The Attic

I know it’s been a while since I posted… and I could spend several paragraphs telling you about how I’ve been sick (still am) with fever, coughing, headaches, chills, etc., but that would be boring. And a few paragraphs more about the three days my daughter and I just spent in Jackson, cleaning our my mother’s assisted living apartment and visiting her at the nursing home. But that also might be boring. Not that we didn't also have a good time at the beautiful new outdoor mall in Ridgeland, Renaissance, where we found the Lucky Jeans store (for Beth) and Anthropologie, which was a really cool place. And yes, we had fun at dinner with my nieces, Aubrey and Chelsea, Friday night, and Aubrey's husband, Tommy, at PF Chang's. Didn't take pictures though.

But what Beth has been doing since we returned to Memphis Saturday afternoon is anything but boring. She’s been cleaning out our attic! Yes. Three days before Christmas.

Here’s how it happened. We were talking about houses (she’s in architecture grad school) and she was suggesting ways I could make our current house (which I don’t like) better and I was saying I’d rather just wait ‘til I get into a house I really like, but she realized how much the disorder in this house is bothering me, especially the attic, because if I clean out something in the house, like a closet or bookshelves or drawers, there’s no place to put stuff I want to store. Seriously, you could not walk through the attic as it was… dozens of yucky old cardboard boxes, many opened with their contents spilling out. I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture of it … it would have made a great “before” picture. Instead I took it after Beth emptied everything out of it, into her room, which opens directly into the attic on the second floor of the house.

Here’s the almost empty attic.

But here’s how it happened. When we got home from Jackson, we unloaded all the stuff from my mom’s apartment (my car was packed full) upstairs, into the room where all the boxes of stuff from her house have been since I cleaned it out in May of 2006. So that room now had about 20 boxes of “Granny Effie stuff.”

Next we went to Home Depot and bought 40 large Rubbermaid tubs with lids and white tape for labeling everything with a black Sharpie.

Over the next 24 hours, Beth completely cleaned out the attic and room with Mom’s stuff, threw away a good bit of stuff, packed up quite a few Goodwill boxes, and organized everything else into the tubs and labeled them. And in the process, as she found treasures I hadn’t seen in years, I would get excited and think about ways to use them in my newly organized house. And so many photographs I haven't been able to find as I've been scanning pictures from albums in our den as I continue to work on my memoir.

Here it is—my newly organized attic. Voila!

And here’s the other end. Pretty amazing, huh? Almost makes me want to put in rugs and a rocking chair. Almost.

So, now I can start to clean out the stuff that’s bothering me downstairs and finally feel at peace in this house. We kept a dozen empty containers for my overflow when I start with the closets and drawers downstairs. Yep. I’m really hoping for a serious trickle down affect… a reorganization that starts at the top.

And my realtor is going to love our attic when we get ready to sell and find something that works better for our lifestyle. When the market gets better. Now we’ve got one of those attics that house-shoppers walk into and say, “Oh, my God! Look at how organized they are!”

Who knew that an organized attic would end up being the Best Christmas Present Ever? But it is. Thanks, Beth.

Support Your Local Independent Booksellers

Yesterday I picked up my order at Burke’s Books here in Memphis. Over $200 worth of books for Christmas gifts. And yes, I could have saved some money by ordering on Amazon or other online sites, but then I thought, “what have they done for me lately?” Or rather, for the writers who enhance our lives with their art?

It was delightful to stop in at Burke’s and visit with owner, Cheryl Mesler and remember delightful evenings with writers reading and signing their books at Burke’s. I think the first reading I attended at Burke’s was John Grisham signing The Firm back when Burke’s was on Poplar and under different ownership. I actually did an interview with Grisham following the signing, for a literary magazine in Oxford. But more recent memories are of Beth Ann Fennelly’s reading from her poetry book, Unmentionables, this past summer. But I also remember how Cheryl, her husband and co-owner Cory, and the other staff always help you find what you need. Last year I walked into Burke’s and just described one of my children’s tastes in books and she led me to authors I didn’t know and books that he would love. It reminded me of that scene in “You’ve Got Mail” where Meg Ryan’s character, the small bookstore owner, walks into the big mega-store and overhears a customer asking one of the clerks about a certain well-known author and he had never heard of her.

So, yesterday I asked Cheryl (left) how business was going this Christmas season and she shrugged her shoulders and said, “oh, it’s slow, but it’s slow everywhere.” I was thinking about how everyone has to decide where to cut back. And again how important art is to our culture. I’m doing my part as a consumer, buying hardbacks whenever I can. A friend and fellow writer once told me that she always tries to buy hardbacks from living authors because they need the money. For dead writers, she goes to the library. Not a bad plan.

