My first novel went live for pre-order today! River of Silence is out in the world and I have all the feels: excitement, nervousness, pride, terror.

Why terror? Well, what if no one reads it, or worse, no one likes it? It might be an irrational fear but fear nonetheless.

There are so many moving parts to getting a book into the world. The actual writing seems like the easy part. I have a spreadsheet to help keep myself on track with my to do list.

I'll share what all that entails later. Today, I'm just floating around on cloud nine. My book is here!

Read more

If you think writers have a “look,” rest assured they do. And they don’t. They are quirky, funky, fun, serious, young, old, with blue, pink, green, white, grey, flame red, yellow or brown hair. Or no hair. On him. Or her.

They look like you next door neighbor, your hairdresser, your dad. And in my son Duncan’s case, his mom.

Some look like people of Wal-Mart. Or Wall Street. It’s an amazing conglomeration. All of us put pencil to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Or thumbs to phone, which is how this made it’s way to you.

Everyday people read books, poems, articles, essays and more, written by these exact people. My people. In a sea of writers, I am home.

Read something today. Ok?

Shoulder recovery update. I saw my orthopedist’s PA this past week. Everything is healing as they hoped. Complete healing for a shoulder break is a year minimum. Next visit in 3 months.

Still going to physical therapy and occupational therapy weekly. My arm range of motion is still limited. My hand still can’t make a total fist. I can type pretty well now but my handwriting isn’t good. To be honest, it was never beautiful flowing script, but now to say it’s chicken scratch would be generous.

I’m allowed to begin driving again, so an inaugural jaunt to Kroger is on the horizon. Kroger is about a quarter of a mile away. Feels like a safe distance to determine if I’m able to do all the right-handed things easily.

It still seems surreal that this injury would be so debilitating for so long. I’m looking at July possibly before I’m back to ‘normal.’ While I slog through this recovery, I’m nevertheless mindful this is temporary. There are several others I hold in my heart daily who are in the midst of far more serious and potentially life-threatening health issues. You know who you are. ❤️❤️‍🩹❤️

Property values decrease when trees are removed. And I’ll never understand why new housing developers feel the need to clear-cut the land. Why not incorporate the trees into the planning?
This spring, a 5 year old red oak we planted was unceremoniously snapped off at the base by extreme winds. I was heartbroken. We’ve lost two peach trees and one redbud to deer. Critters gotta eat, so while not happy, I understand.
Here’s what I don’t understand. Why in the name of (insert your diety of choice) is anyone allowing the beautiful old growth trees on the White House lawn to be totally removed in favor of a gargantuan gaudy ballroom? One no one asked for, and the vast majority of us will never use. Will they add a tour of the new ballroom to White House tours? That should be a huge draw (insert sarcasm here).
I hope the tour guides have before and after photos to show folks the beautiful grounds before, and the after: a hideous huge box filled with hundreds of gold chairs and Home Depot chandeliers.
Where was the National Registry of Historic Places? And the Arbor Day Foundation? But, I understand the lack of public outcry. Sadly, we have far weightier matters at hand than the degradation of the White House grounds. I’ll just add mourning the loss of trees to the already long list of things America is losing.
Today, for a little while, I’ll reflect on what trees mean to me, and to the environment. Trees can be replanted. Unfortunately, they might achieve maturity before our country regains it’s sanity and moral compass.

I can't stand hearing anyone use "are" instead of "our." I hear stuff like "are customers" or "are sale" or "are hours." Just no.

"Are" is a verb meaning to exist or to be, while “our” is a possessive determiner meaning belonging to us.

I suppose I expect people trained in journalism, or those entrusted with producing commercials to be aware of proper pronunciation.

This isn't a huge deal in the grander scheme of things. But being aggravated by "are/our" momentarily takes my mind off of far weightier matters. And these days any distraction is a welcome one.

In the continuing shoulder recovery saga...Today, I begin occupational therapy for my right hand. Although I can use my hand for some things, my grip strength precludes holding anything heavier than my phone. The largest celebration to date was losing the bulky abduction sling after 82 days and nights of constant wear. It was a sad thing when I looked forward to showering so I could be free of it for a bit.
Physical therapy is going well, if you can consider willfully subjecting yourself to ever increasingly more painful manipulations designed to return my arm's full range of motion a good thing.
The stages of recovery are interesting, even as they seem to lumber on only slightly more than the speed of a barnacle. I consider how far I've come and am grateful. Then, I consider what I still can't do, and I'm frustrated.
I can't drive. (I could, in an emergency. I think.) I can't get dressed alone if there are buttons involved. (see ya later button-fly jeans) I can't write, although I can finally type with some degree of success. (maybe a few dozen words a minute involving much backspacing) I can't blow dry my hair into anything resembling a style. (Thankful I have a blow dry brush gizmo I can use to smooth my flyaway old-age cotton candy frizzy excuse for curls) I can't cut up my own food if it requires a knife. (SO glad for my husband!)

