, a mystery, an historical recount of periods gone past, it is mostly about family and growing up in differing degrees of dysfunction and learning that you cannot control or be responsible for anyone else's actions or reactions.  You can only control and be responsible for your own actions and reactions.  The most you can do for others is hope to influence them. 

I am a Writer. 

The Tin Box: Chapter 3 (Copyright 2011)

Chapter 3                                                                     The Tin Box

          My father sat in his chair reading aloud from the newspaper about the student protests that were sweeping the nation.  They were protesting against the war and organizing demonstrations for civil rights.  There were women burning bras to protest the need for equal rights of the sexes.  There were marches in the south urging equal civil rights for all races.  College campuses had been turned into platforms for the anti-war movement.  At Howard University, the students had seized the administration building; students took over another building at Bowie State College in Maryland, and there had been an 8-day sit-in at Columbia University.  After thousands of students marched on the White House in Washington D.C. chanting, “L.B.J., L.B.J., how many kids did you kill today!” peace talks had finally begun between the U.S. and the North Vietnamese.  My father stopped reading and shook his head, "What is this world coming to?"

 I jumped at the chance to talk to him about what was going on in our own town.  "Dad, even here people are protesting. Walk-outs and sit-downs organized by the girls in our own high school made the administration finally give permission for girls to wear pants in both the high school and junior high.  There are strict rules to follow, the pants can only be slacks, no blue jeans allowed.  We were warned that any girl arriving in school with a hole in her slacks, a hem that was dragging on the floor, or pants torn in any way, would be suspended from school."

"And are you telling me you are wearing slacks to school now?" Dad was surprised.

"Mom bought me two pairs of bellbottom slacks, one is orange and the other is a lime green plaid.  But the younger kids in elementary school still aren't allowed to wear pants."  After I said it, I realized I probably shouldn't have told him.  Now he would know that mom had taken the bus to go shopping for us.  He wasn't going to like that.  But before he could say anything, Mom called us in to dinner. 

Angie came downstairs to join us, excited to tell us something.  "I heard you talking about us not being able to wear pants.  Well, that all changed today!' she announced.  

"It was so unfair!  The sixth grade girls didn't care because in September they'll be in junior high.  We had to do something or we'd be walking to school again next year wearing those ugly itchy woolen leggings under our jumpers!"

Angie related the events that had happened earlier in the day.  She had organized the fifth grade girls to march down to the principal’s office.  I wish I could have seen Mrs. Munson’s face when the fifth grade girls entered the office and demanded an audience with the principal.  Mrs. Munson was Principal McGuire’s secretary, but she was also Karen Munson’s mother.  And Karen also happened to be one of the fifth grade girls standing in front of her desk demanding to see the principal.   When Principal McGuire came out of his office to see what the commotion was about, it was Karen who spoke up first. 

  Angie continued, “The girls stood behind us and Karen told Principal McGuire, ‘We should have the right to wear slacks in school!’  Then I said, ‘This is an injustice!  What’s good for the high school and junior high girls should be good for us too!’” 

"Angie, you're so dramatic!" I exclaimed.

I had a hard time trying not to laugh.  Her face was so serious and her arms flung about in excitement as she retold the story.   

“Then it was the best, we all started chanting, ‘These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!  These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!’” Angie held her head high, proud of being one of the organizers of this protest. 

“What did he do?”  Mary asked, amazed at our spunky little sister.

“Well, Mr. McGuire told us that he had to speak with the superintendent before anything could be done.  But later he called all the fifth and sixth grade girls down to the multi-purpose room and announced that we too would be allowed to wear slacks to school!”  

           My mother shook her head at this.

            Caught up in the lively dinner conversation, I jumped in next, wanting to share my story of the day.  “You have to hear what happened in our English class today.  I have the coolest English teacher!   Today Mr. Cabot had us all lay down on the floor in the aisles between our desks.  He told us to close our eyes and think calm thoughts.  Then he had us stretch and then relax each part of our bodies, starting with our toes and slowly making our way up to our neck and head.  It was so cool!  Then he said to think of something beautiful.  I thought of the bay.  I imagined there were two seagulls gliding down and then soaring up toward the sky again.” 

Angie started to giggle, “Now who's being dramatic, Juliana?”

I ignored her and continued on, “He said, stretch, relax, we repeated the motions over and over.  I was dying to have Dr. Martin walk by and have him peek into the classroom, I don’t know if he would have thought that it was as cool as we did.”

