Stepping Out

            Music floated across the stark landscape of a gray skyline, weathered gravestones, drifted snow, and frozen tundra.  A mahogany casket rested on a platform above the deep hole in the ground.  The only color displayed, amidst the mourners dressed in black, was that of the bright red tulips in the flower arrangement draped on the box.  As the notes to “Amazing Grace” ended, the minister’s voice spoke of my dear friend of thirty years.  I gazed across the white snow, being transported to the past. 

            We dreamed in the early days.  For Christmas, we received the music and scripts to our favorite play.  Within a few short months, we memorized all the songs and lines. 

             Kari wore denim jeans with the legs rolled up to mid-calf with a plain white button up blouse.  Her brown hair bobbed up and down in a ponytail with a red bandana holding it in place.  I scrambled down the hall after her in a matching outfit hoping not to bump into any of my classmates as I carried my guitar.  Mrs. Eckloft said our audition was right after school with no lollygagging.  At her classroom door, we deposited our books.  I pulled my instrument from the case as Kari opened the door.  Ignoring the students in the room, I strummed the first cords to “Hopelessly Devoted To You” as Kari belted out the lyrics.  After this song, I continued on to “There Are Worse Things I Can Do” while I sang solo as Rizzo. 

“Mrs. Eckloft,” Kari began her plea to produce the musical as I handed the drama teacher the scripts and music, “we have been working on all of this.  Mr. Sawyer says he can help with the music and he will give extra credit for the band kids who will play in the performance.  Mrs. Ludlow said her home economics classes can help with the costumes.”

Thirty minutes later we finished our presentation.  Mrs. Eckloft agreed to take on the project.  Our little community gave us a standing ovation at both performances.  We left high school ready to conquer the entertainment business on Broadway for Kari and on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry for myself. 

As we set out for college, we determined to conquer the world.  Reality struck.  Kari’s father died our freshman year causing her to run out of money.  She returned to our home town to help her mother.  First she worked as a waitress saving her tips for college only to use them when her car broke down or for a wedding dress.  Day after day she trudged through the daily tasks of working and raising children.  Her brown hair turned gray and wrinkles began to form.  We talked often.  She avoided conversations about our dreams.

I finished college with a degree in business.  I justified selling out my dream for the time being to learn how to handle the finances for a future band.  Instead of joining one, I also raised children and trudged to the office. I returned home and worked at the local bank.  Nashville remained in my thoughts but as yet I hadn’t traveled to the fabled city of country music.  The days blended together with small highlights of playing for church.  Raising my own children, I claimed no time to volunteer at the local theater or join a band. 

I watched a hawk fly overhead jolting me from my thoughts.  As the bird swooped down to land on a branch, I remembered my last conversation with Kari over coffee.

My dear friend sat across from me at our table in the back corner of the Java Hut.  She drank her tall vanilla latte as I drank a tall hazelnut latte.  Every Wednesday morning we met to talk about our kids and work.  Her dainty fingers pulled apart the cinnamon roll in front of her.  What happened to her?  In high school she wore all the latest fashions and sported trendy hairstyles.  As I gazed at her drab clothes and twenty year old hair style, I tried to see the actress within.  Instead, she matched the cloudy day.

“They actually put the bright purple sample against the portrait of their family.”  Kari worked in the craft store as a framer for all artwork that came into the store.  “It took me thirty minutes to convince the woman she needed to use a soft gray to keep the formality of the occasion.  Purple, my god, it would have been hideous.  There are days I would love to just quit and do something fun.”

“I have a great idea,” I interrupted, grabbing the opportunity.  “‘Grease’ is playing in the city next fall.  Tickets go on sale in a couple of weeks.   With all our kids out of the nest, let’s go.  It could be an awesome girl’s weekend for us.”

I watched as Kari’s shoulders stiffened.  A wall seemed to materialize between us.

“You know that I work on Sundays in the afternoon.”  She tugged on her grandma blouse.  “I don’t want to be rushed to get to work after staying up all night.”

“Listen to you.  You sound like you are eighty years old.  One tired afternoon would be worth the fun of seeing our play.  In fact, I was thinking it could springboard us into volunteering at the theater here in town.  I could run the music and you the stage.  It would be like old times.”

