Giggles Girls and Ghosts

Writing a blog after more than a month is like coming home after a long trip and wondering if the dogs will still remember me. Of course they always remember me, but there is always that sliver of tension between the opening of the front door and the first wag of a happy tail.

As most of you know, I've been traveling for the past month. Over the years so many miles have passed beneath these brave feet of mine, now cracked from wear and time, yet still carrying me to the end and back…and back again, because it never really is the end now is it?

In the past month I’ve kissed soft cheeks, tickled shy toes, checked in with the tribe—the youngest member, my granddaughter, with her sticky hands and determined spirit, reminded me to chill out–have fun and never EVER give up! I like to think that she got that from me, but it’s her mother’s hard-earned tenacity that has seeded within her cotton candy heart.

Trying on hats

And then there were the many sets of eyes—smiling eyes—happy to see me, pulling up a chair deep within my heart, sitting down with me, taking the time to connect. Loving me. Thank you Lano, Kathy, and Ruth.

I’ve met some new faces too. Friendly Facebook faces reaching out to me with long arms — excellent huggers who smell good—Debra and Megan, who up until that point had been comment makers on FB, but were now in a booth at the Laughing Owl with me, sipping cocktails, slowly revealing their sweet selves—getting to know one another was magic!

My friends are my angels.

Beth was with me all along. She usually is. One-shoe two-shoes, we fit with each other like a comfy pair, and I’m more than grateful for her presence in my life. She carried me south to Savannah—she and Alison, a new friend with a quick British wit and a kind heart. We were giggling girls on a road trip, forgetting the have tos and all the bullshit that chokes out the sun.

We stayed with a friend—a pragmatic woman, not given to any bibbidi bobbidi boo. She apologized about the enraged ghost occupying our bedroom, a farmer from the eighteenth century who refuses to let go. She told us the medium couldn’t budge him, and I wonder if this is his face in the photo, mocking my friend as the shutter snapped. I slept with fingers and toes carefully hidden beneath a blanket of false bravado, insisting that ghosts do not exist— yet jumping at the slightest noise.

And here I am now—home. Tucked back into the nest like a speckled chick cuddling with the twigs and feathers, the familiar scent and the softness—feeling a little larger than before I left, perhaps a bit cramped, evidence of my growth over the summer and perhaps the need for a change in digs—and diet;). But I’ll let life flow in that direction on its own as I occupy this nest and this moment.

It’s good to be home.

They Wouldn't Dare Drop Me!

Vacation laundry;)

I know it’s been a while since I last posted a blog. It’s not that I intended to stay away for so long. Let’s just say that life has guided me down some new roads. Roads snaking through bombshells, beauty, and blind corners. I’ve barely had time to catch my breath because of the steady stream of—look at thats!—WTFs!—and could it bes? Yes it could be, and I see it, and here I am trying to write about it.

Like the fizz inside a bottle of Perrier, there is so much going on inside of me that I want to tell you about…but I’m not sure how, so I’ll sum it up with a quick metaphor. You all know how I love metaphors;)

Recently I went on a vacation to Orlando with some friends and we visited The Animal Kingdom in Disney where they have an attraction called Mount Everest. Somehow I allowed my thirty something year-old buddy to talk me into going on this ride with her and her mom. She assured us older gals that it was just a train ride to the top where one could get a panoramic view of the entire park. Okay. I knew we were in trouble when our rickety, half-shell of a bucket seat, clickity click clicked up a seemingly endless ninety-degree incline. We braced ourselves, anticipating a quick plunge down the other side, but what we got instead was a drop backwards into a hot dark tunnel filled with the shattering screams of the newly traumatized. As we continued backwards my stomach began to bubble like a vat of fermented pea soup while little beads of panic dotted my green brow.

I had no idea what was coming next or how long the torment would last, so to keep myself from freaking out I focused myself with self-talk: “It won’t last forever. They wouldn’t dare drop you! You WILL NOT barf.”

And I was right.

I held my lunch and the hell didn’t last too long. Just long enough for me to coin the phrase: “Well scare me shitless and turn me green!”

Susan and me shortly after our ride on Everest. Our gills were still green.

So there you have it. My life (and perhaps yours) is like a roller coaster ride. I’m being thrilled one moment, and terrified the next. I’m learning numerous lessons. One of which is that I am not in control and that the uncertainty of each moment is God.

I’m also seeing some things for the first time. Things I thought I knew but didn’t really. Things about others and myself—freeing things that give me wings, silencing assumptions and judgments, leaving the measurer behind, teaching me what love is and what it is not.

Love doesn’t rise and fall with each emotion, nor does it cling or reject, but stands steady and strong. Love doesn’t blame or run away in fear. It is rugged and abiding and wears practical shoes, always ready for the climb. Love trusts me with the truth—no matter how painful that truth may be, and communicates in a kind and direct manner. Only love is real—and it kicks fear’s ass.

