Five novels, two memoirs and other writerly stuff

Just one of my NaNoWriMo winning certificates. I plan to be a part of the group again this November - something I look forward to almost as much as my birthday.




Have you ever found yourself in the middle of a big project and wondered how in the blazes you got yourself into it? I’m in one of those now and for the life of me I don’t recall how it all began.

In November of 2005 (I think) I wrote a novel of sorts for National Novel Writing Month (NaNo for short). Could be I started a year or so before and just never quite got to the 50,000-word mark but I do have a mound of paper with a story in it sitting on my desk, so there you go. An explanation: in order to “win” at NaNo you must write at least 50,000 words. You get a nifty certificate suitable for framing for your efforts, so it’s well worth it.

There are also novels for 2006, 2007, 2008 and 2009. I skipped 2010 simply because there was no time. Some stressful personal stuff was happening and adding a novel to the mix was not going to work. Thing is, by not writing in November like tens of thousands of others made for its own kind of stress but hey, 2011 is another chance to slap some words on paper again.

All but one of the novels has a working title, and every single one needs a massive amount of work. I’m not discouraged by this because basically these thousands of words could be called an outline, something I wouldn’t have had without NaNo.

There is a murder mystery, a family drama, a business-type story and the untitled piece is a mystery to me because I’ve not re-read any of them. Once I found them on the computer I printed them out and soon I’ll pick one to work on. It’s much easier to have a paper copy to edit than try to strain the ol’ eyeballs for hours at a stretch on a computer screen.

Printing hundreds of pages requires ink and paper, and I ran out of both on both printers. Some copies ended up on blue paper but that was fine; however, when you run out of ink that’s not so good. I made a trip to the store, got ink, ran out again and made another trip.

Lessons learned along the way included remembering to use single spacing (uses less paper, but not the best for editing); using the ink-saving feature on the printers; and for goodness sake, keep track of what’s already been printed so you don’t print the same novel twice. I may have wasted ink, which makes me want to slap someone, but I’ll use the other side of the paper for the other two non-fiction books left to print.

A big part of this job is finding all I’ve written, getting it organized and into a word-processing program. Everything is printed, then clipped to keep it in order. Oh, and another lesson learned: put page numbers on everything. I was planning to use a three-hole punch on each book and put them into binders, but that’s a waste of time and effort. Giant paper clasps work much better and take about two seconds to attach.

I know the reason for this work-in-progress, even if I don’t remember how it all began. There are more publishing opportunities for writers now than ever and since the conventional means hasn’t worked for many of us, we have to look for other methods.

One more thing, and it’s pretty cool. Looks like a new writers group will start up this month. I’m excited, and when there’s more to tell, I’ll let you know. Provided I remember, of course.

If I could pick friends as family, these two would be a part of ours

Someday we'll meet again, as we all eventually travel on ahead of loved ones. The important thing is that we all reunite at the same destination.


There are some people who come into your life and leave a loving and deep impression. You may see them often or years could go by before you meet up again. They are the ones who make us smile whenever a memory pops into our head, and even after too much time apart it feels like no time at all has passed. They’re special, and when we lose them for good, at least here on earth, they are irreplaceable.

Donna was one such friend. She never forgot to send a birthday card, never looked at you without a smile on her face that went all the way up to her eyes and was always ready with a hug. She had a way of getting you to talk about yourself and making you comfortable doing it.

Her work ethic was unmatched. When we both belonged to the Evangelical Covenant Church, Donna volunteered to be its janitor. At one point I was doing the sanctuary cleaning—vacuuming, dusting, cleaning out the pews and such. But Donna did the heavy stuff. She cleaned the kitchen, the tile floors, the Sunday school rooms and nursery. She didn’t just wipe a mop across the floors and the steps; she got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed because, as she pointed out with that smile of hers, “You just can’t get ‘em clean in the corners when you use a mop.”

Not many saw Donna cleaning since the church was almost always empty then, but we saw the results. And she knew Who she was cleaning for and she felt honored to do it. Donna passed away last week and I’m going to miss her like I haven’t missed someone in a long, long time.

A few days ago I said good-bye to someone else high up there on my list of friends I’ll never forget. Hubby and I watched Pastor Bruce on television most Sunday mornings, and I almost always took notes. As soon as he’d hit a topic close to my heart I’d say, “I sure hope so-and-so heard that!” Then, without fail, I’d realize the message was meant for me. That never got old.

Late Sunday afternoon I was leaving the office when I caught the sound of a car idling. I looked across the street and saw Bruce walking slowly down the steps of the church, holding a cake. He glanced my way and called my name.

As the sun set and cars traveled back and forth on Main, we met in the middle of Central Boulevard and spoke briefly. “I’m going to miss you,” I said, feeling the deep sadness so many of us felt as we watched him preach in Kewanee for the last time that morning.

“I’m going to miss you too,” he replied. He carefully waved the cake as he added, “This is my home, and I’ll miss it.”

I don’t remember what else we said, but it was short and bittersweet. United Methodist pastors often are moved after four or five years, and we were blessed to have Bruce for nine. It’s going to feel strange for a while to not see him standing in the pulpit on Sunday.

It’s likely we’ll see Bruce again; after all, he and his family are only about an hour away. And here’s the thing. He’s that kind of friend I told you about, and when we do run into one another again we’ll pick up where we left off. I love that in a friend, no matter where they are.

Here's to the guy who makes it all worthwhile

Here's my guy, out doing his favorite thing. He's the best--always has been, always will be.


Sunday is Father’s Day. And like wives who don’t expect their husbands to acknowledge them on Mother’s Day, the same holds true for guys (like mine) who don’t expect to be given gifts and mushy stuff from their wives on that special day. Sons and daughters should handle those two holidays; after all, their father and mother gave them birth, right? If not for them, they wouldn’t be here. (And no, I’m not ignoring adopted children. I just have no experience in that area.)

We’re bombarded with heart-tugging commercials, usually from Hallmark, prior to Father’s Day that show the perfect dad and his son or daughter. My throat usually closes up and my eyes fill with tears as I ask myself: Is this what fatherhood is all about? Eating Oreo cookies at one second after midnight on Sunday with Dad? Or hunting caterpillars in the garden and taking a splinter out of a small toe?

In my opinion, it’s so much more than that. And remember, this is my opinion so I could be wrong.

