Monday Morning Musings

Good Monday morning. I hope everyone had a great weekend. Mine was busy with auditions for our fall production at the Winnsboro Center for the Arts. We are doing an original play, "Bonnie & Clyde in Winnsboro" written by a local actor, Randy Lindsey, who has given me the freedom to adapt the play and direct it. Anyone who has any connection to theatre and playwriting knows what a generous gesture that was on his part.  The story is based on historical fact. The infamous couple stopped in Winnsboro often as they made their way east from Dallas to Louisiana, and the play puts those facts into dramatic form.


WHAT I'M READING:  Prayer by Phillip Kerr. I'm not sure I would finish this one except for the fact that I am leading a discussion of the book for an online mystery book club to which I belong. The central charater, Gil Martins, is an FBI agent, but except for the fact that he drops the F-bomb quite frequently, he doesn't come across as a law enforcement professional. And even some of them don't feel the need to bomb every line of dialogue.

WHAT IS MAKING ME LAUGH: Two squirrels chasing each other up and down the big pine tree just outside my office window. In fact, it is so distracting, it's taken twice as long to write this blog post.

  
WHAT I'M DISMAYED ABOUT: That we're once again interfering in Iraq, and it looks like that interference is going to go on for a lot longer than first anticipated. No doubt we needed to give the humanitarian aid to the refugees, but that should be the extent of our involvement.

AND NOW JUST FOR FUN I thought I'd share an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. It's been a while since I posted an excerpt, and I forgot to get the Sunday paper with the good comic strips.

This excerpt seems appropriate since school will be starting soon in many parts of the country. Gee, I remember when school started in September. What about you?

The beginning of each new school year is always met with varying degrees of eagerness and excitement. There are some kids, like Jason in the comic strip Fox Trot, who live for each school year so they can amaze a whole new set of teachers. Others go begrudgingly because in some respects it is better to have something to do every day than be home with Mom who might find some unsavory job to do, like clean the toilets.
 
Mother’s are generally thrilled to have the kids gone most of the day, but first there is the mad rush to get them all outfitted with a few new clothes and the 10-page list of school supplies.
 

One year, a couple of days before school was going to start, I went up to our local grocery-drugs-everything-under-the-sun store to get those school supplies. When I arrived, I discovered that I wasn't the only one who'd waited until the last minute to perform this little task.
 
The aisles were crammed with shopping carts, harried mothers and a multitude of kids, which created more confusion than in the pits at the Indianapolis Speedway. The mothers wore a grim look of. determination which clearly said, "I can only suffer through this indignity because it is all for a greater good," as they jiggled crying babies, fought their way up and down the aisles, and did their best to ignore the earnest pleas of their kids.
 
"Oh, Mommy, please! Can't I have this organizer? See it has Star Wars stuff on the front and this neat thing for paper. And I won't ask you for another thing extra, I promise."
 
"I know it's not on the list, but I really need these felt-tip markers, and the big box of crayons and some of these notebooks."
 
For the first time in my life I actually had the presence of mind to think ahead and only brought one kid with me on this shopping trip, and he had masking tape over his mouth. So I was in a position to see a little humor in the human drama occurring around me. Although I did have to hurry to cosmetics if I felt a laugh coming on to avoid the risk of being attacked by a horde of irate mothers armed with wooden rulers.

Pigtails? Curls? Perms?

Please welcome Becky Lewellen Povich as today's Wednesday's Guest. She is the author of the memoir, From Pigtails to Chin Hairs, that I reviewed on Sunday. Today, Becky has quite a hairstyle dilemma, so maybe we can help her out.

Grab a donut and a cup of coffee and read on....

When I was a little girl I had two distinct hair styles: pigtails/braids or short, curly hair, due to Tonette Home Perms my mother bestowed upon me. I hated getting those stinky perms! No wonder these days I have such fine, thin hair. I can’t blame her entirely, though. When I was in my 30s and 40s I continued to get perms once in a while but only at hair salons. Everyone on the maternal side of my family had fine hair and even though it doesn’t seem possible, mine was probably the “thickest.”

This is not Becky, but I had to find a picture when I remembered that awful smell.

Now, my hair is at that state where I have what I would call “bald spots.” I was with a group of women recently and the conversation somehow turned to our thinning hair. One was delicately trying to persuade me that all I needed was lots of freezing hair spray to get my short hair to stay in place. I explained to her that I already did that, and yet my hair would just fall flat after only an hour or so.

She then suggested I try something that would be today’s version of Dippity-do; something like Bed Head gel. (I’ve never tried that brand because with a name like that, all I can think is that my hair would look even worse than usual.)

What I really need is a product like Ron Popeil’s hair spray. Yes, that’s exactly what it’s supposed to do: Spray hair onto your head! I remember seeing it on a TV commercial years ago and thought “Yeah, right!” But, hey, who am I to say if it really works or not. I haven’t even tried it. The next time I look in the mirror and see more bare spots on my noggin, I think I’ll order a can or two. What could happen? It says it will easily shampoo out…..

