Jack, Guns, Music, and Family

We traveled back home to Brady this weekend for a last minute family get together. The oldest of my brothers threw a surprise birthday party for his wife, who was 29 again.

Lots of folks helped and showed up for the party on Saturday, most of them I wasn't that well acquainted with, or just flat out didn't know. I really went to spend time with my family and their families; and they were all there.

I could spend days writing about what took place, was said, went wrong, etc. But it was pretty much like any large get together; loud, busy, and messy.

It was really Saturday night after the party and Sunday before lunch that was the most memorable to me -- the time I got to spend with my siblings and immediate family. A few highlights of that include:

1. Paul trying to become an alcoholic and asking exactly what steps were necessary to know that you had succeeded. My response? With our DNA, waking up.


2. Three cousins under the age of six running around with REAL freaking 22 riffles (no ammo) and playing in the dirt, shooting pretend monsters, having quick draw competitions, etc. At one point, Bree and I were putting up balloons and these three little guys walk into the shop with their guns and stare us down. Then Will says, "There are three of us, and we have guns."


3. Every time we all get together, Jessy pulls out the tunes. Alcohol isn't even required to get two out of the four siblings dancing . . . I'll let you ponder which ones.


4. Filling empty plastic bags with loose dirt by hand to level off Becky's grave.

It was fun. It was tiring. It was sad.

The ride home almost ended in blood shed.

I can't wait until next time.

Grandpa's Tale, Revisited

Everyone has some story their grandparents use to whip out every time you started complaining about your life.

"When I was your age,
I had to walk five miles to school and back
each day!

Up hill - both ways.
No shoes on - in the snow!"

If your family didn't have a version of that same story, you really missed out. Seriously.

Well, today, Will and I lived our own version of Grandpa's tale. We drove to a nearby doctors office for an appointment. The snow was falling thick enough I had car lights on and when I arrived at the appointment, I forgot to turn them off.

Unable to arrange an alternative way home, Will and I decided to walk home. It is only two miles. (I should note here that if Will could read he would be strongly stating his DISagreement with the whole walk-home theory. He wanted to sit in a cold car for an hour plus.

So, as grandpa would say . . .

"We walked two miles uphill
in the snow.

While Will dragged his boots
and whined about wanting to go back to the car."

Fortunately, we did have on shoes.

In fact, all things considered, I'm glad we did it. The walk was during the heaviest snow flurries I'd seen all day. We had quarter-sized snow flakes falling so thick you could hardly see through them. If we hadn't been stranded, we would not have ventured out into the cold today, and would have missed the only snow Buda has seen.

Snow?

I always check the weather in the morning before dressing Will. Today, I was more than a little shocked to find out they are predicting snow for most of this afternoon/evening.

At 6 this morning, the temperature was around 36 degrees and there was a 30% chance of precipitation. By noon the temperature would drop to the lower thirties and there would be a 90% chance of snow. Snow? Really?

Whether I believe it or not, I tucked Will in his big jacket and dug him out an umbrella - because, yes, it was raining.

While getting him ready to go outside, I told him it was suppose to snow today.

"Here?" Will asked.

I explained that yep, right here we were going to get snow. He looked me in the eye and just shook his head.

"Momma, it doesn't snow at Will's house."

In Sympathy

I've been living in a fog the last 9 days, with either Will or myself in bed sick. Much has passed me by: family, events, news, weather. Something I did not miss being a part of was the live minute-to-minute news broad cast when a small airplane flew directly into an IRS building in North Austin.

The reason I didn't miss it was due to my closest friend, Charlene, who happens to have worked for the IRS for seventeen years. Who prior to taking maternity - and then never returning to work - worked in that building. Who still maintained close relationships with almost all the IRS employees in that building.

Charlene who called and woke me from my mid-morning nap. On the way to watch her soon practise swimming at our local YMCA, she just happen to catch the live announcement. Shaken and in tears, she was unable to make it home and stopped by my house to see what was going on, to get more information. We got on the Internet and pulled up one site after another looking for the latest information. In particular, deaths, injuries, and those unaccounted for.

The entire time I was searching one site after another I could hear her dialing one friend after another. Nothing. Hitched breaths. No one answered. Sobbing. Pacing.

