Minor League Mom Writes...

The Boys Farmer's Market, Delray Beach, Florida

2012-01-22T17:27:00.000-08:00

Prerequisites to Shop at The Boys:

1. Yoga meditation, to obtain a state of Nirvana before entering.

2. Steel-toed construction shoes (absolutely NO flip-flops or sandals) to prevent
your toes from getting crushed.

3. A large steel grocery cart (bring your own, if possible) to act as a buffer between your shins and the senior citizens (in town from N.Y. and hunting for quality for pennies) who use theirs as bumper cars. This will also allow you
to block the itsy-bitsy aisles so you won't have to try to pass the market's
mini-carts left helter-skelter wherever there is a free sample.

4. An appreciation of the martial arts, since you might catch FREE OF CHARGE a fist fight between a driver waiting for someone to back out and a newcomer who outhustles him for the same space.

5. Infinite patience with the cashiers, who have been trained in hand-to-hand combat and supercilious attitudes.

6. A translator to understand the myriad food samples the Mexican employees offer you inside.

7. A book of N.Y. slang expressions (with phonemes, if possible). If the visiting seniors TELL you to move your cart over, you will be able to understand them to give an appropriate reply.

8. An IPOD so you can disregard the previous item.

The Boys Farmer's Market is a permanent structure with year-round indoor market. It's been open since 1988, when the father from (guess where?) New York City chose the location. The sons have continued the operation, while next-door, The Girls Strawberry Patch (the daughters?) sells gifts and allows picking. At least the rows of strawberries are maneuverable there!

If you should survive the parking lot (do NOT park near the entrance!), you enter a space where 350 people are crammed into what should hold 100. It's a maze. To the right is the bakery, with mile-high cakes and pies, though no bargain! If you are tempted by a slice of their famous raisin walnut bread, you must pull your cart off to the side to sidle over to inspect. Suddenly you feel your elbow jostled and a white-haired couple wedges in front of you to shout their order to the clerk, who is still wrapping a dozen eclairs. Why are these retirees in such a rush? I'm a retired senior citizen, too! Where do they have to go but home, to reheat the prepared meals they'll pick up here - if they get through the one-way maze to the rear of the store?

BEST cheese, tomatoes, fresh-cut fruits, lamb, steaks, international foods, and killer fresh-squeezed juice!! But if there's a deal that seems too good to be true, check the expiration date. The package may expire in two days!

If you succeed, without bleeding shins, in reaching the lettuces at the far end of the maze, you begin to congratulate yourself. The golden fleece (cashier's counter) is within sight! But not so fast! You have now entered The Twilight Zone, where shoppers take on strange personalities.

At the end of each produce aisle is a five-foot open space before cashiers' counters begin. In this space, produce shoppers are making the turn to get down the next aisle. It is also the space where The Smugs (those who have finished) have taken up residence. Since there is only room for three mini-carts in each check-out line, The Smugs spill into each other, while the unfortunates still shopping must cut through them to the next aisle.

Choosing the right check-out line is crucial! You must count the number of items in both carts ahead of you and judge if the shoppers look intelligent (will pay rapidly) and can speak English. There is no retreat and no turning around!

On my last venture to The Boys (six months ago), a shopper had placed all her items on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a hand flew over her mouth. "I forgot the wine from Argentina," she said and somehow managed to wedge herself out of the line to run off.

The Smug behind her (in front of me) spewed Italian. "Santa Maria! Non e possible!" She made rapid hand gestures and got louder and louder.

I was the last of the three in the line. There was no room to turn around to join another. The line for the next register was at my hip. I smiled sweetly at the Italian and shrugged my shoulders. I prayed the Argentinian wine was in stock!

The cashier glared at the inconsiderate shopper when she returned. "You have held up my line!" she lectured. "Next time, bring a list and a pencil!"

"That won't help," I blurted out. "You'll get run over if you try to read it!"

Railroad Sleeping Compartment, NOW

2012-01-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

I'd been forewarned about not sleeping on the Amtrak Autotrain. My parents had used it to travel to Florida after purchasing their home in Boynton Beach. They made it known that they hadn't slept a wink because of the racket of the "clickety-clack." I'd dismissed their complaint because they never fell asleep on the first night in any bed that wasn't in their own bedroom. Besides, I knew if Dad removed his hearing aides, he wouldn't hear the train's whistle, let alone the "clickety-clack."

A tennis friend of ours had described lying in the top bunk of the Autotrain as being in a tanning bed with the lid closed twelve inches over her head. Unable to sit up to get down the ladder to the toilet, she and her husband ended up buying TWO sleeper compartments. That way, they both had the wide bottom berths and could get eight hours each.

To travel north from Florida for Christmas 2011, I purchased sleeper tickets IN A PRIVATE COMPARTMENT on the Autotrain. I hoped for better results than the "couchette" on the Orient Express back in the '80's. At least I could speak the language when I got the tickets! We piled gifts for our grandchildren in the rear of the SUV.

I envisioned slithering on my belly, wormlike, into my bunk, if I were above Charley. There was always the option of buying a reclining seat. If we slept upright, I'd probably emerge in the morning bent over looking at the floor, with my already dislocated disc lodged into my hipbone.

We pulled into the Sanford, Florida, train station three hours before departure and were greeted with precise efficiency. Attendants assigned our car a number and tried to take our key. Before Charley would hand it over, however, he wanted the attendant to understand how to disable the SUV alarm system, in the event the train swayed and set it off. He had actually practiced doing this in our garage, and when he thought he was unsuccessful, he sent me hustling off to the dealer (after all, it was my car, and I should know how to do this!) for a demonstration.

The attendants were used to customers like us (over sixty, with many instructions). "No problem, sir," one assured Charley. "The car will never be locked and the driver's window will remain open. We have completely enclosed car carriers. Next vehicle, please!"

Ninety minutes before departure, a steward carried our small suitcases up the stairs on the designated car into our compartment. He slid the door aside and lo! It would be just the two of us! Nothing smelled! There was a reading chair, toilet with shower (we'd have to stand in the toilet to use it), sink, and small luggage rack. Also lots of towels, washcloths, Kleenex, soap, lotion. Tim, the steward, informed us there would be two seatings for dinner, and what time should he make our bunks up?

Well, it wasn't gourmet food, but the menu had several choices and the wine kept flowing! Yes, there were linen and silver and lots of gooey desserts. We stayed with our dinner companions till the dining room closed.

Tim had made up our bunks with sheets, blankets, and pillows. Most people brought their own pillows, but I hadn't thought of that. Not a problem - the Amtrak pillow wasn't too high or too squishy or too lumpy (hypoallergenic, I'm sure). The lower berth was about one and a half times wider than the upper. Guess who would be climbing the four-step ladder?

My biggest concern was getting down in the dark to use the toilet. There was no way I could last through the night! "Just wake me up," Charley said, "and I'll help you down the ladder." I envisioned kicking him in the face, since he wouldn't have his glasses on, couldn't see a thing without them, and the ladder was next to his pillow. My strategy would be to read as late as possible and use the facility just before I fell asleep.

I ascended and was actually able to crawl on all fours to a prone position. On the wall next to me was a pouch for my glasses, book, and a bottle of water (provided). Above our heads were reading lights. A net would prevent my rolling off. Charley and I both swallowed sleeping pills.

I only got up once during the night, aided not by Charley, but by the light of an overhead lamp we'd left on. Charley never moved - reminded me of a certain German passenger on another overnight train!

At 6:30 a.m., a loudspeaker announced there would be three early calls for continental breakfast. We would be pulling into Lorton, Virginia (our destination), about two hours early, by 7:30 a.m. The station didn't open till 8:00. De-boarding the cars would take at least forty-five minutes, depending on one's car number. Ours was high.

We were all in the lounge of the station by 8:00. Our car was one of the last of the 185 off the train at 9:30. There had been a total of 350 passengers aboard; the train itself had been three-quarters of a mile long.

Difference between a "couchette" and a private sleeping compartment? Two extra people and some obnoxious odors!

Railroad Sleeping Compartments, THEN

2012-01-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

In the early '80's, Charley and I skied in St. Anton, Austria, then lugged our equipment by rail back to Munich. At the train station there, we decided to do something exotic - travel overnight on the original, mysterious Orient Express to Paris (originating in Istanbul).

We envisioned red velvet swags and wooden panelled hallways, as well as a dining car with linen tablecloths laden with silver. After all, we'd seen and read Murder on the Orient Express! First we had to purchase our tickets - in German!

Not understanding anything except "Ja" and "Nein," I negotiated with the ticket agent in French. Which I hadn't spoken since college. When I heard, "Couchette," I figured I'd heard enough and slid my marks under the glass to the agent. I knew it would be some kind of sleeping berths for Charley and me.