In From Pigtails to Chin Hairs: A Memoir & More, Becky Lewellen Povich takes us from her young Midwest childhood in the 1950s to present day St. Peters, Missouri. Each chapter is a scene from everyday life and/or unexpected events written in the way only Povich can, with humor and poignancy woven into them. She relates tales of Christmases, summertime fun, selling homemade potholders and putting on parades, the kids next door, classmates, her fear of the dentist and her parents' scheme to help, plus long car rides visiting grandparents in small town Iowa.

She willingly shares the bittersweet times, too, which include her parents' divorce, major disappointments, preteen and teenage angst, a whack on her head from a falling crowbar, and her ill-fated first marriage, spent mostly in Germany. She also comically writes about her happy second marriage, cell phones, dishwashers, and how she was born with a klutz gene.

"Becky Povich has a light and whimsical way with words, and a knack for making the everyday seem a bit more special." - Philip Gulley, bestselling author of Porch Talk Series, Harmony Series, Hometown Tales, I Love You Miss Huddleston, and more.

Becky Lewellen Povich has numerous publications, including stories in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and other anthologies. Becky is currently working on her sequel due out in 2015, which contains more memories and anecdotes. For more information, Becky’s blog: http://beckypovich.blogspot.com/ and website: http://www.beckypovich.com/

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I'm over at The Blood Red Pencil blog today with some memories of my own and some commentary about how important it is to have these memories written down, if for no other reason than to share them with future generations. 

Book Review -From Pigtails to Chin Hairs by Becky Lewellen Povich

From Pigtails to Chin Hairs
Becky Lewellen Povich
File Size: 967 KB
Print Length: 205 pages
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
Language: English
ASIN: B00IXBG1F6

This memoir begins with a fond look back at the 50's and then brings the readers to the present time as Ms. Povich recalls the moments in her life that shaped her as the person she is today. Sometimes funny and sometimes poignant, it is a book that will stir memories in readers who grew up in the same time period. For younger readers, it is a look back at a way of life that didn't include cell phones, home computers, the Internet and many of the social problems that plague modern society.

Some memoirs are written to impart some great truth learned through a particularly difficult struggle - Angela's Ashes for example - but this one is not centered on that kind of profound truth. It is an accumulation of little truths learned through those good and those bad times that happen to ordinary people; marriage, family, divorce, children, jobs and more. Povich writes with a mix of humor and thoughtfulness and the reader can't help but smile and nod. She is also honest about the things in her life that were not as pleasant as others, such as her parent's divorce and her first marriage that ended badly.

We can all relate to much of what she shares. We have fond memories of special family gatherings, and we have not-so-fond memories of the things that challenged us and challenged our relationships. That's life, and life is what this book embraces.

While I enjoyed the trip down memory lane and for the most part found the writing engaging, the editor in me did want to get out her red pencil and make some suggestions. Some sections of the book seemed rushed, as if the author wanted to hurry to the next anecdote and didn't spend enough time with the present one to make a good story better. However, that did not take away from the overall enjoyment of the book, and there were plenty of scenes that were crafted with lovely prose.

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Becky is going to be my guest on Wednesday, so I do hope you will come back and meet her. She has written a funny piece about those awful home permanents that some of us suffered through as kids. If you have a fond (LOL) memory of the Toni Home Permanents, do come back on Wednesday and share it. Maybe you even remember the commercial?

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Before I go, I do want to wish all the mothers who might happen by today a Happy Mother's Day. I hope you are all having a wonderful day being spoiled by your families. A few years ago I wrote a blog piece about Mother's Day that you might enjoy reading.

Book Review - I Will Never Forget by Elaine C. Pereira

I Will Never Forget: A Daughter's Story of her Mother's Arduous and Humorous Journey Through Dementia.

Elaine C. Pereira
File Size: 435 KB
Print Length: 257 pages
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: iUniverse (January 20, 2014)
Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
Language: English
ASIN: B008132KMO

In the words of the author, "My mother's is a story that needed to be told. She was a kind, brilliant and talented woman all of my life until dementia took hold distorting her persona and leaving an agitated, bewildered and compromised person in its wake."

This is the story that Pereira does tell, and it is wonderful that she had such a close relationship with her mother and was able to help her in her declining years. Other women who are in similar circumstances - caring for a parent with dementia - will be able to relate and learn from example how best to deal with the challenges. There are many.

One of the messages that comes across strong in the book is the importance of treating the person with dementia with respect. It takes a great deal of patience to maintain that respect when dealing with the frustrations and fears that come with caring for someone who is slowly losing mental faculties. Pereira managed to hang on to patience and love, and she shared a lovely poem at the end that is comforting to those who think they have lost their parent even before he or she is gone. My father had severe dementia before he died, and it would have been nice to know he still loved me at the end.

I struggled a bit with the writing, however. The story was not told in a linear timeline, so it was a bit confusing to jump around in time. I also thought the story strayed away from Mom for too long in places. The incidents - like her son's fight with cancer - were important, but the telling of that could have been condensed and more focused on how that impacted Mom.

The best parts were the scenes with Mom, when the reader got to experience her humor and her steadfastness. That is where the emotional connection between author and reader was made, and I got a real sense of the "heart" of this story.

Elaine will be my guest this coming Wednesday with a fun "mock" interview with her mother. I do hope you can stop by and get to know a bit more about Elaine and her mother, Betty Ward.