In half an hour they had a head count and there was one missing IRS employee. Knowing the building as she does, Charlene was looking at it going it could have been ____, or _____, or ______. Hell, if not for the birth of her son, it could have been Charlene.

The IRS employee that died was the first person that stopped by the hospital to see Charlene after the birth of her son. He was a good guy.

I know this week has been hard on her, and not just for what did happen, but for what could have happened.

Degrees of "Better"

I've been sick all week. Not the "same" sick every day, not exactly, but sick. The first few days it was a bad cold type sick with cough, fever, chills, a slight sore throat. The real discomfort was the chills/fever.

The third day I woke up with such a raging sore throat it hurt to breath, but no fever or chills. The next day was similar, only the throat was worse and there was insane drainage. I hate to say it, and gross you out, but I HATE drainage. It makes me choke, cough, throw up, and pee my pants. I've gone through an entire box of MAXI pads in 24-hours.

Today I felt a little better. My mind seems to be clearing - and I hadn't even realized it was foggy. My throat hurts still, but I no longer feel like there are craters of poisonous ooze burning the inside lining away. I managed to have a few noodles with my broth this evening. Had a hot cup of healthy tea.

Two things have bothered me threw this entire episode, well, three actually.

1) Will had this first and he was only really sick for two days. Is this an age related thing? A five-year old bounces back and takes off running in two days. An over-weight middle-age non-active couch potato (I think you get the picture) gets the same virus and it takes a week to recover.

2) It's just a frigging cold - a virus. I've had them off and on all of my life. People get them all the time. Why is it so difficult for me to overcome? (I'm pretty sure the answer was in the previous point, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't point it out in a comment.)

3) How do you answer the same people every day when they ask, "How are you feeling?"

* * * * *

I do have to say my guys have been great. I have been unable to help Will this week and he's pretty much taken care of himself and me when I needed it. Steve took two nights off his evening job to stay home and care for us as well. They rock!

100 Best Beers in the World

Steve is a beer lover. He tries every new beer that comes along, but has his favorites. We are fortunate, or so I have always thought, to live in Austin where we have access to all kinds of beer you can't get anywhere else. At least, any where else in Texas - which is all I know.

For Valentines Day this year I wanted to get Steve something I knew he would enjoy; beer. I did a search on the Internet and found this site dedicated to rating beer: by type, country, state, you name it. They have a list of the 100 Best Beers in the World. I printed off the list and went to the closest Specs. After walking the isles with my list for fifteen minutes, I finally asked an attendant for some help. He was very familiar with the beers they offered and was quickly able to eliminate many individual beer and breweries from the list.

As it turns out, Texas Alcohol Commission has such extreme and complicated regulations that many brewers will not even deal with selling within the state of Texas. Off the 100 beer on the list, Specs carried five. Four of which were of the wheat division.

Oh, I'm sure Steve will enjoy them. And at the price, I probably wouldn't have bought many more. But it would have been nice to have a selection to choose from. Some different categories or types.

Oh well, maybe I should start my own list, the 5 Best Beers in Texas.

The Perfect V-Day

Like many holidays, Valentine's Day has become a huge commercial extravaganza. The ads on TV, the Internet, and newspapers building up the day to huge proportions, leaving everyone with unrealistic expectations that are generally not met. Leaving people who are not in a relationship feeling "less" and old married people "left out".

My youngest brother, Paul, is going through a divorce and Valentines was this huge depressing time he just had to make it through. He got on the Internet and began to search for singles and Valentines, being alone on Valentine, etc. It really help him put things into perspective. According to the information he found, most people in a relationship at Valentine find it very stressful and are more often than not let-down or upset with the outcome. Many online resources say that single people tend to have a better holiday - because they have no expectations. Nor or they held up to others expectations.

With the financial strain we've been under the last few years, having a five year old and no where to leave him for an evening, and just being comfortable in our stay-at-homeness, this holiday wasn't approached with much expectation. Which turned out to be a good thing as Will come down with a fever and sore throat and Steve ended up spending all of Saturday helping my brother move.

