The Things We Keep

imageSaturday our little neighborhood is having a garage sale. Since neither George nor I are packrats, I haven’t found too many things to offer at the end of my driveway. An old crockpot, a roaster oven, a camping stool, melamine TV trays and a few other odds and ends are all I’ve collected. Most of the things I’ve rounded up I will be glad to get rid of because we can always use the space in our little townhouse. But other things, though I will let them go, tug at my heart strings because of the memories attached to them.

The TV trays were a fond memory of my childhood. We used them every time we ate outside on our picnic table. They kept the baked beans from running into our hotdogs and the pickle juice out of our potato salad. We also used them in front of the TV when there was a family program we could watch together, like the Milton Berle Show. They remind me of the family I was born into, and giving them away makes me feel as if I’m giving away a memory. But they are melamine. They can’t go into the dishwasher and they aren’t microwaveable. I don’t use them anymore, and they are just taking up room. I need to sell them before I change my mind.

We used the roasting oven every Christmas in San Antonio. Because our Christmas gatherings had grown to nearly twenty-five people over the years, we turned them into fiestas and made fajitas on the grill, and King Ranch chicken. As George took the fajitas off the grill, he would put them in the roaster to keep warm while he threw the next slab of skirt steak on the fire. I miss those Christmases, and so do my children and all the people who used to attend that celebration. But again, we will never have gatherings like that again, and we have no need for that roaster anymore.

When George saw me putting the camp stool in the pile of items for the sale, he said, “Oh, I remember that stool. What did we use it for?” Before I could say anything, he answered his own question. “I remember now. We brought it to soccer games so you could sit down while Matt played and I coached.” Our son Matt was only seven then, but he was a fierce soccer player, and he loved having his dad as one of his coaches. I remembered that well, but I also remembered another use I found for that stool, long after Matt had grown up and no longer played soccer. “I used to take it to Fort Sam on my way home from teaching,” I said, referring to the National Cemetery, ” and sit by Dad’s grave and talk to him.”

I bought little colored dot stickers so I could put prices on all the items. Some things are easy to price. Fifty cents for a cake pan with a small dent in it, twenty-five cents apiece for VHS tapes (we don’t have a VHS player anymore), five dollars for a silver-plated chip and dip dish (yes, it was a wedding present forty-one years ago, but I hate to polish). But what price do you put on memories?

imageOne thing I did come across that I cannot part with, no matter how absurd it seems to keep, is an ashtray. No, we don’t smoke and I would chase anyone out of the house with a broom if he or she tried to light up in our home. But this ashtray reminds me of my parents back in the fifties. My father smoked a pipe and he smoked cigarettes, as that was quite the fashion during that time period, before most of us smartened up. I remember the cocktail parties my parents would hold, our living room filled with engineers from Sikorsky Aircraft and their wives. Sometimes Mr. Sikorsky himself was there. Big band music would be playing softly in the background, the men would be engaged in lively discussions, their wives, in black cocktail dresses and pearls, in small groups of their own, and my mother, in her fancy starched apron would announce that dinner, her famous lobster newberg, was served. Cigarettes would be extinguished and pipes tamped down, and they would all move to the dining room. That little ashtray holds that memory and more because it was always on the coffee table, ready to hold a cigarette between the little bird’s tail. Some things you just have to keep.

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Cashing In Airline Miles

It’s that time again. The time when an airline sends us notice that we are about to lose our airline miles because of inactivity, so they are offering us the opportunity to cash in soon-to-expire miles for magazine subscriptions. The list of magazines we get to choose from is staggering. Where to begin, where to begin…

I was going to start with Cigar Aficionado, but my husband pointed out that, unless I’m planning on taking up cigar smoking, I might not find anything interesting in that monthly. On the contrary, I say. I would love to see what cigar smokers find so fascinating that it takes up an entire magazine, month after month.

Another intriguing offer is called Fast Company. Hmmmm…I’m wondering how fast this company is and if someone my age could possibly keep up. People en Espanol might help me practice my Spanish, but since I don’t care to read about those people in English, why would I want to struggle to read about them in Spanish?

Ah, here’s one made just for me: Western Horseman. Yes, maybe I do live in Virginia and even the thought of riding a bike again scares me, but I can romanticize, can’t I? Conde Nast Traveler is another of the choices, but if I was a real traveler, why would I have unused airline miles that are about to expire?

Sigh. Why don’t they ever have something like Better Homes and Gardens or Cooking Light? I’d even welcome a yoga magazine. I know I could decline, but I hate to waste those miles. That’s why I have Money, Entrepreneur, and Wine Spectator on my coffee table. Hey, they look good when we have company.