There’s a short little piece by Roy Blount, Jr. at Square Book’s website called “Buy From Your Local Bookstore Now,” that says it better than I can.

So, today I’d like to encourage everyone to stop by their local independent bookstore and browse and visit with staff members and buy gifts for family and friends. Even for folks who aren’t big readers—they need it most! I know lots of my readers live all over the country, but I’m just going to list the booksellers I know personally in the Southeast: (click on the names to link to their websites for directions to each store)

Burke’s Books in Memphis, Tennessee.
Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi. I’ve got lots of posts that involve Square Books, but here’s one about Camp Square Books, this past July.

Lemuria Books in Jackson, Mississippi. Here’s a post about meeting Delaune Michel and hearing her read at Lemuria.
Page and Palette in Fairhope, Alabama.
Over the Transom in Fairhope, Albama.
Carpe Librum in Knoxville, Tennessee. Read my blog post about my visit to Carpe Librum in September.

Wordsworth Books in Little Rock, Arkansas.
Faulkner House Books in New Orleans.

And yes, even during this busy season I’ve been reading voraciously. It’s an essential food group for a writer, and one of my recent feasts has been A Sound Like Thunder by Sonny Brewer. Having met Sonny at Southern Writers Reading in Fairhope in November, I was anxious to get into his books, and I started with this one. It’s a jewel… literary writing that doesn’t bog you down with too many pages of descriptions of trees (I’ve got a touch of ADD) and keeps you turning the pages, wanting more. But also pausing and re-reading a sentence, or even a paragraph, every now and then, just for the sheer beauty of how the words sound. Sometimes I read them aloud, like this sentence, describing an extraordinary sunset:

“I knew better now than then that not even a magician with words or paints or music could handle the picture in the sky when God is feeling frisky, showing off, baking for his mortal children the daily bread of the eye.”

And this section, where Sonny is describing, through the eyes of the teenage protagonist, Rove McNee, the process of healing the loss of his complicated father:

“My hope of relief lay at the eye of this thing, and seeking work among men who had known him would put me in the middle of the hurt. And the hurt had surprised me, springing unexpected from my psyche like a determined tendril from a scuppernong vine, curling towards the light, a brightness issuing from forgiveness. It’s easier to reconcile a bad story if you know the sense behind its first line.”

A young writer, Scott Morris, captured my senses with his first, and also very literary, novel, Waiting for April. Here are a few amazing metaphors and phrases:

“My little experiences with her when I was growing up, the sort that most people would discount as mere child’s play or fancy, were for me the wet clay of my slowly setting world.”

And since I love sunsets, I’m always taken with the endless ways gifted authors have of describing them:

“The sunsets, especially in the warmer months, were thick as fruitcake, dripping like caramel, a swarming canvas of buzzing colors. An expert would point to the great humidity visited upon that part of the country, how the light refracts again and again through pale planets of water that catch flame and turn into a billion tiny palpable prisms, but I say it is nothing less than the exalted exhalations of angels.”

And here’s one more paragraph, describing young Roy Collier’s search for the truth about his father:

“The convolutions and confrontations. The constant zigging and zagging between peace and paranoia. The relentless reverberations from missing facts and well-kept secrets. The ghosts, goblins and lore. The endless stories and the endless stories within those endless stories. With a mere flick of my wrist I could set that glowing globe spinning in Mother’s darkened library and the entire world repeated itself to me over and over again.”

I read these brilliant writers not only to feed my art-hungry soul, but also hopefully to learn from their finely tuned craft. To be a better writer. When I was picking up my Christmas gifts at Burke's yesterday, I also picked up a book for myself, so if my blog had a "Susan's Bookshelf" section, this would be on top. I started reading it last night. It's Sing Them Home by Stephanie Kallos. I loved Kallos' book, Broken For You, so I was eager for her latest work.

So, whether you’re a writer or a reader or both, or even if you only have a slight sense of the importance of literary art to our lives, give the gift of literary to someone this Christmas. Or to yourself. And buy it from your local independent bookseller. Can't find one? Look here.

Happy shopping!

Transcending Art

The Yoknapatawpha Writers Group held its second annual Christmas meeting and dinner party this past Saturday, hosted again by Patti Trippeer here in Memphis. (Group photo by Doug McLain, includes: Herman King, Patti Trippeer, me, Michelle Bright and Daphne Davenport.) Ladder in background, I think Patti would want me to say, is because she's not finished trimming her gorgeous Christmas tree! Last year's party was in January, when things are a little calmer. It was brave of Patti to host this close to Christmas!