We stacked our boots and small suitcases on luggage carts and hoisted the skis and poles in their zippered cases onto our shoulders. In order to get everything up onto the proper car, we formed an assembly line. The equipment stayed on the metal landing between cars till we found our numbered compartment.

We bumped our way down the panelled hallway and with great anticipation, slid back the door to our "couchette."

"Oh my God! What is that smell?" Charley yelled. Since his nose had been broken twice in college football games, I knew it had to be bad.

A man lay snoring in the top berth. He had obviously had his fill of German beer, wursts, schnitzel, and sauerkraut, since he continued to expel gas as we stood there. We looked at the "couchette." Under our snoring mate was another berth, and opposite him were our two. So much for the fantasy romance!

Charley and I tried to pry the window open, each of us grabbing a side. "Damn! How are we going to sleep? And where are we going to put our stuff? There are no luggage racks!" I was ranting.

"Right on the floor where we're standing," my pragmatic husband answered. We got our toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and deoderant out, then slid the two small suitcases under Charley's lower bunk. Next we retrieved our skis, boots, and poles. There was no place to stand in our compartment, except on our equipment. As our mate continued snoring, we headed to the bar car. We passed the red velvet drapes and silver place settings, reserved for those with PRIVATE sleeping compartments. We sat up and drank, munching on peanuts and pretzels.

When we couldn't hold our eyes open, we made a pit stop down the hall to the toilet and sink and went back to our "couchette." I climbed the ladder and was happy I had a few drinks in me and the bunk had a net, in case I rolled off. The room still stunk and the German still snored and farted.

At the only stop during the night, a Frenchman got on to complete our foursome. Sliding back the door, he yelled, "Nom de Dieu!" and immediately headed for the window, stumbling on our skis and poles. When he, too, failed with the window, he took off. We never saw him again.

We pulled into Paris by 7 a.m. and left the German in the same position, doing the same thing! Next time I booked a sleeping compartment in a foreign country, I vowed to use a traveller's dictionary.

Home for Xmas...Even in a Hotel

2011-12-28T16:36:00.000-08:00

I love the concept of Christmas! Without examining religious implications, I start singing Christmas music along with the radio the day after Thanksgiving. I love the energy of the season, and appreciate others' efforts to make things beautiful and meaningful.

I love the crass commercialism, too, if it means I can find perfect gifts for loved ones (besides, it helps the economy, right?). I love having a daughter-in-law text to say she can't wait to see her twin eighteen-month nephews open their inflatable, punchable football players. I love having a son call to ask advice on earrings for his wife. Everyone's trying to make someone else happy.

Since our Massachusetts home could accommodate everyone (immediate family now eleven), as well as an in-law or two, I used to leave Florida three weeks early to begin decorating, baking, and shopping. Charley begged to stay in the warm weather till two weeks later, when I needed him as a "gofer." He'd cut the holly and evergreen boughs, string outdoor lights, help me put up the tree, and "go for" anything I needed. As the former owner of an interior design company, I wouldn't miss the house tours in Providence or store windows in Boston.

Christmas Eve we'd all visit friends in R.I., where our sons grew up, and then my husband's family (an Irish clan). Christmas Day, my daughter-in-law's mother brought her recipes, which we prepared together. The holiday was exhausting but provided memories of a two-year-old granddaughter returning again and again to gaze up at the illuminated angel swinging slowly back and forth at the top of the tree; or our satiated son with his hand on his pregnant wife's belly as we all watched "The Christmas Story" together.

Several years ago, after carolling in a horse-drawn sleigh with 20-degree temperatures and a 15 mph wind, Charley declared he didn't want to return to open our home in Massachusetts for the holiday. So the family came to Florida twice; then we alternated between our sons' homes for two years. Due to time constraints for work, as well as travel with twin eighteen-month-olds and three granddaughters under seven, we decided to meet this year at a hotel between our two sons' families.

I hit the internet in August. We had a lot of requirements: a suite big enough for a small tree and gift-opening on Xmas morning; a pool for the kids to swim; rooms with sofa beds for the granddaughters (plus two cribs); decent restaurant(s) in-house or close by.

I traded in a lot of "Frequent Flier" and "Frequent Guest" points and we ended up in...

White Plains, New York!

I wasn't expecting much...

But it was PERFECT!

Eighteen-month Jeffrey laughed hysterically as he splashed me in the pool. Our youngest granddaughter, Ashley, had her first sleepover, nestled against cousin Devon. Arden and Ashley, hand-in-hand next to us, wore antler headpieces across Main Street and stopped pedestrians. The boys dressed in buttondowns with red sweater vests and the girls in embroidered or plaid dresses with ribbons in their hair for dinner and photos. Both twins ran away from Santa in different directions after grabbing small gifts from him. The hotel provided gingerbread cookies to decorate with icings and sprinkles, as well as aprons. Uncles, aunts, granny, and grandpa read The Grinch Stole Christmas for the 100th time and cuddled to watch "Barbie the Snow Princess." We stole a million kisses and hugs, and gave way too many horsey and piggy-back rides for our backs!

On Dec. 24th, granddaughter Arden said to me, "This is the bestest day ever! We get to stay in a fancy hotel, swim all morning, go to Build-A-Bear in the afternoon, and Santa comes tonight!

Wherever we all are, we are home for Christmas.

And to all, a good night... and a very healthy, happy 2012!

(Follow my next two blogs about overnight train travel.)

Our Safari Guide

2011-12-12T11:00:00.000-08:00

Our guide every day in Thornybush Game Preserve (25,000 acres next to Kruger Park, South Africa) was Werner Pretorius. When I first heard his name, it sounded Roman to me. But we were in South Africa, so I asked him a far-fetched question. "Are you a descendant of one of the founders of Pretoria?" I didn't really anticipate his answer.

"My father and his brothers have traced their heritage back that far, yes," Werner answered in his quiet voice.

Although Orlando, our tracker, sat exposed on a small iron seat above the left headlight, Werner was THE MAN! A rifle rested securely in its open case on the dashboard in front of him, for an emergency. Werner steered our eight-person, tiered vehicle through ravines, across trees ravaged by elephants, and over twelve-foot saplings to catch glimpses of "the big five" up-close and personal. And we did - day after day! He manned the two-way radio, directing other guides in Afrikaans to rendez-vous at our locations. Then he'd switch to German to suit visitors in a passing jeep or to English for us. He had passed advanced courses as an astronomer, a naturalist, a marksman, and solo guide on foot. He was twenty-five.

Charley took a personal interest in young Werner. He peppered him with questions during our four-hour forays into the bush twice daily. Maybe it was his fatherly image - who knows? - but they bantered easily together and Werner liked Charley enough to answer.

"My father is a farmer outside Pretoria," he told us. "It's a very large farm - hundreds of thousands of acres. I hope to take it over some day."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Charley finally got around to asking.

"Yes, she's a civil servant in Pretoria. I think she's the one I'll marry some day," Werner confided.

"If you move near her, will you still be a guide? You're so good at what you do, and you certainly enjoy being in the bush."

"Probably for a while. There's a problem with my taking over the farm. My father has several brothers who also own it."

"So you're working as a guide to save some good money?"

"Right! Then I'll ask her to marry me, and maybe one day I'll have my own farm."

The next day, Charley followed up. "Have you thought about when you'll propose?"

"Yes, soon."

Werner sat with us every evening for dinner. The third evening, Charley persisted over a couple of beers. "When is soon?"

"Very soon," was Werner's only response.

Our last day on safari, Charley needed a more definitive answer. "When is 'very soon?'"

"Maybe by the end of the year. She's already decided to leave government service to train in pre-school education. She could open her own pre-school anywhere."

"Sounds as though she's making plans," Charley commented. "I guess that means you'd better pop the question. I hope you tell her you met a guy named Charley who wanted to know exactly when this blessed event is going to happen!" he added, laughing. "Maybe she'll send us an invitation and thank me in person."

Disparities in Soweto

2011-12-03T15:18:00.000-08:00

It was embarassing! We arrived in Soweto, Johannesburg, inside a steel, air-conditioned fortress - fourteen white faces peering out the windows of a bus, while black faces peered back at us. We sat in comfort, driving past a mile of squatter camps and corrugated iron shanties (with t.v. dishes). Then we ventured into the heart of the 'hood.

"Soweto": an acronym for "South Western Townships," a cluster of townships sprawling across 20 kilometers southwest of Johannesburg. It was established in 1904 (Klipspruit - oldest township)as primary residence for black day-laborers in the City. Soweto burgeoned when migrants moved in. In the '50's it became a relocation center for blacks under apartheid, when the government reserved inner-city neighborhoods for whites. Census 2001 put Soweto's population at close to a million. That census will soon be redone in 2012. Whites will self-enumerate; census-takers will have to track down those living in rented rooms cemented onto legal residences, in tin shacks, or nowhere ("Kwerekwere" is a term for those who have immigrated illegally across national park boundaries and probably cannot be found).

