Moving In

My childhood was filled with sudden relocations, city to city, school to school. Dad was in the military, and as an adult there isn't a single childhood friend I can contact to share memories. I can look back and pinpoint a dozen individual days where I faced a new school in a town or city far from our last post.

A recent gift subscription to The Sun Magazine, a quality publication filled with amazing pieces written by professional and amateur writers around the globe, filled many hours with pleasure and introspection. Near the back of the volume, there was a section entitled "Readers Write." In an offset box, it listed the the rules for publication of the short non-fiction pieces on the pages that followed, along with the topics for the following months. Due November 1st was "Moving In."

Could anyone understand the joy and angst of 'moving in' more thoroughly than I did? Most likely someone can, but from my point of view it seems unlikely. Our own experiences always seem more clear than those of others. I took a couple of days searching through my memories of being the new kid in school—being uprooted from one set of friends and driven cross-country to a new home, a sea of strangers. I chose fifth grade.

There were many reasons for my choice. First, it was the only time I remember deliberately complaining to my father about the situation before heading off to school. He had problems of his own, and I got no sympathy. Second, it was the first time I had decided not to even try making friends. We would only be at this location for a short tour, and the school year was more than half over. The circles would be tight, and I would already be on the outside.

I learned so much from our travels that, as my mother recently said, I wasn't damaged. "Just changed," I told her. She agreed with that, saying that we all were, but that she liked to pretend at the time that it didn't bother her. Maybe she should have let us know. Maybe not. Too late now, anyway.

I'm not sure what the rules are about posting things on my blog if I'm entering them for publication, so I won't put it up now. However... once they decide whether or not to publish it, I'll be allowed to post it. When I do, I'll put a link back to this piece. It will be several months, as they don't decide until February or March, and then publication will be in May. Don't hold your breath that mine will be there. I'm sure they'll have thousands of entries.

Some memories reside like permanent companions, warning or comforting as we trek along our daily paths, making choices and climbing from the valleys to the hilltops. Others slip away. So many school days have vanished in the mist, and that's a good thing. The ones with the most important lessons hang around. Which school days do you remember?

Bones—Last Season's Cliffhanger

We don't follow too many television series, but one of our favorites is Bones. Last season the series ended with a cliffhanger. The group of investigators was at a celebration. Some of them were taking turns singing. The final scene shows Boone getting shot and Bones holding his unconscious body, blood everywhere. It looks very serious. Fade to black. Roll credits.

This season John and I were eager to find out how it played out. We were pretty sure he hadn't died. After all, the show was continuing for another year, so he must live, right? We tuned in to a two-hour special where Bones and Boone are in Europe. Well, we figured, this must be a special, and they'll get to the conclusion of last year's story line next week. Nope. Here we are, two weeks later, and we're still wondering what happened.

Does anybody know? Did we miss something? We have a DVR that automatically tapes these shows, so we didn't just forget to tune into the program. Did Fox forget to air something? Was it preempted by political programming? Does anyone know? Did anybody else even notice? John is really going crazy about this, so any help would be appreciated. I suppose I could write a conclusion for him, but it wouldn't be the same.

Political Test

Email is a marvelous thing. My spam filter makes sure I generally only see those items that I've indicated come from personally approved sources. Tonight one slipped through, and I actually opened it. The title intrigued me.

It was a political poll, and after I completed the 51 test questions, I found out that the answers were scored by one of the major polling agencies. You'll recognize the group, probably the most famous, although I won't give them free advertising. 

It didn't take as long as I thought it might to answer the questions. They were pretty clear cut, covering everything from the economy to abortion, and my opinions on drilling. The final screen that flashes up simply states that I had disagreed with Obama's positions on X out of 51 answers, and that they hoped the test would help me to make an intelligent decision on election day. It also goes into detail on the national polling statistics for the questions, which I found fascinating.

I was pleased to note that there was no hard sell. Nobody tried to tell me why my answers were dumb. It was obvious the site wasn't in favor of Obama, since there was an ad for "The Audacity of Deceit" on the 'click here' page. They didn't take it any further than that, though, so I'll pass along the test for those of you who know your own mind and want to confirm your choices, as well as those of you who know how you feel but not how it lines up with his platform. If I find one for McCain, I'll put that one on as well. I'd be interested to see my percentage of agreement there. (It cant be worse than zero, can it?)

