LIFE IS SHORT - ENJOY THE MOMENT

Today, I am happy. I am warm. I am well-fed. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Three Moons Over Sedona
Island Passage
Author: Sherry Hartzler
Available on Amazon Kindle and Amazon.com

THE RIVER RIDE

Note: The River Ride is a story about a family struggling to deal with the death of a son. This story was a finalist in the BBC short story contest in 2001.

                                                                             

Trudy stands on the back porch of her house on Orchard Street, broom in hand, watching as Luke’s pickup truck turns into the driveway, hauling an old boat. She bites into the soft flesh of her lower lip. “Damn fool,” she mutters, giving the broom a hard push against the old floorboards of the porch.

            Big surprise. Luke was always bringing home some piece of junk. The barn out back was stacked to the moon with odds and ends hoarded over the years. Now, a boat? Why, the both of them couldn’t even swim. She wipes her hands on the skirt of her faded apron.

Luke jumps down from the cab of the truck.  "Honey," he calls out, “the deal was too sweet; I couldn't turn ‘er down.”

She ignores both him and the boat. Her hands form two tight fists around the broom handle.  Fool, she thinks again, tasting blood where she’d broken through the skin of her lip.    

They eat dinner in silence. Luke pushes food from one side of his plate to the other, nibbling at a bite of roast beef or cutting into a cooked carrot with his fork, then forgetting to put it into his mouth. She hates herself for making his gift seem worthless. Over the past six months, the pain of losing their son has absorbed into her tired bones like a thick poison.

After dinner, she washes the dishes while Luke paces the worn linoleum between the refrigerator and stove. He’s babbling on and on about how the boat will bring them all together again. All, meaning their daughter and granddaughter.

"Lisa won't go," she says, flipping the dishtowel over one shoulder. She leans into the counter to wipe it with a soapy dishrag. “She blames us for what happened. You know that, don’t you?”

His voice cracks with emotion. "Sara will come with us.” 

She moves the dishrag in vigorous tight circles on the countertop, ashamed that her words are so spiteful.  He doesn’t deserve it.  He unfairly blames himself for what Jimmy did - not only for the accident, but for the murder as well. 

She unties her apron, looping the neckband over a hook beside the back door. Her anger softens, as it always does. No doubt, their three-year-old granddaughter will be delighted with Grandpa's boat.

"Yes," she finally agrees, "Sara’ll go."

Luke smiles. “You’ll love it, too. We can ride all the way to Parkersburg.”  His eyes shine with renewed life. "We’ll go on a journey."  She stands at the cupboard, forcing a dishtowel down the throat of a glass, listening.  Journey sounds good, so new and different, so far removed from the loss of their son. 

In those first awful weeks after Jimmy died, she sought refuge in his old bedroom where she would sit on the edge of the bed and pretend nothing had changed. If she closed her eyes and held her breath, she’d swear she could hear tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood floors in the hallway. Trudy prayed that when she opened her eyes again, she’d find God had given them a second chance to do everything right.

Early the next morning, Luke climbs into the boat with a bucket of water and a sponge to clean the upholstery. Trudy ignores him as she pulls weeds from around the tomato plants in the garden. 

“The seats are torn in a few places,” he says.  “I’ll put duct tape over the bad spots.” 

She pretends she doesn’t hear him. Her fingers work close to earth, pulling weeds, tossing them into a growing pile in the garden path.  Weeds never die.  Even if you yank them out by their roots, they’ll still grow back with a vengeance.

“Our anniversary’s tomorrow,” he calls out.  “I thought we’d take our first river ride.”  He waits for an answer. “Trudy,” he says, clearly aggravated by her silence. “I said...”

“I heard you,” she shouts, shoving the garden trowel deep into the ground.  Then, much softer, she says,  “It’s fine...we’ll go.” 

Later in the afternoon, they drive to the trailer park to invite Lisa and their granddaughter to go with them on the river ride. Their daughter has made other plans. "Take Sara," Lisa offers. "She'll love it. Won't you, sweetie?"

Sara sits at a small plastic table pressing a marker that makes little red hearts into the page of her coloring book. She looks up at her mother. "Shit," she says with a smile as sweet as sugar.  “Now, honey, don’t you go sayin’ those bad words,” Trudy cautions.

 “Mommy does,” Sara says back, her stubby fingers popping off the green top of a marker that makes shamrocks. “It’s all her fault,” she adds, all serious.

Their daughter, a few weeks after the funeral, had screamed those very words.  “It’s all your fault, Daddy! You told Jimmy to leave and never come back.  You gave up on him.”  

Trudy had then cried out in her husband’s defense. “Your brother was drunk! He shoved me.”

Luke opened his arms to his daughter, a helpless gesture that begged forgiveness. “He hurt your mother,” he stammered. 

The next morning they drive to a public dock on the Ohio River. Trudy wears a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of sunglasses purchased from the dollar rack at the drugstore. Luke carefully backs the boat into the water and lets it float free from the trailer. Trudy cautiously steps onboard, feeling the boat shift a little beneath her feet.

Sara gleefully jumps up and down on the dock, clapping her hands. "Hurry, Grandma!  I want to get in!" Trudy sits down on one of the rear seats. Luke fastens the straps of Sara’s life jacket before lowering her into the boat. 

"You sit up front with Grandpa," Trudy orders. "You might fall overboard."  She snugs the hat down on her head and settles the picnic basket at her feet. Her eyes take in the harvest-gold interior that dates the boat like the avocado stove and refrigerator in her own kitchen.  She runs one hand along the back cushion, admiring Luke’s fine job of cleaning the interior and mending the seats.