Soweto: vibrant, colorful, sexist, dangerous, juxtaposing differences. Piles of garbage and pitted roads offset green fields, rustic streams, and luxurious mansions (i.e., Winnie Mandela's three-story fortress behind barbed wire, though she no longer lives there). Brown or gray four-room dwellings (the original migrant "matchbox houses") exhibited flowers along the front walk. A "shebeen" or local drinking joint neighbored Nelson Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's original residences on Vilakazi Street.

Soweto: Site of the 1976 Student Uprising, commemorated in Freedom Square. This spark ignited an entire country to overthrow the apartheid state.

We ventured out of the bus and began walking. Directly in front of us was a busy barbershop. Plastic sheets covered the sides of a 10'x10' structure. The back wall was half cement block and half iron fence. Razors hung from metal supports, with extension cords running to an unknown electric source outside. We asked permission to take a photo. No hostile faces reacted to our request - just curious ones, like us.

There were arrangements to eat lunch in a private home/restaurant there. Our hostess was a star in Soweto - a cook whose meals became so famous she won a government grant to take courses in Business. She had become a leading entrepreneur in the Soweto community and a role model for businesses in the home.

In the front room we helped ourselves to a sumptuous buffet of hot meats, vegetables, and Papa. On the walls hung the proprietor's awards and degrees, while to the side her husband stood eating on a built-in counter. Behind was the kitchen. In back of the house was an open area, then newly-constructed men's and women's toilets.

We sat in the double-length renovated garage at long tables, while uniformed family members served us drinks, cleared our plates, and brought desserts. Our table of travellers had a few beers and relaxed, while two of our group described an enrichment course they were taking together in California.

"We pick the topic for the semester ourselves, and the topic this term is 'The Popes,'" Nancy explained. "Each of us researches a Pope, writes a paper, and presents our findings to the class."

"What's been the most interesting Pope so far?" someone asked.

"It was Pope _______, who turned out to be a woman!" Myrna said.

"A woman??" we all wanted to know.

"Did they have to turn the chimney smoke from gray to pink?"

"How did they figure out he was a woman?" The jesting began.

"Well, after that they had to test each Pope to make sure," Nancy continued.

"How did they test?" my dear husband asked. "Did someone have to reach up under the robes?" Charley raised his right hand and motioned as if he were changing a light bulb!

No answer, amid the laughter.

"And who did the testing?" Charley continued. "The unlucky bastard!"

"The head Cardinal has to do it, even today," Nancy explained. By this time, we were laughing so hard, we had discontinued all eating and drinking.

When we regained our composure, we thanked our hostess outside. I snapped a photo of three local children in front of the house. One of them had severely crossed eyes. That snapped me back to reality. Still in Soweto.

We walked a couple of streets over and began a ritual that has, apparently, become protocol for tour groups in Soweto. Since the democratic government spearheaded a movement to develop parks and provide electricity and running water in the townships, its funds are depleting to do so, with 25% unemployment in the country. So tour groups help. We planted a sapling that we had brought in the bus. Two local men provided the shovels and chiseled away the rocks in the red clay, then watered with buckets. Each of us shovelled dirt onto the tree. The local children joined in, some in shoes, others barefoot.

Mrs. Kekana, the owner of the house, watched with interest. Behind her the high cement wall surrounding her dwelling was littered with drying laundry. "Did you know you had been chosen for this?" I asked her.

"Yes, someone came to the door one day and said they would like to plant a tree here! I don't know why it was me."

I asked her if the clothes that were drying were for her family. "Yes, they are for all my children and grandchildren." I suspected that she, like so many others, ran a very successful business out of her home.

We walked back and re-entered our bus. Our afternoon had been a peek - a very whitewashed peek - into a disparate lifestyle. I thought of the hardships and atrocities we hadn't seen, described by white author Steven Otter living in Khayelitsha, a black township outside CapeTown. I was grateful for the air-conditioning, among other things.

Souvenir Shopping

2011-11-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

I used to collect eggs from all over the world during our travels - ceramic, crystal, stone, beads, etc. But I ran out of space on our glass shelf.

So I started buying gifts for family members and friends during our travels. That really mounted up, with siblings (Charley was the oldest of seven), parents, sons, aunts, uncles, etc.

Now I try to take at least one quality photo on each trip that I can blow up to 11" x 14." We have two walls full of them, but at least they're conversation starters and memory prods.

On the South African trip, the only things I bought were small Christmas presents for the immediate family. Our tour operator hadn't scheduled shopping time. We found items in hotel gift shops and managed forty-five minutes in a craft market in Johannesburg. I discovered a 250-pound wooden hippo there, which would forever remind me of the "Danger: Hippo Crossing" signs along the Zambezi River in Zambia. Charley insisted I curb my enthusiasm!

I observed we had different kinds of shoppers among the fourteen of us. Grandmothers like me were always on the hunt for kids' outfits, headbands, books, toys, and girls' accessories.

The die-hard shoppers rushed from shop to shop in the airports and at the craft market. They compared prices for items on their lists (like African fabrics) and returned them, when possible, if they found a better price. They knew the managers in each hotel gift shop on a first-name basis.

The professor who accompanied us from Brown University had lived in Johannesburg and planned to grab a taxi to her favorite shop as soon as our plane hit the ground. Unfortunately, a traffic jam (perennial, in South Africa) prevented her excursion that day, but eventually she sneaked away and did some damage.

Then there were those who needed a second (or third) opinion before coming to a decision. A choice between two heavy stone necklaces necessitated a lengthy discussion. "Do you think she would wear something this heavy?"

"Yes, but the stones are more neutral in this one, and she could wear it with more."

"True, but the colorful necklace is less expensive."

"Do what you wish!"

In the shop at Thornybush Game Lodge (next to Kruger Park, South Africa), I pointed to a woven blue and brown handicraft hanging on the wall. "I love that basket!" I told the sales lady. "Would you mind getting it down so I could look at it?"

She was snickering as she handed it to me. "That's not a basket! It's a Zulu woman's headpiece!"

I looked at the loose weave and realized anything small in this "basket" would fall right through. So I put it where it belonged - on my head. Just then Charley walked into the shop. "Why do you have a basket on your head?"

Phyllis and Gert Check into the Westcliff Hotel

2011-11-12T17:30:00.000-08:00

The following is a composite of calamities that befell several of our group checking into the Westcliff Hotel in Johannesburg. For purposes of this blog, I have combined the incidents into one story and attributed them to two travel companions.

The Westcliff Hotel cascaded down a hillside, with pool and terrace overlooking the majestic Magaliesberg Mountains and the forests (none native) of the northern suburbs. The brochure we received prior to departure described the Westcliff as having "an understated elegance, holistic spa, palatial marble baths, and individually furnished guest rooms decorated by South Africa's premier designer, Graham Viney."

The brochure failed to mention that the accommodations had previously been apartment units, some smaller than others. In fact, some much, much smaller than others. And some not fully reconditioned.

The fourteen of us arrived via air from Zambia in the late afternoon and checked in. The abundant staff (in uniform) shuttled us up the hillside to our rooms on golf carts. "See you tomorrow morning," Gert yelled to us, as she and best friend Phyllis disembarked. A staff member in the black pants-black jacket-white shirt uniform walked in front with their key.

Phyllis and Gert entered their boxlike room and saw piles of crumpled sheets and towels strewn across the carpet. An open container of lotion and a used razor accessorized the "palatial" marble bathroom. Splashed water darkened the marble floor. At least there were two beds, but no space to walk around them. The "premier" designer Graham Varney had screwed up in this one!

Phyllis, being the more assertive, turned to the black jacket-black pants-white shirt carrying the luggage from the golf cart. "Put those back, please. We don't want this room. We need to go back to the lobby!"

Upon arrival at the front desk, three receptionists (same uniform, skirts, no pants) consulted their computer screen. "You see, ladies, we are booked with two conference groups. There is no other room to give you. We will have yours made up immediately!"

Phyllis was quick on her exhausted feet. "We'll go have an early dinner in the pub," she replied. "Please come get us when the room is ready." Gert nodded in agreement. A drink sounded delightful! The same black pants-black jacket-white shirt that had brought them down the hill carried them back up.

The two ladies enjoyed a leisurely dinner and a couple of frosty pink martinis. Black pants-black jacket-white shirt appeared to escort them back to their room.

This time it was clean. Although the outside temperature had dropped into the fifties, the room still smelled musty. Gert went over to get the air conditioning going. No luck!

Phyllis got right on the phone to the front desk. "Could you have someone come right away to fix the air conditioning? It won't go on!"

They began to unpack. A knock on the door and the air conditioning man appeared (dark pants, white shirt with logo, no jacket). Some fiddling and sometime later, VOILA! Cool air began to circulate.

Gert went into the "palatial" bathroom first. "Phyllis! You're not going to believe this! There are no towels!"