To take the test, click here.

Political

Autumn Gold Festival

What a wonderful week we had. First Ellen and Johnny, my sister and brother-in-law, came for a fly-through visit on their way to the wine festival with our brother Pat on the other side of the Rockies. The trip was all too short, but wonderful nonetheless. We celebrated Ellen's birthday at the local steakhouse, then spent a day roaming around, driving through Rocky Mountain National Park, having a picnic at Benson statue park in Loveland, and seeing the local sites. I made my not yet famous Bison Chili for dinner. Crock pots are such a wonderful invention. I considered hiding their suitcases, but knew it wouldn't be fair. I didn't really want to be fair.

They no sooner left than we got the sheets changed and welcomed our friends Dick and Carol from Denver. Together we spent two days at the Autumn Gold festival at Estes Park, gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park. The festival is better known as "Beer, Brats and Bands," and we partook of the latter two. Free admission gives you two days of music. It's a beautiful spot for concerts in the park, and the festival welcomes in the autumn colors, although the leaves are just now beginning to turn. We'll go back in a couple of weeks and take photos when the aspens are in their glory.

At the end of two days, my fingers were itching for my own instrument, but I was so too tired to play by the time we returned Sunday night. Bed was too tempting to ignore, and I'm not sure I'm recovered yet. The old saying is that variety is the spice of life, but it's not true. It's friends who add the spice. This week was spiced perfectly.

In Memoriam

I found out last week that an old friend and co-worker of mine, Susan Hanlon, passed away after a terrifying illness. I sent her a card recently after hearing how sick she had been, and have no idea if it even arrived in time. She's beyond those cares now, of course, but it's another grief, not having known sooner. Not having seen her in years.

Times like this make me think a lot. This time, my memories go to shared laughter, hard work, joint goals and long days in a company we both admired. I honestly don't know anyone who didn't appreciate Susan. She was one of those special people. Secretary to the CEO, she could have been full of herself, but wasn't. Words come to mind like quiet and hard working, but also fun and interesting. She took time to be nice—not just to department heads and their assistants, either. She probably knew just about everyone in the company.

I tend to think in terms of music and verse, especially when ordinary words fail me. Since I was thinking of the Rubaiyat last night, it's still in my mind, so I'll share another verse for Susan and her family. It's perfect for her, and I'll think of her as she was next time I pass a garden, or when my beds of Iris bloom next spring.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head. - Omar Khayyam

The Send Key

Whatever your computer labels it, you know the power and trepidation inherent in pushing the send key. Regardless of the importance of the document, once you hit 'send,' you're done. The email is gone, and any changes you might consider at that point are moot. I won't be reading my first thirty pages again this week. The button has been pushed. (That almost sounds like someone else did it.) I forwarded my thirty pages to the editor today. 

That sounds so easy, doesn't it? After going to a conference and learning more than I thought my brain could comfortably absorb, I couldn't simply go home and email off unedited material. I had to give it one more redline, using my new tools. On top of that, I decided my readers needed to meet the villain quicker, so I wrote and inserted an entire new chapter. That was fun. Perhaps you wouldn't think so, but I was the kid who liked essay questions.

It's been sent now. My understanding is that the turn-around time for editors on requested manuscript pages is typically six weeks. I'm thinking Halloween. By then I should have the entire manuscript edited—again. This is only revision four, after all. I would imagine any good editor is going to offer another set of insightful suggestions after that. I'm not expecting an offer, but I do believe my good story will eventually turn into a great book.

I'll close with one of my favorite verses of poetry, another of those things I learned 'way back when,' and never forgot. Omar Khayyam, a Persian poet about a thousand years ago, wrote some wonderful short verses that have been translated into English. I've had several copies of his Rubaiyat over the years, and given several as gifts. This is just one of the verses that stick in my mind:

The moving finger writes, and having writ 

Moves on; nor all thy piety nor wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all thy tears wash out a Word of it.