I believe fathers show they love and care about their kids by being good role models. They stay true to their wives and treat them with love and respect, know how to have fun, work hard, and teach life lessons (honesty, integrity, compassion and more.) I know I’ve left out a few things but I think you get the idea.

Parents make mistakes. Every single mom and dad out there has made mistakes. It’s how we own up to them that matters. I’ve heard “I’m sorry” come from my mouth and hubby has said those same words over the years. It doesn’t diminish us to admit we’re wrong; it opens the door for the recipient to practice forgiveness, another admirable quality in a father—or anyone.

In case the kids have forgotten what their dad has done for them and with them throughout the years, I have pictures and journals to remind them. I’ve done the same for our grandsons, and one day I’ll hand those over so they can relive an important part of their childhood.

We’re told we shouldn’t live in the past, though it’s fun and sometimes eye-opening to visit now and then. And we can’t count on the future because none of us knows for certain what’s in store. The present is where we should focus, and to me the reason we have such a blessed life now is because the man of the house worked hard, stayed true and lives his life as an example of what it means to be a great husband and father.

Yeah, I know. This is probably the mushiest Father’s Day note ever but I mean every word of it. If your dad is still around, please take the time to show him how much he means to you. Not just this weekend, but every day.

Let's not take one another for granted

Have you ever noticed how easy it is to take people and things for granted and forget how lucky you are to have either? I have.

Even though sometimes I’m busier than a one-armed paper hanger I make the time to read. Usually I have three books going at once: one by the bed, one by my chair in the living room and one in a travel bag that goes with me out of town every Monday.

Someone at the Star Courier left two Michael Connelly paperbacks on my desk about a year ago and now I’m hooked on the guy’s stories. I finished a Connelly book, plus the crime novel in the travel bag and I wanted to leave the Murder, She Wrote tale by the bedside. The bookshelves didn’t yield anything interesting, so I sat in the living room and began to panic about having nothing to read.

Boy, you talk about a “slap to the forehead” moment. A glance to the right brought my Nook into view. There are no words to describe what I was thinking at that moment.
Not counting this week, there are over 150 books on my Nook. They aren’t all novels; I have cookbooks, biographies, memoirs and all kinds of other things, including Reader’s Digest. Almost everything was free or close to it. And here I thought I had nothing to read. How could I forget one of the best birthday gifts ever?

Something else got my brain cells going the other day. Both of the guys were gone for quite a while and I was home with just the sleeping dog for company. As someone who has never lived on her own, and I mean never (unless you count the time I ran away from home for less than 10 hours when I was a teenager), I thought it would be cool to have some time to myself.

As the door closed behind our son, it hit me: So, I thought, this is what it’s like to be alone. I didn’t like it one bit.

The hours stretched and I got little done. It occurred to me that, in time, this could actually happen. I’ll have all the time I need to get things done and there’ll be time left over to think too much about how busy and fun life used to be.

The other day we were talking about this and that and I don’t know how it came up, but hubby said he would rather have me around than a million bucks. We laughed, but he was serious. “I guess you’ve grown on me,” he said. “I’m kinda used to having you around.”

Then it hit me. I may take some things for granted and forget a few of them, but I’ll never take the people closest to me for granted. And though they’ve grown on me too, I want them to be around for a long, long time.

Everything we see is temporary...do what you need to do while you still can

I took this photo on the way home from Cambridge one Monday afternoon. Instead of being frazzled and frustrated because I was stuck in traffic for a bit, I took advantage of the situation. Got a beautiful shot, and kept my blood pressure down. Win-win.


“If money was no object, and you could live anywhere you wanted, where would you go?”

My better half thought for a few seconds. “I’m not sure I want to live anywhere else but it would be fun to travel.”

Then he just had to add, “Traveling with you would be like hell on wheels.”

He’s probably right.

I have a problem with heights, sheer drop-offs, bridges, insects (especially spiders, bees, wasps and such), snakes, green scaly things, bats, open-back staircases. You get the idea.

A few months into our first year of marriage we visited some caves in Missouri. I had a great time except for wearing the wrong clothes and shoes. It was hot outside, but inside was no place for shorts and flip-flops. At one point during a climb or a descent the cave went completely pitch dark and I froze. It’s something I do in a panic and no amount of persuasion was going to get me to move, and that was after the light returned and I was told I was holding up the line. That may have been our last “extreme” vacation.

I read fellow columnist John Sloan’s vacation pieces with more than a tinge of sadness, simply because he and his lovely wife seem to have such a blast doing crazy, fun and (to me) dangerous things. In my mind they’re living life to the fullest, the way God intended.

Gee, on last year’s trip to Branson I was so freaked with the maniacal traffic I completely missed the scenery. I heard it was awesome.

These thoughts came to me after reading columnist Leonard Pitts’s piece on the reasons to live our lives to the fullest. He wrote, “Get done what you came here to do, give the gifts you were meant to give, do the good you’re able to do, say what you need to say, now, today, because everything you see is temporary, the clock is ticking and the alarm could go off any second.”

Wish I’d said that.

I hope I get done what I came here to do, but sometimes it takes us years to figure out just what that is. And the gift-giving part is easy enough because it can mean all kinds of things, material or otherwise.

Many of us try to do good but we all slip and fall in that area. The trick is to keep trying.

As far as saying what we need to say, now, today—well, that’s a toughie. Our words can get us into deep trouble, the kind that it’s nearly impossible to free ourselves from no matter how hard we try. On the flip side, we too often hold back what we really want to say, time passes, and before we know it, it’s too late. The relationship is beyond repair and we move on, hoping to never repeat what happened.

It’s true. The clock is ticking and the alarm could go off at any time. Maybe we should open ourselves up to new opportunities, new places to visit and/or live, keeping in mind that as far as anyone knows, this is It. We don’t get another go-round, so let’s make the most of it.

Now all I need is a wee bit of courage and a windfall of cash and I’m good to go.

Looney Tunes and a new water heater

I got Sylvester last Christmas, and he watches over me while I work upstairs. He's sporting a God Bless America button and his right paw rests on my printer.


I could hear his voice coming from far away as I worked on a story in the upstairs foyer Tuesday morning. Since it was impossible to make out what my better half was saying, I didn’t pay much attention until the words got louder and much more understandable. The bearer of bad news was standing in the front hallway looking up at me.

