Paris for Two

Just the two of us? But we don't speak French... I really wasn't in favor of this trip at the beginning. I could picture getting lost and people laughing at us as we tried to communicate in sign language. I don't know sign language.

But Benjamin told me that Paris was the number one tourist destination in Europe for a reason, and this would probably be our last opportunity to see it. We should go. Alone. The two of us together. An early 35th anniversary trip.

I was excited, yet I was moderately terrified. I thought of the Louvre. I thought about walking along the Seine and seeing the Arc de Triomphe. Going up in the Eiffel Tower sounded like something I could force myself to do. Maybe. I found out it wasn't scary at all.

Most of all, I wanted to go to mass at Notre Dame. We did that, and although I didn't get much out of the sermon, not speaking any French besides ferme la buche (probably spelled wrong, but means shut your mouth) which I don't think the priest had call to use, it was beautiful. And the organ music was enough to make angels weep. Before leaving I was able to light a candle for my mom and Papa John in front of the rose window.

A little warning...if you ever want to go to church there, make sure to arrive at least an hour before service starts so you can actually get a seat.

John and I went on a wonderful cruise of the river Seine, ate crepes along the way (chocolate) and took photos. The bridges are amazing. We saw a bride and groom walking along, him fussing with her dress, and it seemed a sweet moment in time to me. There was also a boat accident that confused us, since nobody else on our boat seemed at all concerned about it, even though divers were going under the water and an ambulance was racing along the shore toward the craft. We never found out what had happened.

I'm not sure what kind of ceremony was going on at the Arc de Triomphe the day we were there, but they rather quickly closed it off from regular tourists and a bunch of military types swarmed in with flowers and such. It would have been so nice if I hadn't run my battery out of juice just at that moment.

We loved our time in Paris, and it amazed me how easy it was to get around on their rapid transit lines. Their metro is slick and well organized. I imagine anyone who can read any language using the same alphabet could very quickly learn their way around the city. Each stop has bullet points that show which connections can be made from there, so if you know what line you need to get to, it's easy to see where you need to transfer. They've made it simple.

I loved their train terminal. After having gotten lost and making it to our train by only three minutes in Amsterdam, where you absolutely must ask someone where your train is, since there's no sign telling you, this was pure pleasure. Everything was big, bright and very obvious. Yes, my slideshow is somewhat long, but maybe you can tell me later what I could have cut out. I couldn't decide.

Last Night of Vacation

We've been gone nearly a month now, and tomorrow morning we'll head back to the airport and take flight back across the Atlantic Ocean toward home. There will be many hours in the air, eight time zones crossed, and a few hours and customs to pass through in Washington D.C. before the final flight to Colorado.

So much has happened this month, it will take many posts to share it all. The first step, once we return home, will be to download my camera of all the priceless photos I've taken. I'm grateful for the digital camera we have, since I already know we have beautiful images to share, and I'll do some slide shows that capture the best of our memories—I hope.

Our first week with the kids and grandkids was wonderful, and then John and I left for Paris together. It surpassed any expectations I had. I can honestly say it was one of the more remarkable cities I've visited, and I didn't feel hampered by my ignorance of the language. People treated us beautifully. I did learn to say "Good day, do you speak English?" in French, which probably helped quite a bit. Most people did, at least enough for our needs. I can hardly wait to share our visit to Paris with you all.

Shortly after our return to The Netherlands, we all boarded a jet together and flew to Stockholm, Sweden. Ben put his back out just before we left, so he was in a considerable amount of pain. It made getting baggage and children from place to place a little crazy. That's part of the Sweden story, but it's just a side bar to several days that were great despite Ben's pain and rainy weather.

We took a cruise from there, and the story will continue with tales of Estonia and St. Petersburg, Russia. What an amazing city that was! You'll see by the photos. We walked our legs off, but there was so much to see that it was worth it.

Our day at sea would seem to have been a time when the camera might not be used, but my photos that day were wonderful as well, from the grandchildren, to photos of the fiords we were passing through, and capped off by a spectacular sunset. It was heavenly.

We returned for another couple of days in Stockholm, where we got the news that my step father of 30 years had been transfered to a Hospice Home for his final days. I knew we wouldn't be able to make it back to my Mom before he passed away, and it saddened me. We waited and prayed as we continued on, flying back to Amsterdam on the 20th, four days before Papa John passed away.

So it's been a long month, and we'll be taking another trip to California to see Mom after we get home. The memorial service is being delayed so family can gather. It'll be on the 16th of September. Hopefully our jet lag and laundry will be memories by the time we pull out of the driveway to head out there. And I'll have at least one or two cities posted. Tomorrow is for flying. Tonight is for sleeping. Goodnight, Moon.

