Memories of '78

     It started around mid-morning with large, wet flakes.  Every New Englander knew what that meant -no sweat. Small, dry flakes meant something prolonged.  Right!
     "Aother winter storm with heavy snow," the forecasters said.  They didn't dignify the storms with names back then.  As soon as I'd heard "heavy snow," I'd gotten canned goods and cold cuts to last a few  days.  The same for milk, water, toilet paper, and pet food.  I'd filled the cars with gas and brought in wood from the garage (seasoned and dry) to keep the fireplace going, in case the power went out.  Oil burners need electricity.  The four of us would hunker in sleeping bags in front of the fire with the dog in the middle, if we had to.
     Schools let out early that day, February 6th.  By 2:30 the flakes were accumulating an inch an hour and seemed to be intensifying.  Our two boys hadn't shown up.  I called Charley in Providence.
     "There's no sign of them," I said.
     "I'm sure they'll be there any minute.  I'm going to get out of here, too."
     "Go now!  It's coming down much harder and the wind's picked up."  Charley was like the captain of a ship -  making sure the multi-national company was secure before he abandoned his office.
     Without the technology of cell phones, all I could do was wait.  At 3:00 a seven-year-old and an eight-year-old tumbled into the garage.  "The bus got stuck at the top of the street," older bro said.  "We all had to get out and push it."
     "It's up to our waists at the end of the driveway," little bro said.
     The electricity didn't waver, thankfully.  We watched hurricane-like swirls on television, except that hurricanes gather strength over water.  We were eighteen miles inland. 
     One of the neighbors pushed his car down the cul-de-sac and abandoned it in our driveway.  By dark, it was completely covered.  At 6:00, still no Charley.
     The phone rang.  "I'm back in the office," he said.  "I got to the car but there's nothing moving.  It took three hours to go two blocks.  I pulled into a parking space on South Main and walked back."
     "I don't know why you stayed so long!  At least the boys made it home."
     "Who knew it would be so heavy?  I have a couch in the office and a bathroom."
     "What will you eat?"
     "I don't know."
      By morning the sun was shining, but the wind chill was near zero.  Drifts rose to the second-story windows.  According to the television, our town had been in the eye of the storm with a snowfall of fifty-four inches.  I called the boys to help me push the door open so I could wedge myself out to dig a path for the dog.  There was no other sign of life.
     Charley had no toothbrush and no underwear, but he'd worn his heavy, lined ski boots to work.   "I found some food," he told me on the phone.
     "What did you eat?"
     "Girl Scout cookies.  Their headquarters are next door."
     For three days, I shovelled and dug while Charley checked in by phone.  Our house still had electricity and heat, but the indicator on the oil tank had moved below one-quarter.  Roads were impassable.  Neighbors pooled food and booze and rotated houses for parties.  Charley slept on his couch and ate Girl Scout cookies.
     On the fourth day, an apparition walked out of the blinding glitter.  An abominable snowman, Charley had walked on tops of cars to get out of the city.  Then he'd sat in the cab of a snowplow across the Massachusetts border and finally on the back a snowmobile into northern Rhode Island.  His hair was matted and his breath smelled, but he looked gorgeous.
     "Please don't ever ask me to eat a Girl Scout cookie," he said.
    On the fifth day, payloaders from upstate New York rumbled down our street.  Their tires rose above the ski ramp kids had created over the abandoned car.  We shovelled the banks the payloaders built at the end of driveways and had a few runs down the manmade ramp.  When Charley went to retrieve his car in Providence, the city collected  $150 in fines.

What are your memories of the '78 blizzard?  Write them in the box below.
    
    
    



    

Toward Publication Again

OK, so a writer toils away for hours, days, months, years, in her office while the sun shines and people are inviting her to do fun things like play golf or go to a lecture or even shop!

Why?? Because it's something she loves to do more than anything else (except maybe a game of tennis), and she believes she's good at it. Herein is the crux of the matter: how does she KNOW she's good at this craft?

