My Novel

I am in the midst of editing my novel, Looking for Love. It is, to say the least, a daunting task. I worked on this novel for what feels like forever. And now I am going back through again, fixing flaws that my editor found.

At first, I felt resentful about this task. After all, I worked very hard on it. It was read by several trusted critical readers, and my critique group helped me during the writing process.

But I eventually hunkered down and stated the re-write in earnest. I hope the outcome will be a more readable, more dynamic novel.

Writers have a style or voice that is distinctive. At first, I feared losing my voice in the re-write. The novel is about Irish- Americans, my ethnic group.  It is important to me that my characters stay true to themselves. I want my novel to be authentic above all.  I hope that my editor understands the experiences I am sharing in this novel: growing up in a traditional Irish-American community which clings to a world that used-to-be while everything around them changes.

The art of writing is about work, and a lot of it. Hard work: tearing your own writing apart and taking a step back, removing your emotions from it. If you want to be a writer, you have to accept criticism which isn’t always delivered kindly.  A writer loves her writing—it is part of her. Writers are supposed to accept critiques professionally, listening attentively to the advice that is offered. Sometimes the critique hurts, offends and is harsh. A professional writer is expected to smile through it all, and then rewrite the book she has worked on for months or years.

I plod through this labor hoping what evolves is a better novel, one that will fly off the shelves, and will be downloaded onto hundreds of Kindles and Nooks.

Now it’s time to get back to work.

 

 

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Don’t Be Cruel

   “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” Elvis’s voice crooned out from the radio which was smack dab in the middle of the dashboard.

She looked over at him. He looks wounded, like a puppy that had been spanked with a rolled up newspaper, she thought.

Well, damn it, why is he such a … you know… a piece of work. Everything has to be his way. All she wanted to do was go to the party and stay more than an hour. But, no!  Restless Frankie, Mr. King of the castle, who must be in charge, insisted on leaving even before the cake was cut or the kid had a chance to open the stupid God- forsaken cheap gift she had to buy—a coloring book and crayons.  Her own nephew! First born kid in the whole family! Her God child. And her shiftless, lazy, can’t- hold- a- job- -husband insisted on leaving!

Why she might just write a letter to Elvis. He had been on the TV just last week- all handsome and country -boy charming. Those girls in the audience were screaming as if he was there buck naked, making love to them.

All right, maybe she had been cruel. Maybe she shouldn’t have yelled at him in front of her sister and the family. Maybe he has been down on his luck…but isn’t this kind of misery a form of cruelty? Don’t I deserve something better than this, she thought, as tears started burning in the corner of her eyes. She pressed a gloved finger- hard- to keep the tears from falling. She looked down at the white polka –dot print of her navy shirtwaist dress. It was a favorite, but it felt cruelly hot in the stifling car.

“Don’t be cruel…to a heart that’s true.” 

“Sing it Elvis, baby,” she whispered aloud.

He looked at her.

“Hey look, baby, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I just, I just… It’s hard, you know. Your Dad keeps asking me when I’m gonna buy you a bungalow and how my job prospects are…I just can’t take it sometimes, Charlene!”

His hands gripped the steering wheel of the Chevy as they zipped along the asphalt under a canopy of oak trees dripping Spanish moss. The air was oppressive, the humidity was like a gigantic wet blanket, and it was only April. Florida is like that, all hot and humid way too soon, she thought. Sometimes even the weather seemed cruel.

“Don’t be cruel…to a heart that’s true.” 

“Com’n, honey, you’re the only one for me…you know that.” Frankie looked over at her and touched her dimpled chin with his calloused finger.

Charlene looked at him. “I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe this is just a huge mistake. Listen to the song, Frankie. He’s tellin’ the truth, don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, is that it? Now you’re taking advice from Elvis? “

The car screeched to a halt.

“Just get out Charlene. Get out. You have a heart of stone. You don’t give me a lick of credit for trying. You’re always accusing me of some dad- gum thing or another. And now I’m cruel?”

Charlene stepped out of the car onto the boiling sidewalk.

“I’ll just walk from here, Mister. And when I get home…”

As the car sped away, Charlene screamed, “You’re so mean, Frankie.”

