Crossing the finish line at 8:59 p.m., November 26, at 50,068 words

By Margi Washburn

This was my fifth year to try and become a novelist in one month. I failed four times.

There were reasons, or excuses, for the times I didn't make it. Most of them were because I didn't have enough faith in myself. The story stunk, I hadn't prepared an outline, that sort of thing. It was never because of a lack of support, that's for sure. I can't imagine a more enthusiastic guy than my hubby. True, he has an ulterior motive; he seems to think that any book I write will become a best seller and we'll be able to retire with more money than we'll ever spend. He's too cool.

This time around I met with fellow scribes Susan, and her daughter, Emily. We wrote at McDonald's and the Pizza Hut, and we had a blast. There were few rules for our one-month odyssey, but one strong suggestion was to refrain from surfing the Internet in order to concentrate on the journey ahead of us. Susan and I tried, but when both places offered free Internet service, we couldn't help but jump into cyberspace for a few minutes. We called it research, a vital ingredient for any good novel.

Sometimes we sat and watched customers, and unashamedly eavesdropped on their conversations. It helped if the man, woman, or child was acting silly or was dressed a tad freaky; it added more padding to our starving stories and we took advantage every chance we got.

The first Saturday was dreary, windy, and cold. I forgot my CD player, and I spent too much time admiring Susan's new laptop. I couldn't help it; that was the coolest computer I'd seen in a while. I wanted to know if she'd had it built especially for her, and she had.

I did much better writing away from home. Maybe it was Sarah the pup, or the imposssible-to-ignore reruns of Law & Order, but I had to get away from the house. Once in a while I went to the library, but being around so many newspapers, magazines and books can be distracting. Besides, the library still doesn't have a coffee shop and I simply cannot write a novel without boatloads of caffeine. I'd hate to be the one and only patron kicked out on their rear for smuggling a thermos of coffee into the stacks, though a candy bar or two has made its way in from time to time.

The usual distractions for November came up, and some that were anything but usual. At the beginning of the month, the most vulnerable time to start something as time-consuming as this, our family lost one of its own, and we stopped to grieve for over a week. Thanksgiving came, and we took the time to celebrate, although this year was far different than any that came before. For one thing, instead of turkey, we had meatloaf and potato salad, two of my specialties. We gathered around a small kitchen table and gave thanks, sincerely and with a few tears.

Even though Susan, Emily and I only met twice, we continued our novels on our own, whenever we could find some spare time. It doesn't matter how much time we spent together, only that we did. They and their family had the usual and unusual interruptions too, and yet they continued the journey.

Last Sunday night I was at a little under 46,000 words and it was around 7:30. Normally, I don't head to bed until around 10, but I had to ask if it was all right to go up early and work on the book. Hubby didn't bat an eyelash at being saddled with Sarah, so I headed to the computer with the secret determination to finish that night.

When I sent the finished novel up to the verification site at 8:59 p.m., and the words, "you won!" appeared in front of me, I burst into tears and couldn't see the computer screen for a few minutes. I kept wiping my eyes, but they would fill up again. A certificate for the winners was available with a click of the mouse, so I printed a couple of them. They will be framed, but I had to bring one to show to the newsroom here at the paper on Monday.

Oh, the title of my novel is, "Old People Shouldn't Adopt Dogs", and it's a page-turner. The main character, a baby-boomer, tries to maintain her sanity despite being surrounded by a multi-generational dysfunctional family. She experiences a variety of jobs, all of which include a number of memorable bosses and co-workers.

The hard part is done, the writing is mostly over, and now the revision process begins. I just wish I could bottle the feeling that came over me so completely Sunday night.

Maybe I'll try to capture it again, next November.

Sometimes all you can do is sit by the window and wait

By Margi Washburn

I was cleaning out one home office and stuffing things into the bigger one when I found a quote that used to hang on the corkboard near my computer. It reads, “One of the oldest human needs is having someone wonder where you are when you don't come home at night.” These words, attributed to Margaret Mead, offer an insight many of us often overlook.