Coffee and breakfast treats and lunch and dinner were seamlessly interwoven throughout our day of critiquing each other’s manuscripts and challenging and encouraging one another in our craft. Six writers from five cities in three states came together for this intense twelve hours of work and play.

Writing groups can be very intimate settings for soul-baring and soul-searching and one must learn that delicate balance—allowing just the right amount of access to your soul. It’s difficult to hold onto the boundaries sometimes

As one person reveals the works she’s doing for a journalism class at Ole Miss and another begins to share family stories from a distinct but distant place and time, and another mixes memory with fiction in his stories from the war and yet another creates a voice like Scout in Mockingbird with her child-like clarity, we all are learning to treat each other’s treasures with tenderness but also with truthfulness.

And yes, I got my dander up when challenged to consider a different approach to my work and even a bit frustrated that I couldn’t find words to describe with clarity exactly what it is I’m trying to accomplish.

But this morning my frustration was greatly diminished when I read Haven Kimmel’s blog post. Haven was doing an email magazine interview and was stopped in her tracks by this seemingly simple but oh so complex and personal question:

“What do you hope to accomplish (italics mine) with your books?"

You’ve got to read her response! I’m not even going to quote much from it because it’s just too wonderful and I might misrepresent it. Except for this one part that I must share for those who might not go to her blog and read it:

Writing a book is an accomplishment in and of itself, if that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for. The question was phrased such that I imagined my books going out into the world and doing something, like qualifying for one of those obscure Norwegian sports in the winter Olympics. Maybe one of them would join a boy band, and another could buy a bar in the Florida Keys. Then I decided it was the pronoun “I.” I don’t have anything to do with this, the books are themselves, discrete. They aren’t about me, there is no “I” in them. I would argue that even the two memoirs aren’t about me: they are studies in a particular way of crafting memoir.

Studies in a particular way of crafting memoir. That’s it. That’s what I’m trying to do. It’s not just about me or the other people involved in the memoir. I keep going back to what Scott Morris told me in the workshop at Ole Miss last June—you have to get up above the truth and create art.

I love the quote Haven opens with in today's post:

The object of writing is to grow a personality which in the end allows one to transcend art. Lawrence Durrell

If that doesn’t make you want to read her blog post, I don’t have anything more to say to entice you. Just read it. Here.

So, I’ve interspersed photos from our day together on Saturday, and now I’ll close with a big THANK YOU to Patti for hosting (again) and to Herman for his amazing bananas foster and to Doug for the wine and fruit salad and to Daphne for being so wonderful (even though I did get mad at you) and for Michelle for her bubbly enthusiasm and youth that we all need a shot of. And to the spouses who made it for dinner—and I’m so sorry I didn’t get a picture of us all at the dinner table! But Doug sent me this one of my husband, with the caption, “Chilled.” I think that says it pretty well, Doug. Father Basil came straight from Vespers at St. John, where several new members were Chrismated, which explains the black cassock at the writing group party!

I really love each of you and am so blessed to have you as friends, and also to be able to trust you with my treasures. You are helping me grow a personality that will hopefully allow me to transcend art through my writing. Lofty goal? But isn’t that the only kind worth having?

Born to Raise the Sons of Earth

Last night a group of folks from my church went Christmas caroling at Kings Daughters and Sons Nursing Home here in Memphis. We’ve been doing this for several years, but I missed it the last couple of times the group went. I was especially interested in going this year, not only because I love Christmas carols, but also because now that my own mother is in a nursing home (in Jackson) I am more acutely aware of how much joy visitors in general, and children and music in particular, bring to nursing home residents.

Since we caroled at night, most of the residents were in their rooms, so we just paused in front of their doors and waved as we caroled up one hall and down another.

At times some of the residents who were out in their wheelchairs would catch up with us and roll along beside us. One in particular led the procession the whole time.

Since we only sing these carols at Christmas time, I forget about how wonderful the lyrics are… how rich in theology and how full of hope. For some reason I found myself singing this one when I got home last night and during the day today: Hark! The Herald Angels Sing! You can read all the verses and listen to the instrumental version here.

I love this part:

Born that man no more may die,

Born to raise the sons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.