Phyllis jumped back to the phone. This time she asked for the manager. Every inch of her 5'2" frame was rigid, down to the tips of the hairspray on her blond coiffure. Only her voice shook. Soon, another knock on the door and a woman (you guessed it - black skirt, black jacket, white shirt) appeared with towels and washcloths.

"Gert, we'd better not try to get around the side of these beds," Phyllis warned. "We'll get stuck!"

"I don't think I could slide in there soaking wet!" Gert responded. By now, she had a towel around her and was looking forward to a hot, soaking tub. She leaned over, adjusting the water temperature in the spout. Like a statue, she leaned and leaned.

"Phyllis, I can't get any hot water in the bathtub!"

"OH MY GOD!" was the response. "What next??"

Back on the phone with the manager, an enraged voice came from a petite lady. "This is Ms. Gotkin again! This is supposed to be a five-star hotel and we have no hot water. We're exhausted and we need a plumber here immediately! We've run out of patience!"

Another knock on the door (black pants, white shirt with logo, sans jacket). By this time, Gert was fully dressed again.

Eventually, Gert got her long bath. Afterward, she wrapped herself in the warm terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the "palatial" bathroom. She put on her slippers and quietly shuffled between the two beds, so she wouldn't wake up her good friend. "Ahhh!" she sighed, gratefully sliding under the clean sheets.

There was a knock on the door. Gert couldn't believe her ears. She willed her swollen ankles from under the covers and found her slippers. "Who is it??" she asked through the door.

"Something for you from management," was the response.

Gert peered around the chain lock to see another black pants-black jacket-white shirt holding out a tray. On the tray were two bottles of red wine, four wine glasses, and two boxes of chocolates. "Please accept our profuse apologies," the note read. "The management."

"Thank you," she said to the uniform, taking the proffered tray and relocking the door. Gert looked around for a place to put it. Their nightly necessities covered every inch of the small bureau and nightstand. Balancing the tray in one hand, she began to push earrings, watches, and bracelets to one side. A wine glass teetered against the edge of the tray, then toppled over against the hard metal suitcase beneath. Glass shattered around her slippers.

Phyllis sat up. "Pour me a glass," she muttered.

Ferryride across the Zambezi River

2011-11-03T18:11:00.001-07:00

We were at the mercy of the tour guides that the company operator assigned us at each location. We had become skeptical, after Wendy had more than a few "senior moments" around Cape Town.

Leaving C.T. and the wine country, we flew to Johannesburg, then into Livingstone, Zambia. There we were, plopped in a corner where three countries intersected: Zambia, Namibia, and Botswana. Pushing our luggage carts in the searing heat, we scanned the airport for someone who looked as though he/she could speak English. Turned out everyone did - they were taught English in school!

Then there she was! Mary turned out to be an incredible spokesperson for her adopted Zambia, as well as a superb guide. Raised in England and transplanted to Rhodesia by her mother and father, she married and stayed till Rhodesia became nonexistent. When the government took over the farm she and her husband owned, they headed to Zambia.

The next day she warned us, "Don't expect a customs and immigration office like you're used to!" We were about to take a "ferry" from Zambia across the Zambezi River to Botswana for a safari into Chobe Park.

We had an inkling of what to expect, having passed through the town of Livingstone, Zambia, on the way to our hotel at Victoria Falls. In town, red clay surrounded chicken-wire fences, which surrounded the schools, boarded factory, tin-roofed shops, and "Fawlty Towers." "That's the best hotel in town," Mary pointed out, "and the only one!" The one-story structure looked like it was constructed of fiberboard, and did, indeed, lean.

Our road was paved all the way to the ferry crossing, unlike the one we'd taken to board the Sunset Cruise the previous evening. About a mile from the ferry, we began to see eighteen-wheelers parked along the side of the road. They were fully loaded with copper and other goods leaving Zambia. Beside many of the trucks were tables and chairs, set up under small tents. "Is it a strike, like in Italy?" someone asked.

"No," Mary answered. "There's a hoe-down up the road, so they all stopped," she quipped. "Just kidding! Really, the ferry that carries these trucks across the River can only load one at a time. So some of the truckers wait days, even a week, to get across. They have full living arrangements in the cabs of their trucks."

"Aren't there roads or bridges?" someone asked.

"The fee is too expensive. And it would take even longer to drive all the way around than to sit in this lineup."

Like dutiful sheep, we got off the van, following our leader. Hundreds of native Zambians stood in a queue inside another chicken-wire fence. The queue led to a one-room wooden building, the customs office. On the other side of the building the dirt road became muddy, as it neared the River.

"Just follow me!" Mary instructed. "We have to get our passports stamped, then we'll get on the ferry."

We wound our way past the waiting Zambians, then cut in front of them. "This is going to be trouble," I thought to myself. Still, they kept smiling. "Where you from?" they yelled in English.

"U.S." we replied.

"Obama! Obama!" they began chanting.

We kept moving. One at a time, at a single window inside one room, we got our passports stamped and filed out. By this time, all of us white people were sweating profusely in the heat and humidity.

"Just keep moving toward the ferry," Mary advised. "You'll have a lot of hawkers trying to sell you wooden carvings and things, but as long as you keep walking, they'll walk with you. No-one will stop you or touch you."

I spotted our "ferry" - a pontoon boat that may or may not fit all fourteen of us. Were they kidding? Mud squished around my sneakers. As we moved down the bank, the hawkers descended. Still chanting, "Obama!" they held out wooden crosses, giraffe carvings, bracelets, or necklaces.

"What your name?" they asked each of us. Suddenly, they spied Mary, their savior who brought tour groups to them each week. From, "Obama!" the chant changed to, "Mary!" "Mary!"

All of us successfully boarded to cross the River. None of us had spent a dime. As we were pulling away, I noticed the black tee shirt on the hawker nearest us. It read, "Get Every Dollar." He raised his arms in triumph. "See you later - afternoon!" he yelled across the water, as we pulled away.

The other side provided more fanfare in Botswana. We were met by uniformed guards and our passports brought to an office and stamped. Guides whisked us away in two vans. Botswana was more developed with substantial shops, paved roads, and luxurious developments along the River. At a beautiful safari hotel we embarked upriver for the morning. Hippos and their babies swam alongside, followed by herds of Cape buffalo, impala, and more pachyderms than we'd thought possible. The giraffes simply ignored us, as we approached in open jeeps in the afternoon. Still, we had to return to Zambia.

The reverse crossing proved more costly. "G.E.D." tee shirt positioned himself at my elbow when we hit the wire mesh laid across the embankment. He insisted on knowing my name. I avoided eye contact, then felt guilty, as he walked with me. Finally, I wilted under his gargantuan smile. "What's yours?" I asked.

"Thabo," he responded. "Your name, missus?"

"Pamela."

"You like necklace, Pamela? You must have!"

OK, OK, one more trinket wouldn't kill me.

Out of Africa: Overview

2011-10-29T17:17:00.000-07:00

There are some trips you wait a lifetime for, and they disappoint. And then there are some that exceed your expectations. And more.

South Africa fit the "more" category. Though it was not for the faint-hearted. The flight to Frankfurt was eight hours, with hotel rooms waiting for us there after our early morning arrival. That same night we flew another ten hours to Johannesburg, then connected to Cape Town. The trip back was seven hours by bus out of "the bush" to Johannesburg, with reverse plane trips to Frankfurt and on to Boston, after a six-hour layover.

Our group of fourteen alumni from various colleges went under the auspices of A(lumni) H(oliday)I(nstitute). The tour company handled visa and shot procedures, all modes of transportation, tickets (with better airfares than we could get individually), itinerary reservations, and suggested reading. With us for the entire trip was travel director Joanie, our "mother-hen." It was a good thing, since one of the group fell getting off the escalator with her luggage in Johannesburg, and ended up in a hospital with sixty stitches. This fearless traveller rejoined us the next evening in CapeTown.

Also with us was Nancy Jacobs, Associate Professor of Africana Studies and History from Brown University. Nancy had lived in Africa and been a U.N. observer during the 1994 elections. She was insightful and funny and a wonderful companion (also a mother of two who left the kids with her husband while she travelled with us on sabbatical, doing resesarch). She provided three fascinating lectures, in addition to those of local experts in various destinations.

Did I mention the average IQ of the group was probably 150? Apologies if I got this wrong, but I counted seven PhD's among us, one LLD, one retired surgical ophthalmologist, one retired city planner, among other degrees. Everyone was an experienced traveller and really cared less about degrees. We all bonded well, laughing till I peed in my pants, helping each other with luggage, pushing from behind onto high jeeps or buses, getting the lighting just right for couples' photos, identifying birds and wildlife so Kay could check them off in her Guidebook, counting heads when Wendy miscounted, and sharing insights.