However, the absence of expectation left open the opportunity for a nice unstressful holiday. On Saturday, I was surprised by the arrival of a dozen mixed roses and a box of chocolate. Steve would much rather pick up flowers at the store and deliver them himself - so this meant so much more. Even while taking care of my sick son, I felt special, loved. Unaware the flowers were delivered, and not wanting to show up with nothing, Steve stopped at the store late Saturday on his way home and picked me up a batch of flowers. Yep, I got two rose arrangements, and chocolates for V-day.

And no, I didn't forget the hubby. I got him a present too - beer.

We didn't go out today. We didn't even buy lunch or dinner and have it delivered. We watched TV, a few of Will's movies, and just sit around. It was a quite day filled with ease and family.

The perfect V-day as far as I'm concerned.

Grandma's Quilt . . . Sort of

There is an old quilt that I keep folded up on the end of my couch. Tori's grandmother (Ella) actually gave it to her when she lived with us. It's not a "nice" old quilt, nor is it one that Ella made. Ella use to own a craft and antiques store and when she closed down she ended up with a ton of inventory, most of it not worth selling. Like this quilt.

It's coming apart at the seams. The fabric used doesn't match and is of poor quality; the majority of it looks like an old sheet. There is some design to the quilt, it's not just blocks of fabric. It looks like something I might have made, had I been making quilts 40 or 50 years ago.

To the best of my knowledge, Ella gave Tori two quilts. One of them Tori has with her in San Marcos. This one, I don't tell her about. She probably doesn't even remember it, it's not remarkable to her in anyway. But it is to me.

I don't know if it was growing up poor, or growing up in a family with no creative ability, but there was nothing passed down in my family. Being illegitimate, there was only one family side to pass things down if they'd been so inclined, and they weren't.

Over my life I've gone through different stages of collecting 'fake' family heirlooms. In my twenties, I purchased old aprons at thrift stores and antique malls - the kind Mrs. Clever wore in Leave it to Beaver. In my early thirties I collected old needlework and doilies that had been hand made. Pillowcases someone had embroidered flowers around the edge of.

I didn't lie to myself about where they came from, or attempt to pass them off to others as anything other than what they were. Yet they still made me feel connected to the past, to time gone by. Still made me feel loved.

I quit wearing aprons long ago and ended up getting rid of my collection. I eventually quit hording old needlework.

But this one old quilt feels like home made love to me. Cheaply made, not much experience in quilting, and falling apart at the seams. But when I cuddle down under it, I feel wrapped in the loving arms of the past. Of some one's grandmother . . . just not my own.

Because Momma Did

I remember reading this story in Readers Digest once about a young wife who was just learning to cook. She called her mother to get instructions on how to prepare a roast for the oven. Later that evening, as she was cutting both ends off the roast, her new husband asked why she had to remove the ends. There was nothing wrong with them.

She wasn't sure, but since that is what her mom told her to do, that was the way she was going to do it. The roast was great and she continued to prepare it the same way each time she cooked it. Always removing an inch or so from each end.

At Christmas the young couple spent a few days with the girl's parents. One evening, as her mom was preparing a roast, she cut both ends of the roast off before placing it in a pan. Her daughter asked her why she did that.

Her mother wasn't sure, but since that was the way her mom had always done it, that was the way she'd always made it. But the grandmother was going to be at their house the following day, so they'd be sure to ask her.

As it turned out, the grandmother always trimmed the roast because it never fit in the small pan she had.

I remember reading the story and laughing my ass off. How funny, and true. Humans learn more by imitation than study, and most of the time we never even question it.

This truth hit me a few days ago with the delicacy of a lead pipe to the head.

For some unknown reason, I've been dealing with feeling like my life is over for the last few years. Yes, I've had a few bad knocks. Yes, I'm in my forties. But still, I'm not even half way through the life I plan on living. And being pessimistic about anything, for any length of time, is just not me.

Then it hit me . . .

My grandmother died when she was 46. Every single day of his life (that I remember) my grandfather was sure he was about to die. His time was up, this was it - very reminiscent of Red Foxx. None of the women in our family lived very long lives. My own mother never expected to live past her 40s (and yet she's still kicking somewhere at 63 - almost 64). But . . . and this is the big one - she pretty much quit living and started waiting to die in her 40s.

By imitation alone, I found myself settling into the rut of waiting for my last days. And I have to tell you, it was going to be a damn LONG wait.

