Panic Attack!

Hoo, boy.  The books have arrived.  12 boxes of the, 25 per box.  About 15 or 20 are promised.  And, that's not all.  I'll have to sell 855 just to break even (so i can try it again with my second book).  I've been on pins and needles for weeks, waiting for them to come when it suddenly dawned on me that the number of friends I have who've asked for a book number less than 50!  When I realized how many I have to sell and how few are promised, that's when the panic hit.

Supposedly, John Grisham bought 1,000 copies of his first book and sold them out of the back of his car, so his humble beginnings are an encouragement.  I do not expect to become a best selling author, but it is encouraging to realize even best sellers have to start somewhere.

Now, if I were a little more computer savvy, I'd include a picture of the book cover.  I admit, the graphic artist did a fabulous job.  Several have commented on it, saying it should sell a lot of books.  Your lips to God's ears.

Maciek

Humbug!  Baloney!  Phooey!  Rats!  Bummer!  Take your pick.  Of the more than 60 boys I've had the privilege of tutoring over the past 10 years, tonight is the graduation for the best of them all.  And I'm sick!!!!
I can't remember the last time I had a sore throat that could lead to bronchitis.  Worse, it could contaminate anyone around me.

So, do I go to graduation and run the risk of making everyone else sick, or stay home and sulk?  I've been pushing for this ceremony for months.  Maciek is one special young man.  Born the oldest of 6 in Poland, the government removed all 6 from the home and placed them in an orphanage.  He, and his youngest brother, Oscar, were adopted by a doctor and her engineer husband in a local community.  Maciek was ten and Oscar was three.

Maciek pushed his senior year very hard in order to graduate before he turned 18 so he could join the military.  His goal is to be a navy seal, a very noble (and dangerous) goal.  He has, thus far, overcome every obstacle in his path.  I've never known a boy to work so hard at such a young age.  As a matter of fact, those who have become highly successful at a young age often had stage mothers who later complained bitterly about how difficult it was to convince the child to work hard in their teen years.

Never once in his four years at Shiloh  did he sass me, balk at an assignment, been rude, or disagree with me when correcting his workbooks.  I once said to him, "Maciek, Sometimes I think I'm harder on you than any of the other boys."  I make no apologies for being tougher on the boy.  My son was in the navy and I have done my best to prepare Maciek for the rigors that lie ahead.

He nodded, continued to write, and said, "Thank you for that."  He understood, without my telling him that I'm trying to help him.  He took constructive criticism under advisement.  What teen does that?

Last spring, he did a thoughtless, foolish thing that Bob and I witnessed.  It was a spur of the moment thing, but had he succeeded, could have caused some serious consequences.  I mentioned it, but softened it with the acknowledgement, that every 17 year old does silly things that, in later years, they regret.  Even me.  At least, he won't have to regret the consequences for what he did because he failed.

When he came to the school, he was a quiet young boy who seldom smiled.  Now, he beams.  He's a young man.  A young man I'm proud to have known and been a part of his life.

Go with God, Maciek.  I'll be praying.

Funny?

People tell me I'm funny, but I don't think I have a sense of humor, unfortunately.  I think they may be saying I'm strange in a funny way.  I either say something or do something unusual they're commenting on.

Take this morning.  I learned a lesson in multi-tasking at my age-NOT.  Bob and Sheila returned from their morning stroll in the park while I was almost finished preparing my breakfast.  Since Sheila's dog food only needs to be put in the microwave for a few seconds, I decided to do that first.  While it was warming, I got her kibble out and, you guess it-poured it into my oatmeal!  Bob's comment?  "Now, that's funny.  I don't care who you are."

Funny ha ha, or funny strange?  One thing's for sure.  I'm too old to multi-task.

Blossoms on my tree

God has blessed me with the most wonderful friends.

One approached me this morning before church started to tell me how much she enjoyed "The Color of Roses."  It's always gratifying to hear.  Kristen said she doesn't think she's ever read a book so quickly.  She just knew there had to be a happy ending.  I agree.  I like books with happy endings.  Then, she smiled and said if I knew of any Charlie's around, introduce her!  It's also gratifying to hear that readers think the characters are believable.

Another friend in Pennsylvania sent money to buy the book before I sent it.  Now, that's a friend!