She laughed.  “Regretting your past lately?  I am too old for that stuff.”

“But Kari, you said you wanted to do something fun.”  Before I could continue, her cell phone rang.  The store called her in to help with something.  Or at least that was her excuse as she left without finishing her coffee. Five days later, she died in an icy car accident never stepping out to live her dream of being an actress. 

As the casket lowered, I realized that I regretted not doing more with my love of music.  I hadn’t been in a band for years.  I never tried to conquer Nashville, let alone go to visit.  Kari and I were artistic versions of Sandra Dee never stepping out on the ledge to grasp our Danny, our dream.

I hummed.  Those closest to me turned.  Softly the words spilled from my mouth.  “Look at me, there has to be something more than what they see, Wholesome and pure, oh so scared and unsure, a poor man's Sandra Dee.”  I hummed the notes to continue the reprise when Sandy decides it is time to take her life to the cliff. 

A gust of wind picked up a patch of powdery snow twisting it up in the air to softly settle on the ground once more.  Taking a deep breath I belted out the last lines.  “Sandy, you must start anew, don't you know what you must do, Hold your head high, take a deep breath and sigh, Goodbye to Sandra Dee.”

I raced from the funeral to my home computer; I booked a flight to Tennessee.  A message of confirmation for the plane ticket joined the new message from a local band looking for a guitar player.  My audition was scheduled for later today.  I may not become the next Lorrie Morgan, like I dreamed in high school, but I would begin to live my dreams once again.

A Love/Hate Relationship: The Book Thief on Writing

                Some time last fall I went to the movie with my daughter.  I watched the previews and goose bumps formed when I heard about the story of a young girl called the Book Thief.  I presumed she stole/saved books during the reign of Hitler and his Nazi regime.  I noted the release date to put the movie on my to do list.  Alas, the movie didn’t come to our small community.  When I learned the story started out as book, “The Book Thief” went to the top of my reading list.  After the New Year, I began reading.

                Of all the books she stole, only one was saved from a book burning.  The author went beyond that typical assumption.  The first book she stole was due to carelessness on the owner’s part.  The book thief didn’t even know how to read at the time of the theft.  The story was truly amazing and I highly recommend it.  I wanted to share a couple of quotes.

                As all people know, war causes innumerable damage to the psyche of all involved.  Really, life in general causes damage.  As a writer, I delve into the suffering of characters.  Each time, a piece of me is left behind.  The other day, while working on a scene, I cried and cried.  I felt the pain of my character.  This quote resonated.  “’Don’t punish yourself,’ she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too.  That was writing” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 524.  To some extent, a writer does have to punish themselves.  I know I feel that way sometimes.  I take myself back to the heart wrenching feelings I have lived through to be able to write of similar emotions for my characters.  The process hurts.  Yet, happiness can be found.  I get to cheer on my character and feel their success.  I feel very happy when a reader understands the scene.

                The past two weeks, I have been in a painful time.  I am trying to write new stories and scenes but the words fail to flow from my thoughts, through my fingertips, and onto the page.  Each word falls flat and my ideas seem to be vague or cluttered.  “Words are so heavy, she thought, but as the night wore on, she was able to complete eleven pages” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 526.  In this quote, the book thief reads eleven pages which under the circumstances is an amazing feat.  In fact, comparing my writing life to the book is completely inadequate due to the heaviness of the topic; yet, the quotes are so all encompassing that they fit for a writing life.  Words can be very heavy.  They can bog down a scene and leave the writer at a loss on how to continue. 

                In January, I dropped my manuscript off with an editing friend.  This novel has lived with me for over sixteen years.  For the last five years, I have actively written, rewritten, edited, and worked on all these pages.  I am far from finished for the project is at least a three book series.  I still have two more books to work on.  “I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right” Zusak, Markus, “The Book Thief,” page 528.  This is definitely how I feel about all the fiction pieces I have written.  I always hope the words are right.

                For some reason, the local theater finally brought The Book Thief to our community.  I took the opportunity last night to watch the film.  As is the case with a movie, many beautiful scenes were left out as were my favorite quotes.  I still recommend reading the book because the author “made them [the words] right.”