Then she removed her toe- pinching high heeled shoes that she wore to please Frankie. Man, her feet hurt!  Talk about cruel. It was torture to wear those things. On impulse, she turned and headed back toward the birthday party. As she walked along, hoping for the blessed relief of shade, she began to compose a letter to Mr. Elvis Presley, in Memphis, Tennessee. She imagined writing these words: “Dear Mr. Elvis Presley, thank you for recording the song ‘Don’t Be Cruel.’  It has helped me to escape a cruel, cruel fate.”

She pulled a folded paper fan from her white patent leather pocket book, and as she cooled herself, a smug smile spread across her face.

 

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Moving Away

   We left Buffalo, hoping to trade her harsh winters for the never –ending summer of Florida, almost 15 years ago. The day that we packed the last of the plants, books and CD player in our grey van and headed south to settle into our home in Central Florida signaled a seminal change in our lives.

We left behind a lifetime of friendships, memories, and family. I thought that I knew the implications of that decision back then. Now, I’m not so sure.

So much has happened since then. A whole generation of my family has passed away. Nieces and nephews have grown up, married, had children and even divorced. Our daughter earned her doctorate, got her first teaching position and was married. While we have retained ties with a few special friends, many of our friends have moved on.  The teachers I worked with in the Buffalo Public Schools have seen extreme changes in education, and I am sure that the vast majority have retired.

We have elected two Presidents and fought two wars. The nation lived through 9-11 and even observed the tenth anniversary of that event.

Dan and I have re-invented ourselves to a certain degree. We both eventually retired after working in Florida. I’ve become adept using various computer programs to create presentations and newsletters for clubs that I belong to and I have launched a writing career. I learned to play Canasta and have dabbled in the arts. My husband’s prowess at Canasta is well known, he is friends with a number of dog walkers and he has survived cancer. We both have a rich social life and our group of friends has expanded to include people from places other than Buffalo. We’ve traveled a little. And I have even escorted a few cruises for the Travel Club. I, too, survived a very serious medical emergency two years ago.

While we were living our new lives here in the land of always summer, our families back in Buffalo have continued to live their lives. I know that we still intersect and that we will always be family. But now, we are the out-of-towners—the relatives who come to visit.  We hear about the joys, struggles and challenges of our family by phone calls and emails. And we are too far away to actually do anything—to take the sickly uncle to the doctor, to go to the baby’s christening or even to attend a funeral. These familial duties fall to others.

Many times, I’ve thought of just getting in the car and driving back for family events, and then reality sets in. The time, expense and sheer effort of such a drive are daunting.   So, with the assurances of family members, we stay here and keep tabs as best we can, always wishing there was some way to bridge that distance—and knowing that there isn’t.

And eagerly awaiting the visit, the phone call, the email, or the Face Book post that connects us to the family we left behind when we moved away.

 

 

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Words

 

“Sticks and Stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me..”

(Children’s Nursery Rhyme)

 

Words are powerful.

I was reminded of that after my last blog post. The piece was a fictionalized account about when my husband was diagnosed with cancer four years ago. The night I posted it, I was tired and realized that a new entry was due. So, I went into my archives and picked that short story out. Another reason for using it was that I had submitted it to an e-zine and they rejected it.  I wanted to publish it.

The reaction from that piece was humbling. Several people emailed me or called to ask if my husband was okay. They offered their support and prayer.

I was really touched. And a little guilty.

I should have put a disclaimer on the piece and explained why I used it. In a way, I feel that my words played with my friends’ emotions in a way that was unintended.

It reminded me of  the power of words. Words do wound and heal and build and destroy. That is why we have to be so careful with them.

People who write and speak use words as a currency. We see  that in politics all the time. But we also do that in our day-to-day relationships. In a way we are all politicians of a sort, using words to smooth over the rough spots, convince others that we are worthy and to present a persona to the world.

The currency of words can become inflated. Use a word too often and it loses any real meaning—it might as well be a jumble of sounds.

Use a word carefully and the sounds flow, joining us in the human family, allowing us to relate to one another, helping us to understand and be understood, to love and be loved and to make sense of our lives.

I promise to respect the power of words. To handle them carefully. To use them judiciously. To honor the covenant I have entered into with you, the readers of my blog—to never use my words to unfairly manipulate your emotions.