Still another said she didn't read, but she'd buy one for her mother-in-law who does.

Is it any wonder I consider them blossoms on my tree-a spot of beauty in my life.

Unexpected guests

The distinctly ugly call of sand hill cranes caught my attention just now.  They're beautiful, stately, elegant birds, but their call can only be described as ugly.  Sands hill are protected by the state and when I see them, I remember how they would pace back and forth like a human while waiting for traffic to clear so they could cross the road.  Or course they can fly, but for some reason, they seem to prefer strolling leisurely along, unconcerned about traffic tie ups they cause.

What's so unique about this morning is that there were 7 - yes 7 - in my front yard.  We've never seen so many in one place at one time before.  Come breeding time, I hope to see a bunch of downy little chicks between Mommys and Daddys.  Generally, we see two, or three at one time.  Occasionally, we'll see four, but 7 is unheard of.

They've often used Shiloh as nesting grounds.  56 acres of farmland on the edge of the city makes it wise for them to do so.  However, the very busy road that runs along the property also makes it questionable.  One was killed on that road several years ago and since then, there's not been too many around.

They mate for life and when you see one flying in circles, squawking, he's probably looking for his mate.  It's so sad.  When the babies are born, Momma is on one side of the baby (sometimes 2 babies) and Daddy is on the other.  Very family oriented.

Now would be a good time to know how to put a picture on here to show you what I'm talking about.  It's coming.  Stay tuned.

Paradigm Shift

I have been blessed with such wonderful friends, friends who get me to thinking.  When Bettyann and I talked the day before yesterday, we were discussing her aged parents.  At 88 and 86, they are no longer able to care for themselves physically, although according to her, they're still "sharp as tacks" mentally.  She tells them they have a "new normal."

Yesterday, I had a wonderful time with Margo and we, too, discussed adapting to change.  Both she and I have a history of multiple moves and it's made it easier to adapt to change.  What Bettyann calls a new normal, I call a paradigm shift.

Margo and I've learned to adapt to change in our lives.  For the most part, we've even learned to be grateful for those changes.  I can honestly say that.  However, our discussion of my book led me to realize there's been a huge paradigm shift in my life that I not only have NOT been grateful for, but I've resisted vehemently.

You guessed it.  Computers and social media.  If I had to move again, I'd do it.  It might take a while to be grateful, but it would come.  So, why can't I see my way clear to accept the fact that computers and social media are a part of every day life in the 21st century?  Mr. Czambel, my sixth grade teacher, told my mother my IQ was high enough that I could do anything I wanted IF I STUDIED.

I heard the first part of the comment and for many years ignored the second-to my detriment.  My college English professor told me I had a real flair for writing, but I needed to discipline it.  Then she handed me the lowest test score I got to that point.

Margo mentioned computer experts who could give me personal lessons and it sounds like a good idea. Maybe then I can quit griping about how demonized the nasty little boogers are.  Maybe then I can actually be in contact with all those wonderful people who have so graciously accepted me on Facebook and Linked In.  My computer literate friends would be grateful, I know.  They can get on with their own writing instead of babysitting me.  Stay tuned.

Thanks, Dad

This morning's skyline was not nearly so colorful as yesterday's, but it was still awesome to watch God lavish our senses with His awesome artwork.

The cloud-yes, cloud this morning was one very large, rough, dark rectangle.  In the rectangle were two windows, allowing for a hint of morning sun about to rise above the horizon and behind that cloud.  The pinks, however weren't vivid like yesterday.  They were pale, muted, faded, and there was no gold.  The unusual thing about this cloud is that the entire time were were there, it did next to nothing to change shape.  We were there over 30 minutes and that cloud continued to hug the horizon and not drift in any direction.  Occasionally, lightening would warn of the pending storm the weathermen have predicted for today.  Even those flashes were muted.

We used to call it heat lightening when I was a girl growing up in Pennsylvania.  Remembering that took me back to childhood when my dad taught me to marvel in God's creation, rather than to fear it.  I have a healthy awareness of it's danger, but on one particular summer night, we had a rain storm that was beautiful to watch.