Advising the Baby Deer

Our yard is graced by woodland creatures. We see red fox, very timid, who race away through the cool morning twilight whenever they see me head out for the newspaper. There are bunnies and a few people swear they've seen mountain lions, but we've never spotted one in five years, or any sign of one. We get the most joy from the regular visits from the deer. It's especially wonderful when their fawns are born.

This year our herd only had three new babies, twins from one of the does and a single baby from another. Until today, they've only visited with their mothers. Today the three came together to our yard to play without any adult supervision. I guess they're growing up, but haven't lost their spots yet. I went out to sit on the deck after dinner and they all scampered through the pines away from me, then stopped at a safe distance. There they turned and stood looking at me.

I moved slowly, sitting at the table on the deck and said, "Hello, deer. Don't you all look wonderful tonight!"

I always talk to them, using my most nonthreatening voice. I treat them like they should expect people to talk to them. Gradually they wandered back until they stood in a wary group about ten feet from me, heads canted, listening. I told them we were planning to take a trip, and would be gone a month. I asked them not to forget me while we were gone. To take care of each other, and keep growing strong. I suggested they listen to their mothers, even when they didn't like what they were hearing.

Have fun together, I said, and be glad you have family and cousins around. That's important now, but will be more important in the future. And make sure you take care of yourselves, because winter is coming. I know it's been hot lately, but when the snow starts to fall, it will balance it out. I explained that I clomp around in the yard once the snow covers the ground, so they should get used to seeing me around the yard, and not just on the deck.

With a rustle and a bark, one of the mothers came through the shrubbery and pines. She stood and watched for a minute, then turned to leave. "Hi there, Mama," I called. She looked back, but kept moving. I wondered if she is one of the babies from the last five years, all grown up. Impossible to tell.

As the three from this year's generation fell into line behind her, I realized how contented I am to be living here. The feeling comes over me often.

Ode To So Cal Friends

After a couple of days in California, I've stopped to think about my attitude toward the State. People I love live here, and many of those who have moved away can't wait to visit. If I could get the people I love to visit us in Colorado instead, I probably wouldn't come back unless we were going to Disneyland. I do love Disneyland, especially on a drizzly day when there aren't too many people around.

I'm not sure how a person can live somewhere for over 35 years and never feel like that's where their roots are. It was home, but my heart wasn't in it. We had some wonderful years in California. Friends worth driving two days to see still live here and have never driven out to see us—yet. Sooner or later they will also retire, and travel will undoubtedly go both ways. It's beside the point.

What I'm trying to discern is my emotional distance from an area that holds so many ties for me. I have friends, relatives and a history here. I drive past the home where we lived from 1976 until 2006, and there isn't even a twinge of nostalgia. We raised three sons there, and I feel all the emotional impact imaginable when I think of them, but looking at that house that used to be our home? I feel nothing beyond what I would feel staring at an old piggy bank used to save up to buy what you really wanted.

We used to drive through Hidden Valley together, John and I, and he'd say, "Someday I want an acre of my own." Even then John felt about the suburbs the way I did. Now we have that acre and a little more. One of the things we first liked about the home we chose in 1976 was that it was at the end of a dead end road, turn right, and pass three vacant lots. They put the road through, made it a major traffic artery, and put homes so close together on all those vacant lots there were twice as many students in the classrooms at the local school.

Crowding, of course, combined with traffic is bad. Weather is something very few people complain about in Southern California. Except me. I always did. I think you have to have seasons. I don't like Summer to begin with. If I don't get a Winter to balance it, then I'm really cranky. If it's just one of four seasons, then I can deal with it (as long as I have air conditioning.) The rumor in Southern California is that it really doesn't get that hot, so you don't need a/c. Lies, I tell you—lies! You need it. My air conditioning system was about four showers a day and a fan in every room.

But...today my friend Sherrie (one of the people worth a 20 hour road trip to see) took me for a drive. We saw Lake Sherwood and Hidden Valley. She drove me up Potrero Road, and we saw the old hills where John and I used to drive and dream together of our 'someday' acre. The beauty is still there. It was hot, but it's Summer, so it's probably hot at home, too. There was traffic, but there's traffic aplenty in Denver. I wouldn't be able to live in Denver, either.

As always, I come to a point where I know that I'm glad I came. Even though I never managed to grow roots here, so many wonderful people did, that part of my heart will always feel welcome to visit.