The Great Depression

                The great depression begins when the National Football League season has ended and continues until April when I get to go play in the dirt in my gardens.  Up here in the north, I sit longingly waiting for the ground to thaw and the air to warm.  As I look out at my gardens, I anticipate the digging and planting that takes place with vitamin D soaking back into my skin.  This year will be a little harder with no plans of travel to a warmer climate during spring break.  I am stuck here in the frozen mountain land forever!

                Many people struggle during the first months of each New Year.  They may have feelings of let down after the holiday season and family members return home.  Others become depressed due to lack of sun and being stuck inside the house.  People like me struggle with the lack of football to distract me from the claustrophobia of no outside warmth.  Some of us also fight the battle of pain due to autoimmune diseases that inevitably get worse during the violent weather patterns of snow and frigid temperatures.  In the last seven days, four have been filled with aches and pains for me.  I feel like my joints are literally burning and my energy is drained.

                To battle these issues, I make plans.  This year I am redecorating a room in the house that I can use as a retreat for my writing.  I am excited for the possibilities.  The theme is literature in its many forms with “Gone with the Wind” being a staple of the décor.  I am also facilitating a new Bible study at my parish to get me out of the house a little more.  My husband helped me with a workout plan that lets me go at a slow pace on bad days and a fast pace on my good days which I do at five in the morning.  I love mornings.  I will continue to work my writing challenges.  If I find that I still struggle, I am going to study the great painters and photographers as part of my artist dates that help stimulate my creativity. 

                The great depression will not prevail in my life.  I hope all of you have fun projects to keep you busy during the dreary days ahead.  I see some people taking their aggression out on the groundhog on facebook.  Instead, use that energy for good.  Tackle a project instead.  Happy Winter!

The Salute

The card slid smoothly into the slot as a click and green light indicated the door unlocked.  He pushed it open depositing his small black bag by the door.  When he originally planned the trip years ago, he wanted to stay in the Grand Hotel of his childhood days.  Instead, he chose the newer hotel and booked the suite with a fireplace.  The open space dwarfed the tiny living room he grew up in thirty-five years prior. 

After pouring himself a drink, he slid the balcony door open and stepped onto the patio.  Off in the distance, the full moon peaked over the mountain range freshly capped with snow.  Before his father left for war, the two of them spent many days in those mountains hunting, fishing, and hiking.  The past twenty odd years, he missed the feel of them watching over him.  The whiskey burnt going down his throat.  Loosening his black tie, he turned back to the room to get some sleep and stop the memories from overwhelming him.

          Throughout the night, the plaid comforter tugged and pulled as he fought his dreams.  Visions of kids twice his size taunting him filled his sight.  Harsh words of baby killer exploded in his head.  A bloody nose turned into a fire leaping up to consume him.  He jerked awake relieved at the sunlight streaming through the panes of glass.  The scars on his hands throbbed.  Stifling the urge to grab the bottle, he stumbled to the coffee pot instead.  He opened the laptop drowning himself in work until afternoon.

          An hour before the service, he slid onto the grey leather seat of his rental car.  His fingers turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life.  Maneuvering through traffic, the side street beckoned him.  He pulled into the empty parking lot.  Stepping out of the vehicle, he placed his beret on his head straightening it just right above the bridge of his nose.

He sighed at the look of the old building.  Bricks lay on the ground leaving holes in the wall.  The windows in his old science classroom long shattered from either old age or vandals.  Even a small tree grew from the cracks in the foundation.  Peaking through the window frame, he shook his head at the burnt tile on the floor where he tried to grab the plain green ball cap his dad gave him before he left for war, the cause of his scarred hands.  The rank and unit crest of the unit his dad worked with in the war was displayed on the front.  He remembered wearing the cap with pride until that fateful day.

The local bully called his father a baby killer and grabbed the hat off his head.  With a Bunsen Burner, the creep lit the cap on fire dropping it on the floor.  Not thinking clearly, he grabbed the flaming mass with his hands to beat out the fire.  The taunts only grew worse with each new report that came from the war zone.  Some teachers tried to shield him, but other teachers allowed debates disparaging the soldiers.  With the ball cap destroyed, he saved the unit crest and wore it on his jacket.