And I am grateful to know that my words do affect you. It is the highest compliment any of you can pay me as a writer.

 

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A Soft Sound

                 

I lie in bed, waiting for the overwhelming fatigue of the day to finally settle in my bones and to quiet my racing thoughts. Tossing and turning, I grab the blankets and pull them toward me. The house is unnervingly quiet.

I hear a soft noise like a kitten’s mewl. I shoot up in bed, every sense alerted. I cock my head and listen. There it is again.

The noise, which now is an ethereal humming, fills my head. It shatters the preternatural silence of the house. I jump from the bed and cram my feet into my slippers. 

The hum vibrates through my body. Sensing that its source is somewhere other than the bedroom, I allow myself to be guided by it.

As if in a trance, I walk through the house, flicking lights on in each room. Nothing is out of place. The TV is off—no unearthly glow emanates from it. Every chair, every plant, every book is where I  left it earlier. But still the sing-song sound beckons me.

Totally exhausted, I fall into a chair as it grows louder and steadier.

I close my eyes.

A gentle breeze wakes me. The sound of waves pounding the beach fills the room. I breathe deeply.

 The last few days have  overwhelmed us as my husband faced ruthless tests and relentless prodding by doctors and nurses. His patience seemed to be infinite, even when every move he made wracked his body with pain.

I pull an afghan around my shoulders looking for comfort as I recall the doctor decribe  a torturous treatment plan to defeat the out of control cells that have taken over my husband’s body. His voice is disconnected and clinical.

Those  words hung between us that day, taking on form and substance. But we spoke only of recovery . We promised one another to not allow the thought of defeat to have any place in our lives.

The family room is cool and quiet. The ethereal sound has diminished and in its place is peace.

Dawn will soon color the sky like it has for so many millions days.

Later, I will go to the hospital and bring my husband to our home.

And for an uncertain number of days, we will be together.

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Solitude

 Sunday is football day for my husband. Fortunately for me, he has a group of friends who like to go to a local restaurant to watch the game. I don’t go, mainly because I don’t quite understand football, and I am, quite honestly, a fair-weather fan.

Recently on one of those Sunday afternoons, I found myself alone in the house, savoring the quiet—no TV, no demands on me to be converse or be aware of another person’s needs. I could do exactly what I felt like doing. At first I began my usual internal dialogue: you need to read that book, check emails, pay bills, clean the bedroom, and straighten up the closet. 

Suddenly I stopped fretting. I listened to the quiet, savoring the peace. Then I realized that I could do anything I pleased with the day—I had to answer to no one but myself.  What a liberating feeling that was!

Instead of listening to the fretful litany that still played in my head, I sauntered out to the lanai and read the Sunday newspaper. It felt like being in heaven.

Later when my husband returned home, I was happy to break the quiet of my day.

Looking back on that afternoon, I came to realize that those times when I am alone are rare. And those alone moments have become very precious. They give me an opportunity to relax in a way I don’t otherwise and to think and dream.

Before I stopped working, I had a lot of alone time—driving back and forth to work, staying after school to correct papers and prepare for the next day. Sometimes I was able to use that time to think, but usually it was spent in frantic activity.

But now the moments of solitude in my life are much more intense. I no longer have to worry about tomorrow’s lessons, tests and paper work that is due. Instead, those unstructured times are mine to use as I choose. They have become very precious to me, a time to delight in. Happily, I have opportunities every week to spend time alone.

Solitude is a gift. It is up to each of us to find those moments in our lives to savor the quiet, to allow ourselves to reflect, to hope and perhaps even to dream.

 

 

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Look at That Beautiful Scenery!

When I was a kid, our parents often took us on car rides.  We would drive into the country around Buffalo, for the sole purpose of looking at the trees, pastures, lakes, and hills that surround us. My parents encouraged us to “Look at the scenery,” or would say, “Isn’t that a beautiful vista?” (They talked like that—really!)  Dad would take us on country roads that had dips in them, which he called “upsy-daiseys.” And to us it was like riding a roller coaster.

I remember enjoying these trips. We never stopped to eat or buy things. Instead the whole purpose of these rides was to appreciate the beauty that surrounded us.

