The New South

I was born in Pennsylvania in the early 60s. My siblings were all born in West Virginia and my father from New Jersey.

My Mamma was born in Alabama.

I state this to say, I've spent more than two-third's of my life in the South. First Florida and then Georgia; two states with very different atmospheres. Most of my family at that time lived in the South. We ate what my very Southern mother cooked, which was an interesting combination of both regions. I was never forced to eat turnip greens, or any other green, or even grits. I like oatmeal.

In school, and from grandparents, we learned about 'the war of Northern Aggression' or, if you will, 'the war of Southern Defiance'. I soon learned the point of view was important. Either you where with the South, or against them. There was no neutral ground; a point which I never understood. In a war where affiliation split and lost an entire generation, it truly was 'Us against Them',

I heard stories from my material grandmother about her grandmother, a small girl who took the livestock into the woods by the river in Alabama where they are from; their home place. Home Place is important in the South. It describes not only where but how they were raised. Down to the street it made a distinction.

That brought me to mind of the neighborhood in Pennsylvania where we lived when I was born. A Polish neighborhood. And when we lived in Florida, in a Jewish neighborhood. Or the Italian section of New York. The Irish when they moved into the tenements of New York and the fighting which occurred in those events.

Yes, there are Black neighborhoods and White neighborhoods in Atlanta, where I have lived long enough to remember the 'Blacks Only' signs in the department stores, and the separation that we are always accused of by those who lived anywhere but here. I was in elementary school when the government built a housing project down the street from our school and the dynamics of the county began to change.

But I also know the tremendous strides that have been made here and in other places around the South. Place like Charleston, which handled their tragedy with grace and decorum. Please let their example be held up as a picture of what can happen when everyone works together. And let the media find some new target for their 15 minutes of fame.

There will always be Korean neighborhoods and Mexican neighborhoods, just as there has been since the Hebrews settled in Egypt (in their own neighborhood). When we move, especially from one land to another, the comfort of hearing one's own language and customs helps ease the pain of leaving an entire life behind to start a new one. Neighborhood merge closest to cities where people mesh through work and common life experience. True diversity is achieved only through a lot of work by all peoples, regardless of skin tone.

So as you settle down in your Indian neighborhood or Cambodian neighborhood, remember when we point a finger at someone else, there are three which point backwards toward ourselves. Instead of pointing fingers, why don't you take a look around and see what needs to fixed in your own sphere of influence? True charity and mission work begins in our backyard.

The Independence Day holiday is closing in fast, and I should have some news on Book Two of the Guardian Saga. The title is "The Price for Redemption." That's all today, from my middle class, mixed ethnicity neighborhood where no one flies the Rebel Battle Flag, or any other offensive flag regardless of the season. (Although some of the Halloween decorations make me question their sanity!)

When to Cut and When to Recast

I have a bit of a conundrum and so I am writing about it, which is what I do when my thoughts begin circling the same drain for too long.

When I submitted my latest book, it was with the full knowledge I had written a scene and side story that impacted the main character in quite negative ways. It was a gamble and unfortunately it didn't pay off. Now I must rework the story to change a major arc and no matter what I do, nothing is as powerful as that original line.

But in watching the major meltdown Game of Thrones readers and watchers are going through right now with the Sansa Stark story changes, I see the side of the reader for the first time.

We set expectations with our characters, and people begin to identify with them, so they acquire a life of their own, outside of our pages. But what about stories where none of the characters are relatable? Can we write our own characters into corners that are too extreme to be endearing?

Of course we can, and that was the problem with this story. So now I am grasping (and gasping) to recast the main character's reason for existing and falling far short of where I want to be. I've finally decided to meet the challenge and that instead of one major point causing her identity crisis, there will be several, each building upon the other until finally she reaches the person she needs to be.

As you might surmise, this is still an idea in progress. While I see the end point, the journey is still muddy. But that's what writing is about, at least to me. Chipping away at the marble until I find the beauty inside; a story lives and breathes depending upon which pieces you take away. Take the wrong path and everything is tainted.

This is the sixth story I've written and the first where I've been told, I love it but... . To say it took me for a loop would be an understatement. But now I feel ready to accept the challenge. I know where I want to be, now I have to find the path.

And the road goes on.

The Aftermath

We had my mother's funeral last weekend. There was a beautiful private service for just family at the cemetery, and a public memorial at the church.