His father returned from the fighting with what they now call PTSD.  They only spent one day in the mountains.  The bullies and liberals accused his father further when he committed suicide a year after his return.  With a heavy sigh, he turned from the window and the memories.  He needed to finish his drive to his appointment.

          Cars lined both sides of the road.  Parking, he straightened his tie once more and beret.  Standing tall, he walked down the lane passing those grieving.  Discomforted, he avoided the looks people gave him.  A man in dress blues rarely appeared in this area of the country.  He stood near the back of the crowd.  The minister spoke standing next to the six foot hole the casket shaded.  As the service drew to a close, the military man waited until the last person spoke to the widow. 

          “Mrs. Blake, may I walk you to your car.”  He offered his arm to her.

          Once at the black limousine she asked him to wait a moment.  Reaching into the car, she grabbed a small book from the seat.

          “Richard kept track of your career over the years.  He was very proud of you.”  Wrinkled hands held out the weathered black book to him.

          Taking the gift, he flipped through looking at all the scrapbooked pictures and news articles to the last page with an article of his being pinned General.  Tears streamed down his face.  “Mr. Blake sat me down after the fire.  He told me I held the key to my future.  I could listen to the naysayers or I could overcome them.  My dad left us in dire straits, but with Mr. Blake watching over me and guiding me, I prevailed.” 

          They exchanged a few more pleasantries.  He helped her into the vehicle and watched it leave the cemetery grounds.  Executing an about face, he marched back to the casket saluting his high school principal.    He continued on to the poor side of the grounds to stand in front of a pauper's grave.

          “Dad, not a day goes by that I don’t think of you.  I do all my work with veterans and their families in your honor.  I miss you.”  Snapping his heals together, he saluted as a soft snow fell to the ground.

Grammar Fear

                Defeat overcame me as the words washed over my soul.  “Editor needed for grammar.”  No.  The entire reason I asked for readers I trusted was to face those issues softly.  Of course, I knew the truth in my heart.  A reader and an editor are two completely different roles.  In all fairness, hoping a friend would put in the time and energy to fix minute details was not realistic.

                Facing the computer, my fingers flew over the keyboard searching Google for editing services.  Quote one equaled a $2000 price tag, quote two, $1000.  I closed up Google.  Paying that amount of money fiscally was a gamble I refused to take or ask my family to take.  I zipped off a note to my reader thanking her for all her help and asked if she had any suggestions for editing at a reasonable price.

                The rest of the day I washed laundry and dishes.  Pulling the sheets tight across the mattress, thoughts of how to fix my problem tumbled through my head.  I sighed in relief as family members filtered through the door from work and school to help distract me from my problem.  I hid by not mentioning a thing to my husband.  My head throbbed, so I read other writers’ novels not thinking of mine sitting on the desk.  I fell asleep to listing all the daily happenings that I was thankful for, minus the comment about my novel.

                I trudged to the gym the next morning not thinking and continued through my morning routine until I opened my e-mail.  My faithful reader responded to my questions with three options to my editing dilemma.  I hated all her ideas.  I felt frozen in fear.  I closed up her words and played on the computer.

                For hours, I avoided speaking of editing out loud; yet, conversations ran through my head.  The continuous pressure in my forehead kept the problem in close proximity.  I read; I crocheted; I avoided.  As water streamed out of the faucet, a thought hit me.  Grammar Nazis!  I feared giving my work to anyone with a red pen.  The pounding in my head grew more persistent.  Instantly I was transported back to the classroom with the blood of red ink pouring off my papers.  I still hate the letters C and B with the sympathetic minus sign keeping the lower grade at bay.  I feared giving someone the opportunity to say I was a horrid writer.  This happened in the past; I didn’t want it for my future.

                Was I going to let one more set back keep me from my dream?  For another day or two, yes.  For all eternity, no.  However, the thought of becoming a fulltime crocheting, reading, gardening, stay at home housewife looked appealing. 