Those of us who have children can identify with wondering where our kids are, especially after they've reached a certain age and that usually continues until they've become responsible adults.Once they have kids of their own, or if they meet that special someone, then they suddenly understand what we really meant when we wanted to know where they were going and when they were coming home.

In the pre-teen and teenage years, the nights and weekends can seem unbearably long. Who are the kids with? What are they doing? Have they tried drugs? Alcohol? Has someone talked them into doing something stupid? The questions are as endless as the night, and sitting by the window staring into the empty driveway can bring the worst kind of scenarios to mind.

Children do eventually grow up and become responsible, but while we wait, we age a bit. As a humorous aside, I found out recently that according to one important source, I am listed as ten years older than I really am. I could be getting my coffee a lot cheaper at restaurants if that was true, but hey, 63 will come soon enough.

Worrying about our loved ones comes too naturally, don't you think? We don't assume they're all right; instead, we imagine the worst. Hubby's mom and some of the family were making regular trips out of state to visit a relative, and without fail, we would hear nothing for days. People would tell me that if anything bad had happened I would have heard about it. That didn't do a thing for me, except make me want to slap them and keep on wondering when the phone call would come.

I guess it doesn't matter how old our kids get, and it makes no difference if deep down we know better, we love our families and friends so much we can't help how we feel.

While on our way home the other night, hubby and I saw an Amber Alert for a missing child on a marquee on Main Street. My mind started down a path and before I knew it, I was asking myself how does a mom and dad deal with a missing child? What kind of thoughts run through their minds?

There is a huge difference between your son or daughter going out for the evening, and you're wondering it they'll hit a party or two before they return safely home. It's another matter entirely if they suddenly disappear and leave no trace. As someone who strings words together for a living, I have none to describe how this must feel.

Wait, there is one thing I know for certain.Wherever that child is, no matter their age or yours, there is something they must surely know and that is this: dad, mom, brother, and family everywhere do wonder where you are. We wonder, we care, we love you beyond measure, and some of us still sit by the window every now and then just in case. It's something we need to do, as much as you need us to. Margaret Mead was right about that.

She told us not be a-scared of the dark and to go on home

By Margi Washburn

I sat in church that Sunday morning and couldn't help but notice how the sun highlighted the child's hair. She was busy arranging papers and crayons before the service started; she had been coming for some time and she knew it would be time to be quiet soon.

When the time came for the children to come forward for their own mini-sermon, she skipped up to the front with at least a dozen other kids. I don't know how much of what was said sunk in, but the little girl was dutifully respectful while the pastor spoke. After their prayer, she walked back to sit with her parents and you could tell she was almost losing the urge to run. Kids love to run, you know, unless it's time to go to bed or to the doctor. But this young lady did not forget: no running in church.

I couldn't help but wonder that day about kids and their ability to forgive and forget. Okay, they don't always forget but it's different somehow. For instance, when hubby and I were visiting his mom one night and our niece was there, we got ready to leave. She's only three years old and as beautiful as they come. She also has that sweet gullibleness reserved for kids that age.

“You going home now?” she asked.

“Yup. It's late and we have to get to bed,” said hubby.

“But it's dark,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked from the window to the two of us.

“Oh, no, we'll have to stay here all night,” hubby said, as he sat back down.

Well, that was going to be a problem because our niece was spending the night there too, and now she wanted to know where we were going to sleep. We could see the worry on her little face so we assured her we would be okay. Coats on, we started for the door.

“You'll be okay,” she assured us. “Go home now.”

A few nights later we were getting ready to leave again, and you can guess what we heard. “You going home? You're a-scared of the dark. It's dark outside,” she said.

She didn't forget, and what she was thinking was written all over her face. At a mere three years old, our niece knew what it was like to be afraid of the dark and she cared enough to remind us.

I guess I can't stop wondering when kids stop caring, when forgiving and forgetting aren't a part of their makeup any more. I wonder when they remember one another's weaknesses and begin to exploit them, to turn against those they care for and instead use what they know to hurt one another.

