Packing Time Again

Snug is a great word, and so descriptive of today. December is perfect for Christmas music, and it compliments our view, filled with a parade of deer wading through the snow-covered grounds. The pines are decorated, truly evergreen beneath their crystal frosting. They don't need ornaments. They couldn't be more beautiful. 

I'd love to be decorating inside tomorrow, preparing for Christmas. I'd put up the nativity set and then place my Santa kneeling by the manger over near the fire. It's one of those paint-it-yourself plaster craft statues I had to try my hand at. I made a few as gifts and finally got one for myself a few years later. I'm so glad I did. Seeing Santa kneeling like that puts both sides of Christmas together like a meditation for me, just as some of the music does.

The snow has stopped falling, so I could get John to hang lights around the deck tomorrow. That would be nice, too. I'd be out there taking photos for my homemade Christmas Cards if we were going to actually be here. This year, however, we'll be gone, heading out Saturday. I've selected cards from a store for the first time in years since we'll be away from home while John works on missiles for awhile. 

I tell him to pretend it's Santa's shop, and they're toy missiles. He just looks at me. I guess this is something I should take more seriously. Leaving home during the holiday season is serious enough. I have to find something to joke about.

Thanksgiving Dinner

Tomorrow we're going to the Cracker Barrel with our neighbor friend Doug for Thanksgiving Dinner. It will be the second time I can remember ever eating Thanksgiving Dinner in a restaurant. This time we're doing it because the expense of the big meal we want doesn't make sense when we're preparing for a trip to California for John to work at the Naval Base. The leftovers wouldn't be properly enjoyed. Also, a turkey for two isn't very cost efficient, and that's what we want. 

The last time we headed out to a restaurant for Thanksgiving Dinner, Jeremy had just turned three. I'm not sure why we decided to go out that year. Mentally calling roll, I remember Mom was alone, still a widow. Ellen and her John, with their two boys had John's parents with them. My John and I only had two sons then, and I believe Edith, our best family friend ever, was also with us. All together there must have been at least a dozen around that long table. Jeremy was the youngest, and very excited to be in a very good restaurant.

For some reason the waiter started right next to Jeremy and proceeded around the table, away from him. Not particularly used to being last—or being ignored—Jeremy began quietly enough. 

"I'd like a salad, mister."

"Be quiet, Jeremy. He'll get to you. Here, have a cracker," or some such motherly platitude would slip from my mouth after each each person was waited on, and Jeremy made a somewhat louder request for a salad. The young waiter never once looked at the boy. He never smiled or in any way broke that professional polish that comes from serving many years in a quality establishment.

After working his way around the table to it's final small occupant, he looked down and said solemnly, "Master Jeremy, would you care for a salad?"

Jeremy looked astonished. "Yes, please. How do you know my name?"

The gentleman looked very serious and said, "You just look like a Jeremy to me." Then he tempted him to order more than salad, which was more than I had been able to do. He got a very nice tip. More important to me, he helped make a memory, and was never forgotten.

Should I Apologize?

Once again I came home from the critique group Tuesday night feeling depressed over my writing. I had brought along my blog on the fires. Whether or not you read it, I'd ask you to read it now before going through the comments made by the group. Then I'd like to ask for your comments. I'm at a point now where I feel like I shouldn't be writing, if I could inadvertently be insulting firefighters when that is the furthest thing from my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Here's the link to my original blog.

Now that we have that taken care of, here are the comments, separated by person, although I'll not identify who made each comment. You wouldn't know the people in the critique group, at any rate. I won't put all the comments down, but copy completely the ones I feel sum up their opinions.

#1:  I had trouble knowing what your thrust and purpose was. The way one should pray? It seemed there was a bit of anger here and it never became clear to me what caused it or what you were trying to accomplish by expressing it. So the questions not answered for me are "what?" and "Why?" It sounds as if you have a beef with mothers who don't pray as you do? Who use "Thy will be done?" 