You can get I Will Never Forget at the following retail sites:

 AMAZON  * BARNES AND NOBLE  *  IUNIVERSE          

For Mother's Day

First, I want to wish all the moms a very happy Mother's Day. I hope your day is filled with lots of love and laughter and special times with your families.

 There's no denying the bond we have with our mothers, no matter what the relationship has been like. I wrote about that in my blog for Venture Galleries that posted the other day, and my blogger friend, Susan Fleet Swiderski had a nice post about mothers on her blog, I Think, Therefore I Yam. And no matter what the relationship has been, we do owe them for our lives, even if they have disappointed us in many other ways.

That is one of the things that the author of The Woman in the Photograph comes to understand. This is a memoir from Mani Feniger, relating her quest to find out more about her mother, a German Jew who left Germany just before the Jews were rounded up and sent to death camps during the Holocaust. Mani finds a photograph of her mother taken years ago that shows a happy, carefree young woman who appears so different from the aloof, cynical mother Mani grew up with.

As Mani researches her mother's life from her beginnings in Leipzig, Germany to her life in New York, she comes to understand the hardships that molded her mother and so many other German Jews who left their home country, as well as most of their treasures.

This was an interesting story and offered a glimpse of a part of that history that many of us were not as aware of as we are the victims of the concentration camps. The story also points out the importance of looking at the issues in our relationships with a different perspective and perhaps finding some peace.

The book is written in the narrative nonfiction style that makes a memoir read like a novel and can pull one into the story. Most of the time that worked quite well, but there were a few places where the imagined scenes between her mother and others went on a bit too long and included details that just seemed to bog the story down.

Some time ago, the author offered the ebook free for Kindle and I got my copy then. Now it is priced at $8.99, which I think is too high for an ebook, but if you don't think so, you might give it a try.

 

As a special Mother's Day treat, I am offering my historical mystery, Boxes For Beds free today. The
story is set in Arkansas in 1961 when the mob still ruled Hot Springs, and a young woman who has left New York to find some peace in the quiet little town of Pine Hollow gets caught up in kidnappings and murder.

I was just reading the Sunday comics and laughed out loud when I read Mallard Fillmore. The picture is a gray-haired lady in a comfy plush chair reading a card that says, Dear Mom, Thanks for loving me, taking care of me, and for not putting our family in a reality TV show.

Amen to that.

Book Review - Benchmarks: A Single Mother's Illustrated Journal

Benchmarks: A Single Mother's Illustrated Journal
Bodie Parkhurst
E-book and Paperback  2011
Amazon

 This is a touching memoir of a single mother's journey with her son, Alex, from the time he first enters her life until he is ready to start a life of his own. All mothers will relate to the connectedness she has with her son through all those special, and not so special, moments that touched this journey, and single mothers especially will cheer for those times the many challenges were met and conquered.

Bodie acknowledges that her experience was not the same as many single mothers. She had a job that allowed her to work at home and still provide financially. She also had the support of family and friends. Things that not all single mothers can count on; but weight of the sole responsibility is the same. It is hard to parent when you are the only adult in the house day after day.

In the midst of all the work involved in raising a child, Bodie also recognized that "the shining moments that remind us that single or not, we love being mothers" are worth sharing.  She hopes that "reading about my moments will shine a light on the moments in your own life when the simple experience of looking at your child and recognizing the gift of joy that each child holds in his or her hands is enough."

The memoir is beautifully written with language as picturesque as the many illustrations. Bodie has certainly blended her artistic creativity well.  It is also frank and honest in her struggle with depression and the spiritual desert she finds herself in at times.

I smiled, I laughed, and I cried and I cheered as I read this book.

This little jewel deserves more attention. It's like those indie movies that don't get the push they deserve and are missed by too many people. I highly recommend this book.

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Bodie Parkhurst has been writing and illustrating stories since third grade. She has worked as a reader, a tutor, a ranch hand, a mechanic, a truck driver, a dairy maid, a writer, an editor, a fine artist, an illustrator, and a designer.

In Sickness and in Health

I have been in Michigan for almost a week and tomorrow I will be at Horizon Books in Cadillac from 1-3 in the afternoon. If you live near Cadillac, I'd love for you to stop by. 115 S. Mitchell Street
Cadillac, MI 49601 

The following is an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. The book is still looking for a home, but a door has been opened. I have a publisher who has asked for the full proposal, so maybe, maybe....  Enjoy.

Have you ever noticed that when a kid is sick, he expects meals in bed, unlimited sympathy and continuous entertainment? Or when a husband is sick, he simply takes the day off work, stays in bed, and accepts juice, aspirin, and a kind word in four hour intervals? But heaven help a mother who has a cold or the 24-hour flu. Somehow she has to carry on as if all was well, and about the only way she can get any sympathy or understanding is to be approaching death's doorway. Even then, one of the kids might ask if she has the time to wash his soccer uniform before she passes from this earthly life.

I'd like to see some type of parent-child contract drawn up that would grant equal time, consideration, and cough medicine in the middle of the night to mothers.

I'd like to see a clause included in this contract stating emphatically that when a child comes home from school to find his mother still in her robe, it doesn't mean that she was just too lazy to get dressed that day.

If a mother has red watery eyes and a runny nose, it isn't from peeling onions or from watching a sad scene in an afternoon soap opera.