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New Novel: Desired to Death

A year and a half ago I took on the National Novel Writing Contest, or NaNoWriMo as it is commonly known.  The goal was to write 50,000 words in 30 days.  At the end of the month, I had indeed met the challenge.  Thank goodness, the challenge did not specify that we had to write 50,000 good words because I wrote 50,000 words of pure schlock. What that experience taught me was how darn hard it is to actually write a novel good enough to publish. Besides the obvious talent needed, it requires discipline and the willingness to write every day, even when the muse is not cooperating. That is why I am in awe of any of my fellow bloggers who have that kind of talent and dedication to become published.

imageToday I’d like to focus on one such blogger, Julia Munroe Martin, who has written a terrific murder mystery, Desired to Death. I had the privilege of reading it just before it was published, and I couldn’t put it down. I love the character of Maggie, a mama to the core, but also a woman of other talents, as she is discovering in this first novel of what will become a series. I sent Julia, who writes under the pen name J.M. Maison, a series of questions, and here are her answers:

Q: What inspired you to write Desired to Death?

A: I have always wanted to write a mystery (I’ve always loved reading them), and I’d played around with different amateur sleuth ideas. I liked the idea of a woman who was “used up” in life, someone who felt like she had nothing else going for her, and when I myself had days of feeling that way—after my kids left for college—I decided I could really relate to that woman’s feelings and could see what would inspire her to solve mysteries large and small.

Q: How are you like Maggie, your main character, and how are you different?

A: Warning, this answer may contain minor spoilers! Maggie and I are similar in our interest in mysteries (I’ve followed many a car, let me tell you!) and trusting our intuition and also in our tendency to sarcasm. We also both have two children (a boy and a girl) and wonderful husbands in a long-term committed relationship. I think Maggie is much more outgoing than I am, cares more about her standing and connections in the community, and she’s also a lot braver. I would never invite a stranger to stay in my home (like Maggie does). I would never speak to a loan shark or go and meet with someone I thought was a killer. Also, I’ve never been to a fortune teller (I never would go).

Q: While writing Desired to Death, did you ever worry that you were being too autobiographical, that you were imbuing Maggie with too many of your emotions rather than letting her develop her own persona?

A: First and foremost, Maggie is a fictional character, so I guess I didn’t worry too much about being too autobiographical. Yes, we have similarities, most of them around our empty nest experiences, but Maggie and I are very different in many ways as well. I’ve never known a murderer (okay, that’s not true, I once met someone at Home Depot that I found out later was later in prison for murdering someone). I’ve never owned a chocolate lab. I’ve never been married to someone who was a pilot (well, that also is not quite true, my husband is a private plane pilot). I don’t have kids named Hank and Jessica (although when we first got married, that’s what we planned to name our kids). So, never mind, apparently I’m the fictional character and Maggie is really Julia Munroe Martin, or should I say J.M. Maison!

Q: This novel begins Maggie’s career as an amateur sleuth. How do you see her changing as the series progresses?

A: I think Maggie will become even more bold in her mystery solving, but I need to be careful to balance that because part of the premise of this series is that Maggie really is a newbie, not sure what she’s doing, and is also doing it because she has nothing else that fulfills her. If I fulfill her too much with the mystery solving, then her personality will begin to change… does that make sense? I also see Maggie solving some mysteries outside of Halfway Bay, Maine.

Q: What did you learn from writing Desired to Death?

A: How many steps there are to finish, really finish, writing a book, especially one that will be self-published. The book went through at least two extensive outlines, more than eight drafts, beta readers, an editor, a proofreader, and countless read-alouds to my incredibly patient and supportive husband (who never complained even once, although he did fall asleep a few times when I was reading something for the zillionth time!).

Q: What did you find the most challenging when writing this book?

A: Keeping the characters straight in my mind, making sure that the continuity and consistency flowed from scene to scene. This is the most difficult part of writing a mystery, in my mind.

Q: Describe your schedule for a typical day of writing. Or do you even have typical days?

A: I always write first thing in the morning. By 8:30, at the latest, I’m sitting in front of the computer writing. I usually write from 8:30 to noon and when I’m on a roll (which is most of the time, these days) I write all afternoon, too. If I’m working on the business side of self-publishing, I do that in the afternoon in place of writing. Little known fact…I have a certain song I listen to that will immediately get me into “the writing zone,” and if I listen to that, I can write at any time of day.

Q: What are you working on now?

A: I’m in the second draft of a historical time travel novel.

Q: What question have you always wanted to be asked in an interview? How would you answer it?

A: This is only my fourth interview ever (well, about writing), so this was a tough (but good!) question. I really liked your question about how Maggie and I are similar and different. But, today I think I’ll say: “What was the weirdest job you ever had (other than writing)?” Answer: Squid cleaner.

I’m looking forward to reading the next book in this series. I’d also love to know what song got Julia writing every day and kept her writing. I could use that song!