Notes From The Road

All I had to do all day was look out the window to see why we never drive on holidays. Yet here were are, driving on a holiday weekend. Hello, Fourth of July traffic. All the idiots are out, and all the police vehicles you'd think people would notice. Cars whip past us as we follow the posted limits. Then we pass many of them as they sit hunched over the wheel down the road, uniformed officer at their window. Do they think they're invisible or just above the law?

We passed a herd of bison as we climbed the Eastern slope of the Rockies, and normally we would have stopped for photos, but this is not a normal trip. We're heading to California to see family and meet our newest grandson for the first time. If we want to make it in time for the fireworks to begin, we

can't make any unscheduled stops.

A sudden heavy rain cleans our windshield, and a slick convertible races past, top down. The driver's hair is plastered to his skull, and his passenger is slumped in her seat. She appears to be yelling at him. John is laughing, enjoying the scene. I get a mental image of the driver eventually pulling over. He opens his door and a flood comes out of the car. John pulls up by the passenger door and offers the lady his hanky.

Within a half hour we had gone from 61° in a Rocky Mountain rain storm to low 90s. By the time we stopped in Parachute I no longer wanted to look at our temperature gauge. We dropped off a birthday gift for my sister in law, promised a longer visit on our way home and got back into the air conditioning with refilled coffee mugs and empty bladders. Leaving Parachute behind, we crossed the Colorado River and noticed how full and swift it is this year. It looks beautiful.

Have you ever seen a horse with a bit between its teeth? We finally walked into our hotel room in Mesquite, Nevada just before midnight. The time change allowed us to turn the clocks back to eleven, but that didn't help my body much. Now it's time for breakfast and today's run. We have grandchildren to see, kids and a mother waiting. Fun and fireworks. I hope they're ready to see Grandma sleeping. Just kidding.

Carter Lake

This seemed appropriate, since we're going to leave home for a couple of weeks, to let everyone see why it's so very difficult to go away at times. When we lived in Southern California's suburbs, I was always ready to go—anywhere. In fact, we generally tried to find a place that looked amazingly like where we now live. After five years in Colorado, we still drive up our hill and say, "Aren't we blessed?"

I hope you've enjoyed these photos, a few of the many I took this week. They are some of the things I most love seeing here at Carter Lake.

I Met The Most Interesting People

"Have you ever been compared to the Paula Deen of the writing world?"

"No," she laughed, "But I'll take it."

Kaki Warner was one of the most delightful people I met at the Crested Butte writer's conference. There are times it would be nice to own the home next door and keep it as a guest cottage. If I were in that financial bracket, this is one woman I'd love to have move in and stay for a very long time. She made me laugh, and she really knows her craft. Her writing craft.

There are two types of writers, basically. One type plans everything out painstakingly before ever setting down a word of the actual story on paper. They know from first to last exactly what will happen. The other type of writer sits down with the characters all yelling in her head and lets them tell their story through her as it unfolds. Kaki and I both fall within that latter category.

As an aside, let me say that my characters woke me up for months before I was told that if I didn't write their story nobody else would. Melissa Mayhue said that to me when I went to one of her book signings. I wasn't planning to try because I'd never written a novel before. Why would I have to nerve to think I could be a novelist, just because I'd written all my life? I'd never written anything that long.

Now, back to Kaki. She was giving one of the workshops when a hand shot up. The question related to how much time or attention she gave to outlining each novel before beginning the first draft. She replied, "What's an outline?" or something like that. Then she explained that she doesn't tell her characters what they're going to do—they tell her. She said she got half way through one book and was starting to write something when her hero told her, "I can't do that. I'm dyslexic!" She said, "Well, why didn't you tell me that at the beginning of the book?"

She said she occasionally has to go back and fix things, since her characters don't always explain themselves up front. That's what "pants-ers," as those of us who write by the seat of our pants are called, pay for the creativity we get in return for allowing our characters the freedom to react to the flow of the story. We get a character-driven plot, rather than plot-driven characters.

I liked her. I understood my own writing style better, and felt the importance of her answer. I had been ashamed to admit that I didn't outline and plot each chapter. It was the reason I would have an eight page chapter followed by a two page chapter. It was what the characters needed.

The only problem with meeting someone like Kaki is that I now have three new books (signed, so they won't be carted around on our trips) that I want to be reading. Well, I'm world building right now, so they're waiting. Books are so patient.

God, please grant me another twenty years to write, and then fifteen more just to read and blog.

The Accidental Conference

Thank you Robin D. Owens. Thank you John Harrell. If it weren't for the two of them, I would have spent my weekend writing at home instead of being at the Crested Butte Writer's Conference. Attending wasn't in our budget, but when Robin wanted a passenger for the six-hour trip, I mentioned it to John, not expecting a positive response. I'm blessed to have his wholehearted support for my writing. He said it was an important opportunity.