Born to raise the sons of earth. Who are the sons of Earth? The people in the nursing homes are the sons of Earth. And so are those of us fortunate enough to be visiting them and singing carols. (Like little Sarah Anne, straining on tip toes to reach the high notes!) And... raise them how? Where? The Orthodox doctrine of the incarnation, which we celebrate at Christmas, is all about restoring the image, God’s image in man, that was lost at the fall. Raising us up to be all that God created us to be. In this life. Now. But also in the life to come, as the line says, “Born that man no more may die.” So those are two gifts of the Christ child to us: restored life now and eternal life.

I almost got weepy a couple of times last night as I looked into the rooms where these people were confined. I thought about my mother and wondered how she was last night. This morning one of her nurses called to tell me that Mom’s hip seems to be healing, that she doesn’t mention any pain any more and is beginning to walk a little, thank God! But she also mentioned some concerns… she’s not eating well and is losing weight. I offered suggestions about snacks throughout the day, and small finger sandwiches rather than big “meat and 3” type meals, which she’s never preferred. Later in the day the nurse called me back to tell me all the things they were doing to help mom, including snacks 5 times a day, hydration with juice, and nutritional supplements in the form of smoothies and juices. Her tone was so compassionate that my eyes filled up with tears and I thanked her for taking such good care of my mother. She said, “Oh, you’re welcome! We love Miss Effie.”

Then I opened my mail and there was an invitation to the Christmas party at the nursing home, and the suggestion that we send a gift with her name on it by the day before the party, so that Santa’s helpers can give them out during the party. I’ll be visiting Mom the day after Christmas, but the party is on the 23rd so I won’t be there since we’re not visiting until the 26th. But her gift will be there. And Santa’s helpers, who are local volunteers.

It struck me how important volunteering is, not only for those in need, but for those doing the volunteering. It’s good for our souls. It raises us up and reminds us that we are the kings of Earth. It’s our job to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves. There are endless opportunities to do this, all year long, but especially during this season. Our church took up toys for the Memphis Inter Faith Association’s Christmas store again this year, and we’re also putting together baskets for several families that we help on an on-going basis. We’re also collecting items for the children who go to Rachel’s Kids for after-school tutoring, where a number of our members have also volunteered as tutors. You can even make a donation to Rachel’s kids here.

You don’t have to look far to find someone in need. Even the guy at the corner holding the cardboard sign, who is also one of the sons of Earth.

Scrambling

That’s what I’m doing these days—scrambling around trying to buy Christmas gifts and plan for all the festivities coming up and for some reason I have managed to schedule my annual physical exam for December (what was I thinking? I think it’s been slipping a month later each year since it used to be in March, near my birthday, so I could remember it!) But it’s today. Also my mammogram. Don’t you just love ‘em? I’m sure some guy invented the darn thing. But back to scrambling...

Last weekend a friend of mine from Memphis met his daughter in Jackson, Mississippi for the weekend. (She was there for a business trip.) He asked me for suggestions for entertainment, and I put him onto Hal and Mal’s… which has really good shrimp and oyster po boys and great down home music. Did I mention that the friend is Bill Stanek, a singer-songwriter himself?

Well, Saturday night at Hal and Mal’s a group called The Scramblers was playing, and when Bill got back to Memphis he emailed me to say that he and his daughter both thought the woman in the band looked like me, and wondered if it was a relative of mine down in Mississippi. He sent me a link to this picture.

And this closeup, and I thought oh, my gosh! My alter-ego! She really could be my younger sister, if I had one. Look at her face compared with me, when I was closer to her age. (left) Just imagine me in my wire rims.

Oh, here's one of me with a cowboy hat and glasses, which might show the resemblance a bit more, although I'm a few decades older (right).

I know what you’re thinking, that all those trips I’ve been making to Jackson haven’t really been to take of my 80-year-old mother with Alzheimer’s, that I’ve been using that as an excuse to jam with The Scramblers at Hal and Mal’s. In my dreams.

Sixteen days ‘til Christmas—hope everyone is enjoying peace on Earth and goodwill towards man while you’re out there in the crowds at the malls. Or maybe, like me, you’re opting for more online shopping and even the ever-beloved but oh-so-impersonal gift cards. I always love getting them, don’t you? And today, I’d be happy to get anything but a mammogram. But here I go….

Silver Bells, Medicare Part D, Jesus, Santa and Jerry Lee Lewis

It’s December 6 and I don’t have the Christmas spirit yet. Or I didn’t until this afternoon. Today is the Feast Day of Saint Nicholas, which I posted about here. And a more extensive post last year, here. And yesterday we received this Christmas card, which I love. It was our third card this season, which also began to get me in the mood for Christmas, but it was also a reminder that I haven't done anything to prepare. Usually by now I’ve decorated the house, bought most of my gifts and designed, printed, and mailed over 100 Christmas cards. Okay I know that’s a little over-the-top, but that’s how I’m wired and how I’ve functioned all my life. Until now. Today I was whining about this to a close friend and she said, "welcome to my world." I think that was supposed to make me feel better. And it did.

