On the Waterfront with NYMB

 Rendezvousing with Pat Nelson at the Budd Bay Cafe

For the past couple of years I've been involved with the launch of a new anthology series, Not Your Mother's Book, by Dahlynn and Ken McKowen of Orangevale, CA. We're a far-flung lot, those of us collaborating on these hilarious collections. There's Laurel McHargue in Leadville, CO, Kathy Baker in Plano, TX, Linda O'Connell in St. Louis, MO, Maggie Lamond Simone in Baldwinsville, NY, Maggie Yee Webb and Nancy Withers not far from Sacramento, CA, and two us in Washington State...but separated by 450 miles and the Cascades.

We're a dauntless tribe, though. So Pat Nelson, who is cocreating the fifth book in the series, On Parenting, drove north from her home in Woodland, WA, to meet me in Olympia, WA, at the waterfront's Budd Bay Cafe for breakfast this past Saturday since I'd been in town for the Washington State Medical Quality Assurance Commission.

On the first three titles, On Women, On Being a Stupid Kid and On Dogs, Pat's served as proofreader, while I've been copy editor. I'm cocreator with Dahlynn and Ken on the fourth title, On Travel, to be released March 26.

Great news, NYMB contributors. Ken, Pat and I have spent the past day or so looking at the manuscript one final time and it goes to the printer this afternoon!

What a joy it was to chat across the table with Pat, who quipped the night before that we'd probably pull out our cell phones at breakfast and communicate via Facebook! We didn't...I don't really text on my little Trac phone...and besides, it was just too much fun to talk with Pat in person.

Both Pat and I are hoping the McKowen's will host a Cinco de Mayo party again this year and we can connect with more of the cocreators in Orangevale!

The Loneliest Day of the Year?

 Mountain Melody Sweet Adelines

This morning I received an e-mail from a childhood friend thanking me for a valentine I'd sent her. A psychoanalyst, she was widowed a few years ago, as was I. She said she hadn't received a valentine in so long she was glad to see it in the mail. I well know that unexpected joy of getting something in the mailbox on Valentine's Day. I can count on my stepson for ensuring I get one from my little granddaughter. And my writing partner, the wonderful Annie, not only sends valentines...but St. Paddy's cards, as well.

Still, I think Valentine's Day is a poignant time for widows. Fortunately this year it fell on the day I was scheduled to facilitate my Colville book group's discussion of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. So I threw myself a Valentine's party. The Mountain Melodies Sweet Adeline group roves around serenading for a several days on Valentine week, and I got my reservation in for them to sing "Love Makes the World Go Round" and a couple of other tightly-harmonized tunes for us.

Thanks to Netflix, I was able to show a video, The Gothic World of Daphne du Maurier, a special feature on its DVD of Rebecca, the Academy Award best-winning film in 1941. I baked a gingerbread in the shape of a heart, and my friend, Jane, brought a paper Victorian mansion constructed by her niece for a centerpiece and we pretended it was Manderley. I even broke open the box of See's truffles my sister had sent me for Christmas.

So the day turned out to be filled with food, friends and fun.

It's easier to get through a holiday without my late husband when I plan something to vary the usual daily routine. Chocolate alone won't always do the trick. (But it sure helps.)

Sweet Inspiration...Oh, What a Power!

At a high school reunion a few years back an old friend told me she'd always wanted to publish a few stories, but just never quite found the time or inspiration.

"It's probably easy for you," she said, with a rueful chuckle. "You've lead such an interesting life...been to so many countries and done so many exciting things."

"It's true I've traveled widely," I confessed, "But that's not where my story ideas generally come from."

Today I learned that my story, "A to Z," will appear in a new Chicken Soup for the Soul book, debuting in May. This narrative essay isn't set in Mongolia, Samoa or Bulgaria. No...it's set in the den in my home in Colville, where centered atop an entertainment center sit a pair of heavy black carved bookends.

It's usually been the everyday events of my life that have inspired my stories. When I look at the list of published stories that I keep updated on the first entry I ever made on this blog, I know that to be true:

http://atouchoftarragon.blogspot.com/2010/02/anthology-stories.html

Here's a sampling about what inspired me:

"Easter Bloomers"...my little brother rehearsing a line for a church pageant.
"Tea for Two"...my mother playing tea party with me when I was quarantined at Halloween.
"Kisses for Mr. Castle"...a junior high English teacher.
"The Valentine Sweetheart"...visiting my mother in a nursing home.
"When He Looked Like James Dean"...words my son spoke at his father's memorial service.
"Forced to Face the Facts"...taking a lung capacity test at a health fair.
"Finding My Comfort Zone"...dealing with my mother-in-law and my newborn son.
"Blue Hawaii"...my students' love of surfing culture the first year I taught school.
"A is for Apple"...my backyard trees when Ken and I moved into our house outside Colville, WA.
"Montana Bananas"...Ken reminiscing about raising three sons in Reno, NV.