Julia Monroe Martin posing for a picture of her alter ego, J.M. Maison

Julia Munroe Martin posing for her pen name alter ego, J.M. Maison

You can purchase a copy of Julia’s book by clicking on this link to Amazon.
Julia is also offering one free copy to someone whose name will be randomly drawn from the comments I receive on this post through Monday.
You can also catch Julia at the following sites:
https://www.facebook.com/juliamunroemartinauthor

http://theemptynestcanbemurder.com/

https://mobile.twitter.com/wordsxo
https://www.facebook.com/juliamunroemartinauthor

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My Sister-in-Law, the Writer

My sister-in-law is one of my biggest blog supporters,  always telling me how much she loves my writing. Last week we were talking  baseball because I had just seen the movie 42 about Jackie Robinson. She told me of her father’s love of baseball, and I said she should write it down and I could make her a guest blogger.  A few days ago I received an email with an attachment. She asked me to look at it and tell her what I thought. “It may not be what you want for your blog,” she said meekly. “You don’t have to use it.  You can just read it for me.”  When I opened the attachment and read it, it took my breath away. Sister-in-law, I bow to you. You are an incredible writer! Here is my sister-in-law’s piece about her father.

My Dad and Baseball’s Early Days
by Kathy Boyd Rich

My dad never had a bucket list. But if he had, at the top would have been visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. I was thrilled to take him there when he visited me in Clinton, New York, where I lived in 1994. Dad was a sprightly 88, a little the worse for wear, but I thought he’d like to see the Boston Red Sox exhibit, a team he had a lifelong love/hate relationship with when I was growing up. I can still remember taking the Providence to Boston train with him and going to Fenway Park several times when I was very little. I longed for him to tell me the story about what was going on in the game, but Dad during my growing up years had adopted a cheerful stoicism, and he was content to watch the game quietly while we munched on our hot dogs.

Ted Williams and Dad 001I don’t remember him being very impressed and, although he followed the season, he always seemed to be disappointed. Consequently, I was left with unanswered questions and never developed much of an interest in baseball. I was pleasantly surprised, however, when we entered the baseball museum and we came face to face with the wax figure of Ted Williams, someone even I remembered from Fenway as a hero on and off the field. We took a picture of Dad and Ted; Ted was the one swinging the bat.

Dad was pleased but it wasn’t until we entered the room dedicated to the very early days of baseball that he really came alive. All I saw were plaques on the wall and pictures of boys dressed in strange gear, but dad must’ve seen something else. Without hesitation he began to tell me the story of a young man who was so in love with the game of baseball, he followed the teams around New England every weekend. He rattled off names and stats and pointed out to me the players that he admired most. He told me these were the real heroes and how hard their lives were, working for low wages and giving their all for little recognition. He knew personal details of their lives. (Dad had absolutely no regard for the players of the 90’s whom he derisively called “millionaires” because of their constant striking for higher pay.) I had tears in my eyes listening to my dad. Wouldn’t I have loved to have known that cheerful young man he used to be before he became encumbered by raising children and providing for his family? I was mesmerized because I was hearing the story, the one I missed hearing when I was a little girl.

As we later sat in the movie room on the fake bleachers and watched the tribute to baseball, I pondered this glimpse into a man I had loved all my life, yet didn’t really know. I was 8 years old again as I held my dad’s hand and sang “Take me out to the ballgame…” Dad lived almost two more years, and that picture of him and Ted remained in a prominent spot in his apartment, telling me how much that trip meant to him.

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Christmas in May

I just returned from visiting my sister-in-law, and my brother may not let me come back. My brother and sister-in-law are both retired and do everything together, including shopping. However, their shopping consists mainly of going to the hardware store. My brother can spend an hour looking at tools and paint, but ask him to go to the mall and browse in a department store, and he would go running in the other direction. Consequently, my sister-in-law doesn’t get to poke around in stores just for fun. As for me, my husband is still working, and since I don’t like to shop alone, I don’t get to look around in stores either.

We were sitting at the breakfast table one morning last week, and my sister-in-law asked me if I would like to go to the Christmas Tree Shop in Richmond. Before I could scream, “Heck, yes!” my brother was already telling her how I wouldn’t enjoy that at all. I almost heard him except for the noise of my pounding heart. Ignoring my brother’s protestations, my sister-in-law and I were in the car and out the driveway before my brother knew what was happening.

imageThe Christmas Tree Shop is not a Christmas store, contrary to its name. But it does make you feel like you’re in Santa’s workshop when you enter its doors. It is full of …of….well, of “stuff.” Stuff I didn’t even know I wanted until I entered. Before we had even made it down one isle, our cart was half full. I actually remember this coming out of our mouths: “Kathy, what is this? What could I use it for?” “I don’t know what it is, but it sure is cute. Throw it in the cart. I’ve got to have it.” By the time we left the store, we could barely fit all our goodies in the trunk of the car. Our hubbies might have been a little alarmed at all we bought, but they got off easy. They have no idea about the things we almost bought. I know my honey would have loved that giant pink and orange owl with the glow-in-the-dark eyes. It was the perfect bit of whimsy for the garden. My husband just loves whimsy. Don’t you darling?