At each destination, we picked up local guides who stayed with us until we departed for the next location. Wendy, Mary, Mark, had full days planned in the Cape Town region, the Victoria Falls area of Zambia and Botswana, and Johannesburg. There was no sleeping in on this trip, unless you wanted to miss a tour...which Charley and I did in CapeTown. We skipped the wine country tour in favor of spectacular Kirstenbosch Botannical Gardens and, as it turned out, that was the ONLY morning we slept past 7 a.m. In the South African bush, we were on a jeep every morning at 5:45 a.m., followed by breakfast at 10 a.m., followed by a lecture, then lunch. Back out on the jeep at 4 p.m., unless you wanted to miss tracking the elusive leopard. Why did they think we had to eat so much?

Neither was there any shopping time (except at hotel gift shops), or time to wash out our undies, or shower (except maybe 5 a.m. or 10 p.m.), or answer all our emails. Somehow, though, the shoppers among us managed to bring back enough souvenirs to claim "VAT" (shopping for souvenirs will be the subject of another blog post).

Amazing what we accomplished in two weeks!! We stood in Nelson Mandela's prison cell during a tour of Robben Island with one of Mandela's prison contemporaries as a guide; we cablecar -zipped to the top of Table Mt., then whisked out to the Cape of Good Hope; sampled wineries' products; stayed at Victoria Falls, Zambia, then crossed via "ferry" into Botswana for a daylong safari along the Zambezi River; lunched at a private home/restaurant in Soweto (Johannesburg), then planted a tree in front of another home not far from Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's first residences on Vilakazi Street; toured the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, followed by four days in a private game preserve on the edge of Kruger Park (northeastern So. Africa). Not only did we see all of the "Big Five," we told our guide to "Drive On!" when impala herds or kudu passed by. They became mundane!?

What didn't I do that I wanted to (besides sleep and shop)? I wanted to take an outdoor shower in Thornybush Game Preserve, but it would have been 5 a.m. or 10 p.m., with the monkeys and who-knew-what-else accompanying me. And I wanted to swim in one of the gorgeous pools at our hotels or venture out of the hotel in Johannesburg (only by vehicle!) for dinner. Too tired...

Stay tuned for humorous glimpses of group travel in future posts. We're still reliving the experience!

50th H.S. Reunion Recap and DON'T Rules

2011-10-10T18:52:00.000-07:00

I didn't want it to end! The weekend started Wednesday with six ladies at my home for a "mature" slumber party. Weather perfect for long walks along Buzzard's Bay and sitting on the deck. Didn't count the wine bottles in my recycling! Charley made a smart move - to his sister's for the duration.

The ladies followed each other in a caravan to Greenwich, met up at a private cocktail party (have you gotten the impression that even the tea drinkers were drinking a lot of tea?), followed by the reunion dinner, and brunch on Sunday. Of the 130 attendees (including significant others), I think almost 100 of us were out on the dance floor at one time or another. We grabbed anyone close to the wooden platform and formed big circles. Didn't have to recognize the person we were dancing with - in fact, probably couldn't! The "oldies" kept our hip replacements gyrating and new knees bending. "Primo" and "secondo" platters of Italian food kept coming and coming and I kept taking and taking. Finally I gave up trying to hold my stomach in. Was so wound up, I didn't sleep a wink all night, and neither did my friend who'd driven down with me. Both husbands decided to stay home (wonder why??).

Here's a list of DON'T RULES, if you plan to enjoy yourself at a 50th reunion. I had lots of help putting together. Here goes!

1. Don't assume you can ignore the questionnaires during the year preceding the blessed event. If you don't respond, nobody will care if you come or not by then.

2. Don't refuse invitations to pre-reunion gatherings. You might not recognize people when you get to the actual reunion (you won't!!).

3. Don't lean in to squint at someone's nametag and photo. You will look like the old fart you are, instead of the hipster who sticks out his hand and asserts, "I'm ______________."

4. Don't ask people if they remember you. You might not like the answer!

5. Don't ask someone you've just met, "Are you wife number two or three?"

6. Don't introduce your second wife as "Mary Two" and attempt to explain that she has the same name as your first wife.

7. Don't answer the question, "How are you?" with, "My last surgery was a total failure."

8. Don't answer the question, "How are things?" with a monologue about your bitter divorce, lack of funds for a vacation in the last five years, and necessity to work till hell freezes over!

9. Don't french-kiss your old boyfriend.

10. Don't put your hand on your old girlfriend's butt.

11. Don't assume the best-looking in the class is still the best-looking.

12. Don't assume the nerds are still the nerds. Or that they are poor.

13. Don't eat garlic bread before dancing.

14. In the event you disregard rule number 11, don't leave your TicTacs at home.

15. Don't ask someone to dance if he/she has a walking stick propped against his/her chair.

16. If you suspect someone had several facelifts, don't stand next to his/her ear, searching for surgical scars.

17. If someone is wearing a hearing aid, don't continue to shout in that ear. Move to the other one, dummy!

18. Don't dance for three hours in a pair of heels you just bought.

19. If you ignore rule #18 and must remove your shoes, don't point out how grotesque your bunions have become.

20. Don't assume that you will look like a dance instructor after a few sippies. It is not a life-altering event, and no-one cares if you make a fool of yourself on the dance floor! Everyone else out there is doing the same thing.

LAUGH TILL YOU CRY, DANCE AS THOUGH NO-ONE'S WATCHING, AND LOVE AS THOUGH YOU'VE NEVER BEEN HURT. That's what our reunion was all about! Any other contributions? Write them under "Comments." Thanks for the memories. Will post following our So. African trip.

My New Devices

2011-09-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

I know. I'm a little late joining the 21st century! But I'm trying to catch up.

I just ordered an e-reader, which the manufacturer promises will still be visible in direct sunlight (and there will be a lot of direct sunlight in Africa!). Charley and I usually lug five paperbacks each on a trip. I did not get an IPad because it would duplicate what my new phone will do, and we needed an international calling device. Hope that wasn't a mistake!

I had to get rid of my beloved old Sony Ericsson pink cellphone. The back kept falling off and I had to hit each letter three times to find the right one. Typing a text message took forever.

So I got the simplest Iphone available. It is pretty ugly - black and industrial-looking. The cost was $49. Of course, tax is charged on the retail value, which was $424. Then I needed some kind of special ap (short for "application" - I'm learning) for $69, a charger for the car, a service agreement, and most importantly, an indestructible case and film over the glass (I don't want an elephant trampling on the thing, but maybe it would survive?). The only feminine choice for a cover was white, but that would get black, anyway. I walked out of there with a $245.41 bill.

Well, I didn't exactly JUST walk out of there. Lovely Ashley spent two and one-quarter hours with me. First she had to call Charley to get HIS permission to add my cellphone line under my own name, since his was on there as the primary account-holder. That was not pretty, as Charley not only won't touch computers, he won't touch cellphones and doesn't understand why any company needs six security questions answered to change an account. Finally Ashley turned him around.

Ashley should have sized me up when she saw me walk in the door with my pretty pink phone. Nevertheless, she persevered and answered my every question. Even downloaded all my photos and address book from the old phone and then gave me a demonstration by calling me. I was put to the test and passed (answered my own phone)! And then she wrote Pam's "To Do List." No kidding!

I felt like a kid in kindergarten, but at home I was eternally grateful. I had to download ITunes to set up an account. I had to create a password and username and then plug my white cord into the new device and download the info onto my computer (so I never lose any information). Then I had to mark in my calendar the date to remove the International Traveller plan in November, when we return from our trip. Oh yes, and I have to remember not to answer emails on my new phone overseas. That would cost me around $200 more. I'll find WiFi (I know what that means, too!) at the hotels.

Lastly, Ashley printed out the charges on my first and second phone bills that will be coming in, and showed me that the third bill would be the constant one.

Little did Ashley know I wasn't finished! When I got home, I emailed her with two more questions, since I couldn't view the tutorial that AT&T sent me about using the thing. She told me to email her anytime. And guess what - she answered my questions that day.

And the next day, when I had to email her again with another question.

So I guess I got my money's worth. I've already deleted all the worthless emails on my IPhone, but have to go out on my deck to do it. We don't get decent reception on the coast of Massachusetts!

Forty-six Years and a Few Compromises Later

2011-09-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

One of my husband's favorite stories about his ability to compromise actually took place way back in 1975. On a Friday evening when he wasn't travelling, I had arranged for a vacuum-cleaner salesman to come to the house after dinner to give a demonstration. We needed a new vacuum desperately!

The last thing a tired husband wants to do is to sit through the demonstration of an appliance at the end of a long week of work! Especially if he played baseball in college, is a devoted Red Sox fan, and there is a game on tv...

Like GAME SIX OF THE WORLD SERIES!!! Little did I know I had arranged the salesman's visit the same time that the Red Sox played the Cincinnati Reds.