If a mother's face appears to be unusually flushed, it isn't from the exhilaration of an afternoon tryst. 

If a mother is making 25 trips to the bathroom in an hour, it isn't just from a need for some solitude and serenity.

If a mother doesn't have the strength to drag her body off the couch to cook dinner, it isn't because she wore herself out playing tennis all day.

I used to believe that if we could get our families to recognize the fact that we were indeed sick, then we could work on getting them to respond in a positive helpful manner. To accomplish that goal, I considered making a big sign and hanging it in the living room where everyone could see it as they come in the door:

"Attention! The mother in this house is sick and has gone to bed. Do not disturb unless extreme emergency arises. (Needing to go to volleyball practice does not qualify.) Somebody cook supper. Wash your own dishes and gym clothes. It would be nice if someone came to check on me in about four hours to see if I'm still alive and to bring me some orange juice. Love, Mom."

Just a Little Bit of Fun

 As the summer winds down and school is starting for kids across the U.S., I thought it would be fun to take one last look at the challenges of summer vacation. This is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Enjoy......

Those fun-packed summer days always made me wonder why we didn’t have year-round school. I personally, thought it was a grand idea, and if a candidate for public office ever wanted to guarantee his election all he'd have to do is run on a platform of year round school. He'd win hands down because I'm sure mothers far outnumber teachers when it comes to the voting public.

On the other hand, I would never vote for anyone like this priest I knew who suggested we close all the schools and give our children the opportunity to learn in a home environment. His reasoning was that it would be good for parents to assume more responsibility for teaching their children, and on one hand that is a grand idea. But in practicality, I considered it a downright rotten idea. 

I decided that the idea was probably an attractive to him, because he wasn't a mother, and he wouldn't be faced with instant insanity at the thought of a five-year continuation of summer vacation. Undoubtedly, the only thing that keeps us mothers from curling up in a fetal position on the floor of our closets by the middle of August, is the knowledge that school starts in two weeks.

Can you imagine no end to the lament:  "There's nothing to do."

"Why don't you playa game with your brother?"

 "With David?"

"Well, why don't you help me clean the house, then I'll playa game with you."

"I guess I'll just watch T.V."

 Or the fights:

"I was watching my program."

"Mommeeee! Anjanette won't let me watch what 1 want to watch."

"Michael, shut up!"

"Mommeee! Michael won't shut up!"

 Or the complaints:

"We never have any fun."

"All we ever do is work. Don't you ever work?"

"I always do my chores and David never does his."

"Why is it always so hot? Why can't we have a pool?"

 "Why do I have to go to bed? I'm not even tired."

If there was never an end to the challenges of five kids and 11 weeks of summer break from school, it would have been the end of me. Nine months of school each year was the only thing between me and an institution.

Well, that and the fact there wouldn’t have been anyone to take care of those five kids while I was gone. Carl always said if I left, he was going, too.

Summertime Blues

 It's been a while since I posted an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, so here is another offering from the chapter Summertime Blues. Yes, Swimming Does Count as Bathing.  Enjoy....

When I was writing my weekly humor column for a suburban newspaper, it was always a challenge each year to come up with something to write about the summer break from school that wasn’t just a rehash of past columns. I thought maybe people were getting tired of my “I hate Summer” columns, but a friend assured me otherwise.

“No, Maryann,” she said. “You’ve got to keep writing this. If you suddenly started loving the summer break, that would leave the rest of us looking like the worst mothers on earth. So accept the gauntlet, carry the flag, give us a game plan.”

How could I refuse?

I worked for two weeks on a plan I thought was perhaps the best summer vacation survival guide ever, but it only took two days for my kids to destroy it.


The shining glory of said game plan, which I considered definitive, succinct, and perhaps worthy of someday being etched in stone, were my edicts:

Thou shalt not wake up the household before eight o'clock in the morning.

“But you didn't say I couldn't sing."

 Thou shalt not fight.

"This isn't a fight. It's a police action."

I guess I should have covered more bases. I amended that edict to read:  Thou shalt not fight or engage in any sort of skirmish, duel, war or uprising. That should be clear enough for them.

Thou shalt not bother me with trivial details when I'm working.

"Grandma just called from Detroit. But I told her you were too busy to talk."

Thou shalt complete all chores before noon.

"Mom, your bed's not made and its twelve-o-one."

Thou shalt co-operate.

"We are co-operating. David's helping me get this Twinkie away from Michael."

Once the fun of breaking edicts was over, there was nothing left but this deep pit of boredom. We dipped so low, we were reduced to inane activities such as conducting a contest to see who had the most mosquito bites in unusual places.  (You do not want to know the details of who won.)

Then we endured 14 hours of Love Boat reruns with a test afterward to see who could remember the most lines of dialogue.

And this was the shining example my friend thought I could be?

The Good Old Summertime

Here is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Enjoy....

Since our family didn’t take many formal vacations, a primary source of recreations for a lot of summers involved going to the neighborhood pool. I’d bargain with the kids to leave me alone in the mornings to work, then we’d go swimming almost every afternoon.

Quite often we’d head right back to the pool after dinner for a quick dip before bedtime. That was a tremendous boon to our water bill at home, as a quick rinse in the pool shower eliminated the need for a bath, especially when I remembered to bring the shampoo.