Next door to our place, someone started to build a house, but never got past clearing the land and putting in a few ditches where footers and pipes would go.  As kids, we used to put boards over the ditches and make "houses" out of them.  Today, I wonder that we never encountered snakes or spiders in those very dark places.   Anyway, after the building site was abandoned, black locust trees grew tall, thin, and prolific.  Their leaves are light green on top and silver underneath.

That night of the summer storm, we sat on the kitchen table and watched a strong wind blow those slender tree trunks into a 90 degree angle, the leaves turning their back to the pouring rain and wind.  All we could see of the trees were the leaves, forming a carpet above the bent trunks.  The silver leaves gleamed in the rain and flashes of lightening as the wind ruffled through them.   I remember Dad saying how beautiful nature is, even in times of storm.  His words impressed on my young mind and heart that even in storms, there's beauty.

Since school begins next week, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to join Bob and Sheila in a lovely morning walk, but in just 2 days, I've discovered how good it is to exercise the body, communicate with nature, bond with my husband and dog, and cherish fond childhood memories.  An altogether lovely way to start the day.

Good morning

Wish you could have been here.  Rarely does a morning or evening go by that we who live along the Indian River Lagoon don't have a beautiful sunrise or sunset.  I asked Bob how he would describe the skyline we were admiring.  "Beautiful," was all he could think of to say.

A professional and an amateur photographer were both there with their cameras, trying to capture the pewter colored textures the ripples made on the river, the still dark eastern shore.  A few lights twinkled, indicating people living on the barrier island were beginning their day, too.

Above the horizon, smoky gray clouds billowed upward, tinged in hot pinks and bright gold, a picturesque fanfare for the sunrise.  Pale pink rays fanned out from the spot where in the sun would rise.  Directly overhead, a misshapen three quarter moon was a bright white light in a soft blue sky.  It was still too dark to see the color of the dragonflies flitting around the water's edge.

Bob's right.  "Beautiful" is the only way to describe it.  Truly, the heavens declare the glory of God.  

Nice, really nice

The nicest thing happened to me on Friday when I went into the Post Office for the third or fourth time to mail a book.  The woman who'd been waiting on me suggested I go on line and get the mailers and postage, but as my readers of this blog well know, I don't like computers and like purchasing on line even less.

She was curious as to why I was coming in so often, so I told her about the book.  She was impressed to learn that someone in little ole Sebastian has actually been published.  The truth is, there's lots of us.  Why they aren't mailing books out, I don't know, but I offered to show her the cover of the book.

She looked at it, asked me about the plot, which I gave her briefly.  Her eyes grew big, her mouth dropped open in surprise.  "You know what?  This is the story of one the women who works here!"  Another clerk heard us talking and wanted to know what was going on, so I filled her in.

"I want one," she said.  Naturally, I just happened to have a couple extra in the car.  Before I could get out the door to get the book, she called after me, "I want two."  It was her intention to give the second book to the woman life story is similar to the fiction I've written.

Nice, really nice.

The Color of Roses

"Most people thought Charming Charlie Drake had it all.  A high school football hero turned pro, a popular TV personality, and a successful businessman made him the envy of men and the dream of women.  When life in the fast lane proved empty, Charlie surrendered his life to God.  Although he received spiritual healing, the pain of loneliness continued.  He longed for a family, but people are not always as forgiving as God.

When the widow, Katherine Margaret Prentiss, reentered his life after 25 years, Charlie's previous lifestyle hampered his efforts to win her heart.  Her family intended to protect her from someone they didn't trust.  Her gilded cage, while safe, was lonely.  When their paths cross again, Maggie had to learn to make her own decisions.  Charlie had to learn that winning Maggie wasn't enough.  Both had to learn that dependence on God wasn't always easy, but worth it."

Seeing my work in print after a 28 year struggle wasn't as thrilling as I expected it to be.  Kind of anti-climatic.  Perhaps it's because I've spent so much time with it.  Perhaps so much of that time was spent growling at the computer (confuser) and howling at Bob to come fix whatever mess I made.

I've come to the conclusion that I don't like to be controlled.  Especially by machines, and that's the way I feel about my relationship with this one.  Someone once told me to make it work for me instead of the other way around.  Oh, that it be true.  Your lips to God's ears.

Until that happens, I continue to grumble, murmur, and complain.  I will beat this thing into submission or die trying-whichever comes first.