There is still pain daily, although mostly just a never-ending dull ache punctuated with occasional sharp jolts. A moist heating pad and an ice pack are now in my self-care arsenal.
In my mind, in a few more weeks, I'll be good as new. But according to those that have traveled this path before me, it will likely be spring before I'm there. Oy.

For those of us just needing to get the words on the page…all of them.

Photo by Bianca Ackermann on Unsplash

The bird feeders are filled. Mixed seed in bird cam feeder and regular one, black sunflower seeds in another. A suet feeder in the colder months, and a hummingbird feeder in the warm ones. A little birdbath. The feral cat’s water dish, her preference over a bowl. And birds and bees. Rocks in the bottom so the bees have a space to land. Unsalted in-the-shell peanuts bought in ten-pound bags for the squirrels, chipmunks, and birds.

The foxes next door have chicken legs and livers occasionally. Leftover livers attracted vultures which I find are quite large up close! The raccoons will eat anything in their nocturnal rounds. They are quite messy with leftover peanuts. They eat, and then in the morning, we blow the shattered shells from the deck with the leaf blower. Skunks scavenge the bird seed. Deer tip the feeders and drink bird seed that pours out like water. Or eat flower tops and tree branches. Opossums eat leftover cat food.

I think that covers it. The only animal we haven’t seen in the yard is a bear. It wouldn’t surprise me though.

When my son, Duncan, was little he occasionally mispronounced words or phrases. It was simply adorable! I’m not sure he remembers any of these, but I hold them in my heart. When they slip out of my mouth occasionally it brings back the thrill of hearing him boldly use his made-up words.

One of the early lessons I worked with him on at every meal was to place his napkin in his lap when he sat down to eat. There it stayed until it fluttered to the floor during nearly every meal. Wiggly little boy laps do not make for a steady surface. He would say, “Uh oh, I dropped my nack-um.” Nack-um! It’s like an almost-anagram.

Using a seat belt was stressed again and again. Every time he was seated in his car seat or booster chair we would say “Let’s buckle your seat belt.” Then, when the adults would take their seats in front, he would say, “Buckle your belt seat!” He has had small issues with dyslexia from time to time and I think this was the first sign that he twisted words, and later letters and numbers, in his speech.

Like any small child, going to McDonalds for a happy meal was a treat he looked forward to. The toy wasn’t the main draw, it was the food for him. He loved the French fries (I mean, who doesn’t?), and much like his mother, he wanted ketchup for his fries. Only in his world, he wanted ‘kep-itch.’ Another Duncan-ism that was so endearing.

Keeping with the restaurant theme, we occasionally went out to eat. He had his favorite waitress at Bob Evans and she adored him. While he was still highchair size, he loved salad. He was especially a fan of blue cheese dressing and croutons. He told her that was his favorite part of the salad so one day she brought him a small bowl with just that. Dressing and croutons. And a spoon. He was in heaven! No matter what town we were in, he wanted to eat there.

His dad and I were driving along one day discussing where to eat dinner. We were stopped at a stop light, and he exclaimed excitedly from the back seat while pointing out the window. “I want to go to Bob 3 vans!” We were confused. What was Bob 3 vans? I followed where he was pointing to the big red sign across the street. His dyslexia had turned the E in Evans around, so to him it was 3vans. To this day, I still refer to Bob Evans as Bob 3vans.

Nack-ums, kep-itch, belt seats, and Bob 3vans are little occasional reminders of moments when my heart was so full of love for my tiny person. My son, developing his own personality along with his own vocabulary. I have had to explain to many a friend riding in my car what a belt seat is and why I call it that to this day. Thirty-one years later

.

photo credit Anatolii Cherkas

The upside of travel through West Virginia? The hills that were blasted away to allow interstates to dissect the state reveal colorful stone striations wet with rain. The tree canopy tipped in green reveals the forest floor speckled dark green with lush patches of May apples. Newly budding red bud trees beckon me back to admire the landscape painted in fuschia glory in a week or two.

It’s a drive worth making.