Even now, as an adult, I am often entranced by what I see as I drive. This past weekend, my husband and I drove to Vero Beach, a special destination for us. The weather was really awful—it was like a hurricane without the “eye”! High winds, ferocious downpours and cloudy skies accompanied the entire two hour drive. But I still found wonderful scenery to enjoy: The boats madly bouncing on the roiled up waters of the Intracoastal Waterway, the emerald green grass and the sun attempting to break out every now and then from  behind clouds that were piled up like grey wool were beautiful to me. The ride back two days later was even better—almost cloudless skies dotted with fluffy white clouds, boats bobbing gently on the Intracoastal, trees waving lazily in the breeze. I keep pointing out the wonderful scenery to my husband. He would look up and agree that it was nice, but he really was much more interested in cleaning out the glove box. (Don’t worry—I was driving.)

It occurred to me that my husband doesn’t enjoy these rides the way I do.  Because of my childhood experiences, I look for fantastic views to appreciate. I especially love when I am the passenger. Then I can really look and enjoy the view.

To me, it is a blessing to have these rides as part of my childhood experiences, it has opened my eyes to the beauty all around us.

 

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Tea For Two..or Three

 

Tea party, high tea, afternoon tea, whatever you call it, the idea of sharing tea and refreshments with a group of friends has a reputation. If you enjoy visiting with other ladies and sipping brewed tea as you munch on tea cakes, pretty cookies and finger sandwiches—well, tea is something you delight in. If, however, your loyalty lies with coffee and a donut, you probably wouldn’t look forward to an Afternoon Tea. And if you are a man (other than those raised with the tradition of taking tea as a repast) you would rather be tortured than have Tea.

Americans seem to have fallen in love with Tea as an event—especially women. Posh hotels and upscale restaurants offer elaborate “High Tea” at often unwarranted prices.

By the way, I have it on good authority that High Tea is a misnomer—it should be called Afternoon Tea. Somehow, though “High Tea” has a cachet that makes it sound even better than it tastes. In reality , though, High Tea is a working family’s late afternoon meal which would include substantial food—much like the American dinner time.

Afternoon Tea came into vogue as the British upper class moved their dinner time back to the evening hours. After all, people needed some sustenance between dinner and a late ( sometimes 6 or 9 p.m.) dinner.

I think part of the appeal of Afternoon Tea is because it brings us back to a more elegant time, eschewing the paper cup mentality that fast food has imprinted upon our society.

Recently, I hosted an Afternoon Tea. It is part of a program our Red Hat group has called Traveling Tea Pot. It was so much fun! I invited three other ladies ( one ultimately was unable to make it). I really enjoyed planning the menu which consisted of pinwheel sandwiches and miniature stuffed tomatoes with croissants and jam ( savory) and fresh strawberries  and tea cookies ( sweet). Tea was brewed in a  tea pot, although one of my guests preferred coffee.  

Conversation flowed like honey into a cup of tea.  All three of us felt like we got to know one another better than before (one of the aims of this program).But more than that, it was a lovely way to spend an afternoon, enjoying simple refreshment and conversation. I loved being able to use the “good “ china and the pretty plates.

And at the end of the day, we were all happy that we had this opportunity to slow down and enjoy the simple pleasure of a cup of tea.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Purse that Got Away

I misplaced by purse the other day. I have never, not even once, done that.

When other women related stories about losing their handbags or forgetting them in stores and restaurants, I was always baffled. How could you forget something so essential?

If you carry a purse, then from the time you are quite young (in some cases a pre-teen) you get used to having something hanging off your shoulder, arm or hand. It becomes a part of you—sort of like your hand or your arm.

So I would wonder how you could forget your arm or hand. To me, losing a handbag would be as unthinkable as that.

Then I did it.

And worse, I didn’t even realize it was missing until I was ready to go to bed. Predictably, panic set in. I searched everywhere—the car, every room of the house, the car again, silly places like the top of the car and a bin of donations for Goodwill. Then I searched the house again—and the car, again. Finally, I allowed myself to realize that the purse was AWOL, missing in action. I imagined someone on a spending spree, using my debit and credit cards. I lamented the loss of my new driver’s license—the one with the half-way decent photo of me. I started to make a list of the contents of the errant handbag. I even went on line (at 2 a.m.) to check my bank account, to try to determine if someone was cleaning out my checking account with the debit card.