So what’s been keeping me from preparing for Christmas? I guess it’s a combination of my work (writing) and travel (again for writing) and my husband’s surgery in Nashville and our trip to the beach for his “recovery,” and my mother’s broken hip, her two surgeries, and moving her from the hospital to one nursing/rehab center to another, all since October 1. Yep, that would be it. And I have to move everything out of her assisted living home by Christmas. Did I mention it’s not in Memphis? It’s in Jackson, Mississippi, so I’ve put some miles on my Camry this fall and winter.

Change of address forms, change of pharmacies, change of primary care physicians, change of physical therapists (from one nursing/rehab home to another), change of cable TV (3 times in 3 weeks, yes, even as she moves rooms in a nursing home, a technician has to come out and yes, there’s another fee) and even the morbid but necessary business of looking ahead by finalizing funeral arrangements… all the while withdrawing money from her Schwab account to pay for private duty sitters when I can’t be with her… it’s been overwhelming, but somehow it’s getting done. And like the song says, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

Not only my close friends in Jackson that I’ve known for years, who fill in for me when I can’t be there, but even friends of my parents that I barely know. Like Guy Parker and his daughter Mary Lynn, who own Group Health Specialists . Guy responded to my email for help with Mom’s Medicare Part D situation by saying:

“Your mom and dad were important to Judy and my ‘journeys’, and we have fond memories of them. Send us the information we need and we'll take care of this for you.”

Mom has had Humana as her Part D for the past couple of years, and it’s about to price itself out of the business, or at least that’s the word on the street. And not just on the street, but in the AARPBulletin which came in the mail today. There’s a good article called “Medicare Part D: How to Avoid Bigger Bills” here if you need to consider making a change for yourself or your parents. It’s so overwhelming to my brain and I am so thankful to Guy and Mary Lynn for their help! I just scanned all Mom’s info and emailed it to them yesterday. Changes to a new plan have to be made by December 31, of course, just a week after I have to have Mom’s stuff moved out of her assisted living apartment.

Every time I start to panic I just start humming, “I get by with a little help from my friends!” Thanks so much, Guy and Mary Lynn! You guys are what paying it forward is all about.

So this afternoon I decided to get out of the house and see if I could catch some Christmas spirit. I had some errands to run, at Wolf Photo, Kinko’s and Office Depot, but it was when I got to Pier One that I began to perk up. The shiny stuff, the sparkly things… brought to mind that old song, “Silver Bells” and I realized how much the “city sidewalks, even stop lights, blinked a bright red and green” and the decorations and the music in the stores cheered me. I bought this little tree…

And this matching garland (hard to see, but it’s on the mantle) and I came home and hung our stockings. Count ‘em—six! Tonight Oreo is snuggled in her little bed by the fire just waiting for everyone to come home. We’ll be welcoming my new daughter-in-law this Christmas, as she and Jason fly in from Denver on Christmas morning. So I bought a 6th stocking, this cute one here, for See. (That's her name, "See.") Twenty days and counting!

Here’s something on the light side that also perked up my holiday spirit today. The latest issue of Garden and Gun arrived in the mail recently and I finally took the time to sit and look at it and even read some of the articles, while watching the Alan Jackson special on CMT. (If you missed it, you can watch it, here.) If you’ve never seen Garden and Gun, you should check it out, if for no other reason than to feel the paper (yes) and look at the pictures. It’s just a beautiful publication. (Hey, Flannery O'Connor once bought a chess set just because she liked to feel the chess pieces; she couldn't play chess. And she loved the way National Geographic smelled. "A sensualist I am," she once said. I'm in good company!)

And the December/January issue has a fun article by Marshall Chapman callled “Whole Lotta Christmas: Making sense of Jesus, Santa and Jerry Lee Lewis.” Chapman tells a story about when she and her sister, Mary, hid in a closet to watch Santa on Christmas Eve, but got carried away in the closet, singing Jerry Lee Lewis’s song, “Whole Lotta’ Shakin’” but later felt guilty and asked Baby Jesus to forgive them “for being so bad on the eve of His birthday.” I am so there. I love it when people give themselves room to be human. Isn’t that why Jesus came in the first place? To redeem the image that fell and restore it?