At the beginning of each pool season, we were like everyone else, not sure if we wanted to bare our pale white skin to the hot Texas sun. Extra t-shirts and sunscreen were in abundance. Plus, there was that adjustment period where regulars would start marking off territory that was pretty well respected back then. Certain families liked certain spots on the grass surrounding the pool and they staked their claim with blankets, towels, and an assortment of beach and pool toys.

Territory was marked off in the pool, too, and when the twins were little, I had my own little section of the kiddy pool reserved for the year. There I could keep an eye on the twins and cultivate a suntan, or a new acquaintance, or both. I’d look across the pool with envy, longing for the day I’d get to sit on the other side of the pool with the rest of the grownups.

In the evenings, there was a whole different set of people at the pool, mainly lots of teenagers. Carl would always cast an appreciative eye on the new crop of sweet young things who ought to be arrested for looking so good, while I tried my best to hide my varicose veins and the bulges that had fallen from all the right places to all the wrong placeson my body. I knew there was no hope for me to be considered a bathing beauty when I no longer got even a passing glance from some kid who was too young for the sweet young things, but too old for Tinker Toys.

Typically, my kids wasted a lot of time and energy testing to make sure I really was not going to bring money to the pool. Not ever. They also had to make absolutely sure that I was not going to referee their fights, or decide who would get to play with the ball next. “Settle all that yourselves,” I’d tell them. “I’ve come to the pool to relax.”

Indeed, going to the pool could be very relaxing. When the noise topside got to be too much, I could always go under the water and stay there as long as I could hold my breath. Sometimes I swear it was the only time I was completely alone in any given day, and it sure was quiet and restful down there.

That’s when I realized that if I ever have suicidal tendencies, I will definitely have to stay away from the pool.

Clever Marketing

I just read a STORY in the New York Post online about a 'novel' approach to marketing and promoting a book. Jennifer Belle, who's latest book , "The Seven Year Bitch," was just released, is the best-selling author of "Going Down" and "High Maintenance." But she didn't rely on just her reputation to boost sales of the latest release.

According to the news story, she hired 40 actresses to go out across New York City and burst out laughing in public while reading her book. Belle was quoted in the story saying it's like in India where people hire professionals to cry at their loved ones' funerals. "I'm hiring actors to laugh at my book."

What a clever idea. Marketing is all about buzz, and I can hear the drone of a million bees.

People are naturally curious, so I'm sure a number of them will ask what the reader is laughing at. I'm guessing that the actresses have been given a sales script to use. And even if people don't ask, they can see the title of the book and make a mental note, "Gosh, if that book is so funny I should read it."

I'm going to have to keep this in mind for when my memoir is published. (You'll notice I said when and not if.)

What about you? What do you think of this idea? Is it something you would do?

Swimming Does Count as Bathing

Since school will be ending soon for summer vacation I thought this excerpt from my memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, most appropriate. This is from the chapter titled: Summertime Blues, Swimming Does Count as Bathing. Enjoy....


Once all the kids were in school full time, summer time took on a whole new dimension. When they were all little and underfoot, seasons streamed one into the other without much impact on family life. We continued doing what we always do, just changed clothes to suit the weather.

That all changed when the kids were all gone for most of the day during the school year, then suddenly, summertime came and there they all were, cluttering up the house. Every last one of them. Every day. All day.

Often, as the end of the school year drew near and I looked ahead to the days of summer vacation stretching endlessly before me, I had a feeling of impending doom. Maybe that was because we usually failed miserably on the first day of summer vacations. Sort of like time trials in car racing. If you make it through without a mishap, you've got a chance at the race.

I would barely make it through the first two hours of:

"I've been waiting all winter to watch this show. You can watch your dumb show tomorrow."

"That's not fair! You can't watch TV anyway. You didn't do your work."

"What are you? The resident policeman?"

"I'm just trying to help. Keep things running smoothly so Mom won't get upset."

Meanwhile I was in the other room suffering from terminal motherhood, expecting all the fuses to blow any second. I had visions of that kid walking through the entire summer in a black and white striped shirt with a whistle in his mouth.

Maybe I should have just let him have a go at it.

As the fight over the TV would increase in tempo and volume, I would have definite impulses to do violence of some sort. And just in case that went beyond the impulse state, I had a defense plan prepared.

By reasons of insanity: "Your Honor, no one in their right mind would ever throw a toaster at their own television without provocation."

Things went steadily downhill from there, and I questioned whether I would make it another day. Already I had laryngitis and I think I ruptured something in my throat. God wouldn't do this to me, would He? He wouldn't expect me to stumble through the summer without a voice to yell with?

I might have made it through that first day by sheer force of determination, if it hadn't been for this little kid who kept following me around asking me when we were leaving on summer vacation.

"We are on summer vacation!"

"No we're not! Vacation is going somewhere, and we're not going anywhere."

I wonder if a one way ticket on the next space shuttle fits the criteria of "going somewhere?"

Happy Mother's Day

I'd like to take this opportunity to pay tribute to my mother, and send her some virtual roses.

Ours was not a storybook relationship for many years, and it's only been in the maturity of my own adulthood that I've learned to appreciate all she did for me.