I’ll not quote all of what was said here; suffice it to say, though, something serious was going on.

“Well,” he said, “that’s going to cost us about $200. Maybe $300 or more.”

I hadn’t heard any explosions or odd noises so I looked over the banister and waited for the rest of the news.

“Looks like we’ll need a new water heater.” Well, of course we did. The old one was almost two years past its six-year warranty. Golly, it should’ve gone bad much sooner.

After I was through thinking really bad thoughts, I got busy comparison shopping. That took about five minutes and soon the old tank was out and the shiny new one was on its way. That’s when I decided to take a break from worrying about the giant-sized drain hole in the budget and go watch some TV.

I’ve discovered that Looney Tunes is back in action at 11 a.m. every weekday. How cool is that? I can’t get upset when I’m watching Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam fight to win a mayoral election only to have it end up with both fine candidates losing. Tweety Pie and Sylvester followed that with a tale of the poor cat joining a 12-step program to help rid him of his addiction to birds. That didn’t go well either, and I could sympathize a little bit. I’d fail any program that tried to separate me from chocolate. Not going to happen.

Cartoons ended and that’s when we gathered for a brief lunch. One of the guys was studying for college finals, and the other had a water heater to install. And here’s what I find so funny about this type of thing: The new appliance arrives, and you think you have all the parts and fittings and what-not, but you don’t. That will take maybe three or four trips back to the store (and with the price of gas, you can tack on even more money to the cost), and Voila! Ten hours later we had hot water and everyone, especially the plumber, was tired but happy.

I did find out a few things. One, cold baths aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Two, most of us take ordinary things like hot water for granted. And three, while having a water heater poop out on us wasn’t a good thing, it wasn’t the end of the world either.

One very special note: Congratulations, son, on your graduation today. Your dad and I could not possibly be more proud of you.

Taking some time to just "be still"

“When this world gets crazy/And tries to break me/And I had all I can stand/I can close my eyes no matter where I am/And just be still.” (From “Still” by Tim McGraw)



One quiet morning I sat alone at the kitchen table, newspapers to the left and fresh hot coffee to the right. No one else was up yet; even the dog was sleeping in.

Thoughts of the day’s schedule interrupted the solitude and no matter what I tried, they refused to go away. I reached for the TV remote and found the country music channel.

As I sipped coffee and read the latest news, music played softly but I didn’t pay much attention to it. Although I can multi-task pretty well, I chose to concentrate on happenings around the world. The news was enough to give a person a headache.

When I got up to refill my coffee I noticed the next video was from Tim McGraw. This guy is very easy on the eyes, so I squinted to see which song he would sing. Ah, time to sit back, shut the newspaper and turn up the volume.

The video opened with a train barreling toward its destination with a backdrop of racing clouds indicating time passing too quickly. Full trees shadowed in silhouette stood completely still as everything around them moved too fast.

Many of us have racing thoughts now and then. They can happen anytime—during the day, or, if what’s on our minds is too stimulating we can experience them as we try to get a good night’s sleep.

As my coffee cooled, untouched, I watched the memories race around McGraw. Fond memories of childhood, first loves and more flew by like the days, weeks, months and years tend to do. Once the song ended, I turned down the volume and waited for my own memories to surface.

I thought of the time our little family went fishing at Johnson’s Park, probably over 30 years ago. Our youngest was still in a playpen, and once he was safely inside it I took out the camera to get some pictures of the other two guys.

While his dad set up shop at the lake’s edge, our oldest came trudging down the hill holding a tackle box and a couple of fishing poles. I asked him to stop so I could snap a picture and I guess it took a little too long. As I fussed with the camera, he said, “Just take the picture already, will ya?”

That picture is around here somewhere and the expression on our son’s face says it all. He’s impatient to get on with his plans and he doesn’t have the time to stop for even a few seconds.

Time is precious, memory is fleeting and pictures are nice to have to remind us of our past in case we’ve forgotten a thing or two. I’m glad I had a few moments the other day to listen to a song that reminded me that it’s a good idea to take some time to just be still.

Easter, Mom and Sheffield, Illinois - beautiful memories

That's Mom and me on the left. This photo of just the two of us has been uploaded to my Nook so I can see it every day. Makes me smile all over...I love Mom, and I wish I could have known her better.


She has a white scarf wrapped around her head, and it’s keeping her wavy black hair firmly in place, though a few strands have worked themselves loose to hang over her right eye. Mom is holding me in her arms, a little girl of about 3. I’m wearing a white knitted hoodie, my dark hair blown back by the wind that folded Mom’s gingham apron up against my leg. Short black pants, white anklets and white shoes complete my outfit. Mom wears a half smile and we both stare intently into the camera. At this time in our lives, my mother looks the picture of health.

It’s weird, but I think of her more around Easter than at any other time. The holiday beats her birthday or the day she left for good, so I’ve tried to figure out the reason why.

Today is Good Friday but holidays begin weeks ahead of time in our stores. Bunnies, Easter clothing and baskets, and candy have been around a while and I’ve had time to think about Mom and why she comes so strongly to mind now.

The first Easter I remember was when our little family lived behind the tavern on the highway as you come into Sheffield. Sis must have been asleep in her crib when the knock came on the door early that Sunday morning. Mom told me to close my eyes and turn away. She opened the door, murmured something to the visitor, closed the door and told me to open my eyes. She was holding a basket with more candy than I’d ever seen.

While I looted the goodies, a neighbor was outside hiding money and more candy all over—in bushes and around the yard. For me that first Easter set the standard for all those that would follow. It must have made an impression on Mom because she saw to it that no matter how tough times were, her girls were going to have an Easter basket every single year.

The last year of her life when Mom could no longer get around without assistance of some kind, she somehow found someone to bring baskets to the house while we were out. She spent a lot of her time sitting at the kitchen table, so she wanted to make sure the baskets were close when she told us to find them. We had to hurry, though, because their hiding place that last year was in our oven, and that was when a pilot light was always on. Melting chocolate might be messy but it was still delicious.

It’s been almost 40 years since Mom’s been gone, and that long since sis and I have had an Easter basket. It doesn’t seem right to buy our own and none of them would come close to the ones we got from our mother anyway.