In other words, "Am I crazy??" How do I know that what I've written is actually good? Especially because I keep learning from writers' groups, editors, blogs, and newsletters every day?!?

Friends and family don't count, though my husband will always get the first look at any rough draft before anyone else. I trust his general reaction; we were in college together forty-five years ago and I know that our training in critical analysis served as the basis for his success, as well as for other writers, such as Doris Kearns Goodwin (also a graduate of Colby College).

After a thumbs-up from my husband, I proceed to ask him pointed questions about the flow of the story, the development of character, point-of-view changes, the time sequence, etc. He can usually provide some pretty obvious answers.

Then it's time for an objective opinion. In my first venture into publishing, I took the first one hundred pages of my manuscript to a sportswriter for The Providence Journal, since my memoir was the saga of our two sons in the Red Sox minor league system.  He perused the pages in front of him, suggested it should be a more intimate mother's story, and declared, "You've got to publish this!" He then gave me the names of two reference books to purchase, which would help me develop a proposal for literary agents.

So I sat at my computer for another six months and revised and revised some more. Then I decided to get another objective opinion. Purely by networking, I found a "reader" for a literary agent right in my backyard, who happened to be excited enough about my first draft to become my first editor. In addition, he was a published author.  He told me I had a unique story and a readable one and concurred with my first mentor: "You must publish this!"

When the revisions were completed, I spent six months on a query letter along with a seventy-page proposal for the literary agent my "reader" worked for. In fact, he personally delivered my package to the agent. I waited and waited and waited  - another six months went by, to be exact.  I received a two-line rejection letter. Eighteen months later, I had received seventy of these!

But somehow I kept believing I had written something worthy of publication. After all, I had two professional writers who had told me so! That stayed with me through all the rejections, through all the networking that proved useless, and through the months searching for an independent publisher. Yet I had never published anything before. I didn't have a "platform."

But I had a flow and my readers really cared about our sons in their quest toward the major leagues.

Here's a thought I kept in my head from literary agent Nathan Bransford: "Not every talented writer is a published author, but (nearly) every published author is talented."

Well, my book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, was published in April, '09, by independent publisher Barking Cat Books (a division of New River Press). No, I didn't ever find a literary agent, and yes, I did hours and hours of speeches and book signings over the next year.  I was chosen as one of ten authors to participate in a "Local Authors Day" at the Delray Beach, Florida, Public Library.  I appeared on Fox TV in Providence, R.I., on NPR, and on radio talk shows across the country.  The book was reviewed in print in Boston, Providence, and Florida.

Now my second book is ready.  It's called A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS (WHO STILL HAVE THEIR MARBLES).  It's a handbook based on the bizarre and often laughable antics of my parents in their eighties and nineties.  But the "rules" also apply for negotiating through hospitals, rehab centers, and nursing homes.  There's even an Appendix where terms like "Medicare" and "Medigap" are defined, with websites and phone numbers.  A SURVIVAL GUIDE been professionally edited twice and is ready to go. 

But my first publisher went out of business!!  So ready to go where?

Ready to go through all of the above process, all over again.

Why would I want to put myself through that again, you ask? 

Because I have to write.  My inner life depends on it.  And publication means validation.

Take my advice:  pick up a pen and jot down what's happening to you.  Jot down your family history.  Jot down funny conversations.  Jot down what you see out your window.  Maybe you don't want to see your words in print, but someday your inner life might depend on it, too.

Dating Checklists for Seniors

     Online hunts for dates have never been more frenzied, often consummating in farcically bad bagel dates, unnecessary credit card bills, or unkept promises.  It can be a frustrating and lonely experience for millions, as well as a humorous experience leading to friendship and self-awareness.  Assuming an online dating profile includes some skin and an "About Me" section of no more than four lines, the following should help those on the hunt.