Sara sits on the front seat, plump legs sticking straight out, white tennis shoes radiant against her summer tan. "Grandpa, make it go!" she says, impatient and wide-eyed.  With a steady eye, Luke backs away from the dock before putting the motor in forward gear.  He eases the throttle open, and the boat gains speed. The wind tugs at Trudy's hat and teases the short sleeves of her blouse.

They travel upriver toward Parkersburg. Much bigger boats pass them, twice as shiny, some costing more than Trudy and Luke's house.  When a lady on the deck of a houseboat waves down at them, Trudy timidly raises her hand.  Three fishermen along the shore wave too.  Again, she smiles and waves back, marveling at how different the world seems in the center of this river. 

At noon, they moor on a narrow stretch of sandy shore to eat their picnic lunch of ham sandwiches, potato chips and iced tea from a silver thermos. Sara plays in the sand, digging holes with a plastic spoon, and then filling them with water from a paper cup. Trudy rests on a quilted blanket, leaning back on her elbows, legs stretched out, watching Sara with a sharp eye. 

She thinks her son had once been this content with the world.  A good baby, a gentle child.  Then, all at once, Trudy couldn’t exactly remember when, nothing could make him happy. He was thirteen when Trudy caught him smoking a cigarette behind the garage. She’d snatched the pack from his hands and soaked it under a blast of water from the garden hose. "I will not allow you to smoke," Trudy preached.  In response, Jimmy had merely laughed, then brought home a fresh pack the next afternoon.           

Over the next few years, her son grew increasingly defiant, often belligerent.  Trudy took out her frustration on her daughter, one day screaming at Lisa that she had no more love to give to her children. A few months later, Lisa casually announced her pregnancy. Her daughter quit school in October of her senior year and moved in with the father of the baby. That relationship lasted until three months after Sara's birth.       

Trudy digs her fingers deep into the sand. Tears sting at the edges of her eyes.

Luke's work-roughened fingers grip her arm. "What?" he asks with concern.

"Nothing," she answers. "I only wish..."

"Don't wish, Trudy,” he says, his voice cracking. “It never works.  It just makes you all the sadder when things don’t work out."  He keeps a tight hold on her hand as if afraid to let go of her, as if letting go would release every last bit of what was left of them. 

“I can’t help it, Luke,” she says, her eyes fixed on Sara who has waded into the water up to her knees. The backside of the child's pink shorts is smeared with a dark circle of sand. Trudy is grateful she had the good sense to pack a clean set of clothing for Sara. Some things, she sadly comforts herself, can be fixed. “I want things back the way they were. I want…one more chance to love our children. I’d be a better mother to both of them.”

"We did our best," he consoles, tenderly brushing the sand from her hands.

"They always seemed so angry with us…so miserable." 

He shrugs and says, "Maybe we made it too easy."

"I wanted our children to be happy."

He awkwardly pats his wife's hand. "We gave them all we had."

"Grandpa!" Sara shouts, holding up a broken plastic spoon. "I need more." 

"Coming, baby." He gets up and hurries to find a new spoon.

When their son turned fifteen, Luke had tried to teach Jimmy a trade, but the boy had no interest in learning small engine repair. Instead, he’d shaved his head. At eighteen, he tattooed his arms with skulls, cross-bones and daggers. He started to drink, keeping company with low-life friends. By his twenty-first birthday, Jimmy had managed to lose six different jobs.

Two hours after the argument with his parents, the night he had shoved Trudy against the kitchen counter, Jimmy killed a man inside a tavern at the edge of town. They had fought over a woman, and when Jimmy pulled a gun from the pocket of his leather jacket and fired, he was sure he'd killed the man. He ran from the bar, but at least a dozen witnesses knew his name. 

 The sheriff came to their door late that night, his expression grim in the pale light of the proch lamp. He told them about Jimmy killing the man in the bar, and how he'd run away.“But," the sheriff said with a long and difficult sigh, "I'm afraid there's more. Your son, after leaving the scene, lost control of his car…I'm sorry. You look like good people.” 

 Luke guides the boat beneath the Parkersburg bridge, and then turns it around for the return trip. Trudy stands up and moves to the front seat. Sara climbs into her lap and within a few minutes is asleep. She holds the slumbering child tight against her chest and something familiar and soothing tugs like small wanting hands inside her. Tears spill onto her cheeks, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. She can’t. If she did that, she would first have to let go of Sara. 

She smiles at her husband. "This is the nicest anniversary ever."             

He reaches over and smoothes Sara's blond nest of curls. "You aren't mad anymore about the boat?"

Trudy shakes her head. "I think the boat's the best thing you ever brought home.”  And she means every word she tells him.

They move past a slow-moving barge and then are alone on the river. The afternoon sun weaves a shimmering play of light through the leaves of shoreline trees. The river has turned a deep shadowy green and stretches before them as smooth as glass. Trudy closes her eyes and lifts her head to the slight breeze that caresses her face. For this one perfect moment, in the center of the river, it seems as if it flows only for them.

THE END

"HATS OFF" TO PRINCE WILLIAM AND "KATE"

With the approaching royal marriage of Prince William and “Kate,” one can’t help but think about hats. Some of us remember the beautiful Princess Diana’s fabulous wardrobe and her very "necessary" accessory, the hat. Make that The Hat with a capital “T.”