#2:  The way this piece began, I thought you might circle back to the fires again. It wasn't clear if you were making a commentary on the decision of the fire department, decision about not containing anything yet, etc. I think many mothers can connect with the selfish prayer part. It was jarring. The connection could be written to make it more clear.

#3:  I think that spending time tooting your own horn dilutes the impact of your message.

#4:  Awkward. Feels too long. Mixed messages. Are you trying to say selfishness is good or bad? Are you guilty or okay with being selfish? Not sure what you are trying to say.

#5:  This is an emotional piece, but I'm not being drawn into it. The ending needs to be stronger. Define the purpose better. Are you criticizing the firefighters, or those who want to be them? Honoring them or mothers? What are you doing? Unclear.

#6:  It's both personal and impersonal. I can't quite get the box into Hyde Park. So I recommend narrowing the viewport, more thoroughly correlating or juxtaposing firefighters and soldiers and assume a stance (even implicit) that someone's ox is being gored. 

#7:  Lacks focus and purpose. Cliched.

#8:  Seems patronizing. Why don't you want them to be in harm's way? I'm not 100% sure how these two things connect—the fires and your sons—I was definitely left wanting clarity. It felt choppy and disconnected. It think it sounds a little callous given the immensity of the destruction in California. Maybe show some empathy... [this one goes on for a long time...]

#9:  Abrupt. Lacks transition between its parts. Good emotional content.

#10:  The problem with this piece is that it puts firefighters in a very negative light. I was in NY for 9/11. Here, the firefighter is not the hero anymore.

#11:  I liked it.

#12:  Very nice.

So, as you can see, ten out of twelve people didn't get it at all. Two others left their papers blank. I've spent a day and a half in a funk. Was it really that bad? Didn't anybody understand that I think the firefighters handle an almost impossible job that is so terrifying I couldn't imagine keeping my sanity if one of my sons was regularly going out trying to do it? That I admire the mothers with the courage to do so to the point that I regularly support them in my prayer life? 

Maybe I'm just not good enough to be a writer. It makes me sad, but if ten out of fourteen writers don't get a simple piece like this, two only like it enough to write down a couple of words, and the other two just leave the pages blank, what am I to think? 

When Your Husband Travels

My daughter in law's sister wrote a blog recently about how things go wrong whenever her husband leaves on a business trip. It seems that every time he takes off, her children get sick. Normally I detest anything that reeks of one-upmanship, but it reminded me of a story from my younger married days, and I couldn't resist. Marrianne, this one's for you.

Working in telemetry on the missile program for the Department of Defense, you could loosely call my husband a rocket scientist. He flew all over the place, leaving me at home with the three boys frequently. Since there were nearly four years between each of our sons, it was normally chaotic, with each of them needing something different from the only parent available. During their school years, they were usually at three separate schools, three separate ball fields. I used to joke that I needed to have either an out of body experience or an out of mind experience. 

The most devastating of John's business trips for me, emotionally, came on one of his flights to a missile base in Hawaii. John woke up early and took the bus to Los Angeles International Airport. From there he was to catch his flight to Hawaii. John is not a really talkative man. Back then he was downright silent. He'd be gone for a couple of weeks, and during that time, we'd never hear from him. This was before cell phones. 

As it happened, John arrived at LAX early and managed to catch an early flight.  He didn't bother to inform the base that he wasn't on his scheduled flight, nor did he let me know. He just saw an opportunity to leave early and took it. Upon landing, he took an inter-island flight to Kauai, where he rented a car and checked in at his hotel, pleased to discover he had enough time to take a couple hours nap before reporting for duty at the missile test site. Consequently, he wasn't aware that the plane he was scheduled to arrive on had crashed while landing and not everyone survived. People were looking for him.

I heard about the crash on television. Knowing it was his plane, I called the base. They couldn't tell me anything. His name was not on the list of survivors. We all sat by the phones for about three hours. I was hysterical, crying and praying. John finally woke up, shaved and got into his rental car. Upon arriving at the test site, he caused quite a stir. They had him call the base, and then me. What did I do? Well, I yelled at him, of course!

That was the last trip John ever took without calling to let me know he had arrived safely. 