I was re-reading part of Vigen Guroian’s http://www.guroian.com/Welcome.html wonderful book, Rallying the Really Human Things, the other day when I ran across his chapter about Flannery O’Connor, titled “The Art of Incarnation.” (The subtitle of the book is: the moral imagination in politics, literature and everyday life—don’t you just love it?) Anyway, the chapter on O’Connor is all about how she refuted Gnostism and promoted Christian humanism as she embraced the whole person. Guroian quotes from O’Connor’s essay, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” at one point:

"The Manicheans separated spirit and matter. To them all material things were evil….This is also pretty much the modern spirit, and for the sensibility infected with it, fiction is hard if not impossible to write because fiction is so very much an incarnational art…. The fact is that the materials of the fiction writer are the humblest. Fiction is about everything human and we are made of dust.”

Guroian later says:

“In her fiction, O’Connor…endeavors to show through narrative that the only real path to happiness is one that includes our bodies; not our bodies as mere bodies, but rather as no less than the whole person made in the image of God…. She concludes that the Christian writer must show in his art, therefore, that grace ‘penetrates the natural human world as it is,’ concrete and embodied.”

I think O’Connor would have enjoyed Chapman’s piece about Jesus, Santa and Jerry Lee Lewis. As Chapman says, fifty years after hiding in the closet with her sister on Christmas Eve:

“Now, in this holiday season, I often wake up in the middle of the night and tiptoe down the stairs, where I stand transfixed, staring at our Christmas tree with its lights all aglow like a thousand golden halos. And in that moment, the only thing I know for sure is that I am happy and at peace. And it makes no more sense, considering the broken world we live in, than flying reindeer, a virgin birth, and Jerry Lee Lewis. But I love it all. I have to. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

I Hope You Dance II and Write, Don't Pitch!

Okay, the title for this post wasn’t meant to be as schizophrenic as it sounds. It’s just that I’ve got these two powerful topics on my mind and I want to give them both their due. So, this will be a two-part post.

The reason the first part of the post is called I Hope You Dance II is that I already did a post called I Hope You Dance, just over a year ago, here. It was about dancing with my friend, Urania, at a wedding, just two months before she died.

But this one is about my mother. Her physical therapist at the nursing home called today. They can’t get mom to cooperate with therapy. She’s in a wheelchair and might not ever walk again (she broke her hip in October and has had two surgeries… scroll down to posts in October and November to catch up) if she doesn’t do the physical therapy. But she doesn’t understand, or remember, that her hip is broken, or that she can’t walk. So they were asking for my help… for any suggestions.

I said, “She loves to dance. Put on some Benny Goodman and entice her onto the dance floor.”
“That might work,” the therapist agreed. “What else did she like to do in her past life? Did she garden or sew or paint or—”

“She was in a garden club and a luncheon club, and she painted in college, but we couldn’t get her to paint later in life. She sort of pulled out of her social circles when she and Dad started their own business, Phidippides Sports, in 1982. Mom ran the aerobic dancing part of the business. So, you could talk to her about aerobics at Phidippides and maybe that would get her going!”

This therapist was hanging on my every word, looking for something that might work. How can I ever thank her enough? These are good people.

Juxtaposed against the backdrop of my mother’s struggles with Alzheimers and broken hips and nursing homes is the ongoing issue of finding representation for my memoir. Just yesterday I received a lovely rejection letter from another literary agent in New York. You laugh. But listen to this:

We think you have something really original and unique here. Ms. [agent’s name] looked over the partial and proposal and didn't quite think it was something she could place for you. The competition in memoir is fierce and though this has a nice hook, she doesn't quite think it's right for her. As this is a highly subjective business, we trust you'll find representation elsewhere.

I have some writer friends who have wallpapered their bathrooms with such rejection letters.

So, when I shared the news with friends in writing groups and friends who are, well, just friends, the responses weren’t all exactly what I would have expected. In fact, two very close friends began to talk about how I should maybe finish writing the book first, before continuing to seek representation. They had some pretty powerful arguments to make for this approach, and I have to admit I was caught up short by them. Especially since they came the day after I read this article in the new (February 2009—in December?) issue of Writer’s Digest by Susan Shapiro called, “ Nonfiction: Don’t Pitch—Write.”

Shapiro got my attention when she wrote:

“Yes, I know… scribes who’ve signed six-figure memoir contracts based on 30-page summaries and a sample chapter…. But I’ve also heard follow-up nightmares about authors who had to pay back huge advances three year later because they couldn’t come up with what they’d promised.”
Yeah… I’ve thought about that. Can I deliver what I promise? Do I over-sell myself, and my writing, at times?