Head coverings for women go way back to when the Church mandated that women's hair should be covered. Isn't that just like women? Give them a lemon, and they'll make lemonade.

Women's head coverings progressed into the once profitable millenary business - the word "milliner" coming from the Italian village of Milan. These first Milan hats were made of braided straw, fashioned for the purpose of protecting fine skin from the sun. No aristocratic lady would have been caught dead exposing her delicate skin to the elements. Did you know that the dainty parasol did not make an appearance until the 1800’s? With the advent of the parasol, the parasol itself became an accessory to compliment a smaller hat.

Who can forget Scarlett O’Hara at the Wilkes’s plantation barbeque, wearing her wide-brimmed straw hat with the green ribbon. Or . . . the adorable hat from Paris, presented to her by the roguishly handsome Rhett Butler.

Then, moving into the time line of the late eighteen hundreds and early twentieth century, women’s fashion took a more slenderizing form. Hats became notoriously wide-brimmed and sometimes humorously ornamental, using not only lace and simple trim, but imitation flowers and fruit, whatever it took to emphasize the splendor of “The Hat” as a necessity for the high class lady. Remember Kate Winslet’s magnificient courtier hat, as she stepped out of the car to board the Titantic?

The 1920’s, 1930’s and 1940’s, brought hats to a more simple design, worn closer to the head with shorter brims. These fetching hats seemed to have no particular purpose other than be worn as an accessory. Moving into the fifties and sixties, hats seemed to be relegated to being worn to church or some special event. The only fashionable hat I can remember from the sixties was the Jackie Kennedy pill box. The “sixties” brought on the sun worship era. No hats required. After all, we needed that overexposusre of sun. Everyone wanted a tan, the more foolish (I reluctantly confess) using baby oil and iodine mixed together to bring on the ultimate “burn.” Who knew?

Now, with the ozone layer disintegrating and skin cancers becoming rampant, we are learning to cover up again. Tanning beds that make skin look like porous, over-browned toast are becoming, hopefully, a thing of the past. The younger generation is fast learning to preserve their youthfulness, not exploit it.

The marriage of Prince William and “Kate” will no doubt bring the fashion world to its feet again. With Kate’s easy style and gorgeous hats, it can’t miss. But what intrigues us most about Kate is that, like Diana, she’s down to earth, and looks just as fetching in a ball cap as she does in a fancy hat. I admit it, I have “high hopes” for this couple. You see, just like any other romantic schmuck, I like happy endings.

For more information about the history of women's hats, see http://www.vintagefashionguild.org/

GASOLINE AT 6.75 CENTS/gallon!!!

Three days a week, I go walking with a friend. This morning our walking conversation was about the price of gasoline. I got to thinking about an old photograph I'd stuck in the bottom drawer of my desk (do not know the year it was taken, although my guess would be somwhere in the 1930's). Now, take a look at these three people. I know for certain that the woman (far left) is my grandmother. The other two people I'm not sure who they are. Obiously, they are on some kind of road trip. I'm figuring this because the two women are wearing their go-to-town/church hats and most likely they wouldn't have wasted camera film on some ordinary outing. The gas pump  to the right in the photo looks a bit more of an antique than the one on the left with the old Marathon logo. Now, let your eyes wander up to the price of the gas (I'm hoping this shows up on my scan) The price of the gas is 6.75 CENTS/gallon!!! Is this not a hoot?! Can you just imagine what the three people in the photo would think if they pulled up to a pump today? I'm thinking they were pretty average Americans for the time, farm people, no doubt growing their own vegetables and most certainly didn't depend on the government to make up the difference. Television was still in the future and the idea of computers and the internet would've been something out of a science fiction novel. Their clothing was far from designer, And by the looks of the sweater and skirt worn by the woman in the middle, she got more than a few seasons' wear out of that outfit.

Now, back to my walking friend and this morning's conversation about gasoline prices. She told me that back in 1991, she drove a Honda CRX that got 60 miles to a gallon of gas!!! I said, "You've got to be kidding!" She then told me they no longer make the CRX. Why? Well, she didn't know, but she said it was the best car she'd ever driven.. Okay...now it's 2011, and I ask you: "Why can't manufacturers design a car that gets 60 miles to a gallon of gas?? To get even close to that, we have to buy one of those ugly hybrids at a purchase price that would make the three people in the old photograph have simultaneous heart-attacks. Any thoughts?