Yes, there are some exotic locales...."Watching for the Rebound" summons up Belize, "Santo Domingo Sunrise" deals with heartbreak in the Dominican Republic, and "Once in a Lifetime" recalls the day I spied a macaw on my sundeck in Antigua, Guatemala, during a total eclipse of the sun.

The majority of my stories, however, come from reliving how I experienced the life events that most of us have shared. These were the magical moments in my life...that gave me sweet inspiration.

The next story I plan to write is about how one long distance phone call from Peace Corps Headquarters back in 1987 nearly gave me a heart attack...and how I agonized...and how it all turned out. As my dear friend Kelly Presley used to remind me: "Everything works out. And if it doesn't...that's a way of working out, too."

Speaking of inspiration...here's one of my favorite songs.  Listen to the Sweet Inspirations sing their huge hit, "Sweet Inspiration," and be knocked out by Cissy Houston's solo...brings tears to my eyes even now!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHL8wQQ3r1Q

A Basket Case

Billed as a new anthology for a new century, the Not Your Mother's Book series took off last fall with a BANG...three books in three months: On Being a Woman, On Being a Stupid Kid and On Dogs. The fourth in the series, On Travel, is scheduled for release in late March. As co-creator, I can't wait...but, of course, I have to.

I wish I could give you a preview of its contents, and I will as soon as publisher Dahlynn McKowen makes the final decisions on the stories and their sequence. In the meantime, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for everybody who is waiting for final word. Believe me, I am waiting,  too!
 
I've seen Facebook posts from contributors who complain that the wait to hear whether or not a submission has been accepted or not is agonizing. Yes...sometimes we wait a year or two to learn whether one of our essays, poems or stories will actually be published. Rejections and acceptances sometimes seem to come in waves...and we're all familiar with those long intervals where we hear absolutely nothing.

The current January issue of The Wow Principles newsletter details why it can take a year or even longer to produce an anthology. In March the newsletter will carry a piece that I've been mulling over for a while...how to manage such delays and disappointments in the "hurry up and submit and then wait, wait, wait" process of writing for anthologies. I've tentatively titled it "A Basket Case."

You can subscribe to The Wow Principles Newsletter by clicking on the link below. Additionally, you can browse the archives of six years of back issues, chock full of tips for seasoned writers and newbies alike.



http://www.publishingsyndicate.com/publishing_syndicate/newsletters/wow_newsletter.html

If I'd Known It Was Coming I'd Have Baked a Cake!

My lackluster Yahoo horoscope gave me little inspiration today. There must be something happier to contemplate for this Saturday, other than ticking off items on my "to do" list. I've been spending a lot of this past week looking forward to London and Paris in March, and not enough just relishing the moment. True, it's hard for me to rev up a lot of enthusiasm for even getting out of bed these subarctic mornings. But I don't give up easy, so I surfed around the Internet and found this intriguing website:

http://www.holidayinsights.com/

Its home page announces....You've arrived at Holiday Insights, where you will find fun, information, and lots more about every holiday you can imagine. We've got you covered on the big ones, the small ones, and all of 'em in between. So, whether you are looking up information, doing a school report, looking for Ecards or screensavers, clipart perhaps, or just having fun, surf on through and come back often.

I scrolled down the list of the January celebrations and found that aside from New Year's Day, I'd missed them all. I'd been in a daze about the days. I wish I'd known about Male Watcher's Day, Houseplant Appreciation Day, or even Peculiar People Day. I'm certain I could have cooked up something special to help me get through these winter doldrums.

So, celebrate, celebrate, I remind myself...it won't be long until spring, and we'll be admiring our flowers once again. In the meanwhile, we've got Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day, and more coming up soon. For right now, I'm going to brew up a cup of camomile. After all, Holiday Insights reminds me that January is Hot Tea Month! I'm not letting that one slip by. Of course, there's always tomorrow...Chocolate Cake Day.

C is for Cookie, but also for Cake, as celebrated by Cookie Monster and the Count:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veNjYhcJ9IE

 

Get a Grip...My Jarring Morning!

The Villian!

 

Last week I attended a luncheon meeting and could not open my bottle of water. I passed it to the gentleman seated at my left, complaining how my arthritis frequently leaves me helpless at such simple tasks. 

"Happy to lend a hand," he said, twisting it off easily. "But my wife says I'm not the man I used to be when it comes to opening jars at home. Sometimes I need a little help, too. A sharp tap on the side of the lid with a knife usually works."

This morning as I readied my lunch, I remembered that tip. I've had a jar of spiced peaches in the fridge that I wanted to pair with some cottage cheese for lunch. So I tapped the side of the lid with a table knife to break the vacuum seal, but nothing happened. So I tapped again. And again. I couldn't budge it.

 

Next, I tried pouring hot water over the lid, since I'd heard that might loosen the vacuum between the lid and the jar. It didn't. Then I donned rubber gloves to give my hands more leverage. Nada. Nil. No success.