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This Is No Joke

You know those lightbulb jokes that ask how many people of a certain group are needed to change a lightbulb? The punchline always targets a certain group and is usually derogatory. Well I have a slightly different version for you: How many grandparents, aunties and uncles with Master’s Degrees does it take to care for a small infant for an afternoon? The answer is no laughing matter…or maybe it is rather comical, if you were an outsider looking on.

I’m visiting my brother and sister-in-law this week, and they take care of their two-month-old grandson while their daughter, an ESOL teacher, is at work. As a bonus, their son, my nephew who is a Montessori teacher, is visiting from California. All of us have Master’s degrees and consider ourselves fairly intelligent. Then why is it that the four of us were scratching our heads trying to figure out how to get the baby into one of those carriers that you strap onto your front? And why do seemingly intelligent people with excellent vocabularies start talking baby talk with high-pitched voices? For my nephew’s part, I have to say I have yet to hear him coo to the baby in nonsense syllables with a voice that sounds like Micky Mouse. He’s more the strong, silent type who bonds with the baby non-verbally or in a regular timbre.

imageYesterday we went to a shopping center and had lunch at a nice restaurant. When people came by admiring our baby, we all beamed as if we had birthed the little guy ourselves. He was the perfect angel and slept through nearly our entire lunch. When he did awake, he looked around with his beautiful huge eyes and cooed and smiled, turning us to mush. It was after we finished eating that that ugly incident with the baby carrier happened. My brother attempted to strap the harness onto my nephew so we could walk around and shop. After some struggling, he and my sister-in-law did manage to figure the thing out, but I have to admit it was quite comical. If you were an onlooker, that is. I didn’t even try to help them because I would have had the baby upside down and sliding out. A couple of college degrees clearly isn’t enough. I should have gone for the Ph.D.

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Sorry, I Think You Have the Wrong Number

Many years ago, about 1980, my husband was issued a mobile phone for his work as Director of Security and Chief of Police for a university in Texas.  It was a huge thing,  the size of a brick and about as heavy.  He wore both his gun and his phone in separate holsters, but it was never a concern that he would reach for the wrong one because, as long as he wasn’t standing too far from a bad guy, he could bean him with the phone and drop him flat in no time.

As the years progressed, the phones got gradually smaller.  However, we as a family did not own any mobile phones of our own.  They were expensive and we were of the mind that we would rather not be so easily accessible.  People, including some family members, laughed at us for being old-fashioned and admonished us that we shouldn’t be so hard to reach.  After all, they said, you never know when an emergency would arrive.  Finally heeding their advice, I purchased my very first mobile phone nearly fifteen years ago.

Every two years, like clockwork, I would get a call from our mobile phone service provider, reminding me that I was eligible for a new phone and offering me many great updates.  Time after time I told them my phone worked fine and I didn’t need any of those other things they were offering.  ”You mean, all you want your phone for is to make and receive calls?” they asked, incredulous.  I did get a little updated a couple of years ago when my granddaughter turned 13 and got her first phone.  I got a new phone with a slide-out keyboard and added a texting package.

Lately, though, I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a smart phone.  My husband has one because of his job, and it looks like it might be fun.  No, I don’t really need one.  I’m home so much, or I’m out with my husband who has one, but I think I just want one.  Which one to buy, if I go through with it, is the dilemma.  My daughter has one of those big Galaxy phones.  It has all the bells and whistles, and I love the screen size, but at my age, the learning curve makes me think that I won’t be able to master it without a great deal of one-on-one tutoring from my daughter who lives too far away.  So I was thinking about getting an iPhone because I’ve been a Mac user for years, and the interface won’t be confusing.  With this thought in mind, I was eager to see how my friend Linda who just left yesterday after a five-day visit, liked her new iPhone, the first smart phone she has ever owned.   We both have iPads which look just like the home page of the iPhone, so you would think it would be a breeze to figure out.

In the car, on the way home from picking her up from the airport, we heard music.  This went on for a little while before I asked what the music was.  ”Don’t you have the radio on?” Linda asked.  When I assured her I didn’t, I suggested she might want to check her phone.  Sure enough, someone had been calling her.  Throughout the other five days of our visit, she would look around dazed at strange sounds, checking her phone constantly, trying to turn off buzzers and reminders and alarms, figuring out how to reply to messages or answer calls.  I was exhausted just watching her.  I’m starting to rethink this smart phone thing.  I believe the smart thing to do would be to stay away from one.

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