WISDOM FROM THE TABLOIDS

Okay, I’m a sucker…or I was a sucker. Fifteen years ago, while waiting in a grocery line, I was reading one of those tabloids next to the cashier’s aisle. I turned to the back page, noticing all the personal ads, taking pity on all those pathetic people who put in an ad, hoping to find Mr. or Mrs. Right, who no doubt likes long walks on the beach.
Two weeks later, I put in ad in a tabloid paper!
Well, I didn’t exactly do that. Not really. Okay, what I did do was focus on ads selling recipes. Did you know people sell recipes in the tabloids?? I didn’t. But it was a WOW moment. Golly gee, I had my grandmother’s chocolate cake recipe! And if I paid for an ad, I figured with the tabloid’s two million readers, I could easily turn a profit, even with a decimal of a percent return. I’d be in the money!! (First rule: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.)
I grabbed my grandmother’s recipe and took it to the printer and had beautiful recipe cards made up with my very special log cabin logo. Cha-Ching: $75.00. I then spent another $200.00 for a two sentence ad in the tabloid, where I charged $2.00 for each recipe card. I even went so far as to open a separate post office box, anticipating a flood of incoming envelopes with sweet little two dollar bills tucked inside each one.
Okay, the ad went in a couple weeks later. I picked up a copy of the tabloid for that week and I have to tell you, my excitement was through the roof. How could I possibly lose?? After all, how many women out there are just waiting to read the personal ad section of a tabloid to find the ultimate chocolate cake recipe??? Duh and double duh. (Second rule: If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.)
It took about one week before the envelopes started flooding into my post box. I kid you not. The first time I opened the post box it was stuffed, yes, I said stuffed, with envelopes. Dollar signs floated inside my head. How easy was this? Lordy, I had at least twenty or thirty more recipes I could advertise and trade for cash!! I loaded everything from the post box into my carry bag, nearly breaking my neck to get back to the car and open the first envelope! At this point, I was nearly salivating with greed. I eagerly ripped open the first envelope, then another and another and another, and so on and so forth. My excitement quickly went downhill. Every envelope, and I do mean every envelope, contained a letter from someone trying to sell ME something. It was an ah-ha moment.
Now, today, here on my blog, I am giving you that same recipe!!! For FREE. So, when you make this cake, remember the lesson I learned from the tabloids: Don’t be an idiot!!! On the other hand, feel free to send me two bucks. Ah, just kidding.
IVALO’S (my Grandmother’s) CHOCOLATE CAKE
Sift into bowl:
3 cups flour 2 tsp. soda
2 cups sugar 2 tsp. baking powder
6 T. cocoa 1 tsp. salt
Add:
2 cups water 2 T. vinegar
2/3 cup oil 1 T. vanilla
Beat well. Grease and flour two 9 inch cake pans. Bake at 350 deg.
30 to 35 minutes
FROSTING
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter 3 cups powdered sugar
2/3 cup Hershey’s Cocoa 1/3 cup milk
1 tsp. vanilla
Melt butter. Stir in cocoa – alternately add powdered sugar and milk, beating on medium speed to spreading consistency. Add more milk, if needed. Stir in vanilla. Makes about 2 cups of frosting.