The photograph described at the beginning of this piece was sent to me last year by some new-found family from my dad’s side. I scanned the picture into the computer then transferred it to my Nook e-reader. Every day when I turn on the Nook I get to see Mom holding me close and it makes me smile.

I wish you all a happy Easter.

Has it been five whole years already? I guess so. Wow.

This is one of my favorite pics of Sarah. That afternoon she was bathed in a golden glow, and I had to get this shot of her before the angelic look turned into her true doggy self: rambunctious, needy, and almost always underfoot. I can't believe how much I love her.


I don’t know when it stopped bothering me to pet Sarah Jane every single night of the week as she sits beside my chair in the living room.

We usually begin by watching Wheel of Fortune, but most nights at that time Sarah and her devoted master are on their second walk of the day. Just before their nightly jaunt the dog gets the urge to “pray” by jumping up on the sofa. She inches close to her master, closes her eyes, bows her head and leans it against his leg. She won’t move until he says, “Well….”

At that point her head pops up (prayer answered again!), she descends to the floor and stands in front of her guy. Her whole body wiggles and her wagging tail creates the nicest breeze.

Once the two return Sarah takes her place next to my chair and turns her head around to look at me. The petting begins and it only ends when the pooch has had her fill, then it’s off to recline on her own sofa.

Side note here: Yes, the dog has her own sofa, and it’s the nicest one we own. We’ve watched others try to sit on it only to find a nearly 100-pound dog snuggled against them. It doesn’t matter if Sarah was on the sofa first or not, she simply doesn’t want any human beings using it. Eventually the massive paws in their face will cause the person to stand up and walk away.

The other night hubby asked me why I was petting the dog. I could understand the question; after all, I’ve complained about it off and on for a long time. If I’m watching a show, it’s not enough—I need to be reading a book or writing or talking on the phone. And if one hand is busy petting the dog, it’s hard to multi-task.

At some point it occurred to me that one day my hand will slide over the arm of the chair to pet my dog and she won’t be there. Don’t get me wrong; Sarah’s fine, but dogs don’t live nearly long enough for my liking and I’m going to spend as much time with our girl as I can.

This four-legged buddy is unique, in my opinion. I don’t know how she does it but Sarah can make each of us feel like we’re her favorite person. She gets what she wants and needs from all of us, and gives back even more.

Sarah has changed a bit over the last five years. She no longer counter-surfs, or rips the drapes (and rod) off the windows, and she stopped nibbling on the grandfather clock quite some time ago. But she hasn’t stopped barking at squirrels, cats, rabbits or other dogs so I guess she’s not quite perfect.

Those of you who are blessed with pets know what it’s like to be in their company. They light up their corner of the world (or sofa), and they are more than happy to share their love with us.

As for Sarah, we’re welcome anywhere she happens to be—almost. And that’s fine with us.

Connecting with the stories, the people around us

I titled this A Man and His Dog. I've always admired guys who have a soft heart for animals, and my guy has that and more. After reading the column below, he told me he must be a 'morph.' But that's not true. Hubby is an 'empath' through and through...no doubt about it.


I’m reading a Michael Connelly novel called The Narrows, and the story reminds me of a favorite TV show, Criminal Minds. In both there is a department of the FBI that deals with profiling. Through one of the main characters Connelly describes two kinds of people who work within this department: morphs and empaths.

Morphs, according to the character, are people who are much like the people they hunt. They are able to move on like the serial killers they go after without letting the horror and guilt get to them. The agents could take those experiences and morph them into something else.

Empaths, on the other hand, took everything in and kept it in. These folks used their experiences to “connect and motivate, to get the job done.” In this character’s opinion, it was easier on a person to be a morph; eventually an empath will get worn down and out.

I’ve noticed these descriptions can apply in many areas. Think about it. I can see police officers, judges, those in the medical field—the list is long and varied. And I see newspaper reporters planted firmly within that list.

April is National Autism Awareness Month. On Saturday, National Autism Awareness Day, I met with another family impacted by this still-mysterious condition. This time I met with Dylan, his mother Chrissy and his grandmother Karen.

We decided to meet at McDonald’s. We didn’t think to mention how we would know one another, so just before 1:30 I walked in and began looking for a young woman with a four-year-old boy. What I saw was a very busy restaurant full of young parents, and boys and girls bouncing around, standing in booths and talking in loud voices. How would I find Dylan?

There was one woman standing in line to get a soft drink who caught my attention. She kept turning around and staring at a woman and child in an inner booth. I was to meet two people, so this was probably not the right person.

But it was. Grandmother Karen was keeping an eye out for me and watching her grandson. We gathered together and between Chrissy and Karen I got the story about Dylan. His story and the second half of Griffin Watson’s journey with autism will be published in the April 13 issue of Lifestyles.

You’ll get to meet Dylan and his family and find out what they’ve been through, from diagnosis to a profound lack of resources in our area to deal with autism. Griffin’s story continues with the arrival of his service dog, a yellow Labrador named Nokia, who is a huge help to the little guy and his family.

While the month of April was chosen to represent autism awareness, it’s simply not enough. We talked about how other diseases and conditions seem to be discussed all year long while some others get a month and after that there is nothing until a year later. It reminded me of being a kid whose mom was on welfare and we got a food basket for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. Obviously we needed food far more often than twice a year, but we were thankful for what was given to us.

As I got ready to leave, Karen handed me a blue light bulb, another visible reminder to raise autism awareness. I took it, thanked them all, and left.

When I got into my car I couldn’t quite bring myself to drive away until the tears stopped. Guess that means I’m an empath. I hope that never changes; there are many more stories to tell and I plan to empathize with them all.

Where is he?

This is Gary - many of you know him. He's the main reason I'm trying so hard to find Clint. His dad is gone now and we miss him more than ever. We couldn't contact Clint to let him know his grandpa was sick or that he had died. I just can't let this go until I feel there is nowhere else to turn. In this electronic age I would think there has to be something I'm overlooking and that's why I'm trying everything I can think of, hoping someday to see our son again.


The photo on the right is the one being used for a Clint Washburn Facebook page, a page many of his friends and acquaintances are associated with. We can't seem to find anyone who has heard from him or who gets an answer from him when they write.



I really did not want to write this entry.

A few months back a brother-in-law came home tipsy, not an uncommon occurrence, but something he said during a rambling moment cut hubby and me to the core.