                A day crawled by when I finally realized a dear friend held an English degree.  I finally acknowledged everything to my husband/writing coach.  He confirmed my plan.  After some e-mails back and forth, Maria agreed to edit with pixy dust.  She would be my Grammar Fairy, not a Grammar Nazi.  With excitement mounting to work on this project with this amazing lady, we met over coffee and my novel is in her safe keeping.  My writing life is back on track awaiting more challenges.

Reflections 2013

                I just read the blog post I wrote last year about reflections.  I enjoyed reading about what I accomplished in 2012, so I will write about what I achieved in 2013 including my hopes for next year.  As always reading is at the top of the list.  Unfortunately, in September life became a bit complicated with an increase in writing activity and volunteering.  I stopped putting down the books I finished with the total being 40 books.  Opps!  I am changing my strategy and instead of listing books on a spreadsheet, I am going to post them on pinterest.  This will be a nice change for 2014.  As for what I read last year, I have to say I didn’t really have any books that stood out.  I read a lot of free books that I received off of Book Bub.  This year I am hoping to work more off my old reliable favorite authors list and suggestions from friends.

                The book I wanted to finish this year was the Bible.  Alas, I got about three fourths of the way done and stopped.  I feel guilty, but I ended up facilitating a Bible study twice a week and chairing a committee for a church retreat.  All of this took up a lot of time and really made for a great excuse.  Now is my quiet time of the year, so hopefully I will finish up this very special book.  With this, I ended up not reading the entire book of Saint Jerome’s writings.  To be honest, this became a little boring after a while, but I may pick it up again.  This year I am going back to Saint Frances de Sales’ work.  He entertained me a lot.  Besides, he is the patron saint of writers, so I have missed learning about him these last two years when I worked with different saints.  Also, I am keeping the words delight and joy in the forefront of my thoughts for the year.  Last year the word was discipline.  I did become more disciplined in my writing, but the word seems a little oppressive.  I want light and airy this year which delight and joy definitely fit.

                I am very excited about my writing journey the past year.  I didn’t keep up with the blog as much as I would like, but I grew in leaps and bounds with the word count, editing, and publishing.  The latter I added in the spring to learn about how to indie publish.  My goal for words I surpassed by 26,000.  I wrote 91,000 words of new fiction and the rest of my 227,000 words were all non-fiction.  This next year I am going to shoot to add 50,000 words to the total by doubling my fiction words and reducing my non-fiction by a little bit.  My daughter thinks I need to have a goal of 315,000 because this is what I need to reach 1,000,000 words.  I told her I would indeed try, but I am not going to worry too much.  As for my editing, I think I finally became better at rewriting my scenes and developing them.  I worked really hard on five short stories and my novel.  I blew past my goal by 2800 minutes.  For someone who hates to edit, I think I did awesome.  I went over my publishing minutes by 1500.  Really in both the editing and publishing, I am not sure how much time I should be spending on the tasks.  I probably need to do a lot more, but each year I increase the goals.  At some point I will find the correct number.  As always, this year I will strive to do more including indie e-publishing my work.

                Adventures were abundant this past year.  The family flew to Cancun to take in the resort scene; plus, we traveled to Chichen Itza to see the Mayan structures.  At some point, I still need to write the short story that my muse excitedly helped me write out an outline for during the vacation.  Throughout the summer, I went on a couple of hikes in areas I haven’t been before which I enjoyed immensely.  I also visited an area that I hadn’t been to in years, Ross Creek Cedars.  I want to go back this next year when the light is better to do some photo shoots.  The Cedars will be in a book idea I have down the road.  In the early fall, I took in some Scandinavian history and culture in both Washington and Montana.  Oh, I also visited an Amish store.  My last grand adventure took place in Missouri.  I visited the home of Laura Ingalls Wilder.  This next year I am not sure where I will explore.  I believe I will stay closer to home.  Falcons have become an interest for me in the last couple of months, so I want to visit a bird sanctuary about 200 miles from my home.  I suspect I will work on hiking into a waterfall I have wanted to explore for many years.  My options are unlimited.  In fact, a friend posted a link to a bucket list for Montana.  I have done 26 of the 100 activities.  If I add my bucket list items, I have plenty of adventures to choose from.

