THE CAR WASH BLUES

I’ve shared before the many things my husband took care of around the house. One item in particular was my car. If the oil needed to be changed, if the engine made a funny noise, he would drop me off at work and whisk it away to be restored to its former dependable self. Except for the occasional times I took a bucket of water and a sponge and washed it in the driveway on a hot summer day, he also kept it clean.

He stored quarters in medicine bottles that were just the right size for them and would stop at the car wash on Saturdays so the car was clean for church. I will say that I have mastered the quarter car wash and have still failed to exhaust his supply of hoarded coins.

Winter has presented a new problem: last week my car was covered with salt and dirtier than its ever been. Since I was in good clothes and on my way home from work I decided to try the automated car wash.  There were two long lines but my daughter assured me by text that I could manage. “Just use your debit card,” she advised. I spent my half hour wait enjoying the antics of a Lab waiting for its car’s turn at the car wash. It was so excited that it was a delight to watch.

Finally, it was my turn!! I pulled up, rolled down my window, and put my debit card in the horizontal slot and chose my wash type. Nothing happened. My card seemed to be hanging out of the slot a bit, so I gave it another nudge and still nothing. My card was stuck. The machine kept asking for me to insert my payment. Finally, I got out of the car in the hope that there might be a man behind me with a pair of needle nosed pliers. I wasn’t going to drive off and leave my bank card in the slot.

However, there was a very kind woman in the car behind me. She directed me to a brown door where she said there should be a manager. I walk with a cane, so I hobbled across three quarter car wash lanes  and pounded three times on the brown door. There was no answer. Meanwhile, the eight cars in line behind me waited patiently – no one honked a horn, or yelled anything rude – that’s just the kind of town Ellwood City is.

By the time I returned to my car, the woman behind me was already out of hers – with a pair of scissors. She wiggled my card out, one corner at a time until it was free!! I hugged her. She said, “For this first time let me put the card in for you – it goes over here. You put it in the money slot before. (Good Grief! How stupid could I be!)” She slid it in. I selected the wash and she handed me my card. After I thanked her profusely, she said,”Don’t forget to roll your window up!” Then bless her heart she walked back and told each of the drivers of the next 3-4 cars what had happened.

I felt like an idiot but was sure Dennie smiling up in heaven. As I parked at the grocery store I was happy that at least my car was clean in spite of all the drama. But when I got out at the store, I discovered the grimy truth. Because I drive a Honda Fit, a very short and narrow car, the only parts that were clean were the top and the hood! When I got home, I got a bucket of soapy water and washed it the old fashioned way. Now I know why Dennie saved all those quarters!!

 

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Snowfall and Firelight

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I find my outlook has changed since I’m facing the world alone. I was born at the end of a generation where women were expected to marry and household responsibilities were fairly well defined. Being the mother of two daughters, I thought of myself as a feminist, insisting that they could be and should be anything they desired. I didn’t realize how greatly my brand of feminism was supported by a loving husband who took care of the nitty gritty stuff so I could go around waving banners and spouting my philosophy.

The recently forecast massive snowstorm brought all of this to a head, at least for me. I used to love snow. I hung on every meteorologist’s forecast hoping for a 24” snowfall knowing my husband would shovel the driveway and had a four wheel drive truck. He hated winter but he was always prepared. Living in the country means losing your well water as well as your electricity. With one very sweet geriatric quarter horse in the barn who drinks gallons a day, this was problem for him as well as for us.

I realized as the forecasters continued to agree that a big storm was coming that being stuck at home alone wasn’t going to be fun this time. Roasting hot dogs over a fireplace in the living room and making s’mores pales when it’s done alone. When the power goes out, candlelight only waxes romantic with two to share it and going to bed alone with no one to snuggle with but the cat lacks warmth as well as arms to hold you close.

I spent almost 45 years of my life being sheltered by a man who voluntarily made my life easier in dozens of little ways. He didn’t call attention to himself – he just did them because he loved me and because he was raised to feel that men behaved that way.

Now some of those tasks have unfortunately fallen to my younger daughter – like thawing pipes, burying kitties unlucky enough to cross the road at the wrong time, and chasing flying squirrels from the house (some squirrels won’t leave but that’s another story).

Luckily, the snowstorm this weekend failed to perform as expected and we received ice and about 8” of snow followed by bitter cold. It was a significant snowstorm for me though because I was reminded, yet again, of the many tasks Dennie performed behind the scenes. Over the years, I always made a point of thanking him and telling him I didn’t know what I would do without him. But now I realize what a gem Dennie was and how grateful I am to have had him as my husband!

Posted in husbands, snowstorms, Uncategorized, winter, Writing | Tagged | 2 Comments

TOO MUCH TO DO

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Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

After a sizzling summer in Western Pennsylvania, September has entered in with enough rain to drench us to the core. I feel guilty complaining when others are dealing with hurricanes but this has been a year of overabundance – just too much of everything. I find I haven’t used my porch much at all because it was too hot. The fabric for new porch furniture cushions is in a bag by the sewing machine. Maybe next year I will make them.