Prologue - Island Passage

PROLOGUE

Perry Monument, Lake Erie - June, 1968
A summer thunderstorm, deep-throated and black as midnight, moved across Lake Erie from the north, pressing into South Bass Island. Ten-year-old Francine Douglas dumped the last of her ice-cream cone into a trash container as the first drops of rain splattered against the sidewalk. Turning on the heels of her new white Keds, she made a mad dash across the wide plaza of the Perry Monument to where her mother waited for her at the entrance.
“Hurry!” Marian Douglas shouted through the downpour for her daughter to run faster, faster! A fierce gust of wind whipped over the pavement, rolling a paper cup across the concrete, snapping at the line of flags at the edge of plaza. The air smelled both sweet and sour, like crushed flowers and moist earth — like the breath of God, Himself. A tingling sensation raised the fine hairs at the back of Francine’s neck mere seconds before lightning flashed across the black sky. BOOM! The thunder blasted like a battle cannon over her head.
“Fran-cine!” Her mother screamed into the storm, visibly frantic. Marian firmly pressed her hand into the shoulder of the tall, gangly girl who stood beside her. The girl’s face held no expression; her arms hung limp at her sides as the wind caught in her long, dark hair and billowed out the front of her faded, oversized blouse.
Jealousy prickled up the back of Francine’s neck seeing her mother’s hand on the shoulder of the strange girl her family had taken in for the summer months. Although they were the same age, Claudia Angelo was practically a freak, towering over most girls their age, not offering so much as a friendly smile when she’d stepped off the ferry that afternoon. Unlike Francine, blonde, rosy-cheeked and well-fed, Claudia appeared to be no more than skin and bones, her hair black as coal, accentuated by an alabaster complexion and dark, vacant eyes.
Marian turned Claudia to face her and pointed that she was to stay put. She then rushed out into the rain and grabbed hold of her daughter’s elbow, giving it a parental jerk. “You straighten up right now, young lady. Stop pouting.”
“Not pouting,” Francine sassed back. “I’m sick.” When they reached the overhang of the monument, Francine glared up at Claudia, not bothering to mask her spite at having to spend the summer with this skinny, ugly girl who refused to talk to anyone. Francine’s brother, Matthew, had already nicknamed the girl Clodhopper.
Francine didn’t know much about Claudia, except for what she’d overheard her parents say late one night after tiptoeing down the back stairway and into the kitchen for a glass of milk. She had hugged the wall, listening to her mother and father talk in hushed tones about someone named Claudia and how her mother had been arrested for something really bad—murder. Francine’s father, a criminal attorney, had been asked by the court to defend her, pro bono, and her father would have done that, except Francine’s mother insisted he hand the case over to another law firm. That way, her mother could offer the child a home for at least the summer months. No surprise. Her mother often took in foster children, but usually little ones, four or five years old, and never during the summer months. The summer months were for family. She had missed the rest of her parents’ conversation because just then her mother caught her eavesdropping and shooed her off to bed.
Marian led the girls into the rotunda of the towering 352 foot monument. “Go,” she ordered, moving them forward. She wearily pulled the scarf from her head and wiped the rain from her face.
Joe Douglas waited in the line for the observation deck, one hand firmly gripping Matthew’s shoulder. Her older brother looked irritated, probably ticked off their dad wouldn’t let him run wild with Tank and Navy Bean, his island buddies. Matthew was a prankster, a real tease. Already, at the age of ten, Francine had it pretty much figured out that boys got away with a whole lot more stuff than girls ever got away with.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Navy Bean took a flying leap at Matthew and playfully poked him in the gut. Matthew instantly broke loose from his father and darted after his friend.
“Matthew Douglas! Get back here!” Marian wadded up the scarf and stuffed it into her skirt pocket. She left the girls in line with her husband and started out after Matthew. Claudia backed up, accidentally bumping into Francine who then made a point of brushing off her shoulder as if Claudia had a case of the cooties.
Claudia lowered her head and mumbled, “Excuse me.”
Next in line to board the elevator, Francine pulled back on her father’s hand. “Daddy, I don’t feel so good. I don’t want to go up there.”
Her father scowled down at her. “Don’t be silly. We’ve waited in line all this time.” He patted the top of Claudia’s head. “Claudia’s not scared. See–”
“Daddy,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear about how brave Claudia was. “Honest. My stomach hurts awful.”
Her mother then reappeared with Matthew, one hand bunched around the collar of his shirt, the other she deftly placed on Francine’s forehead. “Joe, maybe she’s coming down with that summer flu going around. You go on with Matthew and Claudia. We’ll stay down here and wait.”
“If she’s sick, it’s only because of that double scoop of ice cream she just had to have.” Her father made an aggravated sound deep in his throat, jaw muscles working in a way that meant he’d had about all the shenanigans he could stand for one day.
Matthew crept up behind his sister and made retching noises down the collar of her shirt. “Fatso-watso ate too much.”
“Did not.” Francine gave Matthew a hearty shove.
“Did so.” He shoved her back.
“Mommm,” Francine whined. “Make him stop.”
Her father leaned over, clasping both knees, eye-to-eye with his daughter. His voice softened. “Now, pumpkin, once we get to the top, you’ll be okay. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” Reluctantly, she followed him into the crowded elevator where she ended up wedged between two women who smelled a lot like the flowers people had sent to her grandmother’s funeral. She stopped breathing until she got to the top. And just when she thought her lungs might burst from lack of air, the elevator door opened and a gust of wind swept through from the observation platform. She retreated into the corner of the elevator, but her father pulled her out.
Overhead, big cottony puffs of clouds moved against a new blue sky, making it feel as if the monument itself were swaying back and forth. Francine could barely catch her breath in the wind. Desperate to stop the wooziness inside her head, she grabbed her father around the waist. She closed her eyes tight in a last ditch effort to calm the churning sensation inside her stomach.
The wind made it hard to hear. Somewhere faraway she heard her father talking. “Now, see, I was right, wasn’t I?” He tugged at her shoulder. “Look, over there, you can see the winery on Middle Bass. And see . . . through the trees, that’s our summer house.” He coaxed her to the railing. “Come on.”
She squinted up at her father. For one instant her stomach seemed fine, but then it wasn’t fine. In one awful heave, she vomited—everywhere.
“God, almighty!” Her father jumped out of the way, shaking vomit from his hands. Marian unsnapped her purse and pulled out two fresh handkerchiefs. She handed the first to Joe, using the second to wipe Francine’s mouth. “Oh, honey,” she said, brushing at the front of her daughter’s white J.C. Penney blouse. “I’m so sorry.”
Tourists on the crowded platform opened into a wide circle around Francine and the puddle on the deck. A mortified Francine hung her head, unsure her stomach was finished. Within earshot Matthew howled with laughter.
“Francine?” her mother whispered into her ear. “Are you all right?” Her mother’s arm went around her waist, drawing her close.
“I told you I was sick,” Francine moaned. “You made me come up here.” She aimed this remark at her father. “You made me!” She then buried her head in the folds of her mother’s soft cotton skirt and wiped her tears. It was from the safety of her mother’s embrace that she watched the next scene play out in slow motion. Claudia, stealthy as a cat, moved toward Matthew, her jaw locked and set for revenge.
“You-fucking-jerk,” Claudia said in a voice sounding much older than other girls their age.
Her mother gasped.
Francine’s jaw dropped open. She had no idea what the word meant, but she knew, if spoken out loud, a smack in the mouth would definitely follow. Francine pulled back from her mother, suddenly seeing Claudia in an entirely new light. Maybe this odd girl her parents had brought to the island wouldn’t be so boring after all.
Hearing the “F” word, her father stopped working the handkerchief up and down his trousers and glared up at Claudia. His face turned a scary fire engine red. Marian clutched at her throat. “Claudia, my goodness,” Claudia didn’t take her eyes off Matthew. He taunted her. “Hey Clodhopper. You’d better watch who you’re calling a jerk.” Without hesitation, Claudia drew back an arm and shoved a fist into Matthew’s nose. Pow! Blood spurted from his nostrils like a ketchup bottle given one too many whacks.
“Jesus!” Matthew’s hands flew to his nose. He sucked in short breaths and danced in place to keep from crying in front of his buddies who’d followed him up on the elevator. He looked about to explode with all the agony of holding in the pain.
Claudia stood her ground, fists up and ready to give him another punch, if necessary. Matthew quickly edged out of her reach.
Claudia’s eyes narrowed at his retreat. “She’s my friend. Don’t ever laugh at her again.” She stiffened her lower lip and protectively looped an arm through Francine’s. She gave Joe and Marian a satisfied smile.
Francine obligingly moved closer to Claudia. Her parents were horrified and obviously didn’t have a clue as to what they should do next. And Matthew? He finally lost his courage and started to cry like a ba-by.
Francine squeezed her new friend’s arm, smiling up at her, wanting to thank her for taking her brother out. This had turned out to be one fine day. And her stomach felt one hundred percent better.