Hmmmm. I vaguely recalled that somebody once said holding a dryer static sheet in your hand will provide more traction. Since I had to put my laundry in the dryer anyway, I pulled a Sun Sky Fresh Breezy from its box and returned to the kitchen. Nope, but at least it smelled nice.

By now my stomach had started to rumble. I considered sticking the peaches back in the fridge, and slicing a tomato. Then I figured that maybe an old fashioned can opener, the kind we used to call "church keys" back in the '50s...when I didn't need help opening jars, I recall...might do the job. If I could wedge it between the lid and the jar...but, alas, I couldn't. Nor could I find a way to puncture the lid with it.

Exhausted, I marched to the garage and lifted an ice pick off my late husband's work bench, where I store it with the screwdrivers so I don't puncture my hand when I forage in the utensil drawer...and a hammer. I carefully positioned the ice pick in the center of the lid, and gave it one mighty whack. The tip sank into the metal and it worked. The vacuum disappeared so I could turn the lid easily.

So there went 30 minutes of my morning....time I'd intended to spend drafting the beginning of a story about how I never traveled to Kiribati. Oh, I know...excuses, excuses. But it's the absolute truth. My morning had hijacked by a pint of pickled peaches.

The peaches and cottage cheese tasted delicious together. I'd have been one bitter biddy if they hadn't.

Geezers Just Like Him

I'm working on the introduction, bio and dedication for Not Your Mother's Book...On Travel, scheduled for release by Publishing Syndicate on March 25. I wandered down Memory Lane this morning as I sorted through some photos taken while I lived in Guatemala, and suddenly recalled the one published piece online that I'd ever seen by my friend, Kelly Presley, who shared so many of those adventures with me. It never had much of a readership outside of the ex pat community in Antigua, Guatemala, where it had been published in an English language periodical, and among his family, so I'm resurrecting it now.

Kelly had a habit of working names of his friends and family into his stories and unpublished novels. So don't be surprised to see a nod to me from my Little Rock days in his concluding sentences of this story written just after his 65th birthday in 1998.

Geezers Just Like Me
A Central American Change of Lifestyle
by Kelly Presley It happened in Antigua, Guatemala, just last week. I had a birthday and, God help me, I had become sixty-five years of age. Had I reached a new stage of life? Had I left the fun & frolic-filled days of middle age? I had to know the terrible truth!
In panic I tottered to my Webster’s and turned to the entry, “middle age.”   bummer! This Webster guy had ended my joyful days of mid-life at sixty-five. And worse bummer, he defined middle age as “the period of time between youth and old age.” I was now Webster’s officially “Old.” Depressing.
Having been a psychobabblist for a number of my middle-aged salad years I knew that being “old” is a major source of depression. But I don’t pee in my pants like June Allyson and my teeth are my own, even if Jane Powell demands I soak my dentures. Still I needed to know what new passage I had embarked on. I tried on “senior citizen” and “third age” but they didn’t provide emotional comfort or wear well. And “elderly” is for the truly old, not a pup like me. So, Webster’s in hand, I began the search that would lift me from the depression suffered by “old people,” and bring me my golden years.
I had nearly given up, settled for decrepit old man, when I found my Prozac, right there on page 560! The words lifted me: geezer an eccentric man or, rarely, a woman. 
That was me! Certainly having weathered the slings & arrows of four careers & as many wives would make anyone a tad eccentric and I was rarely, if ever, a woman.
Under the joyful cloak of geezerhood... I bounded from my hermitage in search of the companionship of other geezers. And I found them basking in the sun in Antigua’s Central Park. A motley crew at best, we all had three things in common; we had cast off the burdens of middle age, we were free of unholy matrimony and we were living on fixed incomes. The latter was a major source for conversation and the bonding that is unusual to a group that resembles a gathering of rogue elephants.
“The best meal for your money is at Los Tacos,” advised Rich Watson on my first day with my geezer buddies. He had been a New York investment banker and could cost-benefit analyze everything from a plane ticket to a plate of rice & beans.
“Don’t rent at those Zersch River apartments, they’re overpriced and they don’t have cable,” added Don Mut, a former Germantown real estate broker.
“And if you need a doctor, I’d advise Dr. Swazy,” added Jack Morris, a Newark house painter who was recovering from his monthly disease.
My geezer buddies...were giving me the absolute skinny and I also learned there were geezers just like me throughout Central America. Jim Hearne, a retired helicopter pilot, said you could find them from San Jose, Costa Rica, to Guatemala’s beautiful Lake Atitlan, in every city or small town with a central park and a nearby cafe for morning coffee and an afternoon beer.
As I was leaving and shaking hands with my new buddies, Terry Elders, a retired pharmacist from Little Rock, slipped a pill into my hand. I looked at it and then at Terry. He smiled and said it was “uplifting.” 
And it was... And so is geezing in Central America. Come on down! It’s uplifting.