Lately I’ve been moved to make some external changes as well. I’ve quit my lifelong addiction to nicotine and left off drinking my daily round of Diet Coke. I miss them both, but have acquired a new appreciation for Chiclets and slightly sweetened iced-tea. These changes were inspired by nothing more than my desire to have better health, plus I’ll never have to feel the pinch of those annoying FB posts: “Aspartame puts the die in Diet Coke.” LOL!

I’m still painting. My art is very Peter Pan-ish, coming from a place inside of me that believes it can fly. It makes me happy. Thank you Julia Fehrenbacher, my dear friend for inspiring my exploration with paints.

Making Leah happy.

And of course I’m writing my second novel and loving my first, Cosette’s Tribe. As a matter of fact, Karen Wojcik Berner, a gifted author and blogger, nominated Cosette's Tribe for Best Novel, and Best Mainstream Fiction, at the eFestival of Words annual competition! Thank you Karen!

If you’d like to vote for Cosette’s Tribe you can do so below. First you need to complete the initial registration. After you submit, there's a “What’s your zip code” message trying to get you to sign up for additional offers. The best way to get around this is to close the page and relaunch the link to vote. Be sure to vote in both categories. Thanks so much for your support!!

Click here Then click on Awards Hall and vote both categories.

I guess that’s it for now. Consider this a “catch up” blog. I have a feeling my blogging is going to be a bit scant for the rest of the summer as I shall be traveling in August. I will check in, but in the meanwhile give me a shout out and let me know how your summer is going. And remember to kick fear’s ass because only love is real!!

Ripples and Repercussions

Saturday evening I was heading north on the Silver Star, a passenger train crammed with a mishmash of adventurous souls traveling over the Mother’s Day Weekend. It was surprising to me how crowded the train was. I assumed that half the passengers were suffering from aviophobia, while the rest were either eager train enthusiasts visiting the Tampa station to celebrate their 100-year anniversary, (which I totally enjoyed) or those whose budgets couldn’t handle the price of airfare. For me it was a combination of two: plus the thrill of being lost in a tangle of strangers, experiencing a certain freedom reserved only for the anonymous.

The train car rattled over the tracks, beating out a rickety rhythm, rocking me to sleep, next to my hushed seatmate, who just that afternoon was still a complete stranger to me—a face with no story, just an extra in my life-movie. But after being sequestered together to a space no larger than a coat closet for fifteen hours, a sort of forced intimacy occurred, bonding this writer to a retired New York City cop with a prickly persona and a heart the size of humanity.

I’m a people watcher; I get my cues and clues watching how people speak to, and about, one another. My defenses rise like steely porcupine needles when I see things that I don’t like: negativity, prejudice, hatefulness, pettiness; all these traits cause me to withdraw into my silent shell—protecting all my soft spots.

Warren was easy for me to read. Initially I could tell that, like myself, he had already withdrawn into his shell; although due to sheer necessity his vulnerable neck and head were poking out, looking around for his seat. His voice was set to “gruff” warning others not to screw with him, stashing his fleshy heart, warm with blood and kindness, safely away within his own shell.

Perhaps it was fate that had decided that Warren and I should meet, although I did kind of initiate things. At first he was behind me looking a bit confused over the seat numbers, but then I invited him to sit beside me, figuring he looked harmless enough. It’s a crapshoot on the train, and the last thing I wanted was to be seated next to Mr. Stinky or Mrs. Crabapple.

We sat politely side by side, both of us taking turns sharing our stories. Two chatterboxes who also happened to be good listeners, creating a give and take as rewarding as an exchange between a kid and an ice cream truck on a blistering August afternoon.

The more we chatted the more I liked him. He spoke with a disarming honesty about himself, and the lessons and rewards he had gleaned from life’s experiences. He expressed immense gratitude for his family—his incredible wife who loved and understood him, and a treasured daughter, smart and beautiful, as he stated, “his best contribution to society.”

We decided to have dinner in the dining car. I guess on trains space is pretty limited because we found ourselves sitting across from an austere looking couple, straight-laced diners, possessing a no-nonsense air about them—Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. Of course at this point Warren and I had sped beyond common niceties and splashed headlong into puddles of silliness. We were like a couple of slap stick comedians sitting at a properly set table, stuffing our nervous giggles beneath our linen napkins, desperately searching for our adult faces—and our table manners.

Watching Warren adjust himself to this couple was like watching the destruction of the Hoover Dam—first the cracks (wine was involved in this stage) then the leaks (humor) and then the flood. No filter “be yourself and screw them” Warren was in full form, and I, being a proper lady, followed his lead until Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself morphed into Mr. & Mrs. Life Can Be Fun, and the four of us sat laughing and talking until the waiter poured our drinks into “to go” cups, and shooed us out of the dining car for closing.