THREE MOONS OVER SEDONA

Contact Author at innacabin@aol.com Books Available: Well Red Coyote in Sedona, AZ www.wellredcoyote.com - Beehive Books in Delaware, Ohio - Antigone Books in Tucson, AZ - Old Livery Mercantile in Wickenburg, Az - Great Expectations in Logan, Ohio - Scenic Way Gifts in Creola, Ohio www.scenicwaygifts.com - Inn at Cedar Falls in Logan, Ohio - Ridge Inn in Laurelville, Ohio - Logan Art Gallery, Logan, Ohio

RIDING THE ENERGY OF COMMITMENT

Commitment. This word even sounds intimidating, vibrating with a forboding sense of scary responsibility. Definitely not a soft word, like smooth or peaceful. With commitment, both your mouth and jaw actually have to "work" to pronounce the word.

Of course, you've probably guessed where I'm going with this. Commitment to anything in life brings with it a strength of purpose, constantly pushing us forward to some end, whether definable or indefinable. By indefinable, I'm saying that sometimes we don't exactly understand what it is that brings us to "square one" of a new project. Sometimes its a "calling" from within. Who knows where that new and exciting energy comes from. Some people might call it spiritual, fate or destiny. But however you want to look at it, commitment is definitely an energy word, a word that is not content to rest on its laurels, but constantly moves outward like the universe, creating space within space.

Being truly committed involves high, medium and low energy levels. The low cycles unfortunately bring moments of despair, when we want to give up and scrap what progress we've already managed to accomplish. The trick is learning to push through these dark energy levels and into the light of high energy. Nothing is easy. If writing were easy, everyone would be a writer. Any endeavor in life takes a deep sense of commitment. Persevere in spite of difficulties. True commitment builds character, and character feeds the need to complete. And if you sound out both words (character and commitment), you'll find the jaw muscles work with the same determination, both words strong, both using a distinctive drop of the jaw for pronunciation. Today, in your writing, be aware that energy always ebbs and flows. Recognize the low points, move on, and never give up!

DUST OFF YOUR FAMILIARITY

The world is amazing. When I opened my eyes this morning, I purposely looked at everything in the room with a new eye. Each item I had placed there, each item having a story behind it. The bedroom furniture we inherited, the lamp beside the bed came from an auction. The Navajo doll that sits on a handmade jewelry box, came from Sedona. Isn't it true, that after a number of years, the selected and beloved "things" often become overly familiar to us? The treasured items fall into a category of a chore, that is, keeping the dust off everything, the inspiration dulling after a series of years of looking at the same ol' things.

Approaching my writing today, I will attempt to see my characters in a new light, see them for all their beauty and flaws and with a sense of purpose for which I first brought them to paper -to tell a story that hopefully will not gather dust mid-way into the manuscript. Open your eyes!!! See the beauty in what has become familiar.

LOVING LIFE IN A WOMAN'S SOUL

A short blog today. Waiting on "proofs" of Island Passage. The cover art is gorgeous! I'm excited. While I wrote this story more than ten years ago, I had fun re-editing and getting it ready to be printed into book form. And when I receive the first complete copy, I will hold the new book to my nose and breathe in the smell of the paper, run my hands over the cover, and feel myself grin. What satisfaction. I love writing stories of the human heart, stories that reach out and hold hands with the hearts of other women. I love the toughness and softness of our souls, stubborn and yet quiet and reflectful of every experience bringing us forward in our individual lives. As women, I believe we deeply understand the unification of past, present and future, each phase entwined into the tough fabric of living. We lose, we gain, we give birth to new hope.

REJUVENATION, ETC. - OR I'LL TAKE MINE WITH CREAM

It's raining. We needed this "soaker." Looking forward to putting out the annuals and rejuvenating the flower beds. Rejuventation. That's my magic word today. Webster New World Dictionary defines the word rejuvenate: to make young or youthful again; bring back to youthful strength, appearance, etc. Well, considering I'm a little past youth, I think I land in the etc. part of this definition. Nonetheless, spring does bring a sense of youthfulness. I remember a time when I thought growing old would be a long time off, that all the older people would always stay old, and I would always stay young. Do you remember the old movie It's a Wonderful Life, where the old man sitting on a porch swing tells Donna Reed and Jimmy Stewart that life is wasted on youth? Or, like Benjamin Button, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to live our lives in reverse, that way we might appreciate our youth, maybe even bring a halt to all the bickering in the world and make us more respectful of how beautiful it is to be young. But, one the other hand, it's nice being my age and spending a quiet Sunday morning rocking on the back porch, rejuventating my tired bones while listening to the rain, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the moment. You see, I'm fussy about my coffee. I like it medium strength in my favorite mug with a little cream. No sugar. You see, as a person gets older, rejuvenation takes place more on the inside than the outside. As I said before, I fall more into the etc. part of Webster's definition.

KITTY - I STILL LOVE OPRAH!