“This Mr. Cabot sounds like a hippy to me.”  My father said with disgust.  “This is what we are paying taxes for?  This is teaching?”

At the same time, Angie reached for more mashed potatoes and my father took his fork and stuck it into the back of her hand.  She cried out and quickly pulled her hand back and gave me a nasty look.  My father ordered, “Don’t reach. Ask if you’d like more.”

          Dinners at our house were supposed to be “family time.”  But my father sat at the table with his strap laid across his lap waiting for any of us to misbehave.  Sometimes he would fold the strap over and hold the ends in each hand and then snap the strap to make a menacing sound of warning. 

I decided to eat the rest of my meal in silence. 

In my thoughts I reminisced alone about the unusual events that had taken place that day.  After our lesson in relaxation, Mr. Cabot said, “Your new assignment this week will be to develop a product or service and then present your idea to the class.  Explain why you think the rest of the class should buy your product or use your service.  After the projects are presented, the class will vote on which product or service they would most likely use.  You will be working with a partner, so please choose a partner and spend the rest of the period brainstorming.”  Everyone started looking around the classroom for a partner.  Then Mr. Cabot said, “Julie, I’d like you to partner with the new girl.” 

I looked at the new girl.  She dressed different from the rest of us, more colorful, even the material of her clothes seemed different.  Mr. Cabot waved her over to us before I could protest. 

She came over to my desk and Mr. Cabot introduced us.  “Petra, this is Julie, she’ll take good care of you.”  He said with emphasis on the word “good” as he squeezed my shoulder.

Not knowing what else to say, I blurted out, “Hi.”

“So, what do you think?  I don’t even know where to start.” I added as Mr. Cabot walked toward some other students.

Petra smiled, “I think it’s going to be fun!  And I’m really glad that Mr. Cabot asked us to work together.  Since I don’t know anyone in our class yet, I was nervous when he said we’d have to work with a partner.”  There was this soft hint of an accent when she spoke that made we wonder where she was from. 

“Maybe we can get together on Saturday at the library to do some research.”  I suggested.

“Isn't the library pretty far away?” 

“Yeah, it’s about two miles north of here.” 

“Well,” she said, “Maybe we could meet at my house instead.  My mom’s family has had a library in the house for ages.  And my parents just added a bunch more, the room is jammed with books about everything.”

“That would be great!  Then we wouldn't have to go all the way to the library.  Where do you live?”

 “On Willow Lane.” 

“Hey, that’s where I live!” 

“Do you know the old Victorian house?” 

I warily shook my head yes. 

“Well, that’s my house.”

“Are you Lydia Menlo’s daughter?” 

“Yeah.  But her name is Lydia Racine now.”  Cautiously she asked, “How do you know my mother?” 

“Well, I heard my mom talking with some of our neighbors after church a few weeks ago and they mentioned that she had moved back into her mother’s house.” 

Petra seemed to be weighing what I said.  “Did they say anything else?” 

“Well, they said she had a daughter around my age.”  After a moment’s hesitation I thought it was best to get it out in the open and let her know what I knew.  “And my mother told me that your grandmother committed suicide in the house when your mother was a girl.” 

Petra tilted her face down and closed her eyes.  I think she was trying not to cry.  I felt really bad and touched her hand. 

She frowned and said, “My mom doesn't like to talk about it.  I've asked her questions but she says she doesn't know what happened.  She moved away shortly after and hasn't been back until now.  I’m worried that now that she’s back, it will upset her again.” 

I thought again about the potholes along the Belt Parkway and how they kept being reopened, and then I said, “Well, if it does upset her, at least now she will have you to take her mind off of it.” 

Petra reached out her arms and hugged me, “And now, I have a new friend!”

Later, Petra joined Heather and me as we walked home. 

“What does your dad do?” Since Heather never knew her own father, she had an obsession with everyone else’s fathers.

          “He’s the curator at The American Museum of Natural History.” 

           Heather gushed, “Wow!  Groovy!”

          “What did he do before you moved here?”  I asked.

          “He worked at Le Museum National in Paris.  I was born in Paris.” 

          Heather screeched, “Cool!” 

          “So Julie, do you think we could work on the project tomorrow?”

          “Sure.” But I wasn't at all sure that my dad would let me go to her house. Tomorrow was Saturday and I hoped that my parents didn't have any plans that included me.

          When we got to Heather’s house I said, “How’s everything been with your mom?” 

          “She’s been going to work, so that’s good.  But she’s also been out a lot at night.  I guess things could be worse.”   She walked to her front door and said, “Well, I’ll see you guys on Monday.  It was nice meeting you Petra.” 