We were sitting around his mom's kitchen table and the subject of our missing son came up. It was then that we heard this family member say that he and our nephew knew where our son "probably" was and that they knew he was fine.

I felt such a range of emotions I can't put them into words. I think my husband aged a year in that few seconds.

With one look from his mom, my brother-in-law shut right up and laughed off our facial expressions and unasked question: just WHERE IS OUR SON?

I'm guessing most of you would have physically jumped the guy and demanded answers, but in this family you don't do that. You keep your mouth shut and...pray. That's it. We're supposed to just pray about it and wait for an answer.

Well, I've had it. I DO pray - dozens of times throughout the day but I also believe that you have to sometimes take action.

I've written to ask the nephew for information, then I e-mailed him. No answer.

This family full of praying members has splintered, probably beyond repair, and we're as puzzled as we can possibly be. I cannot imagine what keeps us from coming together, what awful thing we (or I) have done to cause this giant rift.

So, here I am - again - pleading for some guidance in how to go about finding our son. I'm getting a very bad feeling about the outcome, no matter how bright a spin I try to put on it.

This family stopped asking about our son years ago, as if he doesn't exist anywhere anymore. That is simply not acceptable, or Christian.

I'm open to ideas. And if anyone is ready with criticism about this post, do me a favor: pray about it first. Because like I said, I really did not want to post this. As a mom and a wife I just had to.

Thanks.

Never let anyone define you - define yourself

Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself. (Harvey Fierstein)

The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just. (Abraham Lincoln)



I was working downstairs Saturday when Sarah Jane came running through the living room. No one was chasing her, but soon it was evident the dog was in trouble. Then I heard a word that doesn’t belong in a family-friendly newspaper and it all came together: husband painting a wall plus a dog opening the laundry room door explained the bright blue streak on Sarah’s right side. It wasn’t a pretty color combo.

After a few tries I cornered the poor pooch, and with a wet towel we got her cleaned up. One could say that even though she looked fine, Sarah was still blue—just in a different way.

Most of us might admit we’ve felt blue on occasion. Some folks feel out of sorts when winter drags on too long, or after they see a sad movie, or for dozens of other reasons.

There are those who can shake off the “blues”; they are strong enough to let go of whatever is coloring their world, and look toward the future without shedding tears or losing sleep.

I found the first quote above on Facebook the other day, and it made me think of some friends of mine who have allowed themselves to be bullied into silence. After speaking their mind they were bombarded with insults and almost instantly they retreated into silence, and having been there myself I can tell you it can make you feel blue. Instead of shaking off the barbs and standing tall, some will opt for the safer choice by retreating and becoming a victim. In addition, they have allowed someone else to define them.

The quote by Lincoln at first may not seem to have much to do with the previous one, yet in this case it does. One of the friends mentioned above voiced how they felt on a social issue and before you could say boo, the comments came fast and furious. My friend went silent instead of defending himself so I sent him a private message. In it I told him I hoped he would continue to fight for what he believed in, and that he would shake off the insults.

There are times, though they are few anymore, when people can share their differing views on politics, social issues and the like without resorting to name-calling. This wasn’t one of those times and I didn’t want to see my friend deterred from supporting a cause he whole-heartedly believed in.

Turns out I needn’t have worried. Word came that although he wasn’t posting his opinion where we could see it, he was still fighting the fight and, as he told me, he wasn’t feeling “blue” at all.

Friendship connections like that brighten my life and I’m thankful for all of them. I was thinking about that the other day on my way out of town. Remember when we had the thunder, lightning and icy rain Sunday night? I thought my trip out of town the following day would be canceled, but the day turned sunny and as I drove down the highway beneath a stunning blue sky I couldn’t help but notice the ice that clung to branches, utility poles and long grass. The beauty of it all took my breath away, proving once again that even in the aftermath of an ice storm you can find something to make you glad to be alive. And there’s no reason to be silent about that, is there?

Warm thoughts on a cold winter's day

Like most everyone else, we were snowed in last Wednesday. But we had plenty of food, our boiler was heating the house, and I was feeling plenty blessed. There were many others who had to be out in that mess and as far as I could tell, they did their jobs quite well indeed. Thanks--to all of you!


To say today feels weird is an understatement. It’s Wednesday morning, the first day I can remember in years when almost the whole town is “closed”. As the closings and cancellations were read off on the radio I had to wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier to tell us what was open instead.

No newspapers arrived at their usual time; no mail either but I’m not complaining. I hope no one else did either. How often does something like this happen anyway?

The dog was a bit bewildered about the whole winter landscape thing. If us humans had snowdrifts up to our you-know-whats, think about the poor dogs—especially the little ones. Sarah Jane needed paths shoveled in the back and front of the house in order to use her facilities. To make it more interesting, she takes pills each day with one side effect being increased thirst and having to go potty.

I really thought the weather forecasters were full of beans but that didn’t stop us from stocking up on essentials and comfort foods. Turns out two of us were out shopping at about the same time a couple of days ahead of the storm, and by the time I texted the message, “I bought milk” it was too late. We have two gallons of milk that expire on the same day, two bottles of salad dressing and four bags of potato chips.

There are chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar, and a freshly-baked apple pie on the counter. Bread is rising near the stove, and soup sounds great for lunch. It’s a blessing to be inside where it’s warm and cozy, and I couldn’t be more thankful most everyone kept their power on during those horrendous winds.

It’s been interesting to listen to the scanner chatter. I’ve heard conversations about what kind of people are dumb enough to risk life and limb to drive at times like these, how many cars and trucks were stuck in the middle of the road or in ditches, and alarming reports of snow plow drivers who found themselves lost because they couldn’t tell what street they were on.

Some who were sent out to rescue others needed rescuing themselves. Thoughts swirled around here about whether we should buy a generator in case the heat went out. Our boiler struggled to keep up with the frigid wind whipping out of the northeast, and we began shutting doors to rooms we wouldn’t be using until the weather calmed down.

Even if you’ve had a bit of a tough time over the last few days, there are probably plenty of things to be thankful for. And after having a home and loved ones safe inside, I’m thankful for those who are out there shoveling, plowing and rescuing stranded strangers. Kudos to all of you.

Remembering Dwen, Patti and Dad

Don't you sometimes wonder what goes through a dog's mind? Sarah Jane loves to sit and stare out a window and she gets this faraway look in her eyes, like she's having a special memory. I do that too, especially when I want to bring someone back for just a little while.