Checklist for Women Over 60

 1.  Is his photo hanging in the post office?

 2.  Did he pass the background check a private detective performed for you?

 3.  Does his online photo bear any resemblance to the person in front of you?

 4.  Does he have unclipped hair hanging from his ears and nose?

 5.  Did a companion in uniform drive him to the "meet and greet?"
 

 6.  Does he live with his children?

 7.  How many times in five minutes does he say, "What?"

 8.  How many times in fifteen minutes do his children call him?

 9.  Is duct tape holding his clothes together?

10. Does he part his hair down by one ear so that two longish strands can be swept over the top of his bald spot?

11.  Can you count on one hand the number of times he uses the word "I" in fifteen minutes?

12. Does he ask which side of the bread to put peanut butter on before adding jelly?

13. How many casserole dishes are stacked in his freezer with labels in handwriting that curls
      and loops and has a heart underneath?

14. Does he tell you his excitement this week was having his pocketed cell phone on "Vibrate?"

15.  Does he reach across to straighten your knife and fork when you've finished eating?

Checklist for Men Over 60

 1.  Does her on-line photo bear any resemblance to the woman standing in front of you?

 2.  Has she had so many face lifts that her chin protrudes like a fish hook?

 3.  Does she drive at night?

 4.  Did one of her children build an addition to his/her home for her or does she share a
      bathroom with four grandchildren?

 5.  Are sagging tattoos peeking from her clothing?

 6.  Do you feel you are in danger with her?

 7.  Have her boobs sunk to her navel, but in remembrance of Woodstock she refuses
      to wear a bra?

 8.  Does she have a cold sore on her lip that she claims is a pimple?

 9.  Are there cat  hairs on her clothes (a sign a cat will be in her lap, not you)?

10.  How many times in thirty minutes does she show you photos of her grandchildren?

11.  How many times in fifteen minutes does she interrupt you?

12.  How many times in fifteen minutes does she contradict you?

13.  Does she talk about her world travels and then leave a 10% tip?

14.  Are there cookbooks in her kitchen?

15.  Are there visible rashes?



Can you add to the checklists?  Just write in the Comments box below.
To be continued.................................................................................

Re-entering the Workout Zone

     The gorging has to stop.  Time to reacquaint myself with the machines at the fitness center.  The following is a reprint of a blog I wrote over eighteen months ago...still applies.
    
     For twenty years I have been working out at least twice a week.  I actually hate it, even if I see plenty of people there that I know.  What I love is the feeling of self-righteousness when I leave!

     I march with determination to a stairmaster machine.  There are only two at the YMCA where Charley and I belong.  Neither of these machines will acknowledge my presence digitally, because I refuse to "walk" the stair all the way down before "walking" floorward with the next foot.  Instead I do quick half-steps in an attempt to ignore the aloof mechanism.  I am penalized by having to clock myself.

     I like quiet when I go there.  I do not want to listen to Stephan the Romanian dispensing stock tips from his treadmill for a discussion with the people on either side of him.  I do not want to listen to Tom's tales of romancing the brunette in the sauna after he got off work the previous evening.  I do not want to get involved in Tulia's decision to leave an abusive relationship to join a church group, where she might meet the love of her life.

     I begin my stair-stepping when a disruption explodes in front of me.  A woman has monopolized the treadmill and two other members are waiting.  Both of those waiting have signed in and have seen that the woman has been on for forty minutes - a violation by ten minutes!!  "How long have you been on there?" the man asks.  Perhaps a workout will dissipate his aggression!

     "I'll be finished in five minutes."

     "You can't be on that long!  There's a time limit of thirty on that machine."  The man goes to the attendant.

     Patrick doesn't want to ruffle feathers on his watch.  He explains in quiet tones to the woman, still treading, that she'll  have to relinquish the machine because others are waiting.

     "Then I'll take my business elsewhere!" the woman yells at him.  Patrick shrugs and retreats to the front counter.  The woman remains for the last five minutes she came for.