As the salesman threw dirt all over the family room floor, Charley dodged and bounced around him, trying to follow the plays. He couldn't hear a thing. After the salesman left, I lit into my weary husband.

"How could you be so rude to that man?" I demanded.

"You were lucky he got in the door!" was the response.

Thank goodness Carlton Fisk hit his game-winning home run in the twelfth inning at 12:33 a.m., not while the salesman was there. I can't imagine if Charley had missed seeing Fisk's arms willing the ball fair, or the ricochet off the pole. I have no idea whether we bought the machine!

Another compromise situation is still in progress. Our Kenmore refrigerator in Massachusetts is 27 years old. It is still functioning perfectly, which I regret every day. However, I have learned to pick my battles!

We have had Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, July 4th, and Labor Day parties at the house, not to mention graduation and birthday parties. We added another small set of three refrigerated drawers to accommodate the larder and the preparations.

The refrigerator is under a service agreement, since parts are no longer available. That means that if Sears can't replace the part, I get a new refrigerator.

It just isn't going to happen. The thing keeps going and going....

The repairman who checks it out every year keeps telling me the same thing. I am sick of hearing it. "They don't make them like this any more! Don't ever get rid of this machine!"

Sounds like Charley's philosophy: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." To put it another way, "A new kitchen? Not in my lifetime!"

"Most Versatile Blog" Award

2011-09-15T07:16:00.000-07:00

I have been nominated by Ruth Berge, Palm Beach County columnist and fellow writer, for the "Most Versatile Blog" Award. Thank you, Ruth, for becoming a "Follower" and nominating my writing! I graciously accept!! I hope everyone will click on "Follower" at my blog and yours (http://www.ruth.the.writer.blogspot.com/). And thank you, Ms. Saba, for establishing the award on her blog, http://www.worddiaries.blogspot.com/.

In order to follow the rules, I am going to divulge seven little-known things about me.

First, I morphed into a screaming hockey mom during the years our two sons played ice hockey (yes, both sons went on to play pro baseball). My husband would go to the opposite side of the arena and pace, while I just kept yelling, "Get that guy! Take him out!" To quote Sarah Palin, "The only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull is lipstick."

Second, I have done the following on foreign travels: cartwheeled down an Austrian Alp after falling off a T-bar; remained confined in my room in Buenos Aires during a coup, while machine gun fire richocheted off the hotel; watched helplessly while a gang of youths surrounded, then lifted, our Volkswagen in Naples, Italy; suffered swollen eyelids from a severe allergy attack on a 12-inch trail over 200-foot gorges in Madeira, Portugal (do these count as four separate items?)

Third, I often can't remember why I enter a room.

Fourth, parts of my body are no longer where they should be!

Fifth, there was some glitch in the evolutionary process that landed me on the same planet with snakes.

Sixth, I work out at a fitness center but hate every minute.

Seventh, Ditto for playing golf twice a week! I'd rather be on the tennis court.

Here are some blogs or websites with blogs that I follow. Some are about writing; others are about life. I have been a follower of Nathan Bransford's for many years, when he was a literary agent and before he became an author. In fact, I queried him with my first manuscript, which became MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, published in 2009 by Barking Cat Books (he rejected me, unfortunately, but I still follow him).

http://www.blog.nathanbransford.com/

http://www.ruth.the.writer.blogspot.com/

http://www.jmleduc.blogspot.com/

http://www.worddiaries.blogspot.com/

http://www.rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/

http://www.amloki.blogspot.com/

http://www.italianamericanwriter.com/

www.Ally_Peltier_Ambitious_Enterpri@mail.vresp.com

http://www.momsteam.com/

http://www.elliegreat.blogspot.com/

http://www.awriterhemuttered.blogspot.com/

http://www.theauthorsshow.com/

http://www.grubstreet,inc.com/

Thanks again, Ruth! Now back to practicing humor for the manuscript I'm working on (A HANDBOOK FOR GROWN CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS). Pam

The Cat and the.....Horse

2011-09-12T17:41:00.000-07:00

I'd like to share a couple of stories that had the whole family laughing over Labor Day Weekend.

Don, my brother-in-law, got a call from his sister's husband before the couple was leaving on a cruise. "Would you mind taking care of our cat?" Don heard.

"No, I guess not. What do I have to do?"

"Just feed it and give it some medicine."

"Well, judging from the size of your cat, I guess it eats a lot, but what kind of medicine?"

"Just some pills."

"OK."

A week later, Don received another call from his brother-in-law. This time, the couple was aboard ship, as it pulled up anchor.

"I forgot to tell you, Don, the cat might need an enema."

"Say what?" Don screeched in his West Virginian drawl. "Are you sh___ing me?"

"Just insert the enema up his kazoo, if things get blocked up. Otherwise, he might have something burst."

"The h___ I will! I'll let the vet do it! I don't have a rubber suit."

"You can't take him to the vet! He charged us $900."

"Good thing that cat didn't have a problem while they were away," Don told us. "My sister would have found a dead cat on her hands!"

Our son had a financial client whose wife was a vet. The vet and her husband received a call on Christmas Eve Day from the frantic owner of a horse.

"Please come right over, Dr! Our horse is so old, its breath is labored, and we know the end will be soon. Can you ease his passing?"

"I'll be there shortly," the vet responded.

She and her husband arrived at the owner's house and and inquired as to the whereabouts of the horse.

"Well, it's so freezing cold out that we didn't want him to pass out there. So we put him down in the basement!"

"How did you get him down there?"

"We made a ramp."

Following the owner down the ramp, the vet and her husband found the horse in a tiny compartment in the basement. The horse was, indeed, about to expire.

"We have to get him out of here," the vet said. "I need to inject him and there's no place for him to lie down."

"What shall we do?" asked the owner. "We can't turn him around."

"Get a rope and we'll pull him backwards up the ramp."

The owner stood at his head, encouraging him, while the vet and her husband pulled from the rear. The horse was not only wobbly, but extremely reluctant to be pulled backwards up the ramp.

After several hours, darkness fell, marking Christmas Eve. The temperature plummeted. The horse finally made it to the top of the ramp outside, where the vet could inject him. She and her husband waited with the owner till the horse expired, then rushed home to pick up their family for church services. "May Christmas bring a day without ropes," they prayed.

AFTERMATH OF HURRICANE IRENE: REALITY CHECK

2011-09-06T18:34:00.000-07:00

So there was this little thing called Irene, barrelling up the coast. Only a Category 1 - no big deal, right? Charley and I live on the coast of Florida most of the year and lived through a Category 2, evacuated for a Category 3.

In Massachusetts for the summer, we prepared there. Our house sits a half-mile from Buzzard's Bay, just south of Cape Cod. It had survived Hurricane Bob. We took everything off the deck that could possibly fly around, stuffed the freezers with anything that might survive without electricity, checked the sump pump, notified a neighbor we'd be gone, and gave him our cell phone number. We got cash from the ATM and made sure we had gas in the car and prescriptions for a month.

Oh, yes! We were scheduled to babysit our thirteen-month twin grandsons that weekend in N.J., while the rest of their family were in a wedding in Chicago. Into the car we piled lanterns, boots, a battery-operated radio, non-perishables, and a few bottles of wine. We knew the drill.

Arrived in N.J. and helped our son prepare his house for the storm. Deja vu! We not only stuffed the freezer, we stuffed the garage. All playthings for the older sister came in - plastic playhouse, swings, bike - as well as the toddlers' wagon, water table, and double stroller. Diapers, paper products, and water gallons were piled high. Somehow we got the outdoor furniture, grill, and two cars in there.

The neighbor next door came running over. "We don't get hurricanes in New Jersey!" she insisted. "I didn't know what to do, so I went to Home Depot at 7 a.m. looking for kerosene lanterns. The guy working said, 'What hurricane? We don't get hurricanes in New Jersey.' I just finished pulling six mattresses into the basement for tornadoes. My daughter, Sarah, woke up at midnight and asked me if I'd brought the hammock in. She is really nervous!" I can't imagine why?!

The storm raged for two days, delivering pounding rain, but no severe wind. We never lost electricity. It was a good thing - one twin developed a raging fever that mocked the storm outside. "There's no way in hell we can take him anywhere! What did we do back in the old days?" Charley and I asked each other. Turns out there are some things that never change - stripping a child to lower his fever, using cool compresses, making sure he drinks cool water. We took turns rocking him under an a.c. vent, and called his parents at 2 a.m. for permission to give children's Ibuprofen.

On the fifth day, Charley and I climbed into our car for the six-hour drive back to Massachusetts. We stayed awake by drinking Diet Cokes all the way. Thankfully, the twin's fever had subsided. His parents and sister had returned on a rescheduled flight. Our home in Massachusetts remained intact, along with electrical and phone lines.

I married an Irishman, my only explanation for our good fortune! Loss of electricity or damage to a house? There are some things that can be replaced, and others that can't.