Many years ago when there was a Bonanza restaurant on Tenney St., I remember walking inside for breakfast and finding a table off to my left with three deceased diners seated around it. Time stopped as I gaped at the two men and one woman eating eggs, drinking coffee and laughing, apparently unaware they shouldn’t still be here—on Earth.

I took a spot on the right side of the restaurant and continued to steal glances in their direction. Today I can’t remember who these folks were, and even back then my eyesight was terrible so obviously these three simply resembled my dearly-departed acquaintances.

Obviously.

Nowadays I only see those who have passed on in my mind and dreams. Take the Australian Open, now in its second and final week. Some top seeds are still in the running—Roger Federer, Kim Clijsters, Andy Murray—though that could change by the time this sees print. I’m pulling for Federer and Clijsters, but was sad to see Rafael Nadal lose so soon. A match between him and the “Federer Express” is always a fun one to watch.

I mention this event because it brings a dear friend to mind. Dwen Freeburg played tennis for decades, up into his 90s. He introduced my husband to a group of friends who play tennis every week, something we’re both thankful for. And we had a blast talking about the major tennis tournaments and players throughout the year, something we miss now since Dwen is gone.

Almost every Monday I head to the courthouse for hearings, and that’s when my friend Patti comes to mind. Patti passed away a few months ago from breast cancer; I pause by her artwork on the first level of the courthouse and in my mind we say hi to each other. I only use my pink breast cancer awareness pen while there because it makes me feel close to her.

Then there’s Dad. There have been dozens of opportunities since he passed where a situation comes about that calls for a right or wrong declaration. In my dealings with my father-in-law, he saw things as one way or the other and he wasn’t a bit shy about telling you what he believed. At times I thought he was a bit rigid, that there was more than one way to look at something, but I admired the heck out of a man who was bold enough to put what was in his heart into words that he stood by.

Dad comes to mind when I struggle with something or someone and my heart is telling me one thing while those around me tell me something else. More often than not I end up deciding on the answer that gives me peace of mind, even if it doesn’t please everyone. I believe that’s what Dad did, and he was admired by many for that trait.

While it’s mentally healthier to remain rooted in the present, I find it comforting to return to the past now and then to bring those we loved to mind, just for a minute or two. It’s much less shocking to the system than imagining you can actually see them out and about at a local eatery. Which reminds me, I really do need new glasses.

Missing our little guy

A tribute to our youngest, Luke Anthony. It's comforting to know we'll see him again someday.



It’s been 33 years ago today, and I wonder how many of those who came to know him, even a little, remember this date.

He was born July 28, 1977 at Kewanee Public Hospital. Luke Anthony weighed 3.5 pounds, and following a collapsed lung, our youngest was whisked away to the neonatal unit at Peoria’s Saint Francis Hospital. I was allowed a quick look at him through his portable incubator before he was off on his journey. It would be 10 days before I saw our son again.

I don’t believe anyone in our family or circle of friends thought for one minute that Luke would never come home to Kewanee again.

Once the shock, denial and anger at our situation subsided, our little family made the best of a bad situation. Luke had two older brothers and both were under 5, so they weren’t allowed at the hospital. Hubby had to keep working, and as a mom I simply had to be at our son’s cribside as much as possible.

We learned more than we ever wanted to about premature birth, the health consequences, quality of life and much more. Luke was on oxygen, he had shunts put in to drain water off his brain, he had a hernia, and his blood was taken for testing so often the doctors and nurses ran out of places to draw from.

You would think that the world we were living in at that time was a scary and dark place, and in many ways it was. We prayed our hearts out that Luke would come home to live with us, but every setback (and there were many) seemed to say it wasn’t to be.

But the world wasn’t all gloom and doom. Members of the First United Methodist Church quietly stepped in with offers of free babysitting for the boys, money for travel, a new outfit for me—just to lift my spirits, food and prayers. Pastor Phil from Peoria and Pastor Bob from Kewanee visited our home and the hospital regularly.

Now and then I would bring someone along to visit Luke so they could learn how to prepare to enter his special room. No jewelry, lots of hand scrubbing, masks and gowns—that was the routine. There was a brief time when we were taught how to care for our son when he came home, and we were prepared to take on that job, no matter what it took.

The call came in the wee hours of a cold January morning. Everything that could be done for Luke had been done. We were told we had to make a decision, so we prayed and then asked hubby’s brother and wife to be with us and our two pastors on that unforgettable day.

I held our son, Daddy’s arm around us both as Luke passed away. His Uncle Mark and Aunt Debbie drove us home that day, and they, along with other family and friends helped us get through what comes after the loss of a child.

I have a few favorite memories of that time, and I kept daily journals that are tucked away in the attic. The few photos we were allowed to take have darkened over time, but I remember that sweet face. I hope I always will.

If you know someone who has lost a child, whether through illness or some other way, please know that moms and dads most always welcome the chance to talk about their son or daughter. We just need someone to remember, and to listen.

I need to be surrounded by things that inspire me

Sarah Jane in one of her more peaceful poses...makes me realize even Labs slow down and rest once in a while.



“Creativity is a road out of pain—physical and mental misery.” (Stephen King)

Those who know me well know my favorite author is Stephen King. The quote above speaks volumes, and for me it’s true.

King has had plenty of physical and mental misery. He was a drug user for years, he fought mental demons throughout that time, and then he was hit by a wayward van one day as he was taking his daily walk. The accident, as it were, nearly killed the author but he wrote through that pain just as he wrote through psychological pain.

Ray Bradbury is on my list of favorite writers, and one time I read where he surrounds himself in his office with untold numbers of odd items to keep his imagination active and sharp. I’ve not read much of his work lately, but obviously I’ve picked up his idea of loading my foyer office with interesting doodads to help me jumpstart the ol’ brain.

In front of me is a framed picture of a majestic wolf. Its close-set ears are at attention, and the golden eyes seem to see right through me.

Below that is a calendar with 12 pictures of lighthouses. I have lighthouses all over the place, but the photo for January is especially stunning with the sun setting in Fond-Du-Lac, Wisconsin. A few seconds of gazing upon that scene brings peace.

To my left is a wooden, hand-painted foot-high lighthouse given to me by our oldest son on the last Mother’s Day we spent together. It’s never far from eyesight, for many reasons.