Just read Kitty Kelley's book on Oprah. I'm still shaking my head, trying to understand the purpose of this book. I suppose anyone who has had a taste of fame, knows the down-side, that eventually someone somewhere is going to chip away at their character and analyze all their flaws since birth. There are people out there who make big bucks making those in the limelight appear deceitful and greedy. Truth has many sides. And one side of truth is this: you can take anyone on the planet, look into their past, and devour every particle of a person's life, and turn a story for the jackals to jump on and tear to pieces. This is the part where I really and truly feel sorry for "O", because I consider myself to be a pretty nice, ordinary person, but there are some days when I don't want to smile and make nice faces to the outside world. Even if you're worth ten bucks or a billion bucks, the weight of fame has to be pretty darn heavy at times. I feel sad that Oprah's many good works are criticized by those who feel she exploits her public image and uses it to sell her goodie-two-shoes image to the world at large. So what! Reality check: Oprah has changed the world for many women. AND, the woman is a pretty darn good businesswoman. She's smart, savvy, and she identifies with ordinary women of all ages, races, economic levels, and religions. All women, everywhere, need a little pat on the back every once in a while, rather it be in person or through television. Sometimes those little pats on the back are just the thing needed for someone to believe that the world can be a kinder and more gentle place with them in it. Oprah inspires me, makes me want to be a better person. I'm proud to be living in an age where a woman can be anything she wants to be. And if she doesn't feel like smiling all the time, or people want to berate her for being human, that's okay. That only makes me love her even more. You go Oprah!

THE OVER-REVVED ENGINE

Ahhh, another day on crutches. This is so totally not me. Doc informed me another four to five weeks before I can put my weight back on my foot. Okay, so I've become lazy with all this hobbling around in the last month. Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do, and let source take over and do the mending, both in body and mind. Let the soul be the coolant for the over-revved human engine of delimma, namely, overthinking everything! There are times when you just need to sit back, clear your mind and reconnect with the beauty of being an eternal soul in a human body.

GOOD FRIENDS, GOOD FOOD, GOOD GOD, LET'S EAT!

Yesterday was a wonderful day. Debbie, my friend and fellow blogger (Life is a Stitch and other thoughts that make you smile), brought lunch and a bottle of wine. We sat on my back porch and talked for several hours, just enjoying the woods and conversations about writing, quilting, a little of this - a little of that. The lunch of chicken salad, cucumber salad, a grain bread and fresh strawberries and grapes was absolutely delictible. In this fast-paced world, it's easy, and sometimes more convenient, to make do with fast-food friends, the friends that come and go in our lives, and in the end, we don't really know much about them. Like fast food containers, we end up throwing them away with little thought or concern. Me? I'd rather have the five-course friends, the friends where easy conversations and laughter come naturally, the friends I keep and treasure like my best china. Today, choose a friend and give them a call, just to let them know how much you value their love and support. Life is not about consuming the over-salted and pre-packaged convenient stuff. Indeed not. Life is about the preparation, sharing and savoring each bite.

SPACE, STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES, GRANITE COUNTERTOPS AND THE MAN CAVE

On HGTV they're always talking about "space." On House Hunters, the realtor and clients enter a house and undoubtedly someone says, "Oh, golly gee, this is a nice space. I love this space." Or, "This space is great for the man cave." I love all these little words that become overnight successes. For instance, a few years back, everyone needed "closure." Or, this one: "Are we on the same page?" Little words or phrases that catch on like a virus and invade our vocabulary. But space, yep, I like this one. Everyone needs space, especially writers.

Writers need lots of space. We do well in open desk areas with very sharp pencils, plenty of paperclips and lots of blank paper. Our space includes a computer and printer. We sit at our space in a comfortable chair. We sometimes light a fragrant candle to make our space more inviting, more conducive to writing a love scene or some poetic narrative. Writers find mood in space - the more space, the better the mood.

My morning space begins with coffee to my left, computer face-on, desk cleared of everything I don't need to get the morning started. I get on my blog-space and write something that is hopefully inspiring. I then get into my business-space where I knock out a few confirmations for the cabin rentals and do my batches for credit cards. By this time in the morning, I usually have to clear my space of debris; i.e. wadded up papers, a spray of paperclips, a few phone messages that came in while I was on the computer. After clearing my space, I go into my writer-space, or, my pretend space. Here, I make things up, lots of things that hopefully will go permanently into a story. After a few hours of writing, I have to come back to my reality-space. That means housework, cabin cleaning, cooking - all the stuff it takes to keep my outer-space clean and functional. Oh yes, you didn't know that, did you? You have both an inner-space and outer-space. Inner-space is personal, very private, like what psychologists talk about being an arm's length around your body. When people invade your inner space (standing too close) you get uncomfortable and intuitively back away from the intruder. The outer-space thing is everything else that is yours, but you have to maintain - including everything from your 12 speed blender to relationships you have with friends and family.

All this space talk is making me a bit dizzy. But I still like the word. It makes good sense. Even saying the word makes me want to stretch out and get comfortable. As they say on HGTV, "This is a good thing." Nah, that's Martha, isn't it? I'll try again. As they say on HGTV, "This is a good space. I love this space. What a wonderful space." Yep, this word will definitely stick around for a while, unlike granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and people who are being interviewed about their new home while slicing carrots and celery. Oh yeah, like, after the interview they won't just order a pizza and pig out in front of their big-screen TV in the man-cave. That's called pizza-space.

THE DELICATE BALANCE OF EGO AND SOUL

I'm back in the saddle - or at least riding side-saddle. Ankle is healing, and now hobbling along with great gusto, instead of pity-padding along, feeling sorry for myself.