It was. As I mentioned in my last post, I had three appointments to discuss my fantasy novel, A Different Song. Two were with agents, and one with an editor. All three asked to see more of the novel. One asked me to email the entire manuscript. I got all that done today. Not only that, but I honestly enjoyed these people. Yes, they were professionals, but all were unpretentious. I loved the questions they asked. I loved having answers for them.

What will happen? I don't pretend to know. I could have three rejections, or I could end up with an editor and an agent. If so, I know these are people I could work with, editorial beasts to help me improve this novel while writing the sequels. In fact, I need to mention world building.

The most exciting workshop of the weekend, and there were several to choose from, had to be the world building workshop given by Michael Braff, Del Rey Spectra Books editor. His information on constructing your characters' world, from history and customs to religion and a timeline, was amazing. It's a good thing I type over a hundred words a minute. He talks fast and doesn't waste words. My notes are fabulous. I won't be having my characters falling out of context in the sequels. Thanks, Mike.

There are more stories to tell, writers published and not whom I met and enjoyed. I'm going to spend a few evenings sharing the weekend in my blog. I did look down several times today, though, and my feet really are still touching the floor. It just doesn't feel like it.

How To Know When You're A Writer

Conversation during a recent Mini Conference in Denver enlightened me on the various ways my peers deal with friends and family members who scoff at the time they spend writing. To those of us who are pre-published, the term now being used when none of your work has managed to sell, the conversation triggered many questions.

How long do you continue writing before you decide this is just a hobby rather than a profession? What can you do to express your gratitude sufficiently to those closest to you who show their support with their own time, or pay for conferences from the family budget? Who cheerfully drive an hour to drop you off at a meeting point so you can carpool to another writer's conference, and miss your cooking for four days? And how do you know when you really are a writer?

You continue writing forever. It's not a choice. You write because you must. Most authors, even those of us who have never been published, were born telling stories. My parents said they thought my first stories were just lies. Then I got old enough to start putting them on paper, and they realized I never expected to be believed when I strung out intricate stories about what I saw in the park, or my reason for failing to change clothes after school. My stories were simply more interesting than the truth.

This will never be just a hobby. I work too hard at it. Spend too much time perfecting the craft. Music is a hobby. I'm happy just to have fun and entertain with the guitar and accordion. I don't need to be Chet Atkins or Les Paul. I'll never be willing to invest sufficient time in practice to achieve perfection. I'm not sure I'd ever have the talent for it. Knitting and crochet are hobbies. Writing is work. I enjoy it, but it's work I'm passionate about.

To thank my husband for his unflagging support, I plan to spend a couple of hours today cooking. I'll make sure the fridge is stuffed with food choices for him while I'm gone the next four days. The Crested Buttes Writer's Conference will be an exciting learning experience. He shouldn't starve because he wants me to allow me to grow in my career. My words of appreciation aren't enough. Food says it best for John. As soon as I return, we'll celebrate Father's Day together. His gifts are wrapped. His card is signed and waiting for him to open on Sunday morning. He knows how I feel. The good old days are the ones we're sharing now.

How do you know when you're really a writer? Everyone has to answer this question individually. I can gauge my progress as a professional by a quick glimpse at my DVR's Recordings Screen. I have 27 Jeopardy programs awaiting my attention. Seven weeks of 20/20 are ready for me to have time to watch them, along with 19 hours of House, 21 episodes of The Event, 7 Bones, 14 Fringe, and 8 movies. There are other things on there as well, totaling 39 hours.

My "to be read" shelf is stuffed. My dictionary and thesaurus get more action on most days. I used to read a book a day while I was working in corporate America. I read during all the cracks in my day. Every break, and even walking across the building to the printer would see me with a book open, walking and reading at the same time. Now, I'm plotting and thinking.

This weekend I'll have appointments with two agents and an editor. They've read the written pitch for my novel along with my first two manuscript pages, and requested a meeting at the conference. I'm somewhere between levitation and hyperventilation. Yes, I'm excited. Whether or not they're interested enough to sign on as my agent, request the entire manuscript, or even buy the novel, I know one thing with no doubts. I am a writer.

All Packed Up and Places To Go

Springtime in the Rockies is never my first choice for leaving home. We are, however all packed up and more or less ready to leave in the morning.

Nature bid us goodbye with a rollicking thunderstorm today. Everything stopped while I listened to the pounding rain as the storm crossed the lake and passed over the house. Hail came down for awhile adding its clattering music while daylight hid behind the clouds. An hour later it was gone and the sun was again shining on my budding iris plants. I pray they'll wait to flower until our return. I hope the deer hold off on having their little spotted babies until then, too. The fawns are usually running all around our acre by now.