     I proceed to a big rubber ball.  I choose the red one, smaller than the others, because I believe I'll get more benefit from sit-ups on a smaller ball.  I have no idea where this idea came from.  I place my towel over the top and begin twenty-five of these babies, resting before I attempt the next twenty-five.  As I begin the second set, I feel the towel and my butt slipping downward.  I ignore this, because I just want to finish the damn things!  Before I know it, I have landed on my back on the floor with the towel next to me.

     I slink off the floor to the area designated for free weights.  The YMCA has undergone a transfer in management.  The new manager is a young man, intent on attracting members from the body-building set.  In tank tops, with tattoos rippling like pythons over straining muscles, these young men have taken positions on every bench.  I don't want to be anywhere near them as they grunt and heave.  I retreat to the far end of the gym, where one small bench remains vacant.  I pick up my miniscule five pounds of lead and conceal them against my thighs.

     Once finished with the free weights, I enter the center of the gym.  It is here that Jason, our new manager, has redesigned the space so that the weight machines "float" across the center, giving the illusion of a larger gym.

     The problem is that people over sixty do not want to be out in the middle of anything.  We want to hug a wall or hide in a corner.  I climb on the tricept machine and am staring into the eyes of a guy twenty years younger, just six feet in front of me.  He is running a marathon on his treadmill, while he watches me struggle.

     I wipe the machine and figure I'll return to that one later.  I proceed to the leg extension machine.  The woman who has relinquished it is five feet ten and weighs approximately two hundred pounds.  She wears black gloves without fingers and a bandanna around her head.  The bandanna is dripping onto the floor.  I head for the paper towels and disinfectant spray.  Once I've wiped the machine down (Patrick should be monitoring!), I try to dislodge the metal arm holding the foot pad.  I want it to fit my legs, not hers.  It won't budge.  She has jammed the arm.  I strain until I have deep ridges in my palm.  "Damn Amazon!" I seethe, heading for Patrick.

     When I finish there, I wipe the machine again.  Because Jason is now the resident interior designer, there is literally one foot between machines.  I slide sideways between the leg extension and leg curl machines to hang my workout chart from the clip on the side.  Just as I am in the shape of a wedge of Iceberg lettuce, the Amazon heads for the leg curl machine.  I do a U-turn to the mats to start my stretches.

     The mats are wet.  I have my towel, which I place under me while in the yoga "prayer position."  But I hesitate.  Is it sweat or is it disinfectant on the mats?  I don't take any chances.  I spray them and wipe them dry, just in case.  I do it again when I've finished.  I was going to clean some kitchen shelves when I get home, but I've done enough wiping.  I wash up and head to McD's for a frappe!

    

On Bended Knee...or Not

     December is the month for marriage proposals.  We've all seen them on the plaza in front of Today show cameras or in lights on scoreboards at stadiums or on billboards along highways.

     Vincent Mallozzi  reported a few in The N.Y. Times on December 30th. 

     Allison LeClaire was waiting on a bench in Bryant Park, NYC, for her boyfriend and his boss.  A flash mob of dancers began flailing about on the lawn.  Friends and relatives integrated into the dancers, and a 140-piece marching band appeared to accompany them.  One of the band members emerged from the ranks with his baton, dropped to a knee, and uttered his proposal to the girl on the bench.

     Matthew Wolf of NYC led Ms. Esther Klein back to his apartment where candles lined the hallway, lavender petals covered the floor, and snowflake lights hung on the walls.  At the end of the hallway on a table covered in fake snow was a giant chocolate ring with a white chocolate diamond which read, "Will you marry me?"  The real ring sat in the middle of the chocolate one.

     One ingenious surfer arranged a trail of shells, lit by votives,  from the bedroom to the beach.  There his proposal was written in sand.