                This year I am adding a new goal to my arsenal.  Since I have retired, I have concentrated on healing, writing, gardening, multiple projects, and just enjoying life.  Because of the aches and pains from my autoimmune diseases, I have allowed myself to get out of shape.  I have exercised a bit, but hiking long distances has been out of the question.  I don’t want this to be my future.  I worry that my writing goals will suffer from the added stress working out will do to my body, but I hope over time I will be rewarded.  Besides, I really want to make it into the falls.  Hopefully, I will be sharing pictures of this in May or June.

                So, come on 2014, I look forward to all the fun and work we have in store. 

Laura Ingalls Wilder

               For days, I have been thinking I need to put something out on my blog, but I have been busy with the holidays and a book covers class I have been taking.  I just went out to see when I last posted.  I am appalled!  So, here is a piece I wrote about a month ago.  I had the good fortune to talk my husband and daughter to drive a couple of hours to mark an item off my bucket list.  Here is the post I wrote but forgot to put on my blog.

                One of my favorite activities while traveling is discovering new places and visiting the lives of famous people from the past.  This past week my family and I journeyed to Missouri to see my younger son graduate from Military Police school for the National Guard at Fort Leonard Wood.  We flew out a couple days earlier grabbing the opportunity to see some sites. 

We drove to Mansfield, Missouri to see the home of Laura Ingalls Wilder.  The rundown little town showed no signs of fame.  In fact many buildings stood in dilapidated ruins in need of repair.  In less than six blocks, we traveled down a country lane meandering through the hills with naked trees lining the asphalt.  Rusty and gold leaves carpeted the countryside forming a natural quilt keeping the tree roots warm in the colder temperatures.

                A sign distinguished the small white farmhouse from other properties along the road.  We turned up the drive to be greeted by an elderly volunteer.  She invited us into the warm building housing a nice size collection of family photos and treasures, including a fiddle.  I enjoyed the photographs which reminded me of my own family photos I have inherited.  My daughter loved the old typewriter.  The photos captured my interest, but I anxiously awaited the announcement for the tour to begin.  Old West museums bore me due to the fact that I have grown up with them all my life. 

                After sitting through a video and looking at farming implements, of which I have some in my garage, we finally entered the house, the little house.  Laura stood only 4 foot 11 inches.  The kitchen displayed the love Almanzo held for Laura.  He built custom countertops for her to cook on.  She hated making bread, so he installed two tall windows framing her counter to be able to look outside as a distraction as she kneaded the dough.  He also built a wood room to store all the firewood off the kitchen so Laura needn’t go outside in the cold.  This warmed my heart.

                In my favorite room of the house, Laura showed her love for Almanzo.  He slept lightly and awoke at the smallest sounds.  In the middle of the night, Laura would be inspired to write.  She softly walked to her writing room just off their bedroom.  Not much bigger than a closet, Laura sat at a small desk writing the beloved Little House on the Prairie books.  Instead of waking Almanzo up upon her return to bed, she instead spent the rest of the night sleeping on a chaise lounge in her little office.  Two nice big window on two of the walls let in the sun giving her plenty of light during the day.  Besides the desk and lounge, only enough room allowed for her to walk through to the living room.  I thought it a perfect writers retreat.

                The information I learned about Rose Wilder Lane, Laura and Almanzo’s only living child, surprised me.  I knew she worked as a journalist in San Francisco, but I didn’t know she was one of the highest paid writers of her day.  She wrote quite a few books.  With her money, she built her parents a retirement home just up the road and she installed the old home with electric lights and other modern conveniences.  I found two of her books on Amazon and downloaded them to my Kindle.  I look forward to reading them in the coming months.

                I loved learning all of these little details of Laura’s life.  When I was a little girl, I wanted to be just like her back in the world of riding in buggies, dancing to a fiddle, baking from scratch, and gardening.  Of course, I also dreamed of teaching, writing, and falling in love.  The simple life of Laura still calls to me.  Granted, I would be very hesitant to relinquish my kindle, computer, and modern machinery, but I look at my modest home and hope I am keeping to a simpler life than most.