We had already been to town for my Critique Group meeting, and it went very well indeed. It's a fine group of six—a fairly new group, still getting to know each other. We write everything form fantasy to Westerns. Each one is a serious writer, which makes the group meetings lively and intense while still being helpful and friendly. They're all supportive of my adventure tomorrow as I go to pitch my novel at a mini conference near Denver.

Yes, I'm excited. I'm much calmer than I was three weeks ago. Much more prepared. John will have the utility trailer hitched behind us when we arrive at the conference, since we'll head across the Rockies as soon as it ends. We won't see home for almost three weeks. Tomorrow night we'll stay with my brother and his wife, and spend Sunday with them as well. It will be good to get in a good visit with them.

Monday morning we'll head to the Las Vegas area, and Tuesday we'll arrive in California. We take it a lot slower when we pull the trailer. Don't expect regular blogs while we're on the road. We'll be staying with my ninety year old mom. She doesn't believe in the internet. It's alright, though. She says the internet doesn't believe in her, either.

We're coming, Mama. I can hardly wait to see you.

A Frock is a Dress

My husband knows I have a sense of humor. Occasionally he understands it. There are times I get the blank stare of incomprehension. That's acceptable. Once in a while I'll make a play on words that he'll misunderstand to the point of anger. At times like that it's best to let him calm down before I try to explain.

Of course, I'm thinking of one particular time. We were expecting our youngest son, Benjamin. In fact, we were expecting him at any moment, while still cautiously enjoying square dancing together. Money was tight, but we always dressed up. My secret was my sewing machine. I could turn old curtains or a table cloth into a square dance dress and matching shirt and tie for John.

The mid-dance break gave John an opportunity to leave me surrounded by friends while he surrendered to the lure of punch and cookies. Some of my fellow dancers had suggested I start making square dance clothes for pregnant ladies, since nobody else was doing it. They thought I should open up a shop, or just have a line of clothes that could be sold on consignment at the one square dance shop in town. John walked up to the group just in time to hear me say, "A store would be great. I could call it The Mother Frocker."

He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. He wasn't smiling. He was furious. He didn't want to hear that a frock is a dress, so a frocker is a person who makes a frock. As far as he was concerned, I knew what it sounded like, and that was all that mattered.

It's been over 30 years. I doubt he even remembers it. I'm still laughing.

One Day In Bed

That's what I want. As a start, that's what I want. What I really want is one day in bed without anybody noticing. No phones will ring. No one will come to the door. I won't be sick, or injured.

John will magically find and heat leftovers when he gets hungry. He won't discuss it with me. He won't notice if I'm not eating. Or writing. He won't lose anything I need to find, or spill something I need to clean. The house will remain cool, quiet and dim.

We could begin our trip Monday or Tuesday. John could pack. Yeah, right. I realize that's more than I could expect. So is a day in bed.

Robert Browning said it best. "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" Do you suppose there are beds in heaven?

Ault to Be Learned

Northern Colorado Writers offers many classes for writers at their Fort Collins studio. I attend what I can. Most of them are quite reasonably priced. Today was the first time I know of that a class was offered on a Sunday. Normally I wouldn't consider a Sunday class, but this is crunch time for editing A Different Song, and when a class I could afford was offered I considered it carefully.

The lecture title was promising: Weasels, Ferrets, and the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing, by Sandi Ault. How could I resist? If you know me personally, you're already laughing. Yes, I sat in the front seat. I had my hearing aids turned all the way up. I didn't want to miss a word. I was not disappointed.

I'm down to five working days before I go to the pitch session next Saturday. I'm close to being ready to pitch. I'm going to re-edit with the handouts given today, though. This was valuable information.

Just so you know, weasels are words or phrases that are throwaway words. Unnecessary. They clutter up your story and steal the power from your sentences and paragraphs. They make your story drag, cause readers to yawn and wonder what's in the fridge. I need to find those weasels and weed them out.

Ferrets are even sneakier. They are the habitual things each writer does without thinking about it that are peculiar to him alone. (No, I'm not politically correct. I still refuse to say him or her.) Some writers are in love with adverbs. If they were to do a search for 'ly' at the end of a chapter, they'd find dozens of such examples—and remember, not all adverbs end in ly. I happen to love gerunds. I'm already aware of that, and have been exterminating them as I edit. Not all of them. Let's say many if not most. I'm trying. I do love them, though. Each writer has his own favorites. We must ferret them out.