The product of an unsettled and emotionally unhealthy childhood, my mother came to marriage and parenthood totally unprepared. Being abandoned as a child and growing up in an orphanage hardly qualifies as a firm foundation for loving and giving. And that's what motherhood is all about. Loving so fiercely it-carries you through all the bad times, and knowing when and how to give your children back their lives.

My mother did all of that and more.

Not in the traditional sense, because she didn't know how, but in her determination and courage. When her marriage fell apart and she was faced with raising two kids by herself, it was almost like history repeating itself, except she didn't make the same choice her mother did.

My mother and her sister were put in an orphanage as young girls and didn’t see their mother again for many years. My mother kept us together as a family the best way she could, teaching us something about loyalty I overlooked for too many years.

During my childhood our home life was erratic and unpredictable at best, the makings of a best-selling novel at worst, but we survived. And through it all, she was there, trying and failing and trying again.

Now, looking back, I realize that even in her failings there was success. My sister and I are both reasonably mature, healthy adults and we didn't get there by ourselves. Sure we carry around a little excess emotional baggage from our past, but doesn't everybody?

Nobody is ever completely put together emotionally, and considering the odds against her so many years ago, I figure my mother did an outstanding job.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to say thank you, Mom. Thank you for the years, good and bad, which have made me who I am, and thank you for showing me there's more to loving than saying the words we still too often find so hard to express.

Whose Ball is It?

A couple of weeks ago I posted an excerpt about soccer from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. A number of readers responded to the story of beginner soccer players and how much fun it is to watch, and the readers asked if I would be posting more soccer stories. There are a couple more in this chapter about soccer, so here is another one. Enjoy....


For a long time I thought nobody would top Michael’s less-than-stellar debut at soccer, until one of my grandson’s started his first game.

Like Michael, Justin has an older brother who was quite gifted at the sport, and Justin played a lot of backyard soccer before joining a team. Also like Michael, he has a strong sense of what is fair and what is not. I mean, like really strong. The Gorilla Glue of fair play.

At his first game, he got into a debate with one of the defenders from the other team who took the ball away from him. Obviously, Justin thought the game ought to be played like the scrimmages with his brother who never took the ball away. Undaunted, the opposing player told Justin that it was his job to get the ball away from him.

“But it’s my job to put it in the goal,” Justin said. “And if you aren’t going to let me, then I’m not going to play.”

With that, he walked off the field. The coach, the other players, the referee, his mother and the rest of us were speechless. Then we darn near choked to death trying to swallow laughter.

Again, in the spirit of fairness, Justin did learn how to play on a team and did quite well at soccer for a number of years.

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This is a real busy day for me. I am also guest blogging at a new blog that is devoted to teen reading and Y/A books. Hop on over to Teen Fiction and Other Stuff by C.K. Green if you would like to join in a fun discussion about being socially unacceptable.

Who's Turn is it to Kick?

I realized today that it has been a while since I shared an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. The following is from a chapter on soccer, a sport that dominated our lives for many years. Enjoy....

Long before anyone heard of Soccer Moms and Sarah Palin, I was spending several days a week at soccer games or schlepping kids to practice. For a number of years our lives revolved around the soccer fields and trying to make it to two or more games on a Saturday, sometimes scheduled only fifteen minutes apart and at opposite sides of town.

Three of our kids, David, Michael, and Dany, played regularly for several years. The other two did not enjoy soccer. Anjanette stayed with swimming and diving before getting into gymnastics and dance.

Paul made a valiant effort to hold to the family tradition and tried the sport for one year before deciding he just didn’t care for it. He tried baseball after that, and didn’t care for it, either, finally realizing he wasn’t really the athletic type, which doesn’t mean he wasn’t in shape. One year he won a Physical Training trophy in JrROTC for doing the most sit-ups in a minute – over a hundred. I’m not sure who was the most surprised, Paul, me, or the buff kid he beat out.

David was the one who started the craze at our house. He took to the sport like he was a Pele clone and played for two years before Michael made his debut. David has always been a good athlete, and he really liked the competitive spirit of the game, so the only problem he encountered on the field, was trying not to trip over the sole of his shoe that we tried to hold together with Duct tape. He was also lucky enough to start off on a good team, with good coaches, and they twice vied for city champs.

So I became a Soccer Mom before it was a status symbol. I loved to watch the games, and I usually ended up hoarse from cheering and exhausted from pacing up and down the sidelines. I never thought that taking an interest in our children’s activities would be so tiring.

As soon as Michael was old enough, he wanted to play, so we signed him up. On the way to his first game, he was very excited about his new soccer shoes, his jersey, and his shorts, and I started to wonder what he thought the game was all about. He asked me if I would yell and cheer the way I do at David’s games, and I told him of course, that’s a mother’s place in the scheme of things. But I’m not sure if the following fit the definition of cheering:
“Michael, kick the ball. Don’t just stand there!”
“Michael, get up! If you’re tired, your coach can put somebody in for you.”
“Michael, you’re not out there to pick flowers, you’re out there to play soccer.”
“Yes, Michael, I saw you kick the ball. Now get back into the game.”
“Michael, if the coach says come out of the game, come out. Don’t stand there arguing with him.”