But there’s something deeper at work here, as Sharpiro’s article continues:

“When I started my addiction memoir, Lighting Up, I thought I’d chronicle the process of quitting my fierce 27-year two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. By the time I finished the addiction therapy I needed for research, I’d also quit alcohol, marijuana, gum and bread, and found that the only thing I was still addicted to was my addiction specialist. I hadn’t anticipated this humorous twist and ‘the substance shuffle’ turned out to be extremely common with addicts, and a huge asset because a no one had done that angle before. Your story often turns into a different story you can’t control. Give yourself time and space to let it evolve.”


I’m listening. I’m not convinced yet, but I’m listening.

And yes, I queried one more agent today.

Just couldn’t help it. Maybe I’m addicted to the marketing process. Just hope I can deliver the goods when the time comes!

Have a great weekend, everyone! Thanks for reading.

The Saints Come Marching In

This is a big week for feast days of well-known and beloved Orthodox Saints. December 4 is the feast day of St. John of Damascus, defender of holy icons. He is especially dear to my heart since I am an iconographer. But since I wrote an extensive blog post about him on this day last year, which you can read here, I won’t write about him again today.

Instead, I’m going to write about another Orthodox saint who is also commemorated on December 4—the Holy Martyr Barbara. But wait—I just found a blog with a post about Saint Barbara, here. I don’t know the blog’s author, who lives in Richmond, Virginia, but she has some good stories about Saint Barbara.

Here’s another site that tells the story of Saint Barbara.
And another one. We used to host parties in our home on her feast day… complete with a “bonfire” in the yard, or just letting the children light sprinklers in lieu of a bonfire…. (read the stories to get the meaning of the bonfire)… and we’d plant wheat seeds in tiny cups (again, read the story) and the children would take them home and water them and little grassy shoots would grow up. The idea was you could cut the grass and put it in your family’s Christmas crèche to be the hay in the manger.

Saturday (December 6) is the Feast Day of Saint Nicholas, so I’ll include him in this post. Again, I wrote about him last year, with photos, which you can read and see here. At our church we’ll celebrate with Vespers Friday night and Divine Liturgy Saturday morning, and my husband and I have been invited to a party on Friday night at the home of a family who have two children named for Saints John and Nicholas. I love how these traditions and celebrations become part of our home lives.

Can you tell I’m a bit blog weary? All I’m doing is linking to other sites…. But there’s a good reason for that. I spent five hours writing—actually writing—today. A writer friend who encouraged me to start this blog, back in August of 2007 warned me not to let it suck all my writing energy away. She said it would either feed my creative energy, getting my juices going for my “real work” each day, or it would sap those juices for itself, leaving me with nothing left for my essays or the next chapter of my book in progress. I see her point, and many mornings I start out on the blog and never get to the other work.
Not today. Today I was a real writer. So there’s just not much left for the blog tonight.
(It’s after midnight on Wednesday—on the eve of the Feast of Saints Barbara and John of Damascus as I write this, but it will post on Thursday.) But you know me—I’ll be back in a couple of days.

Holy Saints John, Barbara and Nicholas, pray to God for us!

BINGO! and Birthdays Lost

I visited my brother’s grave today, in Ridgeland, Mississippi. December 1 is Mike’s birthday. He would be 59 years old, if he hadn’t died of lung cancer in January of 2007.

The big tree near his grave offers shade from the hot Mississippi sun when I visit during the summer.

But today it was cold and cloudy up on that windy hill. The smaller trees lining the cemetery still had some of their orange glow, as if they were holding onto their last bit of life before joining the dark sky in its wintry palette.



Mike’s grave is only a few feet away from my father’s and my Goddaughter, Mary Allison’s graves. I wish I had taken new silk flowers (live flowers aren’t allowed here) but that will have to wait for another visit. Mom used to keep a broom and a bottle of water in her trunk and she would use them to clean my father’s tombstone each time she visited. She would sit on the bench under the big tree afterwards and remember their almost fifty years together. December 27 would be their 60th wedding anniversary.

That precious memory is growing dim as quickly as those beautiful leaves are fading. When I visited Mom at the nursing home today, I reminded her that it was Mike’s birthday, and she said, “Mike?”

“Yes, Mother, Mike—my brother—your son. He would be 59 today. He died almost two years ago.”

She only looked at me. No response at all. This is a new level of loss. Since she wasn’t sad, I tried to cheer myself up by decorating her nursing home room with a small Christmas tree and a pine swag for her wall, and I couldn’t help but remember Christmases past… like this one, from fifty years ago.