It doesn't happen to the same degree with every child. And some kids simply refuse to hurt others; instead, they'll suck it up and try to work through the pain on their own. Sometimes that works and it teaches empathy. Other times it creates wound after wound that builds too many scars.

If all schools don't teach classes on a topic such as this, I wish they would. I've heard that some do because it's been reported that the technique used is similar to play-acting. A scenario is given and students act out both sides of a hurtful behavior until, hopefully, empathy is learned.

I have an idea about who could teach such a class. Actually, there are two little girls just perfect for the job. You've met them through this column and you won't find anyone more qualified. They know how to make the sun shine all the time, trust me.

Time to check out those cupboards, basements and attics

By Margi Washburn

A month or so ago hubby and I went to a holiday party. There was the familiar white elephant gift table with pretty, wrapped packages piled high and most of us were curious as kids about what was inside certain ones.

It was fun watching the unwrapping, then we would groan or gasp and watch as folks decided they wanted what someone else had. You remember how it is on Christmas morning with kids and their toys, only we were better-behaved than that. Really.

Hubby ended up getting a leather satchel which I promptly claimed for myself. I held onto it with both hands and kept a look on my face that I hoped would discourage anyone from wanting what we had.

I don't think anyone wanted my satchel. One of the most popular items was a George Foreman grill. I tried to understand why that was such a big deal; after all, we'd received one for Christmas a few years ago and I wasn't really impressed. (Gee, I hope our youngest isn't reading this.)

Maybe I should explain. If one fries burgers in a skillet, you wash one round surface. You put the pan in the sink and let it soak. It's easy. With the grill, I made a mistake. I let it cool down and it got all crusty. It seemed to take forever to clean it, so after I was done, the pretty, white oversized appliance went to live with other seldom-used items in my cupboard.

A week or so ago I happened to talk with the lady who won the grill at the party. She loves it. And she told me how she cleans hers, which is exactly how I'd heard you're supposed to. After you finish cooking and the grill is still warm, you wipe it with a damp sponge. Easy.

So, on a weekend with hubby watching, I dug out the grill. It was beautiful, all shiny and white. Miraculously, the cord was attached so I hadn't lost it. But the booklet was missing.

Ah, another miracle. I found it and guess what I learned? The grill was bought for me in the year 2000. The like-new appliance was five years old and it looked like we'd just taken it out of the box. Hubby just smiled and I knew why.

Throughout the years I have begged for and received a lot of things I thought I desperately wanted. An easel, a new steam iron, an iced tea brewer, a bread machine, a popcorn popper and I'm sure there are others. In fact, as I pulled out the grill I noticed a shiny silver thing with holes in it. Hubby was standing near the counter, so I set it there.

“What do you suppose this is?” I asked him.

“Don't know,” he said. He picked it up, turned it over, set it back down and shrugged.

“Think it goes in one of my pans?”

He nodded, then looked down at the collection of nearly-new pans. I pulled one out and the shiny pot fit nicely inside. A glass lid completed the ensemble.

“Why would that go together so perfectly?” I asked. We both looked at what I'd put together, then at each other.

Hubby laughed; there was no need to bring up for the umpteenth time that I'd bought something I would likely never use, so I took the pans apart and put them back in the cupboard.

The grill is sitting out now just waiting to be used. I'm making hamburgers tonight and I promise to fight the urge to use my favorite skillet. Besides, I just entered a contest to win an outdoor grill. I've always wanted one of those.

He lived in a silent world, and he filled it with laughter and love

By Margi Washburn

One of my favorite people in the world is an uncle on hubby's side of the family. Uncle Marvin looks an awful lot like Willie Nelson, lives in Georgia, and rarely makes it back to Kewanee. I miss seeing him driving around in his pickup truck on his way to a paint job, or stopping by forcoffee at his sister's house. You almost never see him without a giant coffee mug.