And so the season went, with the kids playing what some of us called “chicken soccer.” That’s where all the players flock together around the ball and seem to move up and down the field in that cluster. Once in a while one kid would break loose and make a run at the goal, only to stop when the goalie said, “Stop.”

Obviously, this was not a team intent on winning a championship.

The Dreaded Words

Here is another excerpt from my latest book, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. This segment is from the chapter What’s For Dinner? Or, Mutiny of the Midgets. Enjoy...

There are certain words and phrases in the English language, dirty words aside, that are guaranteed to disrupt the otherwise peaceful existence of any mother and drive her to the brink of insanity. Paramount in this area are the words, "What's for dinner'?"

At our house, this question was always asked at the most inconvenient times – at lunch before I'd even had a chance to mop up the soggy Cheerios from breakfast, occasionally during dinner the night before, and once before I'd even had my morning coffee.

Approaching me before coffee, by the way, had to be the epitome of curiosity, courage, and stupidity. I barely breathe before my morning caffeine, let alone answer a question, and the kid who was brave enough to tread where no others had ever trod was putting his life in jeopardy.

When the kids came home from school the first words out of their mouths would be, "What's for dinner?"

Every other year I might have gotten a "Hi, Mom" first, but I quickly learned not to let my emotional security hinge on whether or not that happened.

I can remember thinking how simple it would have been had they all waited until everyone was home and sent one delegate to ask the question instead bursting into my office every hour on the hour. Or I could have called a family conference and made a general announcement. Or made a recording and left the tape player handy so all they had to do was push a button to hear what was on the dinner menu.

Sometimes I’d decide it would be a terrific idea for them to be surprised once in a while. But when I suggested that they just wait and see, they’d act like I just invited them to experience Chinese water torture. And maybe it was agony for them not to know. They were pretty good at devising all sorts of sneaking-and-peeking games that usually left me with fallen bread, sticky rice, and an almost uncontrollable urge to scream.

It probably wouldn't have been so bad if I thought they were asking because they really cared about what I'd expended so much time and energy to prepare. But it was terribly deflating to be asked that question for the fifth time in a row and have to hear for the fifth time in a row, "Ugh! I hate stew."

Happy Thanksgiving

For all of my American readers, I send out a heartfelt Happy Thanksgiving. I hope your day is blessed by the love of family, good food, and all the things that make lasting memories.

The following is another excerpt from the memoir I am writing:


There's an old Thanksgiving song that starts out, "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go..."

When I was a child, my Dad would break into that song as we crossed the Pennsylvania border into West Virginia on our annual pilgrimage to celebrate the Holiday with his family. "The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifting snow..."

The closer we got to his childhood home, the heavier his foot rested on the gas pedal as our Chevy station wagon climbed the hills on twisting roads and flew on the downside. His rich baritone voice belted the song, and in my imagination we were on that sleigh behind dapple grays in their rhythmic trot. I could hear the clump of their hooves and feel the blowing snow bite my cheeks as we were carried along.

It was magic, pure and simple. A magic that continued for the few days that we stayed in that 'otherworld.'

Today as those memories float pleasantly through my mind, I can almost smell the wonderful aromas of sage dressing, pumpkin pie, and mulled cider that permeated my grandmother's house. And I can hear the bustle of activity accompanied by short bursts of conversation among the women in the kitchen. The front bedroom is where the men gathered and brought out instruments. Their music became another soundtrack.

My brothers, sisters, and I would join other cousins in the back bedroom in between our numerous trips outside. Our biggest challenge was to see who could roll down the hill and retain the most amount of snow, turning ourselves into living snowpeople. The second biggest challenge was to see who would have the honor of receiving the drumsticks. They were dolled out on a 'merit' system based loosely on which of us waited the most patiently for the great announcement, "Dinner's Ready."

With memories like that, it was hard for me to face the formidable task of creating Thanksgiving Days that would live in glory for my children.

We were living in Texas, so mountains and snow were out of the question, and my singing never could quite match my father's. I didn't possess even a tenth of the culinary skills of my grandmother and my aunts, so the meal would probably be lacking. And we were more than a thousand miles away from cousins to help distract my children from their impatience.

But despite those limits, we managed to muddle through. I did manage a passable dinner and my husband actually raved about the German dressing. The pies were a major hit, all ten of them, and everyone was willing to eat the broccoli for the promise of a second piece of pie. And after cheering the Dallas Cowboys to another victory, most years, we would all tumble outside for a family game of touch-football.

In sifting through all these random memories I realize that the memory itself is not what is important. What is, is the fact that we have memories and they don't happen by accident. No matter what we do to 'mark' these important occasions, it is vital that we do 'mark' them. Even if our process doesn't live up to a Martha Stewart image or our own fond remembrances of childhood.

So here's to our memories, no matter how we create them.

A Wonderful Book

When I lived in Omaha, Nebraska for almost ten years, one of the highlights of my day was reading the Omaha World Herald. I missed the Dallas Morning News and the Herald did not measure up in lots of ways, but it did contain the work of Jeffrey Koterba, a terrific political cartoonist. He has a sharp wit, and sometimes a profound insight into a current event, and his cartoons always made me smile.