A goofy stuffed Bugs Bunny sits near my green banker’s lamp, and an Isabel Bloom figure of friends hugging stands to the right.

A sign with my name on it sits next to a picture of two lions. The sign is from my job as a teller at Union Federal from 1970 to 1972.

I have a miniature version of a three-bulb lamppost sitting close by. There’s a comical story behind that piece that few people know about, and I’m guessing the “shopping” girls will keep that a secret as long as they can.

On the bulletin board to my left are four photos. One is of Cujo, our Saint Bernard mix we adopted from an Arizona animal shelter. Max, our malamute-husky is there too, as is our current pooch Sarah Jane. Our youngest son is the fourth photo, and I haven’t heard him complain that he’s the only human face in the bunch.

When I consider this odd collection, it doesn’t seem like all that much. Then, this morning, hubby asked me, “Do you feel like eyes are watching you?” When I told him no, he pointed out that my five-foot stuffed Sylvester was less than a foot away.

“I guess I’m used to him being here,” I answered, as I swiveled around to stare up at my Christmas present. A swivel to the left and there was Snoopy, smiling, with one paw in a basket full of odds and ends.

The past week has been a challenge, mentally and physically. I’ve written quite a bit about what’s happened so I know that King was right. Creativity, no matter the type, does provide a road out of pain. I’ll take that road, thank you very much, as long as I can bring along what I’ve collected and held close to my heart over the years. I want my imagination alive and well for as long as God allows.

Setting boundaries tough to do

A cold winter's day, a perfect day to be inside where it's warm and cozy. We get more time to think, re-evaluate, and even do some serious soul-searching. For a short while I was editing myself here but after reading a great Joyce Meyer book, I've decided that was a mistake. We simply can't please everyone and it's crazy to even try.


When we’re forced inside during the frigid winter months, we watch far too much TV. There are plenty of newspapers, magazines and books around the house but it’s easier to veg out in front of the idiot box. You can let your mind wander, and most of the time you can catch up with the storyline even if you zone out or leave the room during important moments.

It used to be that summertime gave us a breather from TV. That changed years ago and now we have new shows, series and season finales and returns of old favorites all year long.

If that isn’t enough we also have computers that give us the opportunity to play games, use search engines until our eyeballs fall out, and socialize with people we will never meet if we live to be 150.

It’s easier to interact, if that’s the right word, with fictional characters. No matter how real they seem, we know they’re not. There are no complicated relationship issues because once the show’s over, you go on to the next one.

With social networks we can have a mixture of family and friends, and if that isn’t enough we are free to add friends of friends, who usually turn out to have something in common with us. Seems like most of my “acquaintances” are dog lovers and that’s fine. For the most part, I’ve been very thankful to be a part of the on-line community, especially Facebook.

Still, there are only so many hours in one day. We work some of those hours, run errands, cook, clean, shop and sleep. It takes little effort after all of that to simply plop in a chair, and click the remote or turn on the computer. No one can see what we look like, or gauge the expression on our face to see if we’re angry, sad, amused or uninterested. It’s become a chore to pull ourselves together, dress for the weather and purposely go out to meet up with real people.

I can’t put my finger on it, but for some reason I’m not missing that part of my life as much as I used to. I see real people at all of those other places—work, the stores, around the supper table. Most of the rest I talk to on the phone or over the internet, so it’s not like we don’t keep up with one another’s lives.

Relationship experts might not agree that this is enough. Through the very machines mentioned above, we learn that we’re supposed to gather with family and friends and build our relationships. Talking heads abound, giving us pointers on how to improve our bonds with one another.

I’m reading an inspirational book by Joyce Meyer called, In Pursuit of Peace, 21 ways to conquer anxiety, fear and discontentment. It’s been worth it to cut out other things to learn how to improve relationships with those we come into contact with in the real world. Oddly enough, Meyer notes that it’s important to establish boundaries with the people in our lives, especially to avoid being agitated and disturbed. She went on to say, “Some of the people and circumstances in life that upset us will never change until we establish boundaries and keep them out.”

Wow. I’ll have to think about that one, because even though it sounds like the answer to some problems, doing that will likely create some brand-new ones.

Guess I’ll make some popcorn and put in a movie. This is going to take some more thought.

Christmas memories on a snowy Christmas Eve

This photo was taken at our home on Tenney Street. Must have been in 1974, with Mom and Dad holding their first grandson, Clinton Dean. So many memories, so many years ago. I'm so thankful the kids got to grow up knowing their grandparents.



It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting here with a mug of fresh, hot coffee doctored with honey and cinnamon. Sarah Jane is snoring softly on the living room sofa, and everyone else is snug in their beds.

I got my shopping done a few days ago, and I think the gift recipients will be happy with what they open tomorrow morning. Christmas came so fast this year I haven’t had the chance to be the usual pain in my husband’s neck. Usually I start at least a couple of weeks before the big day, asking over and over again, “So, what'd you get me?” Or I drop hints so big he couldn’t possibly miss them. His response to the hints is, “Well, thanks for telling me. That’s exactly what you’re not going to get.” And he was true to his word—most of the time.

The TV is silent this morning because I want to be able to hear myself think. Today there will be no negative thoughts, though I plan to relive past Christmases when the whole family was together for holidays, birthdays and other special get-togethers. I don’t consider that negative thinking; there is a difference, you know, between bringing up something that stirs anger and bringing to mind sweet and poignant snapshots of Mom, Dad, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings all together under one roof.

There isn’t any one Christmas that stands out, really. We were blessed (and still are) to have a family that knows why we celebrate this holiday and the importance of that was and is still the best part.

All of those December 25ths have kind of run together. Dad cooked the turkey and stuffing, Mom was in charge of potatoes and homemade gravy, and other small essentials. The sons brought in their well-bundled kids, and the wives lugged side dishes, desserts and homemade bread.

There were a few years when I sent my better half out with freshly-baked, still-warm iced cinnamon rolls to deliver to family early on Christmas morning. As families got bigger and we all got busier, I had to stop but it was a blast while it lasted.

After a big dinner in the early afternoon, one in which the kids hardly touched their food, we would clear the table and head for the living room. We would pick a Santa, usually one of the older kids who could read the gift tags and madness soon followed as wrapping paper, bows and ribbons were ripped and flung around Dad’s big living room. Photos were snapped, we ooohed and ahhed and pulled ourselves up to head to the kitchen for hot coffee and pie.