          “Hey, look, if you want to come and hang out with us while we work on this English project, you’re welcome to come over on Saturday too.” Petra offered.

          “That would be great!  Just let me know what time, okay?”

          “Alright, see you tomorrow.” I said.  Heather entered her house with an extra bounce in her step. 

          Petra and I wrote each other’s phone numbers on our hands.  As I wrote down my number on her palm, I explained that our phone was on a party line.  “One of the people we share the party line with is our neighbor, Mrs. Conner.  Just a warning, she listens in on everyone’s conversations.” 

          Petra started laughing and with a devilish glee in her eyes, she said, “Well then, we’ll have to give her something to listen to, won’t we?”

          Now as I sat at the dinner table alone, I pushed the Lima beans around on my plate and tried to hide them in the mashed potatoes.  My mother was cleaning up the dinner plates. My father had already finished his dinner and was sitting in the living room in his recliner reading the Daily News.  My sisters had gone down to the recreation room to watch T.V.  Only I still sat at the dinner table trying to swallow the detested Lima beans while I tried to think of a way to ask my dad if I could go over to Lydia Menlo’s house tomorrow.   Finally, my mother was tired of waiting for me to finish, so she put her finger up to her lips to warn me to be quiet and she took my plate and cleaned it off in the garbage before adding it to the dirty dishes in the sink.  She handed me a dishrag and I started to dry off the wet dishes and put them away.  We worked in silence; familiar with the routine, we performed our duties with efficiency.  I watched her red hands caress the dishes and wondered what it would be like if she ever touched me with those hands.  The familiar ache welled up inside of me.  The urge to reach out and touch her was strong, but I knew from experience that she would shrug it off with a nervous laugh.  So I held the rag, warm in my hand, and concentrated on the plate that she had just washed.  When we finished the dishes, I walked into the living room to talk with my father.

“Dad, I have an assignment for English that I need to work on.  My partner on the project is Lydia Menlo’s daughter.  She said that I could come over tomorrow, if it’s okay, and we can start doing some research.”

 “I don’t want you over there.”

“Dad, please.  I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

 My dad snapped.  “I said I don’t want you over there and that’s it!” he shouted. 

“But why?  We have to do this project together for school!”

“Fine, then go to the library.”

I looked down the hall to the kitchen at my mother and pleaded silently for help.  She just shook her head.  My mother had less say in our house than I did.  Well, I decided that I wasn't giving in this time.

I gathered all of my courage and defiantly raised my voice, “I am going to Petra’s house tomorrow!”

You could have heard a pin drop, it got so quiet. 

Then he erupted, “What kind of name is that, ‘Petra’?  What kind of family are they?  I don’t like it!” 

He stood up and started unbuckling his belt, but this time, I walked right over to him.  I stood as tall as I could and said between gritted teeth, “You can hit me with that.  But I’m telling you, I’m going anyway.”  

          After a long moment, my father sighed.  He sat back down in his chair and moved his right hand through what was left of his hair.  For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.  He looked so defeated.

 More calmly this time, I explained, “She has all the books and information that we need at her house.  If we do the work there, then you don’t have to drive me all the way to the library and then come back and pick me up a few hours later.  I’ll just be right down the block.” 

Slowly a slight smile came to his face.  Perhaps, in some small way, he admired my courage.  He shook his head, took a deep breath and said, “What am I going to do with you?”  Silence again.  Then finally, “Okay.  But I want you home by five o’clock sharp!” 

“Thanks Daddy.” I went over to him and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.  His smile broadened.  I’m not sure what changed his mind, maybe it was the memory of how out of control he had been the last time he hit me.  Maybe it was simply that he had seen a bit of himself reflected in my own stubbornness.  Whatever it was, I felt like a slight wind of change had just blown through our house.

The phone rang and my mother answered it in the kitchen.  She called, “Juliana, it’s for you.” With a surge of pride born out of the small victory, I picked up the phone.

Petra was on the line, “Hi Julie!  Can you come over tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but I have to be home by five.”

“Okay, so how about you come over around eleven and my mom will give us lunch.”

I could hear Mrs. Conner’s nasally breathing on the party line and I heard Petra giggle as she realized what the noise was.

Then Petra added, “I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts! Because, you know, our house is haunted by my grandmother!”

A gasp escaped from Mrs. Conner’s lips as she hastily hung up the phone.

I laughed as I pictured Mrs. Conner hastily closing the curtains to hide from the ghost of Petra’s grandmother.