I may be the only one in the family who gets by with calling Uncle Marvin by his first name. To everyone else he's Uncle Rich, known by many and loved by us all. And no matter who it is you love, an uncle or aunt or cousin or friend, it affects you deeply when they get bad news.

We don't want our loved ones to get sick, lose their job, or worst of all, lose a child. That's exactly what happened early last Sunday morning.The first thing that went through my mind when we heard the news about our cousin Richie's untimely death, was how it had affected his dad. He was too many miles away to hug, and there wasn't anything we could do to comfort him over the telephone.

A steady stream of people came to Richie's calling hours, so we sat nearby and let old friends pay their respects, give hugs and shed tears. Even with all of those people around, I wanted to stand next to Uncle Marvin and be there for him in case he needed someone. It wasn't necessary because he was surrounded by Richie's brothers, sisters, and other family.At the funeral, even more people came.

Some wore suits and shiny shoes, some dressed in leather jackets and dusty cowboy boots. Some spoke in whispers, others cried, and a few communicated with sign language.All of us knew that Richie was born deaf, and as the pastor noted, he lived in a silent world, but one that he learned to adapt to. When someone couldn't understand what he was signing, he would write a note. He must have written a lot of them, because quite a few people laughed when that was mentioned.

Before pastor spoke, though, the first few notes of the song, “When I Get Where I'm Going” began playing and the tissues came out. The lyrics tell us, “don't cry for me down here” but most of us did anyway.We all found out some things his family shared with pastor. He had lots of friends, and a few of them did some strange things. For one, they painted him green on St. Patrick's Day. They also painted his shoes gray, but Richie just painted them black again and wore them anyway.

You know, Richie couldn't hear music but the selection for his funeral couldn't have been better. The second song was called, “Don't Laugh At Me” by Mark Wills. It's too easy for us to look at people who are different and if we don't laugh on the outside, maybe there's a chuckle inside. These lyrics should remind us how unkind that is: “I'm fat, I'm thin, I'm short, I'm tall. I'm deaf, I'm blind, Lord ain't we all.”

After pastor was finished, the last song was played. It's a familiar one, and it reached deep inside us and made us hear every word. “Jesus, Take the Wheel” played as we made our way past Richie one last time and out into the bright sunlight of an uncommonly warm fall afternoon.We drove slowly to the cemetery and it made me smile when I saw an elderly man on a bicycle waiting patiently for us to pass.

Just before we turned into Pleasantview, a young man on a bicycle saw us coming and rode on ahead. I found out later that his family couldn't make it because they were stuck in traffic, so they sent him to record the rest of the service on video.

It seemed inappropriate to speak the words, “what a beautiful day” when we were gathered together for such an occasion, but Richie would encourage us to say just that. Besides, I believe with all my heart that just as some of us were really hearing those songs for the first time yesterday, Richie was too. He was a special guy, and he had to have been a terrific friend to lots of people to have so many come to say goodbye.Looking out over that crowd, I'd have to say it really was a beautiful day, in a lot of ways.

When the story trips my tears, it's time to change the channel

By Margi Washburn

They say that the reading of scary books soars during troubled times. The same goes for the phenomenal success of horror and suspense movies. I am paraphrasing here, but Stephen King has said that we look to this kind of entertainment to take our minds off of what's happening all around us. We see what awful things are happening to fictional characters, believing that something that frightening could never happen to us.

I always thought my love of the macabre came from my mom. She brought sis and I up on scary stories of all kinds, but I think my sister tends to shy away from that kind of thing. Plenty of people think I'm a bit odd because I love cloudy days, storms of all kinds, horror flicks and books; it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember.

As hubby and I were settling down to watch television the other night, it was about time for the local news. The headlines for upcoming stories were given. Hubby had the remote control, something that's allowed in our home now and then, when we heard that the upcoming news would be about the retrial of Sarah Kolb. Click.

The next channel started in on an inside investigation at a Quad City pet store. We heard puppies yelping and I threw my hands up. “I can't watch that. Sorry.” I began to get out of my chair.