TERMS OF ENDEARMENT: RULES FOR GROWN CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS (Excerpt from new manuscript)

2011-08-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

MY PARENTS AND HURRICANE WILMA

RULE FIFTEEN: EXPECT FALLOUT IF YOU RELOCATE PARENTS DURING

A NATURAL DISASTER (BUT DO IT ANYWAY!)

In October, 2005, Hurricane Wilma hit south Florida. It was only thirteen months after Frances and Jeanne had hit. Wilma went across the Gulf of Mexico and hit Cozumel as a Category 5 storm, then turned around and took aim at Florida's west coast. Its eastward path would carry it across the Everglades toward Ft. Lauderdale, just below us.

Ten years before, I had relocated my parents from Connecticut to Boynton Beach, just five miles from Charley and me in Florida. In 2005 Mom was 89; Dad was 93. I had left them alone in their cinderblock house for Hurricane Frances, a Category 2. During Jeanne, almost a Category 4 storm, my mother and I had mopped up all night in their house. When Wilma bore down, I made reservations for the four of us at the Hampton Inn in Brunswick, Georgia.

My parents protested that all their neighbors were staying in their homes. After age eighty, the herd mentality took over, reminding me of a bunch of teenagers. Evacuation to a shelter was unthinkable, because of the prevalence of germs. "God knows what we'd catch! Besides, we don't want to listen to screaming children all night," Dad insisted. "We'd be on cots and wouldn't sleep at all. We need a bathroom close by and the toilets would be overflowing."

We each packed one suitcase. In addition, I'd put water, snack items, rain gear, books, lanterns, blankets, and some canned food in the car. I'd recharged my cell phone and gone through a check list for our residences. Mom brought her knitting.

On the drive up Route 95, there was dead silence from the back seat. My parents were punishing Charley and me for uprooting them from their home without just cause! At a rest stop we heard, "Bob (next-door) says this will only be a tropical storm. Why do we have to leave our house? Bob has a generator and Ann is the new block captain, with a satellite phone."

"You certainly have a lot of faith in Bob's weather predictions!" I replied. There was no point arguing.

Wilma got stuck over the Yucatan. Mom lectured, "You are a worrier, Pam, and we should never have left Leisureville. Besides, we're missing Doc Schenecke's 90th birthday party, and he came to my party last fall!" My mother the social butterfly??? She hated even going to block parties right in front of her house, especially if she had to bring a dish.

The inhabitants of the Hampton Inn that weekend were all Florida residents, driven out by caution over the storm warnings. Saturday and Sunday Charley and I listened to a litany of complaints about my parents' accommodations. The beds were too soft; there were only three T.V. stations; the toilet seats were too low (after all, they had replaced all theirs in their Leisureville house with high-rises); there was no Florida newspaper at breakfast. "Let's go shopping at the mall," I suggested.

"No thanks, I think we'll stay right here." Charley and I left them in front of the T.V.'s giant screen in the lobby.

The next day: "Why don't you both come to a matinee with us?"

"No thanks, I think we'll just stay here."

By Monday morning, Wilma was gathering strength and heading east across Florida. It finally hit our area, nearly a Category 3. We, however, ate a leisurely breakfast in Georgia, read, napped, and went out for an early dinner.

"You know, Charley, I think it was a very wise decision we made not to stay in our house," Dad informed us. "My God, what am I eating? Catfish??"

A CONDENSED VERSION OF MY LIFE (THIS MORNING)

2011-07-26T18:05:00.000-07:00

I decided to pay some bills after breakfast. First, I took my cereal bowl and juice glass to the sink and rinsed them out. I tried to put them in the dishwasher, but it was full with last night's dirty dishes.

So I turned on the dishwasher, poured more coffee into my mug, and cleaned out the coffeepot. I walked toward the front room to get my glasses in the desk.

Passing through the front hall, I noticed the flowers in the vase were wilting and the stagnant water was beginning to smell. So I took the vase into the kitchen, threw the flowers into the trash, emptied the water, rinsed and dried the vase.

When I was putting it back in the front hall, I remembered I had come out there on my way to someplace else. But I didn't have any idea where. So I headed back into the kitchen and just as I remembered I was supposed to be getting my glasses, the phone rang.

After my conversation with one of our daughters-in-law, I decided I'd better get dressed. When I passed through the front hall on my way to the stairs, I remembered that I had been going to get my glasses. I retrieved them from a drawer in the desk in the front room, but couldn't remember what I needed them for. So I put them on top of my head and went upstairs.

In our bedroom, I made the bed and put the clean laundry away. I put the items that needed ironing into a pile. Then I went to my closet.

It was a very hot day, and I was going to meet someone for lunch. I selected a sundress to wear, but then I saw that it had a spot. So I went downstairs to get the spot remover.

I retrieved the spot remover but needed my glasses before I could do anything with the dress. I looked in my desk in the front room, but they weren't there. I looked around the kitchen counters and the family room sofa, as well as among the magazines. No luck!

I went back upstairs, got another dress out of the closet (I was going to be hot in this one!), put on some jewelry, and decided I'd better wait with the makeup till I found my glasses.

I started down the stairs, but half-way down, I remembered I hadn't brought the clothes that needed ironing. I went back up, but noticed the toilet was still running in our bathroom.

So I took off the tank cover and jiggled the lever a few times, lifted the float manually, and washed my hands thoroughly. I got down to the kitchen and remembered I had forgotten to bring down the clothes that needed ironing. Oh well, it was too hot to iron, anyway!

I noticed the stack of bills still sitting on the kitchen table. Since I couldn't find my glasses, I decided to cut some flowers from the garden to replace the ones I threw away.

There was a problem with cutting the flowers: the deer were eating our arbor vitae trees in the early mornings, and they carry ticks that cause Lyme disease. The arbor vitaes were right next to the hydrangeas and the roses I wanted to cut. So I had to cover myself with bug spray. That meant a shower when I came in, and I usually showered at night.

As it turned out, I was sweltering in that dress under the hot sun, anyway! After I'd cut and arranged the flowers, I went right for the shower. I took off my dress, then my necklace and earrings, and hopped under the cool spray of water.

I started to wash my hair when I discovered the glasses on top of my head! Now what was it I needed them for?

THAT LITTLE WHITE BALL

2011-07-17T08:28:00.001-07:00

I don't understand the problem! The little dimpled ball sits there, stationary. It is begging to be clobbered! All I have to do is swing at it.

I would not consider myself a novice at the game. Our property in Massachusetts abuts a golf course. We have owned it for twenty-seven years. I have taken clinics and private lessons. I have attempted to play in ladies' leagues.

Still, I stink! My handicap remains at forty. Some days, it's downright embarassing! And frustrating.

If I analyze, I conclude that I really don't enjoy the game. Therefore, I don't lug buckets of balls out to practice. I don't play enough, either.

I LOVE playing tennis. I am on the tennis court three-four times/week. I have played competitively on a team in Florida for many years. If I make a mistake on the court, the next ball is coming right back at me. I don't have to dwell on a screw-up, while I walk yards and yards to hit the next shot.

When I am not on the tennis court, I am writing. It is a new career, after my first book was published, and I have to take it seriously. Yet I still expect to go out on the golf course and play decently.

Golf I have to squeeze in. It doesn't always happen.

Golf takes time. You have to devote half a day, at least, to the game. You can go play a couple of sets of tennis (and get some ACTIVE exercise) and be home in two hours, max.

You have to play golf regularly, or at least practice regularly, if you expect to improve, like anything else. By regularly, I mean at least three times/week. There is no muscle memory, because there are so many variables.

The grip has to be just right. The stance has to be just right. The shoulders have to turn so the backswing is just right. And God forbid if the hips don't pivot with the shoulders! The head has to stay down. Do I need this?

If I choose the wrong club, I hit too far or not enough. If the wind is blowing STRONGLY, as it was last Thursday, I have to keep the ball low. I don't know how to do that, unless I choose a club that will make the ball go too far. I also don't know how to give the ball backspin when it lands on the green.

The three women I played with last Thursday were all steady, consistent golfers. They are good friends and were very positive and supportive, but they were always waiting for me.

I set the ball on the tees and took gorgeous practice swings! On one occasion I topped the ball and it landed five yards in front of me. Two other times, I whiffed. Four times I picked the ball up and stuck it in my pocket.

I went right home after we played, disgusted. Didn't even eat lunch. I tried not be negative or aggravated. After all, I was privileged to be out on the course. I tried to focus on the good shots. They were few and far between.

Yesterday I learned that.......we had WON the ladies' day last Thursday. How???? It must have been my handicap that pulled us through. Maybe I'll sign up for next week.

ONE OF THE BENEFITS OF TRAVEL

2011-06-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

With the exception of common courtesy and a respect for human dignity, one must leave all assumptions behind when travelling. This is especially true for Americans in Italy.