After I came back to Texas and was again reading the Dallas Morning News, I was delighted to sometimes see a Koterba cartoon on the editorial pages. When I saw this ONE after Mary Travers died Sept 17th, I wrote to Jeff to thank him for such a fitting cartoon. I wanted his permission to use it on the blog I wrote about Mary, but he was a little slow to respond. When he did, he apologized for not seeing the message sooner, and told me that one reason was he was busy with a book that is being released early in November.

We e-mailed back and forth a couple of times, and I offered to read the book and possibly review it.

Inklings, which is a memoir, arrived in my mailbox this past Friday, and I made the mistake of picking it up "just to check it out." I say, "mistake" because I had a terrible time putting it down and I had a really busy weekend that did not include time to read for more than a few minutes at a time.

This is a beautiful book, starting with the writing and continuing with production and cover art. Jeff is as adept with prose as he is with cartooning, and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt always puts out beautiful books.

I will do a full review on Bloggernews.net when I finish the book, but I just had to write about it here, too.

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For the benefit of the FTC, I was not compensated for this endorsement of the book. I will donate my review copy of the book to my local library when I am finished with it.

More Nonsense From My Latest Book

Back in June I started posting excerpts from my new book , which is a humorous memoir titled A Dead Tomato Plant and A Paycheck. This latest installment is from the chapter tentatively titled, The Silly Things We Do. A couple of weeks ago, I "told" on a friend, so this time I decided to "tell" on myself....

While I may not be the brightest intellectual around, I’ve always considered myself intelligent, educated, and capable. As a parent, I’ve handled situations that call for ingenuity, like explaining to a five-year-old what keeps the moon up in the sky -- l told her God glued it up there and figured her teacher could explain all that scientific stuff after she got to school -- and talking my way out of hosting a slumber party for15 young teenage girls.

The fact that I even survived raising the twins speaks for itself.

So, I wonder. Why is it that I can't open a simple "easy to open" package? I faced the most demanding jobs of motherhood from potty training to summer vacation, but I m reduced to being a 97-pound weakling at the sight of "press here and pull back along dotted line."

The last time I opened a box of detergent, I had to get a hammer and chisel, and I ended up with soap powder all over the floor and a smashed thumb. It was not a pretty sight, nor did pretty sounds come out of my mouth.

Considering the highly technological society we live in, along with truth in advertising, shouldn't an easy-open package be just that? We shouldn't have to wrestle our way through boxes of cereal and individually-wrapped cheese slices. We shouldn't have to gnaw our way through potato chip bags or get tennis elbow from opening jars of peanut butter. We shouldn't have to ask the same kid who gave us the blinding headache to open the bottle of aspirin so we can ease said headache. And we shouldn't have to visit the local blacksmith with our canned ham.

Once when I was particularly frustrated – and my husband has the nerve to ask when WASN’T I particularly frustrated – I wrote a polite letter to one manufacturing company explaining that I didn't find their "easy to open" package all that easy. Their response dearly indicated that they didn't care about consumer relations and the letter started out as a typical PR piece about their product. Then it went on to explain that the packaging had undergone extensive testing before being released on the market, and even a monkey could open it.

Now, I ask you. Was that an insult, or do they really expect me to make a trip to the zoo every time I want to open a bag of chips?

Fits of Temper

Back in June I started posting excerpts from my new book , which is a humorous memoir titled A Dead Tomato Plant and A Paycheck. This latest installment is from the chapter tentatively titled, The Silly Things We Do

This particular piece was inspired by a neighbor who was known to do some pretty amusing things and was always willing to let me write about them. I was saddened to hear recently that he passed away and it was ironically about the time I was working on this chapter.

I hope you are making them laugh up in heaven, Dick....

In all honesty, most of us will have to admit to being overcome with childish fits of temper at one time or another in our lives. Whether that happens frequently, occasionally or twice a day, we all have given in to the urge to throw something across the room and watch it smash into a million pieces. (We mothers have to be most careful when the impulse is to throw one of our kids).

Although we all fall prey to this type of behavior, it really takes a big person to admit it, and that being the case, I'm going to tell you what this friend of ours once did. This friend, who shall remain nameless, got mad at his telephone one day. He was so mad that just slamming the receiver back in place was not enough to satisfy him, so he ripped it off the wall.

Then he threw it down on the floor and jumped on it once or twice.

That still didn't ease his frustration, so he kicked it around the floor a bit, kind of stirring up all the little pieces.

Then he picked up all those little pieces, put them in a brown paper bag, and went to the nearest payphone to call the phone company. (Keep in mind this was before anyone had even thought of a cell phone.)

He told the girl in the service department that there was something wrong with his phone, and she said she would have someone check the lines and they would get back to him.

"'You don't understand," my friend said. "There's no trouble on the lines. My telephone is broken."

"Sir, do you mean the instrument itself is broken?"

"Yes, Ma’am, that's exactly what I mean."

"What is it that's broken on your telephone?"

"Well, you could say the whole thing is broken. In fact, you might want to send out a whole new unit."

“Oh, okay. I’ll have a technician come to your home.”

At that point, I would have skipped town and let someone else greet the repairman, but this friend is given to great shows of bravery as well as terrific temper tantrums. He acted as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to hand a telephone repairman a bag of junk that used to be a telephone and tell him that a Mack truck ran over it.

If I had been the repairman, I might not have been able to resist asking how the wall fared.