The church no longer occupies the large imposing building on Main Street where I grew up from earliest memory, attending Sunday school every week, singing in the children's choir and watching the wheel of community turn until one day it found itself dying. The dynamics of the community changed during the late 80's and early 90's, and the costs in keeping the big church running were no longer met by weekly tithes.

My mother was an elder during the change over, on her way out of service and grieving for the loss of the building that had seen births and weddings, and my father's funeral. It is never easy to move a house of worship. I know ghosts walk the halls of the old church; I've heard them before. I wonder do they bother the new congregation walking those corridors; do they understand why things have changed?

Upon arriving at the new location, I was immediately struck with the similarity in building layout to the old church. Once inside I was surrounded by familiar faces and comforting reminders of the years and history of the congregation itself. Included was the wall of pictures showing the different faces of building they had occupied in their 126+ year existence.

The minister had us, the family, crowd together around the large session table to tell stories of my mother. As I looked around, the positive and healing energy of family wrapped itself around me and I felt, for the first time since Mother's death, at peace. I know my mother is at peace in heaven and totally happy to be reunited with my dad and her other relatives. There is no reason to weep, for at last she is free.

Watching the faces of those around me, family, friends, relatives, casual acquaintances, I saw a microcosm of the people whose lives my mother touched as a librarian. People seemed shorted, wider, older than I remembered, another slap of the wheel of time across my face. But the love and warmth they radiated took me in their arms and assured me I am not alone in this time of grief.

A building is not a church. A church is a collection of like minded people sharing and growing in God's love and word. No where was that more exquisitely made clear than at my home church this past weekend.

Some where up in heaven, Mother is smiling.

Where Have I Been and When Can I Go Back?

It's been a while since I wrote on this blog. I always meant to but somehow never seemed to find the time. I've had a busy couple of years between work and home, along with trying to get my writing career up  and going. It gets very disheartening when some people publish three or four books a year and my minimum from idea to submission for one book runs about two years.

Part of my dark thoughts have been due to turning 50 a few years ago, but also the diminishing mental capacities of my mother. It was hard to call and wish her happy birthday back in October (she was 94) when she no longer remembered who I was. She has had a full life and as her end was growing near I have found myself reflective.

My mother was a unique woman. She worked at a time when most women were expected to be housewives; hell, she had a Masters degree when women rarely went to college much less graduate school. Her position as high school librarian fueled my love of books and stories from an early age. Some of my favorite memories are filled with the smell of books and the quiet of reading.

She met my father during the war, World War II that is. Three months is all it took, if I remember the story correctly, before my mother walked in the July heat from the front gate of the army base in Lubbock Texas to the chapel to be Mrs. Walter V. They had a lot in common, my parents. Both were eldest children, both had strained relationships with their mothers, and they understood the meaning of a wounded soul.

My father and I worked the same shift while I was in high school, both returning home in the wee hours of the morning. We talked of many things, including my parents and their stories. I treasure that time with him. But my mother and I had that day to day ignoring each other teenager/parent relationship and many years I spent curled against the car window silently counting the moments we were trapped in the vehicle together.

Daddy died in the early 90's. It was too soon. But out of that sadness and grief came a renewed relationship with my mother. When my daughter was born, she drove up every week from below the Atlanta airport to our house northwest of the city to take care of her so I could work. My children spent days at her house, filling up on Mr. P's pizzas and watching television. I rediscovered my mother, and we spoke often, sometimes about nothing at all.

When she turned 90, it was obvious things were beginning to age. We all dread her driving anywhere that involved the highways around Atlanta. If you've ever driven here, you can probably attest to the insanity which afflicts us whenever we put our vehicles in drive and head out. In response to a falling incident which resulted in her being out of communication for several hours at a time when she should have been home, Momma moved into my brother's home about 4 years ago.

None of us remember exactly when her mind began to stumble, it started with repeated stories and forgotten names. Then came the hours where she would stare at my father's pictures, not speaking a word not moving from her room for hours on end. Her legs began to give out on her and falling became a grave concern, especially after she gave herself a black eye.

She missed my father, she missed her friends and her community. Most of all, she missed being useful. That was the part she found hardest to bear. Her big heart never stopped wanting to help wherever she could. A bright mind with a failing body is frustration as both my parents discovered. All Mother wanted was to be useful and independent again. Now she is.

My mother had a serious stroke the middle of February, with a significant brain bleed in the right parietal lobe. After my father's lengthy illness, my mother had a strict Living Will -- no resuscitation, no feeding tubes, nothing to extend life. She lingered about five days before gently passing from this life to another.