Like any other genetically induced trap I've found myself in, I acknowledged from whence it came, and laughed it off.

I know mom never expected to outlive her mom. I'd bet my commercial-sewing machine that her mother never expected to live past her forties either.

Not to break any great traditions or anything, but I think I'd rather cut the ends of my roasts from now on.

Book Placed in Writing Contest

I received official word today from the North East Ohio RWA (Romance Writers Association) that I placed THIRD in the Paranormal Division of their Cleveland Rocks Contest‏.

This is pretty amazing. I wrote the book I submitted, Wolf Cub, during the month of November in 2008 - right after the death of my younger sister. I've been working on it constantly since. I've joined one online group after another for critiques and feedback, been through two free (and one paid) editor to check over my grammar, and rewritten every chapter many times. Well, most every chapter.

The longer I work on my WIP (work in progress), the more I realize I need to go back and address in the chapters I just finished. So while Chapter 1 has been rewritten about twenty times and is often referred to as nearly perfect, I haven't touched the last two chapters since I wrote them originally - in 2008.

I've been on a break from writing since about mid-December. Not worn out or tired of writing. Just taking a step back and giving my business some attention.

And I've known I was a finalist in this competition since before Christmas. As one of three books sent to the Agent to rank, Wolf Cub was definitely going to place. To be honest, I figured we'd place third and I was alright with that. I haven't been writing long, don't get to spend a lot of time practising my writing skills, and have never taken a class on writing. It's just something I love and always have wanted to do. Once you loose a sibling around your age, or younger, your list of "someday I'm going to do that" looks much more important.

So, no. I'm not disappointed to have received 3rd place. I'm still stunned I placed at all. I will be receiving an actual winners certificate via the mail. I also received a critique from the agent who placed the top entries.

Ethan Ellenberg of the Ellenberg Literary Agency had to say about Wolf Cub:

"I’m afraid this piece didn’t work for me. The narrative moves along and the story is fairly clear but it suffers tremendously from a lack of world building. It seems like a contemporary that has had the ‘were’ people element simply tacked on. The town they are in lacks visual establishment, seems like its Anywhere, Texas. There is no sense of the paranormal, just the simple assertion that there are ‘were’ people and the wolves had their own mores, culture,etc. This is a big problem—we just don’t believe it much and we don’t care—the magic of paranormal fiction isn’t here. The two main characters could work, they have potential, but they must inhabit a world that speaks to us with magical potential."

Not great. But not as bad as it could be. I've been warned countless times not to take the feedback from contest to heart. They are, after all, only one person's opinion. Besides, I'm a creative - and mostly upbeat -- person. So when I read the above, what I came away with was . . .

"I don't like your story. The narrative moves. Story is fairly clear. Need to integrate paranormal earlier. Main characters have potential."

Not to shabby at all.

But I REFUSE to go back at this point and start rewriting the front of my WIP again. I'm going to complete the end, then I'll revisit the integration of the paranormal earlier on.

The Puzzling "Surprise"

Take One
This morning Will and I stopped in at a few garage sales not to far from our home. I found the most perfect gift for Steve. A vintage set of 8 aluminum glasses in assorted colors and a matching picture. I was amazed to stumble upon them and at such a great price.

During our trip to the coast in late December I heard the boys (Steve and his brothers) reminiscing over the aluminum glasses they'd had as children. Apparently each of them was assigned a color glass and that was the only one they could use.

I've seen one glass every now and then at sales or antique stores. But I've never seen an entire set, and for only $5! I was tickled to find something that would give him back a small bit of his childhood. Plus, a few indestructible glasses in our house would be welcome.

So we get home and I walk into the house with them hiding behind my back. I tell him we found him a surprise. Will is so excited he's jumping up and down. I whip out the glasses and the most puzzled look comes over Steve's face.

"Aluminum glasses," I announce. Like he hasn't figured that out already.

"Just like the one's ya'll had as kids." Still no sign of recognition, much less any joy or glee.

"I heard you talking about having one colored glass each while we were at the coast and I thought you'd enjoy having these."

Enlightenment, finally. Then a complete face dive.

"That was Mark," he tells me. "I don't remember ever drinking out of them at all."

Bummer.

At least Will has cool aluminum glasses to drink from.