I feel I have left a long list of unfinished chores this year. I was going to paint the wicker chairs and couch, also the black metal table. I had a tall cupboard I was going to antique, closets to declutter, and a whole lot of writing to do. Unfortunately, none of it has been done.
Today, I had no appointments so I sat myself down and spent the afternoon writing. I wrote 1000 words on a Work in Progress and I’m catching up on my blog. I’ve decided that maybe things aren’t accomplished in great swathes of time. (As when my dear brother, sister-in-law, and sister took a week of their summer to help me get my grounds in order since I no longer have my husband to help me.) Maybe, just maybe, some things can be done in 15 minutes or half an hour. Maybe, a pillow can be cut out, not sewn, or stuffed, just cut after dinner. Maybe some editing can happen in half an hour, or three shirts folded and put in a box for Goodwill.
I know God made the world in 6 days but I think he had much better organizational skills than I do. I’m tired when I get home from work. I have a huge amount of reading to do but I think I can find 15 minutes or half an hour every day to accomplish something on my list. And I think it will make me feel better about myself if I do! I’m going to try anyway. I’ll let you know how it’s going.

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GOODBYE

DennieThis blog post is long overdue and yet incredibly painful for me to write. I did not choose Mother’s Day to publish it. I chose it only because it was time. I want to honor the man who influenced my life more than any other. This post is for my husband, who passed away last Oct. 25, on my 67th birthday.

 

 

I never had a chance to say “goodbye,” Dennie. I was too busy doing CPR, trying to restart your heart and push air into your lungs. I was convinced the Paramedics could bring you back to life when they arrived 10 minutes later. So, I stayed out of the way. I let them do their work even though my heart was breaking. I couldn’t believe you were really gone, even when the doctor in the ER assured me you were. How could I live without you? Breathe without you? How could I go on with the rest of my life without you to shape it? It’s been six months and I’m going through the motions, trying to be strong, showing the world a brave face, but inside I’m hollow and empty.

I will never stop listening for your footsteps on the stairs, Dennie,
Never stop reaching for your hand under the covers,
Never stop wishing you would appear at the living room door in your tux,
Never stop wishing you were sitting on the porch swing beside me,
Never stop feeling that every holiday is less without you here,
Never stop hoping that you are driving every red Silverado I pass.

When you left so suddenly, you took my world with you.
After 45 years, we were one complete person and I am less than half of that now.
I miss dancing in the kitchen.
I miss listening to our favorite songs.
I miss winter nights when we filled the living room with just the two of us.
I miss having you greet me in the driveway when I come home from work,
I miss you sneaking cookies off the cooling rack when they were still hot from the oven.
I’ll miss watching for falling stars on the front porch steps and taking a ride to see the fall leaves with you.

Thank you for your strength,
Your honesty,
Your integrity,
Your steadfast love,
Your friendship,
For showing by example what it means to be a Christian,
For being such a good father and husband,
For encouraging me to never stop writing,
For making sure I always had a good computer to use,
For sticking by me for 45 years.

 
I am so sorry that you will never have the chance to give your daughters away at their weddings. They love you so much!
I’m sorry you bought an Ultralight but never got to fly it and didn’t get to ride your new motorcycle.
But never doubt that to me – you were my whole world. You fulfilled everything that I ever needed or wanted. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without you and
I will love you forever and ever!

Posted in death, grief, love, mourning, Uncategorized, Writing | 1 Comment

WHY WOLVES?

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I have always had a kind of love/hate relationship with wolves. Perhaps it was the steady diet of fairytales that were read to me as a child. When I was little, I always imagined riding in a beautiful red sleigh being chased by a wolf pack in deep snow. The heavy laden branches above us sent pure white snowflakes drifting down on a scene of terror and savage pursuit. I’m not certain whether scenes like that ever actually took place historically or they were simply conjured by my overactive childhood brain. The image seems universal, however, just look at Disney’s Frozen. The fact remains that both my sister and I dreamed of wolves as children, decades ago.

If you’ve read Among Wolves, you know that Devin suffers from “waking dreams,” a malady where the dream lingers for a few seconds even after the sleeper has wakened. I have experienced the same phenomenon since I was a child and my sister must have, too, at least when she was younger. Both of us claimed to see wolves traipsing around our bedrooms in the middle of the night. The wolf in my room always exited into the hall, blocking my escape to my parents’ room or the bathroom. I would lie awake in terror that he would come back in and eat me! My sister’s wolf simply walked around her bed, his tail held proudly aloft so that she knew his position even as she huddled under the covers with the quilt pulled up to her eye sockets.