The seven deadly sins were a surprise. I listened with interest as we went through the list. I won't give the list here, as it's not mine to give. Take her class if you get the chance. I will say, though, that when we got to Deadly Sin number 6, I said, out loud, "Oh, crap."

This is where being new at wearing hearing aids gets you in trouble. I would have sworn no one could hear me. The chuckles in the class stated otherwise. The two deadliest sins, numbers six and seven, will be problems for me to correct. Number six I'll have to practice to overcome, since it deals with using the passive voice. Shall we just say I have been known to do that? Number seven deals with defeating fear and self doubt. Yeah, right. I've been attempting that in every area of my life for over sixty years.

In one of her books, Wild Inferno, Sandi Ault penned this message to me: Kathleen, I believe in you.

If she does, on such short acquaintance, how can I not? Sandi—you have my profound gratitude for four of the shortest hours I've spent in years.

My New Reference Shelf

Who knew I could get so excited about a forty dollar book shelf? I now have so many reference books on writing, editing, and publishing that the trip across the room to my big bookshelf was really intrusive. This week I spent the big bucks to get a small convenient shelf that fits quite cleverly between my chair and the lamp table.

Now my Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus is at my fingertips. My copy of Diana Hacker's A Writer's Reference, with its big tabs and concise tips and explanations is always within reach. No more teetering piles will spill from the lamp table when I have my notebook computer on my lap.

What else do I have on my shelf? Noah Lukeman's wonderful volume, The First Five Pages is there, along with two by Karen Elizabeth Gordon, The Well-Tempered Sentence and The Disheveled Dictionary. (Transitive Vampire, also by Gordon, is in the car right now, to read on the road.) One of my favorites is Orson Scott Card's Characters and Viewpoint. I bought it because I love his novels. After reading it, I understand better why I love them.

Oh, look... There's Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss. Maybe I'll reread a few pages before bed. This may be the best forty dollars I've spent in a long time.

I Need a Business Card?

Preparation for representing myself in something as important as pitching my novel has been an eye opener. Everyone in the industry seems to have an opinion about the best way to go about it. I've been getting so many tips I can't keep up with them, but I've been trying to choose the smartest and prioritize.

• Condense my novel into four sentences. I'm still working on that one.
• Dress professionally. How about from the waist up? Does that count? Good jeans can be professional, as long as they're paired with a great top and blazer—right?
• Edit your first chapter until it's as exciting and completely polished as you can make it, with particular attention to the first 140 words. Some people say 120, some 100. If those aren't pretty close to perfect, you're bound for the slush pile. That's what I'm reading.
• Don't sweat. Be calm. Don't rush into your pitch. Spend some time building rapport first. Remember, you'll probably have a whole ten minutes together.

I could go on, but there are so many of these lists available, I hate to be just one more. A major detail was obvious once I came across it. Don't forget to have a professional business card to present. Oops. Why didn't I think about needing a business card?

This week I took time out of my editing to design a card. The photo above is the one I chose from my collection of glorious Colorado pictures I've taken. I'll end up printing note cards to match. Luckily, the cards will arrive with three days to spare.

I now have a whole week left before I face the editor. I'm actually beginning to look forward to this.

Mother's Day Digest

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

The video says it all. My kids love me. It's been quite a day. (Thanks for the video, Ben. We know you'd never exaggerate...)

Mother's Day wasn't high on my list of potential happy occasions this year. Losing Jeremiah still weighs heavily on me, and the thought of my daughter-in-law having her first childless Mother's Day, one that should have been celebrated with a baby ready to turn six months old, took most of the steam from my sails.

None of our three sons would be here in Colorado for the day, and I won't get to see my Mom for two more weeks. I knew that there would be phone calls but other than that—a regular Sunday.

It's been said before: Oh, ye of little faith. It was still dark outside, and John was in the shower when I walked through the living room toward the coffee maker. The oversized square envelope on my recliner startled me. A card from my husband? He just doesn't do that on Mother's Day. John has always assured me, "You're not my mother." I sat and read one of the most touching cards I've ever received.

We arrived at church a little more than two hours early. That sounds hard to do, but once a month our church combines services, skipping our regular early service to meet at the late service. Today it ended up taking almost twice as long. It was moving, and we enjoy it, but came out starving. John and I went to lunch, forgetting that we'd wait in long lines on Mother's Day. So we left for church at 7:30 and got home at 3:30, eight hours later.