Take Two
Steve ran to the grocery store to pick up something to grill. An hour or so after he gets home he announces he picked me up something while he was out. I was thinking desert. Every weekend I remind him I need desert at least once during the weekend. Every week he forgets.

"I found some Henry Weinhard's Root Beer," he tells me with real excitement.

After seeing the look of puzzlement on my face, he continues. "Don't you remember when we were at ??? and had the Henry Weinhard's Rootbeer?"

My mind is frantically trying to recall a specific time we had it while up North. "I can recall having it before. But I don't remember anything special regarding it."

"Oh."

We shared a depreciating grin.

"Well," I suggest. "Why don't we pour some of your root beer in my aluminum glasses and have it with dinner tonight?"

It's not so much the gift or the surprise, as it is having someone who cares enough to try. I love you, babe. Root beer and all.

Poo Patrol

Steve and I have been very lucky as dog owners over the last thirteen years, especially concerning the "poo" issue. We have a large back yard, almost half an acre, and the dogs have ALWAYS done their business way in the back near a fence. Rocky, our Border Collie, does not like to be watched while tending to his business and has been known to hide behind a shed, tree, or bush - which is fine by me.

Winkels, our small mutt, hasn't always been as good as Rocky about making it all the way to the edge of the property. But it's never been a problem. I've never had to pick up poo. Even once Will was old enough to play outside, we never had an instance of him stepping in poo or it being around his play area.

In fact, the first time I saw an emblem similar to the one at the top of this post, I laughed. What, I thought, people can't pick up after their own dogs?

Well, like many words I've eaten over the years, those are sticking in my craw at the moment.

Both our dogs got seriously sick the first week of December and have still not recovered 100%. They are well enough I expect them to hold on another year or two, but the change has been drastic. Most noticeably, their lack of activity and inability to walk far. As you can guess, when I can get them to take their business outside, it's not very damn far.

During the worse of her illness, Winkels wouldn't even make it off the back porch. I can't tell you how many presents I stepped on less than two feet from the door before I got use to checking for them. With improved health they have both gotten a little better, but not beyond the used portion of our back yard.

So for the first time in MY LIFE I am having to pick up dog poo. At least once a week I take a five gallon bucket, a hoe, and a shovel and patrol the back yard for time bombs. It's not something I use to doing, nor do I in any way enjoy it. However, I do enjoy being able to walk in my back yard and not come away with stinky shoes. Or, worse yet, find Will wiping his shoe off with his bare hand.

Sure, there are some things I haven't figured out yet. Like what to do with a gallon of poo. It just seems odd to dump it all against the back fence. I did learn one important thing though, to dump it immediately. Otherwise, you don't want to pear into the bucket after a good rain.

Watch out for that Oar!

Since before I moved to the Austin area in the mid 90s, I've been familiar with UT's informal classes. They publish a colorful brochure containing thousands of classes available to the public four semesters a year. I've taken such classes as Aromatherapy, Writing your First Novel, Belly dancing, How to Publish Your Own Book, Medicinal Herbs, Basics of Starting a New Business, Building a Web Site with HTML, and Stain Glass Mosaics - just to name a few.

For the last three years I've also taught classes at UT. The pay wasn't out standing and the parking was horrible. But the interaction with the public was good for me and the association with UT looked good on bio.

Last semester they raised the minimum attendance per class. This was the first step I've seen to indicate that the Informal Classes might be having some difficulty. Today I received an email stating that the summer semester will be the last semester that UT will offer Informal Classes. The reason stated for dropping the Informal Class program was that it was failing to carry its self, the University of Texas was having to subsidize the program.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me that a University as big as UT should be able to cut back the classes offered and subsidize them as needed until the economy bounces back. Many classes they offer are geared towards helping people learn a new occupation. And it's not like every single class they offered failed to make money, I know many classes filled before the pamphlet was even printed.

If they scaled way back on classes, dropped the expensive print runs and advertisements, and offered financial assistance to those who qualify for grants to take occupational classes, I think their statement about the financial times and the people they SERVE would be more powerful.

Instead of "We care", "We want to help", "We'll be there for you even when the times are tough", what I'm hearing is the sound of oars beating the little people on the head as the rich escape with the life raft.