“Well, if you can't watch it, neither can I,” said hubby and he changed the channel one more time.

The lead story this time was on the Baptist church arsonists. At the time of this writing, there have been ten such unsolved fires. My heart broke – again.

Along with the above, stories were coming about rampant fraud with Hurricane Katrina money, a mom who mutilated her baby, another mom who left her child in a car that caught fire, and a husband and father who killed his wife and child. It was more than enough.

“Let's watch Seinfeld,” I said, with a catch in my throat.

I'm not ashamed that we ran away from the truth to watch a Seinfeld rerun for the umpteenth time. We've seen these shows so often we can say the lines before the actors do. But Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer seem like old friends. We even like Newman because he makes us laugh.

We do watch dramas, or comedy-dramas like Boston Legal. Who wouldn't want a lawyer on their side like Alan Shore? James Spader, in our humble opinion, is superb as an attorney for the underdog. We loved watching him get Betty White's character off for murder and for robbing convenience stores – with a gun, no less.

I love to watch Still Standing because the parents are so awful that I know we've done a much better job raising our own kids. Ghost Whisperer and Medium are fun, spooky escapism; besides being creepy, the shows depict loving relationships with family and friends.

As I get ready to leave for work after the nasty storm we had this morning, I notice that my book of choice is a suspenseful story, likely full of murder and mayhem. I'll read it knowing that there's nothing in my life nearly as bad as all of that.

I guess what it comes down to is this: I want to choose my drama. I don't like it to be so personal, so tragic to real families and friends and little puppies and kittens. I want people to make it their personal goal to be kind to one another, care for each other and look for the good in everyone. Let writers use their imaginations to come up with the bad guys and gals. We don't need any more reality television in our lives, do we?

A snowy, cold, windy and beautiful night for a birthday

By Margi Washburn


By now it's Friday and I'll bet most of you have forgotten what last Saturday afternoon and night was like.

The wind blew, the snow fell and driving in that stuff was a bona-fide nightmare, especially if you have a car with no front-wheel drive.

There are probably many families who throw one party a month to celebrate multiple birthdays. Lots of kids have several sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and other loved ones who buy gifts for them throughout their birthday month so they're pretty cool with having their party a little later. Just don't try and skip it altogether because they know where you live and they have your number.

It was dark when I got off of work Saturday. It was also one of the nastiest weather days we've had and we hadn't bought the gifts yet. Before we could do that, I had to throw in some supper and gulp it down. My phone was in my purse so I didn't notice that the grandkids had called three times to ask us where we were. I called to let them know it would be about half an hour.

Really dumb move.

We set out for the store to get a football and a soccer ball. There were two grandsons and a niece to buy for. You can probably see where this is going.

The snow came heavier as we left the house – in the car with no front-wheel drive. “Should we take the little red car?” I asked.

“No, I think this one'll do fine,” said hubby. I hung onto the door handle and prayed.

We slid our way to the store and I sent him to buy the sports equipment. I headed for coffee creamer, gift bags and birthday candles. He was very proud of his find and showed me the bargain he'd made – a football with a pump, just like our grandson wanted, along with the soccer ball his brother had asked for. I tried fitting the toys into their bags and it looked like everything would work.

We checked out, slid our way to the car and I noticed we should have picked up the kids five minutes before. And the snow was coming down harder. I felt a bit of panic as I dusted snow off the car windows.

As we made our way around the S curve, I almost asked The Question. It wasn't necessary. “You think we should go home and switch cars?” he asked.

I made the call to the grandkids. We got home, unloaded the trunk and put the gifts in the other trunk. Little Red was out of gas so we stopped to get some before picking up the kids. One of them was chipper, the other little guy looked like he'd been ready to call it a night.

We told him that his cousin was looking forward to seeing him again since it had been a while. “Yeah,” he said, “she'll probably tackle me like she did last year.” Who knew that eight-year-olds had such good memories?