In terms of writing, oftentimes, I get to this point - stumped on a sentence, paragraph or scene. It is then that I pull out the mental crutches and sink creative shoulders into them for support. Self-pity can be a mighty comfortable cushion when all else fails. BUT staying immobile for too long, can cause atrophy to the muscles of the body AND to the brain as well.

Story writing is not for the meek and humble. It's a fine line writers walk between ego and soul. We become the devil's advocate when it comes to picking and choosing through human emotions and spiritual awareness, all for the purpose of adding depth and personality to our characters. Just as a physical injury can bring a person to dead halt in activities, so does our creativity when we come to a scene that fails to work. Or, perhaps we become truly exhausted from constantly dipping into that sticky ego for emotional growth of characters, and then find it equally difficult to lean to the other side and pick our souls for the right paths our characters must choose to follow to get to the end of the book. As writers we constantly question motive and direction of our characters from ALL angles, just to make everything fit succinctly into the story we are creating.

Truly, as writers we must be aware that our minds dealve into areas that often make us question all five senses and even our mortality. All this questioning can be very tiring. When we tire, we tend to put down our tools and threaten to give up. But like muscle and bone healing after an injury, we must forge ahead and not become immersed in self-pity or self-criticism. Recognize these emotions for what they are: temporary and sometimes NECESSARY.

The next time when a scene, chapter, paragraph, or whatever stumps you, just think about this inconvenient dry spell as being a lull in activity that eventually gives new direction to your writing. Understand that all things are connected in life, and the stories we create become stronger only when we take time out to use the crutches to maintain balance in order to regain our stength. Just be aware that at some point in time, you must gather the courage to throw the crutches aside and walk on your own again.

THE ILLUSION OF TIME

Wow! My last blog was March 28th! Much has happened in that time, and then again, not much has happened. My ankle ended up being broken in two places, had surgery and now healing. The first two weeks I spent in complete denial, thinking my body would heal on its own. Wrong. Now, the surgery is over and I'm on my way to being back on my feet again.

There's much to be said for having nothing to do but think. I've spent the last few weeks thinking about who I am and where I am in my life. I've decided that always pushing to get ahead can get you into a lot of trouble, especially when you push when there is no resistance to push against. The result: falling flat on your face. There's much to be said for taking a time out from life, sitting back and realizing that life pretty much takes care of itself, IF you allow it to do so. Time is only an illusion. So, condense that busy schedule and sit down, give a big yawn and realize there is no such thing as time. Life does go on without you. So enjoy!

LESSON ONE FROM A HARD-HEADED MULE

Ankle is healing, and hopefully everything will mend properly. It's hell getting old! BUT I'm a hard-headed mule, so I'll need to do what needs to be done to get back on both feet again. And speaking of old (as in old news), I'll let you know that ISLAND PASSAGE will finally be going to the publisher in another two weeks. I'm excited about getting it out of my hair, and then I'll be free to start on the next project. The most valuable lesson this hard-headed mule has learned from writing a second book is that life is a neverending learning process. AND nothing is ever gained from expending valuable energy on whining, rationalizing, or self-criticism. Growth, at times, can be downright perilous; refuse to wither in a drought of self-doubt.

LIFE IS A PARADOXICAL EXPERIENCE

Life has a way of showing us the path, even though we don't want to listen. Yesterday morning, I was taking a hike through the woods above a 90 foot waterfall. I was irritated with the amount of things I needed to accomplish that day and plenty aggravated that I had no choice but to plow through full speed without giving time to my writing. Of course, the mule at the head of plow was me. Mule-headed me, thinking the world just couldn't operate in a timely manner without my help. My hike yesterday morning brought on a very important lesson. Well...I reached a wooden bridge, slick with frost, and my right foot slipped, then caught, my ankle rolling to the left. I went down like a ton of bricks. When I held my foot up, it drooped to the right. Geez, that didn't look too good. Thank goodness I always walked with my friend Audrey and our dogs. Okay, I'm on a path above the falls and no way to get down. I asked Audrey to go on ahead and get my husband. In the meantime, I managed to get my legs under me, and then hobbled to the stairway and made my way down and through the rock path to the sandy part of Ash Cave. My husband and Audrey met me on the path coming out of the cave area. A bad sprain and now on crutches with probably a couple of months of recuperation on the right foot. Okay, God answers our prayers sometimes in the most ironic ways. In exchange for a bum foot, I now get my slow-down time and guess what? The world does go on without me. It's that darn ego working again, thinking only we can do the work that needs to be done. Sometimes, to get the best out of life, you must first give in to life. Life is paradox, for sure.

OUT OF THE DREGS AND INTO THE LIGHT

I've been in a real funk lately. Editing is one of the most mentally fatiguing tasks a person can undertake, especially if it's your own manuscript. On bended knee, I thank my critique partners for all their hard work and efforts in helping ISLAND PASSAGE come to a professional level. Impossible to have done it by myself. The mind sure plays tricks when it comes to editing, and my eyes have a habit of not picking up missed words, such as THE OR and IS, all the little buggers that can trip up a sentence. I find using a ruler helps in editing as my eyes are always anxious to quickly take in a line of manuscript, then jump down to the next. Not a good thing. My question is this: how can you love something so much when it causes such emotional distress? Writing is hard work, no doubt about it. The tough part is, we create something that only can be appreciated after the fact, meaning no physical structure to measure our progress. No one except a writer can appreciate the innumerable amount of hours spent in bringing a story to completeness. Although at this point, I'm beginning to see the light. Soon, I'll have to let this baby go and send it off to the printer. And then what? Well, my next project, of course!