We said goodbye to our new friends, who now sported “yes” faces for the entire world to admire, and then we found our seats.

We sat and talked about how alike we were and how much pleasure we found in cracking up Mr. & Mrs. Behave Yourself. We theorized that fate had accidentally thrown the two of us together, causing a rift in the time continuum, thus allowing us to see beyond the cosmic curtain for a brief moment. We saw that we were secret agents from the other side, strategically placed on earth as crust busters for those who take themselves, and life, way too seriously. We had the same life-tasks and the two of us together were—well, pretty efficient, but perhaps a bit much for one small train.

Eventually we nodded off, our heads silently bobbing in sync with the bumps, as we passed the dimly lit hubs of sleepy unknown towns, their soft yellow lights glowing on yesterdays fashions, mom and pop eateries, and neighborhood thrift stores.

My reasons for traveling north were as varied as my thoughts, a little business—a bit of pleasure, but mostly because I felt an unction drawing me northward. I had to go and find out what life had to say to me.

I had never met Warren before, but by the time my trip was over I felt we had become sure friends, and that our meeting was a sort of divine appointment, the repercussions of which will ripple to the corners of the world touching unknown hearts—forever.

It’s an exciting thing to follow your heart—opening yourself up to an innumerable amount of unknown possibilities, and betting on yourself to find what it is that you need. This trip has provided for me a sparkling opportunity, thus wiping my slate clean in order to write something fresh—creating for myself a new chapter as a woman, author—and friend to Warren.

I’ll keep you posted on my discoveries as I walk, with eyes wide open, into the vivid blue of each Tarheel day. Life is good. Tough. But good.

Purposeful Vulnerability

It’s been a whirlwind of a week with the release of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, and a surprise visit from my daughter and granddaughter from NC. And then on top of that, I was honored with a surprise launch party, sneakily hatched by my two beautiful daughters!

The Tango Continues

I’ve just had an amazing week with my friend Holly. We bodysurfed until we were bruised, combed miles of blonde beaches, ate at rustic waterfront cafes, and spent hours chatting out on the lanai. I didn’t realize how much I needed this time of rejuvenation until after she had left. That’s when I felt the residue of peace lingering like a fine mist floating in the air, setting free my breath, and opening up my mind.

I feel recharged and excited, now being able to enjoy the multitude of steps waiting to be climbed. I see them before me like a stairway spiraling upward—pinpricking through the clouds. I laugh at the great climb ahead, knowing full well that I will get there—in time.



What to do? What to do? My desk and wall are cluttered with scribbled scraps, folders, and odd mementos purposefully collected to inspire me. I moved my desk into the master bedroom in order to make room for, Jesse & Jesse, my two dear friends who had been staying with us now for a while. They departed this morning, driving northward, intent on a new journey, thus creating a vacancy in my heart—and my spare bedroom; so, today I shall transfer my office back to the spacious quietness of the guest suite so that I can spread out and plan…

It’s a small transition, but transitions and changes tend to create a rhythm of their own, beating in time with the monotonous, building momentum. One can never tell which action is important until afterwards, for each holds within itself a fan of repercussions, creating an endless wave of activities slapping against the lives of many…perhaps all.

So, what to do?

I received my proofs for Cosette’s Tribe this week, which is proof that I actually wrote a book; so, now that I have this wonderful novel I can see that there is much more work to do in order to nurture and care for it properly. It’s not so different than having a baby. When you’re in the hospital surrounded by smiles, balloons and family, the duties of motherhood seem somewhat distant and romantic, but once you’re at home with your pint-sized soul mate, all wiggly and pink—and demanding—you find your tears flowing along with the colicky lullaby of your infant’s cries; this is when motherhood arrests you, and you find that your life has been changed forever. Such is the life of a writer turned author.



As I write this blog my book sits silently beside me, literary twins—a paperback, and hardcover. Inanimate objects that can only be brought to life by the imagination of a hungry reader, someone to invite Cosette in where she can freely whisper her guarded secrets and dizzying dreams, finding a sure friend and confidant to join her on her journey.

There is no turning back or changing my mind. I, like a parent, have created a life and now I am responsible for that life. The paper versions of my novel are complete and as close to perfect as we could get them. Now comes the challenge of formatting an e-book, which is proving to be enormously frustrating, what with the way the files like to misbehave. Right now we’re stuck, but I’m praying for the angels to send me a MOBI miracle.


I couldn't resist slipping my girl up on the shelf!

My newest task is to promote Cosette’s Tribe. It makes me a little nervous—this marketing thing. Actually I feel fearful and brave all at the same time. I guess I’ll just have to dive in and get it done the same way I wrote the book and published it…feeling a bit inadequate. Everything is new. Everything is waiting. Everything must be done and inadequacies must be defied. I’ve come to the conclusion that fear can be a great motivator and that anything worth doing is usually accomplished while afraid.