I’ve never quite forgotten the fear those nightly wolf visits elicited. I think that’s why I was so enthralled with the French legend of The Beast of Gevaudan when I first ran across it. The possibility that a man could train and command wolves while learning to run with them himself, was too good a storyline to pass up! I adore Chastel as a character. The man is a Comte, he’s elegant, funny, and undeniably good company AND he has the same love/hate relationship with wolves that I have. His family’s ability to shapechange has set them apart from their peers and irrevocably complicated his own life. And yet, he loves, actually yearns, to run with his wolves! He is a man with many layers to his personality and I hope to explore that aspect further in future books about Llise.

My actual knowledge of real wolves is limited. When I wrote the scene where Devin encounters the wolves in a cave in Before Winter, I had to run it by a family member, Adam Katrick, who heads Wolf Guard in the state of Vermont. I wanted to be certain  my wolves were behaving realistically. Oddly enough, my instincts were correct and I felt more in touch with Llise’s wolves than ever before.

All of this simply proves that writers’ minds are complex treasure troves of everything we have ever experienced. A childhood dream can be woven into the tapestry of a country poised on the edge of revolution, with an array of characters and subplots. Never discount any item of information, no matter how slight. Like an artist, a writer builds a creation, line by line, until it’s something wonderful and new!

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Ode to Autumn

Today theOak2 wind changed. It swooped down from the north, rustling the maple leaves and whispering through the spruce needles. Fallen leaves skipped and frolicked across the field, cartwheeling end over end. After weeks of waiting, Autumn finally made its way to Western Pennsylvania.

Fall has pushed relentlessly against a summer that seemed endless. Eighty degree days slipped gradually into seventy degree weeks, with a few scattered frosty nights. Trees remained green or shook off tired brown leaves to cover the ground. It seemed that all the beauty and wonder of fall might be postponed for another year. Last Friday, I saw the first hints of color – weeks later than I ever remember – and by Monday the hillsides were dotted by trees in fall shades. We seem to have lost our vibrant reds though, a result of the drought we had in September. The trees are clothed in subtler shades this year, soft mustard yellows, dusty rose, and delicious tones of pumpkin. I associate these colors more with the oaks, which often save their display for November. But this year, the maples have copied their tones tending toward pastels rather than splashes of brilliance.

Normally the turning of seasons reassures us, tapping into our genetic memories of a thousand brilliant autumns before this one. It was jarring when fall did not appear at its appointed time this year. The brown leaves falling hinted at trees dying and the awful suspicion that something was vitally wrong with the world around us. Even now, when fall colors have finally emerged, they are different, subdued, and hesitant. Tonight’s pounding rain may bring them down.

Our last two winters have been warm with very little snow. White Christmases seem to be a thing of the past. Living in the northeast has lost those sharp seasonal boundaries that regimented our lives so recently. What will children growing up today remember of autumn and winter – insipid ghosts of those former seasons? I, for one, welcome the colder temperatures and windy days, snowflakes, frost, and ice, for they comfort my soul. They reassure me that some things are still unchanged on this planet that we call home.

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BEFORE WINTER!

img_0286-1On September 21, Harper Voyager UK is releasing Before Winter, the third book in the Wolves of Llisé trilogy. Before Winter arrives as “digital first” and Harper Voyager has also discounted both of the first two eBooks: Among Wolves and Grim Tidings, so you can acquire the whole set inexpensively!

Although I placed the trilogy in an imaginary empire, the narrative has a strong French flavor. This story has allowed me to air my political and social views about the importance of education, health care, and the plight of the poor. But there has been another thread running through all three books: my characters are not only Christian but Catholic. Perhaps, that seems like an odd quirk coming from a Presbyterian!

Catholicism has always played a strong part in my life. My father, an architect who specialized in Catholic schools, brought priests home to dinner on a regular basis. As a very small child, I knew them simply as kindly men, who brought me stuffed bunnies and promised to build me a treehouse, as soon as my father drew up the plans!

That gentle early impression led me to spend my first two years at a Catholic College. I spent my last two at a Presbyterian school but emerged as a kindergarten teacher, welcomed back to Catholicism when I was offered a job at our local Catholic School. It was the icing on the cake that my father had designed the building!

I felt completely at home with the ritual of Mass, welcomed it really because it seemed to call to something basic and traditional inside of me. I tried hard to show Devin’s love for his church. I, also, have a set of rosary beads. I found them with my mother’s jewelry after she died. I immediately wanted to keep them, but wondered where they had come from. I still don’t know, but I realize she must have cherished and valued them, too. I use Anglican Prayer Beads almost every night and I wanted Devin to cherish his rosary just as much as I did mine.

Writing books gives authors the rare privilege to tentatively show readers what matters most in their own lives. We bare our souls a bit with each new story. I hope you can find something in my characters that touches your heart, as well. I have given my heart to them to share with you.

 

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