As I sit here and my coffee cools just a bit, I can almost smell the scent of cinnamon rolls baking. In a few hours I’ll put the turkey in a roaster, not the oven, and it will cook in less than half the usual time.

There are no little ones to wake before the sun rises and come running to the tree to see what Santa left them, but that’s OK. I can wait, and truth be told it’s nice to have an hour or so to myself this morning to reflect on this most beautiful of holidays. Family memories like these are meant to be cherished slowly and with a deep thankfulness.

Merry Christmas, dear readers. It’s a blessing to share this day with all of you.

Christmas and family - a mix of the old and new

OK, we're not there yet but it won't be long. It's COLD! And it's after Thanksgiving so our thoughts turn to the Christmas to come and Christmases past. Maybe I'm being cynical but I don't see how any future Christmas get-togethers can match the ones that are now precious memories. Our large family gathered (mostly Gary's relatives--I have only my sister), we actually got along well and we loved getting together at Mom's for a great meal and opening presents. Those days are over for good, but hey, that's Life.

Monday morning came too fast this week. My better half promised to drive his relatives to the Moline airport at around 4 a.m. so naturally we were up at around 2:30. We stumbled around until 3 when the call came that no one would be leaving that day since someone didn't feel well. The plan was to try and schedule a flight for today, but we all felt bad because the whole idea was for them to be together for Thanksgiving. What fun is it to arrive the day after?

Miraculously a flight was snagged for Tuesday, so that morning came even faster because it was an earlier departure time. Again we stumbled out of slumberland, this time around 2:15. Fresh-made coffee was poured into a travel mug and off went the driver into the cold, dark morning. I should also mention that Sarah Jane thought that getting up really early was a fine idea and she wanted to see what was going on outside. On Monday we let her have a peek, but Tuesday we snarled at her to go back to bed.

It's amazing what we'll do to get together for special occasions. We'll fly even though we don't want to face the pat-downs and scanners. Or we'll brave busy roadways and high gas prices to drive to see family and friends, even for a short time. It's worth it to get away from the demands in our lives and simply enjoy good food and even better company.

Our Thanksgivings tend to be small gatherings; most times it's just the two of us. Or three, if you count the dog and trust me, we've counted her for the last four years. We don't always participate in the insane Black Friday escapades because we've found it's infinitely more pleasant to remain under warm covers while zillions of bargain hunters risk pneumonia to get a steal of a deal.

I've learned to listen to my heart to find out what makes the holidays enjoyable to us. Baking is at the top, as is having time to sip hot chocolate with whipped cream while reading a book. Having leftovers after Thanksgiving is pure bliss, and after naps and watching favorite holiday shows we get in the mood to climb the attic stairs and drag down the Christmas decorations. We decorate differently since we brought Sarah into our home, but that hasn't taken the joy from setting up the tree, and all of the doodads we use year after year.

It must be the soft, colorful lights placed carefully throughout the house that makes it feel so cozy and warm. There's a peace that settles over our home as we concentrate on what Christmas means. We make the effort to turn away from what causes us stress and turn toward what brings a smile to our faces and a lift in our spirits.

I'm mindful that the holidays can be a sad time for some. Our family is missing many of those who used to gather for Christmas, and at some point their absence gets to me in a big way.

Something tells me that every one of them would tell us not to let their absence cast a shadow over the festivities. Maybe that's why we go to such lengths to gather with the family and friends we still have with us, to savor every moment together for as long as we can.

This year I'm going to take pictures and videos and I'll write about what we do and who was here, because that's another beautiful part of the season: getting comfy and pulling out the albums and journals so we can go back in time for an hour or so and relive Christmases past with those we wish were still here.

Calendar? What calendar? Oh, THAT calendar!

That's right, the squirrel is looking for me and you know why. You'll need to excuse me now while I go and try to find what's left of my mind.


I like to think my life is somewhat organized. There are calendars and clocks in every room, and the daily planner I keep in my purse is usually promptly filled in every time a new appointment comes up.

That's why the past few days have been so baffling.

Breakfast and lunch at our house are hit and miss, except for those eye-opening and oftentimes hilarious Sunday morning breakfasts. Supper is always a sit-down affair, with the dog sprawled in the "drop zone" between those humans willing to slip her some table scraps. Sarah Jane is awfully partial to mashed potatoes, and we can't figure out when that happened.

Most of us have seen dogs who rip through meat like there's no tomorrow, but this dog has a tummy for taters. We came up with the term "potato pan" and those two words will send her into a frenzy. She must have the potato pan and she'll jump through hoops to get it.

The other night I noticed my favorite big spoon was missing. After checking everyone's alibi, we turned our collective attention to the yellow Lab waiting impatiently in the drop zone. I used another spoon, and supper went on. Afterward, there was an incident. Before she could get the potato pan, one of the guys demanded that the dog give up the missing spoon. Sarah was about to go into a frenzy, so she got her pan and proceeded to clean it. While she was busy, the canine interrogator got down on the floor to look beneath appliances to see if the spoon got pushed underneath one of them.

None of us noticed that Sarah was finished and had turned her attention to the human on her level. By the time we saw what she intended to do it was too late to get out of her path, and our son got head-butted with enough force to rock him back into the cabinets. But hey, he found the spoon.

After supper we all go our separate ways. By that time I've met my work obligations, yet I check the planner in case I missed something. This week I noticed an Avon meeting and a gathering of the Red Hat ladies. Wednesday was going to be busy.

Just fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the Avon get- together I pulled into the restaurant parking lot and noticed-- nothing. Not a car, a bike or a truck was parked in the lot, so I got out my planner. Ah, yes. The meeting is for next Wednesday. That left the Red Hatters at noon so I rearranged things and went about my business.

At fifteen minutes before noon I went to meet my friends in red and purple. The first mistake was walking into the wrong building, which was easy enough to correct. The next mistake was getting the wrong day; I was off by one. I checked my schedule again but it firmly states Wednesday which means I wrote the date down wrong. If I hadn't, wouldn't the other gals be there? Yeah, I thought so too.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was the one who got head-butted by the dog the other night. I'm afraid to think there might be another explanation.