While we were in her room Mom kept asking, “How will I know where my room is?”

I wheeled her into the hall and pointed to her door, which had her name on it. “Look, Mom, it’s room 322 and it has your name on it.”

“Oh, okay. And where will I get those, oh, you know, I take them with water….”

“Your medicines?”

“Yes!”

About then another resident wheeled up next to us and said, “right here!” And indeed the nurse was giving out meds just then. She came up to Mom and gave her a hug and Mom smiled and laughed. She just seemed to need to know that there was some order, somewhere, if not in her own mind.


When I first arrived today, Mom was in the lobby visiting with two friends from her church. I was so happy to find her with visitors! She’s still in a wheelchair, although the physical therapist has her doing a little walking with a walker, but not on her own yet. But she’s not complaining of pain, thank God.

Later we went to the dining room to get a cup of coffee and discovered that it was almost time for Bingo. We joined a nice man who was sitting alone at one of the tables and I introduced Mom and myself to him. The man was clear-thinking and kind as Mom struggled to make cohesive conversation. And smiled kindly and winked when Mom couldn't remember how to play Bingo and I tried to help her with her card. They've got these cards with little transparent plastic red "windows" that slide over the number, rather than loose pieces that you cover the number with. Mom was fascinated with them and kept covering up random numbers and I had to keep uncovering them so we could see when she did, in fact, have five in a row.

But when I asked the gentleman to take a picture of Mom and me playing Bingo, he pointed the camera only at me, and then only at her. So here we are. The concept of pointing the camera at both of us at the same time must have been beyond him.



Mom won Bingo TWICE so she got lots of chocolate candy, which Mom proceeded to devour more quickly than I can ever remember seeing her enjoy any food. When the young teenage girl who was volunteering at the nursing home brought the box of candy over for Mother to choose one when she won, Mom started getting packages for everyone at our table, not understanding that only the winner got one. So when the girl walked away, Mom began to share her candy with the table, apologizing for the silly rules. Go, Mom!

Birthdays, Babies, and Broken Dreams

Today is my baby’s 26th birthday. But Beth was almost three when she came to us from South Korea, so we’ve only celebrated 24 of those birthdays with her. I’m sad that we missed the first three years of her life, but so very thankful for the 23 that we’ve shared with her so far. Here she is on her 3rd birthday, opening a gift from her brothers. She had only been with us for about three weeks.

All three of our children are adopted, and you already know about Jason’s struggles to reconnect with his roots, and his birth mother, which I wrote about in my essay, “The Other Woman,” which was published in Mom Writers Literary Magazine a few weeks ago.

So when I read the cover story of the Commercial Appeal today, “Anna He struggling to adjust to new life in China,” I wept. You can watch a video about Anna He’s story at this site.

Or watch a slide show of Anna’s journey here.

It broke my heart to read about the emotional nightmare this nine-year-old girl, and two sets of parents, have lived. A year ago, when the custody battle was raging, some people were surprised at my sympathy for her birth parents, since I am an adoptive mother. But having watched my second adopted son’s heart-breaking journey to find his own birth mother, and learning about the importance of roots and connectedness, I found myself wondering if it might not be best for Anna He to be reunited with her birth parents.

And then I read that after taking Anna back to China with them, her parents are divorced and she’s in a boarding school and so unhappy. I’m sure her foster parents back here in Memphis are still grieving their loss of her, and also hurt for her current circumstances. At least her birth mother is letting them call her once a week. But they are nursing broken dreams this Thanksgiving, and maybe for the rest of their lives.

Yes, it’s been an emotional Thanksgiving weekend … starting with news from our son and daughter-in-law that they are expecting in July! And then on Friday, my husband and I visited a young woman from our church who just had a baby Thanksgiving Day. As I held this precious one-day-old child in my arms, I imagined what it would feel like to hold my first grandchild… and for my adopted son to hold his own birth child in his arms.

It’s a lot to take in. Beth just left to return to grad school in Knoxville, and tomorrow I’ll make the familiar drive back down to Jackson to visit my mother in the nursing home, and begin cleaning out her assisted living apartment. She won’t be returning to her apartment, since she now needs a higher level of care. It was a wonderful home for her these past two and a half years, and the folks there are sad to be losing her. My prayer is that her new little world at Lakeland Nursing Home will become a peaceful haven for this part of her journey. And that she’ll be up and walking on her “new” hip so she can get around the facility talking to everyone and flashing them that winning smile, even through the clouds that Alzheimer's keeps building around her mind.