We got to their great-grandma's house and while grandpa wrapped their gifts in the car, the kids caught up with one another. The gifts were brought in and placed on the counter and that's when it hit me: we forgot our niece's gift. I had a blank card in my purse; the money went in it and it went into the pile.

The kids decided after opening gifts and eating cake and ice cream that it would be fun to play outside – in the dark and the still-falling snow. Out they went with the new soccer ball and football. It didn't take long for the youngest to come in and stare at us with big sad blue eyes.

“My ball is lost,” he said.

Well, if you're going to play with a soccer ball in the snow, in the dark, you're likely to misplace it for a while. But grandpa found it and all was well.

A few minutes later, our niece came in with snow all over her hair. “Why didn't you wear your hat?” I asked.

“I don't have one,” she said.

“It's hooked to your coat.”

She smiled. “I like snow in my hair. It makes it look all glittery.”

I could see that.

Eventually the kids found their way back to the kitchen where we were gathering up things to go home. We said our good-byes, gave hugs and piled into the car. We dropped the boys off and we thought that this had been just another party, no big deal, until I heard the oldest birthday boy say,

“Hey! Grandpa got me a football and it has a pump!”

It was a beautiful night after all.

Sometimes a cheap turkey can be a pain in the neck

By Margi Washburn

Wednesday was a surreal day. Leaves were falling by the hundreds, the buzzy things most of us call ladybugs were out and about and in our hair, the sun had warmed us up to over 70 degrees and there was a sale on turkeys.

Halloween was over, Thanksgiving is looming and the media is freaking everyone out about bird flu. Hubby decided I should run out and grab turkeys before they caught a bug and made us sick. I’d just healed my aches and pains but went out and got a couple of gigantic turkeys to stick in the freezer.

As I type this my back is making funny twinges. I did something similar when we lived in Tucson. Back then I had a short fuse and the day came when turkeys were on sale for something like 29 cents a pound. I ran into a really big grocery story after work and headed for the meat department. It wasn’t hard to spot the sale.

About half a dozen women were gawking into the freezer where the turkeys were waiting. They all looked the same to me, but the lady shoppers seemed transfixed by the mound of cheap poultry. I lost my patience, or I never had any and I reached through the middle of the crowd, yanked a turkey out and slapped it in the cart. I’m sure I said something too, and I’m glad I don’t remember what it was.

The next day as I got ready for work I noticed I could only lift my left arm so far. Strange, but I got dressed and went on to work.

The range I could work my arm got less and less and the pain worse, so my supervisor took me to the emergency room. The doctor asked me if I’d recently moved anything heavy or lifted something I shouldn’t have. Nothing came to mind, but he gave me pain pills and we went back to work.

Well, I don’t take many meds so these hit me pretty hard. As a customer service representative, all I did was wear a headset and talk to customers. It became obvious that slurring my words wasn’t reflecting well on the company so I was asked to do some filing instead.

I giggled as I filed and before long, co-workers and my supervisor noticed that I wasn’t being serious about following the alphabet. Someone decided I should be given a ride home.

In the back of my mind I kept wondering what it was I did to bring on the pain. As often happens, when we’re not trying so hard to figure something out the answer comes.

I’d lost my temper, yanked the turkey and now it was turning into an expensive lesson.

That happens a lot. We get wrapped up in our jobs, our problems and in other peoples’ business and it ends up costing us. Our health suffers, so do our friendships. Sometimes we lose dear friends because we ignore them or we make promises we can’t keep.

My day had started early and was filled to the brim with running around and trying to accomplish things. Thankfully the memory hadn’t faded from the lesson learned in Tucson. I made it a point to enjoy the moments, the time spent with family, talking with friends and listening to what they were really saying. Don’t fool yourself - people know when you’re paying attention to them and when your mind is on other things.

This is the perfect time of year to slow down and look around. You will hear the opposite advice if you listen to the commercials that urge us to buy, buy, buy and hurry before it’s too late. I’ve done that, so you can learn from me. If you’re not careful, you could end up with a pain that no medicine can touch. You’re much too wise to let that happen, I’m sure of it.