I do have to add one little thing from Ruth, my daughter-in-law in The Netherlands. Today on her blog she entertained us all with another funny story about her 4-year old daughter. Now that Ruth and Ben are the proud parents of three little ones, with a 2 year old daughter and 2 month old son, we get a lot of funny stories. Today Ruth wrote:

Ashley just said she wants me to have another boy again when my body heals. We asked if she likes boys better. She said, "No. Because girl, girl, boy, boy. And then girl, girl, boy, boy again until Mommy's an old lady!"

So now I'll either be up late doing the homework I had planned to catch up on for my online class, or I'll be up in the wee hours doing it. Does it matter? From John's card, to the calls from all three boys, and the unexpected email from Tighe with the book store gift card in it (he knows me so well) this has been a Mother's Day to write about. I wasn't expecting that.

Plans Are Good

It's said that life is what happens while you're making other plans. I suppose that's why people buy trip insurance. Sounds like a good idea to me. Seems like forever since I actually got around to my blog. It's been nearly four months, and that's definitely too long. I'll begin by saying there's no excuse. Then I'll give you no excuses, but tell you what I've been doing.

I've been writing. Remember my novel? I decided it was high time I got busy re-writing the entire thing and getting it ready to offer up for publication. Is it ready? Nope. But I'm taking some editing classes and business for writers classes. Tomorrow I have a class on copyright law—just an hour at the Northern Colorado Writer's Studio. We'll all bring lunch and listen to some really important information. It's so great to be surrounded by professionals. Then on Friday I'll be back at the studio for my Critique Group. I just got word from one of my critique partners that he thought this week's submission was my best yet. They're all helping me work through some of the rough spots on the novel.

Now I'm pushing backward for a couple of weeks, trying again to be satisfied with the first chapter (I'm not) because I'll be pitching said novel to an editor on May 21st. As I told some of my email buddies, pitching is such a great word for it. My stomach has already started.

The next day we'll take off for California to visit my mom. We'll stop on the other side of the Rockies to visit my brother Pat and his wife Betty on our way there, then stay overnight in Henderson, outside Las Vegas. Before we leave California to return home, and it'll be a fairly quick trip altogether, we'll make a run up to San Francisco to see Tighe, our oldest son. Our return trip will take us through Salt Lake City to see Stacey and Ryan, friends who deserved a visit in December and didn't get one. I was an emotional mess then and was afraid to meet their baby son. Sorry, Sully. I'm much better now.

We need to be home by June 9th or 10th, since I believe I'm singing in church again on the 12th. I should double check that on Sunday, shouldn't I...

Then we'll be running back to California for a flying trip in July to meet our newest grandson, Aiden and see our beautiful granddaughters, Kate and Ashley. It's hard to see them so seldom, but so special when we do get together. They're flying out for their annual leave, timed for her family reunion, so part of the time there they'll be unavailable to us. That being the case, we'll only be with them a short time, but it won't be a problem since we'll be seeing them again shortly after that.

We'll return home only until August, when we'll have a grand celebration of our 35th anniversary. Like I tell John—ten wonderful years! (And he's starting to understand my sense of humor.) We'll go to The Netherlands, Sweden, Estonia and St. Petersburg, Russia. Sounds beyond wonderful to me... Time to start looking at travel blogs again.

Am I ever glad we spent thirteen weeks going to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace Institute classes at our church! We're in better financial shape for taking a trip like this than we've ever been. Ever. And I may never see London or Paris, but I've never chosen the best traveled path in my life. Why should I start now? Thanks, Ben, for wanting such an interesting adventure. I can hardly wait. And yes, I did buy the trip insurance...

Only Your Hairdresser Knows

I don't normally get my hair done on Sundays. It's not a me-day. We go to church, then have time together. We talk to the kids on the phone and eat together. It's a quiet day. Occasionally we'll stop at the grocery store on our way home from church for a few necessities, since we live up in the foothills and there are no stores close to us, but it's not a shopping day either.

This Sunday was different for a reason. The only person who has taken care of my hair in the four and a half years since we've moved to Colorado is Ambrosia, and she does such a good job, I just no longer trust anyone else to do it. I went in to see her in early November, just before we left for Louisiana for Jeremiah True's birth. Ambrosia was expecting her daughter Noel a week before he was born, and I just managed to have my perm (plus highlights as a novelty) before she went on maternity leave.

Ambrosia always commented on how unusual it was for someone in her 60s not to have gray hair. I explained to her that my mom's hair was just now, at 90, really starting to go gray, so I have good genes. I'd get my hair permed and cut, and when there was a special event, like a wedding or or for Jeremiah's birth, I would consider highlights just to feel a little extra special. She would do it in such a way that it would grow out naturally, with no root line, just like when the summer sun's highlights fade and disappear as your hair grows.