Even though I had mentally been preparing myself for mother's death, it has still hit me hard. A large hole has opened in my chest and nothing feels real. Rationally I know she is in a much better place and that one day we will be together again. But the little girl deep inside me still wants her Momma and I don't know that will ever change.

Love your parents, especially if you have been estranged from them for reasons so silly as to not make a difference. One day, perhaps far in the distant future if you are as lucky as we were, they won't be here, and you will never be able to count the times you pick up the phone to tell them something and remember no one will answer. The words you never say will back up and hang in your throat until you think you will suffocate.

My goal for this year is to recommit myself to my everyday job, my writing, and myself. I will attempt to post something every other week this year. Momma would have wanted me to.

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Thanksgiving 2014

Happy Thanksgiving!


I sat here this morning and all the things I am grateful for began running through my brain. Suddenly I just had to sit down and write. The urge doesn't come often the days. I've been on a kick of reading instead of writing. For four years I did nothing but write and I've been catching up on all the books I'd missed.

But today is about thanks.

First and foremost I am thankful for my relationship with God and for his son Jesus Christ. I owe them everything. I thank God for my mind and the many different levels it work on; for my family and their love and support; and for saving me when I had nothing left but my eyes on Heaven.

I am thankful for growing up in a time when life was a little slower and people were a little nicer. I miss that.

I am thankful (believe if or not) for my high school and our active alumni association. Our school is gone now, closed and possibly scheduled for demolition, but the spirit that brought us state championships on and off the football field still lives through all of us  Go Lancers!

I am thankful for my friends, near and far; casual and close. Every connection brings new feelings and chances to learn and grow. I hope I am a positive influence on each person that I touch.

I am thankful for my animals, large and small. Three horses, three dogs, two cats, and one hinny. They make my life full, I only want to be the person they deserve.

I am thankful for my country warts and all. No other democracy has lasted this long and I view our problems as new growing pains. We will pull through this if people remember that the government serves at the will of the people. Learn to use your vote wisely. Put principles ahead of personality.

For most of my adult life we have spent Thanksgiving together with my family, but this year is different. We are apart and I feel the miles and differences stronger than in many years. I cry but they are happy tears, if that makes any sense.

I give thanks for all the stories running around in my head. I'm about ready to sit down and sort things out so until then please keep the cacophony in my mind to a minimum.

I give thanks for my husband. He's never failed to make me laugh when I needed one the most.

I give thanks for those who've read my books, They give me hope when I'm hopelessly blocked.

And on a day like today, I give thanks for pants with elastic waistbands. Turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce. What can I say?

Also, for a million and one things that I can't even remember. I always try to give thanks and praise when something as insignificant as a great parking space comes around.

As we enter into the holiday season, may everyone find the joy and peace this time of year seems to usher in. Remember to be open to new experiences and situations. Seek the companionship of those you love and revere. But mainly, give thanks for each new day, for each day is a new opportunity for growth and reflection.

I wish a warm and happy Thanksgiving to everyone around the world.

James Garner, Robin Williams, Lauren Bacall - Wow

Yesterday came the heartbreaking news that Robin Williams committed suicide. Now I just heard Lauren Bacall died this morning. I'm still trying to cope with the loss of James Garner. Slowly but steadily the idols of my life are passing away.

When someone like Robin Williams commits suicide, we are quick to look at their lifestyle to see if drugs or alcohol played a part. The simple truth is, they are human just like we are. Everyone of us gets depressed. For some people it is a life altering disease. It's all well and good for people to say, "Pick up your big girl panties and get on with it."; for some people that will never happen.

Severe depression begins with a chemical imbalance in the brain. It can be as slight as an occasional feeling of emptiness, or as critical as the inability to get out of bed or perform the simplest of tasks. It is influenced by our moods, our work, other people, no one and everyone. The worst feeling in the world is seeing someone you love wallowing in dark depression and there is nothing you can do for them.

It's time we removed the stigma of mental illness and let those who suffer know they aren't alone. For every person who cries out for help, there are dozens suffering in silence. Proper attention to the disease can help - therapy, medications, group sessions, nutritional counseling, these are but a few of the resources available for people in need.

If you are feeling overwhelmed, lost, unable to put one foot in front of another, or wondering if life would be better without you - reach out. Your life is precious, and there are people everywhere who want to help. Don't be afraid people will think less of you. They will praise you for making a stance for your life. It's the first step toward healing.

If you don't know where to start, dial 411 and ask for the Suicide Prevention Hotline. They are available 24 hours a day. Save your life - make a phone call.