     Let's not forget those spoken in helicopters, planes, or speedboats.  I've always wondered how anyone can utter the words during a bungee jump or while hitting the mogels.  Shouldn't the concern be surviving the moment, not the next fifty years?

     Which leads me to my own...non-proposal.  Charley never asked.  After dating for eighteen months, we both knew we'd get married.  We went to the NY Jeweler's Exchange together and selected the ring.  We set the date together.  We made every major decision together (except bridesmaids and room colors) and still do.

     Almost forty-eight years later.

     What are your unusual proposal stories?  Share them in the comment box below.

    

Kids' Christmas Thank-you's

Dear Santa,
     Thank you for the new red wagon with two seats.  Did you mean I have to share with my little brudder?
     Love, Doug


Dear Santa,
     I guess you didn't get the Xmas letter I wrote.  I asked for a fire truck but I got a garbage truck by mistake.  Please put my name down for a fire truck next time.
     Thanks.
                          Love, James


Dear Aunt Rose,
     Thanks for the red sweatr you maid.  My favorit color is really purble.  Maybe you could make that next yr.
                           Love, Sally


Dear Grandma Ann,
     Thank you for the Lalaloopsy doll.  I'm saving in my piggy bank for an American Girl but I'll use yours til I have enough.
                           Love, Molly


Dear Grandma Joan,
     Thanks for the pretty bracelet.  We didn't do much after you went home except open our Xmas presents.  It was more fun when you were here.
                         Love, Becky
P.S. - I hope you get the cast off your ankle soon.  I put my toys away every day since you left.


Dear Papa Jack,
     Thanks for the race car for Xmas.  It goes fast on the kitchen floor, but Mom doesn't want me under her feets.  Maybe you could send me a racetrack.
                         Love, Tim


Dear Aunt Beth and Uncle Will,
     I finished the puzzle you sent me and it was easy.  Mom and Dad took me to the mall to find a harder one.  They didn't have any.  I haven't done anything else but the food court was good.
                        Love, Jeffrey

Pay Christmas Forward

                                                                                                                                            

     I can't seem to get past the nightmare of Sandy Hook Elementary.  I cry talking about it; I cry watching interviews or clips of the heartbreaking funerals; I cry thinking of the abyss if one of our five grandchildren were taken under similar circumstances.

     Millions of us have been traumatized by this mass shooting, unlike any other.  The reason?  We can picture ages five to ten.  We hold them in our arms.  We smell their hair.  We wipe their noses and laugh with their silliness.  Our stomachs seize when they are bullied or their temperatures reach 104.  My daughter-in-law forwarded a link to a wonderful blog by Jennifer Rowe Walters, who explains all this.  It's called, "What Six Looks Like" (www.huffingtonpost.com).

     Yet it's the season of Hanukkah and Christmas.  If Ann Curry's idea (NBC News) for 26 random acts of kindness (one for each victim) seems overwhelming, I'll start with one simple thing with someone right in front of me.

     I'll hug and kiss and hold on longer than usual.  I'll make a point of telling a little one, especially, he will always be loved.  I'll say "Thank you" to whoever is making possible another beautiful holiday together.  I'll tell someone who serves me how much he is appreciated.  Above all else, I'll respect the person in front of me.

     I'll pay the season forward. 

     I'll perform a random act of kindness without expecting anything in return.  I'll give a child passing by a big smile and a wave.  I'll wish people I'll never see again "Merry Christmas."  I'll say "Thank you" for even the smallest act of kindness (holding a door open, for example), and then return the favor for someone else.  I'll give something away that I'm are no longer using.  I'll share a story, a photo, a coffee break, a lunch.  I'll be a good listener, even if a child of six is talking.

     As Jennifer Walters wrote, "We know how sturdy and strong six is...and yet how frail and fragile."   Just like the rest of us.

     There'll come a day when Christmas will be returned to me.  As it is every time I hear those five little voices.

     Merry Christmas, everyone, and a healthy, safe 2013!