Yesterday she came back for the first time, even though it was Sunday, because it was a rare day when the baby's father was able to take over child care for her and she could get some hours in. She's not actually expected back until February, and my hair had gone stick straight and was looking its worst. Already feeling blue after Jeremiah's death, looking bad only compounded the situation. She was shocked when she saw me, since my perms normally last 3-4 months. Then she looked really close and saw that I have a root line for the growth on the last inch and a half or so—about the amount of time since Jeremiah's death. All the hair that's grown in since then is gray. Surprise...

Well, she asked me if I wanted to start coloring my hair, and I said no. I'd heard that grief could make a person go gray, but I'd never really believed it before. If I'm gray now, I'll wear it proudly. I loved that little boy, anticipated holding and rocking him, buying little treasures for him, reading to him and watching him grow. He'll always be my first grandson, and the first male Harrell born in his generation. Nothing will change that. And even if I get highlights occasionally, I guess I'm now officially one of the gray-haired old ladies. Maybe I should get some boring shoes?

I'm Now Decorated for Christmas

If you know me, this post won't surprise you. John called Ben this morning and had him help bully me into going to the emergency room, which he had bee unable to do since last night when I flew from the edge of a suitcase to the closet door, nose first. I insisted on going to church first, since we were lighting the advent candle this week.

It's a good thing I wasn't supposed to sing, like John thought I was, since I couldn't breathe, let along play the guitar. My right hand got mashed as well, along with my back and neck. I hit hard. I couldn't see any sense in going to the emergency room. I had gotten the bleeding to stop, after all. Wow, there was a lot of it, too. I put ice on it. What more could anybody else do?

Here's what they could do. They could do a cat scan of my head as well as ex-rays, and tell me that although I didn't have a skull fracture, I did have a broken nose and a concussion. Then they gave me some medication for the nausea which was getting progressively worse because blood was still dripping into my stomach. That's what the doctor explained. So I can't take aspirin for the headache, but I can take my good headache tablets that I keep on hand for migraines. The other pains will go away eventually.

He also approved our going on the trip, and gave us seven pages of instructions for care and warning signs—when to pull off the highway and look for another emergency room, in other words. I was also told that within two days both eyes would most probably be several shades of black, yellow and purple.

"I know why this happened," I told him. Of course, he was interested in that. "From the time I was very small, I was extremely proud of having the smallest nose in my family. I don't think God takes kindly to people being very proud of things they didn't do anything to deserve."

The doctor, of course, disagreed. "I don't think He's that petty. Was there an ancillary reason?" (Yes, he actually used that word. Maybe he was trying to see if my vocabulary had been scrambled.)

"Well, there was a suitcase on the floor that I didn't see in the dark," I admitted. He laughed and told me that he was willing to bet that was the reason, and not my first guess. He then told me I wasn't to walk in the dark anymore. Ever. For any reason. He was actually a lot of fun.

John put the suitcase back on the bed this morning, and I filled it tonight. Now we can leave for Louisiana in the morning. By Tuesday night (weather cooperating, of course) we'll pull up with the trailer in front of Jeremy and Elisha's home. Ready or not, here we come. And I won't walk in the dark...

Quick Update

Two days after I had the epidural on my back, we got in the car to drive to California. It wasn't the best timing, but that couldn't be helped. The epidural did help. It didn't help as much as I hoped, but made it so I'm much more mobile than I was. It looks like I'll either be seeing my old back doctor while I'm here, or having back surgery when I get home. I haven't decided yet, but the option is available to see my good old doc for another epidural here. The doctor who did the last one said it might be necessary.

We hit town the same time as a heat wave. I understand there's one going on in Colorado as well, though, so I shouldn't say too much—except that I'm more comfortable at home. And we do have cheaper electricity, so we keep it cooler. Is that enough?

The music for Pastor Stan's welcome back service at St. Matthews went well, I think. I got applause just for standing up and walking to the mic. That's never happened before. It made me feel very welcome, and it also kicked my sense of humor into action. I almost said, "Thank you," and turned to sit back down again. The only thing that kept me from it was seeing so many new faces in the congregation who didn't know me and would have no idea that I was joking. It's great working on the music with "Staniel" again. (Think lion's den...)

Sunday after the early service John and I will be driving to Lake Isabella until the night of the 29th, when we'll return to Newbury Park so we can be ready to greet the kids and grandkids as they start to arrive the next day. These two weeks between the welcome service and the kids' arrival have been the limbo caused by our not wanting to drive back and forth from Colorado twice in a month—not at the price of gas these days. We'll have absolutely no internet at the lake, and I'm not sure there's even a hot spot, but we'll look. It would be nice to put something other than a quick update soon.