I retraced all of my activities, trying to recall the last time I had the purse. We had returned from a trip to the beach. First we went to dinner and then stopped to pick up Sparkle from the dog sitter’s. I recalled having my purse in the rest room at the restaurant—had I left it there, perched on top of the paper towel dispenser? My husband had used an ATM to get cash to pay the dog sitter and I thought that I had stuffed the money to pay her into my pocket—or had I? Did I leave my handbag in the car when I went into the dog sitter’s house to collect Sparkle’s stuff ? Everything was muddled.

I knew that it would be impossible to sleep—and that I couldn’t call the restaurant where we had dinner or the dog-sitter, to ask if the purse was left in either location. After all, it was three o’clock in the morning—and everything is closed and normal people are asleep.

I resigned myself to a sleepless night, wondering if I should call the bank and the credit card company, worried that my cell phone was being used to call long-lost relatives in every corner of the globe.

Then I recalled placing my purse on the counter at the dog sitter’s when we went to pick up our “puppy.” She and I had been chatting about how wonderful my dog is (really!) and how much she enjoyed sitting for Sparkle. I remembered picking up Sparkle’s toys and tossing them into her carry case, paying the dog sitter and then joining my hubby and Sparkle in the car. He was driving, so I didn’t need to find my keys. When we got home, I read for a while, checked emails, and then decided to go to bed.

And that was when I discovered that my purse was gone.

This story does have a happy ending—I left the purse at the dog sitter’s home, on a chair. She didn’t notice it until the next morning.

So my purse and I have been joyfully (on my part) reunited.

Misplacing my purse reminded me how easy it is to lose something important. And how easy it is, ultimately, to replace stuff.

And it reminded me that no matter how careful we think we are, unexpected things happen and that sometimes the outcome isn’t all that bad.

Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s providence—but I am grateful for this little blessing.

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Radio Days

My love affair with radio began when I was a kid growing up in Buffalo. By the time I was in eighth grade, I was in possession of my own radio which was ensconced in the bedroom I shared with my sister, Susan. It was so groovy listening to the cool disc jockeys on WKBW which occupied a hallowed spot on the AM dial. Danny Nevereth, Tommy Shannon, Rod Roddy, Sandy Beach and my all time favorite, Dick Biondi, owned the air waves.

They spun the latest hits and filled my evenings with their sometimes witty or slightly naughty patter and comments on the music. I really dug them—they were the coolest of the cool. They played the hits at local sock hops—and boy, was it groovy when your favorite radio DJ showed up at a dance at your high school! Only squares or dorks would pass up a chance to go that dance.

The newspaper entertainment pages were filled with stories about their exploits. One time, Dick Biondi, my most favorite of all DJs disappeared mysteriously. He was “found” several days later in Erie, Pennsylvania (not quite L.A.!) and I was so relieved when he surfaced. I had listened eagerly to his show, which had a substitute host “sitting in” each night, hoping and praying that he would soon return to the air waves. The possibility of the whole thing being a publicity stunt was investigated thoroughly by the local newspapers. Now, as an adult, I wonder about the circumstances of his “disappearance”.

Each of the DJs that I loved had his own theme song.  (Women were never heard on the radio.) And I could sing almost all of them. In fact, one of them became a national hit song—it was called “Wild Weekend” by the Rebels, who were a Buffalo area band. The song was written by Tommy Shannon, the DJ whose theme song it was. The words still echo in my head. The Rebels even appeared on “American Bandstand”—wow! That was really groovy!

The other theme song I remember was the Dick Biondi’s:

/There’s a guy named Biondi-Dick Biondi/

/He’s a man you ought to know/

/He plays music on KB radio /

/On the Dick Biondi show/

Even now, I love radio—there are many entertainment options available from news to propaganda with everything in between.

But, I do miss the “home grown” stations from my youth. They had real personality and it was fun to listen to them. Now, radio stations are dominated by bland corporate-owned stations. In fact, you can go from city to city, and hear the same type of radio everywhere.

Wouldn’t it be great to tune in a station and hear a theme song and a DJ dripping with personality?

Now that would be really fab!

 

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