The tango continues...

Imagining John's Independence Day

I sat at John’s bedside; his face was graveyard gray, and sagging like the worn planks of a condemned house. In his youth John was a capable navigator for the Royal Dutch Navy. It was 1940, and John was home for a short furlough with his parents when the German army tore the front doors from the hinges of his sleepy village. It was a home invasion of massive proportions, disrupting checker games, and Sunday suppers, trampling well-tended lives underfoot, and stripping away the healthy flesh from a civilized society.

John was driven underground by Hitler’s minions, living in a hand-dug cave beneath his parents’ home. He hid like a fox from hunters, coming out only by the moon’s dubious light, transforming him into a hungry shadow searching for food like an animal. He begged crusts and crumbs from terrified neighbors, also sequestered to their homes.

The German soldiers rolled through his picturesque village like an army of masticating ants, killing and carrying off twenty times their weight in carcasses and loot, devouring everything in their paths; ants with thick helmets shielding their consciences from the ricocheting screams of the innocents, overpowering the powerless and meeting no resistance, proclaiming a ruthless victory that went as smoothly as a bayonet through a baby.

John waited, starving and powerless in his bleak grotto, until allied troops liberated the Netherlands nearly five years later.

John turned ninety five on his last birthday and had managed to maintain a sharp mind, generous humor, and a sincere love for his fellow man. I marveled at his resilience, and I sensed that when I visited him that I was in the company of a great man. I also knew that this visit in particular would probably be our last. John was in the final stages of his battle with cancer.

I held John’s emaciated hand and envisioned him as a twenty four year old man hiding from the Nazis. I tried to imagine the mental and physical strength he had to conjure in order to get through such a horrific ordeal, and the unspeakable relief he must have felt at his deliverance. He knew the meaning of freedom in a way that most people in our country couldn’t fathom…including me.

Last Monday, our dear John passed away peacefully with his lovely wife by his side. It was the ultimate liberation, freeing him from a sick body that had become more of a prison than a home. Although I’m going to miss John, I know that things are as they should be.

Why am I telling you this story? Because it’s almost Independence Day and John is gone, but I am still filled up with him. And, I wanted to say something important about the day….and how John’s life was important too. I needed to put these thoughts on paper so the meaning of John’s suffering would never be forgotten.

I’m sad…but mostly grateful. Grateful that I knew John and that I live in a country where there is peace and plenty. I want to thank John and the other brave souls who have suffered and perished for freedom’s sake, for giving me the carefree pleasure of lighting a sparkler, eating a hot dog, and waving the American flag this holiday weekend.

One need only look back a short distance to imagine what life would be like without freedom…

Waiting in Line for Life

I recently went to a nearby fast food joint for a quick lunch of chili and a diet soda, tenaciously avoiding the delectable, but deadly, cheeseburger and fries. While I was in line waiting to order my skinny girl feast I noticed a man in front of me who looked to be about my age but with a little more wear. His hair was salt and sunshine blond, loosely pulled back into a ponytail, allowing a crop of stray hairs to halo his tanned face. His eyes were friendly, and when he smiled the wrinkles around his eyes joined in, giving him a good natured weathered look, like he could have been the wise captain of a great ship.
We chatted as people do when they are stuck in a line together. He spoke about the headaches of cell phones. His had fallen into his swimming pool and he ended up paying a king's ransom to replace it. He showed me his new phone like an adoring father sharing photos of his first born.
Gathering my food, I found an empty booth by the window and settled in. Soon the captain was at my table asking if I minded if he joined me. Not vibing any “stranger danger” I welcomed his offer. We chatted on about a thousand little random things at once. There was anticipation in his voice when he spoke, and I could tell he enjoyed telling his story, and perhaps hadn't had the opportunity to do so in a very long time. We took turns bantering back and forth in a charged ping pongy sort of way.
After nearly an hour of verbal purging a comfortable silence replaced our electrified chatter. We had both vented and now it was time to move on. It was nice to meet the captain (We never did exchange names) and find out about his world. I knew I would only be with him for this one hour and then he would be gone forever. This created a sense of satisfaction for me. I could enjoy this stranger’s company without any strings attached. I would never have to get to know what his issues were, or give him time to piss me off. I would be oblivious to the date of his birthday or what foods he was allergic too. I was free to explore who he was at that moment and then let him go. However, when I watched him walk away I felt a pinch of sadness too, because in that short hour we had formed a bond. It wasn’t a strong bond, like between best friends, it was more of a common bond between two sojourners on a journey; two souls making there way through a crowded world in search of a listening ear and perhaps a dash of understanding. It was just an ordinary moment that had somehow enriched my life, and I’m so glad that I took the time to enjoy it. Yup.