What Do They Do?

Sociology and Philosophy were two of my least favorite college classes. Perhaps I had uninspiring professors. Looking back, that's a sure bet. I did enjoy the sociology text book, although we liked to poke fun at its title, "Unobtrusive Measures in Nonreactive Research in the Social Sciences." Too bad the class lectures weren't interesting. I still enjoy reading things today that hinge on sociology, and even consider philosophical topics enough to irritate some of my family members, so perhaps I simply took the classes too early to appreciate them.

What started me thinking about this was my recent bout with illness. I haven't been sick in so long that I it was strange to sit quietly watching television while coughing, sneezing and blowing my nose. It dawned on me, and I've been thinking about it since, that many people live their lives that way. They don't wait to get sick before spending a week—or a lifetime—mindlessly camped in front of the television. It's all they have. Could it be all they want? 

At least I had my yarn work to occupy my mind while I sat there. I can tell you what's on most of the time. Nothing. News and nothing. And it's bad news. I'm so glad to be feeling better.

Novel Pet Peeves

I not only write, I read. I'll admit, that's an understatement. I've noticed a trend over the last few years that has progressively burrowed deeper under my skin. Here's my short list of things I wish I'd never again turn the page and find in an otherwise fine novel...

The word "dollop." It seems that every book has to use that word somewhere. Can't someone use a dab, scoop, or spoonful? How about a bit? Anything but a dollop. I'm just so tired of the overuse of that word.

Rolling of the eyes. Someone is always rolling their eyes. Use dialogue. Use other body language. For heaven sake, stop rolling eyeballs around. It's impolite, and it's been overused. I'd like to get through a book without anybody doing it.

Even if I had to live with the above two, I could handle it, if only I could legally banish everyone from the following—letting out "a breath they didn't know they'd been holding." When I hold my breath, I know it. I'll bet you do, as well. So why, in so many books, do characters seem to not be aware of when they're holding their breath? And why do otherwise careful authors, who can construct a riveting story that connects all the dots and carries a good message, feel it necessary to poke this inane and superficial piece of nonsense in there? It's ridiculous. It's distracting.

There. I've vented. I feel so much better. I'll continue to feel better now, until I come across the next character holding her breath, without realizing it, and rolling her eyes while she adds just a dollop of cream to her chapped hands.

Selfish With My Treasure

Rejoicing over the bit of snowfall here in Colorado, I was unaware that Southern California was once again losing homes to wildfires. The fires broke out in Montecito, six and a half miles from Santa Barbara. It's on the Ventura County side of the city, and as of this morning, well over one hundred homes have been lost. According to the fire department's press conference this morning, they're not even thinking about containment yet. Phrases like "not out of the woods" and "when the afternoon winds pick back up to around 70 mph" made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Why did I call this blog "Selfish With My Treasure?" I raised three sons in Southern California. I talk to God a lot. Sometimes I call it prayer. More often, I think of it as conversation, even though I know I can't hear Him very well. I try to remember, at least most of the time, that what I want is not always the best thing that could happen. There have been times that I've gotten what I wanted and it hasn't been at all a good thing. Conversely, some of my most reluctant experiences—those I would have turned from if given a choice—have resulted in my deepest and most rewarding blessings.

One prayer I fervently sent heavenward while watching all three of my precious sons grow was, "Please, God, don't let them grow up wanting to be soldiers or fire fighters." I never qualified it. I never once, to the best of my memory, said anything remotely resembling "unless that is Your Will..." It was a selfish prayer, and a regular one. It was accompanied by another, for all the mothers who sent their sons and daughters out to battle the flames and wars for the rest of us. 

I have a fine imagination. I can string together words, envision a story, travel in my mind to places I've never been. I can't conceive, in all the vastness of this mind, a greater pain or emptiness than losing a child of any age. Selfish with my treasure? You bet. At least I recognize them for what they are—always have been. With every fire these days, with every news story of battles and war, my prayer now is, "Thank you for allowing my selfishness. Please protect the treasure of the less selfish mothers."