Charley and I do not assume the following there:

-that the paper will be delivered regularly or that buses, trains, and ferries will be running (24-hour strikes occur with a day's notice);

-that the road to our hotel, with rock walls tumbling down the hillside at hairpin turns, will be fixed in our lifetimes;

-that garbage will ever disappear from roadsides, or even be collected;

-that drivers will move over for pedestrians (who have no sidewalks), instead of playing "chicken";

-that American prudishness about exposing the body is universal.

It is one of the things we love about southern Italy. Life is exuberant and loud. Neapolitans are brash, grabbing life as it comes and squeezing it tight (as evidenced by the antics of twosomes on scooters or in passionate embraces whenever the mood strikes).

Neapolitans are not afraid to flaunt their assets. The men and women are bronze, the women with thick chestnut tresses and filmy gauze dresses cut to their navels. They have little and live under the shadow of the ever-threatening Vesuvius. They disregard the mafioso clans that rule every aspect of their city: garbage collection, construction, gambling, drugs, pinball machines, and all other illicit activities.

"Humans are flawed," the Ischians tell us. Their island faces Napoli and Vesuvio. "We cannot be expected to perform perfectly all the time."

At our hotel pool on Ischia, I am surrounded by six-foot models in thong bikinis, topless women sunbathing, and men in Speedos. Some of the sights over age sixty are not pretty! Only the English and Russian women in that age group, like me, wear one-piece bathing suits.

Perhaps it's time to dig that bikini out of my suitcase!

PANIC TIME

2011-06-27T08:39:00.001-07:00

I have cartwheeled down an Austrian Alp, after falling off a chairlift; remained confined to a hotel room in Buenos Aires, while a coup d'etat prevailed outside; watched helplessly while a gang of youths surrounded, then lifted, our Volkswagen in Naples, Italy; suffered swollen eyelids from a severe allergy attack on a 12-inch trail over 200-foot gorges on Madeira. But nothing can send me into a panic so much as....................................................................................................................

........................................................................................................................................

......................................................................................not being able to find a toilet when I need one!!!

Charley and I recently returned from our all-time favorite destination of Ischia - an island facing Capri outside Naples, Italy. We attended the last night of festivities honoring St. Vito in the nearby town of Forio. Our friend who owns an apartment there made a 9:30 p.m. reservation for a waterfront table to see the fireworks. In Italy, diners show up an hour before they think about ordering dinner. The wine was flowing. We thought the fireworks would start at 10:00.

"Soon," Daniella kept saying. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe July! Here - have some more vino!"

It WAS tomorrow when they started - 12:30 a.m., exactly. By then I'd switched to coffee and Charley had switched to Diet Coke.

The show was spectacular - the most impressive we'd ever seen, including July 4th in Boston. Marco Polo had, after all, brought fireworks back to Italy from China.

In fact, there were TWO fireworks shows over the marina. Forio's ended, and the town of Lacco Ameno tried to outdo its neighbor. By then, I was nursing a glass of water.

The shows ended at 1:30 a.m. I hit the toilet one last time. Along with 12,000 Forio residents and thousands more from across the island, we trudged half a mile to get out of the harbor.

Up ahead I spotted an available taxi. We ran! Then we sat for thirty minutes. Like bees (except they were carrying sleeping infants and toddlers), the throngs swarmed in front and in back of us, making last-minute purchases at open stalls. Vespas whizzed by. We progressed one car length at a time. The thought crept into my mind that our progress might necessitate an impossible pit stop. The power of suggestion is a dangerous thing!

There was construction on the road to our hotel. The taxi couldn't get through the traffic. We got out two hundred meters from our entrance to walk.

Ischia is volcanically thermal, lushly colorful, and demandingly vertical. Climbing up the road, I mapped the location of the nearest bathroom at our hotel. Our room was ten meters up the hillside from the lobby. The public restrooms were ten meters down the hillside from the lobby.

"Honey, we'd better step on it," I warned Charley. He knew what that meant.

We arrived at the twelve-foot iron gates marking the entrance to our hotel. They were securely locked!! By this time, I was crossing my legs.

There were two callboxes. I hit all the white bars on the first one. While Charley was pushing buttons on the second one, I eyed the surrounding bushes.

Suddenly the gates opened! We ran for the lobby.

"Room 415, please!" Charley demanded, as the night clerk turned for our key. "Can we get a ride to our room?"

"Certo, signore!" The clerk pushed a button, while I folded myself into a sofa in the lobby.

"Please, St. Vito, we toasted you so many times tonight! Now do something for me," I begged. "Let me make it to our room!"

An attendant on a golf cart appeared. Over every bump I prayed to St. Vito. He didn't forget me!

France Revisited

2011-05-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

We will soon re-enter French airspace en route to Normandy. It will be Charley's first tour of the D-Day beaches, but not his first trip to France.

During previous visits, we made mistakes. We didn't understand the French mentality. We didn't follow the rules. We didn't wait patiently as French men and women ignored us. We didn't ask the right questions.

On our first trip, we flew in from the States at 7 a.m. and had to connect to Corsica. Charley put our luggage cart, piled high, directly in front of the "Corsica" sign at the ticket counter. We needed boarding passes and had four hours to kill. Groggy, we took turns getting coffee and reading. Around 10 a.m. the "Corsica" sign moved. Charley grabbed our cart but wasn't fast enough. A French woman came out of nowhere, ramming the front bumper of his cart and cutting him off. He rammed her back. "Despicable Americans!" we heard, as she stepped up to the "Corsica" counter ahead of us.

On another trip, we met an American friend and her travelling companions at an outdoor cafe. We got there first and eyeballed the tiny cafe tables. "I'll grab a few more chairs and move this other table over," Charley declared, rearranging the furniture. A waiter ran over. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non!" We had violated two waiters' serving assignments. Ten of us sat at two separate tables and waited thirty minutes for acknowledgement that we existed.

We drove along the Riviera from Nice. About two and a half hours beyond St. Tropez, we cut inland looking for our "Hidden Inn," right out of a guidebook. It was hidden, all right! No road signs anywhere. We stopped a farmer, who led us down a dirt road on his tractor.

We checked in and learned the pool was in back, with reciprocal privileges at a hotel right on the beach. We unpacked, put on bathing suits, and headed for the pool. All we wanted was to chill out with a cool drink! There were plenty of chaise lounges at the pool, but no towels. "Excusez-moi, les towels?" I asked a sunbather.

"At the main desk in the lobby!" he answered in English.

I went back for towels but diverted up to the room for sunblock I'd forgotten. The upstairs hall was in total darkness. I fumbled with our key at the door, shoved it around near the hole, but couldn't get the knob to turn. Back to the front desk.

"Madame, you must insert your key in the slot at the end of the hall. That will turn on the lights. Then the locks will respond."

We decided to try the beach at the other hotel, instead. We made our way to the attendant there, who explained, "Je m'excuse, no chairs at beach. OK on hill. I move you when beach chairs open."

That was fine with us, since there was shade on the hill. We spread out our stuff and walked toward the Mediterranean.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non! Non beach!"

"What? We can't go in the water?"

"Non, monsieur! The prix on hill - non beach."

Back to the lobby for towels.

Before flying out of Nice, our last stop was the Chevre d'Or Hotel in Eze. Eze is on a cliff along the Grande Corniche, hanging high up over the Blue Mediterranean. We had to leave our car about two hundred yards below; a golf cart took us the rest of the way.

We had booked a reservation for dinner in their famous restaurant, filmed in "The Bucket List" with Jack Nicholson. It was one of the two most expensive dinners we've ever paid for. Problem: we couldn't see two feet out the windows. We were completely fogged in!

The next morning the fog burned off and Charley decided to use the exercise room. The receptionist had proudly told us it opened at 10 a.m. Right at 10, he climbed the fifty stone steps from our room, hanging over the cliff, up to the exercise room. Closed! He continued up fifty more stone steps to the lobby.

"Non possible, monsieur! It's after 10 o'clock. It must be open!"

There was no point arguing. Charley figured by the time he got back down fifty steps, he might find the door unlocked.

Not so! But where there's a will, there's a way. He spotted a louvred window on the bottom row that was cracked open. Yup! He climbed in.

The exercise attendant thought he was hallucinating when he unlocked the door and saw Charley pedalling calmly on one of the bikes. "Monsieur, what are you doing here?"

Charley pointed to his watch. "It's 10:30. The exercise room is open!"

Anyone else have travel stories??

AT&T MERRY-GO-ROUND

2011-05-07T14:13:00.000-07:00

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Melody."

Chas: "Are you a real person?"

AT&T: "Last time I checked!"

Chas: "Well, I've been pushing buttons on your menu for ten minutes before I got anyone with vocal cords."

AT&T: "I'm sorry about that, sir. Would you kindly give me your phone number?"

Chas: "....................."

AT&T: "Now I need your password, sir."

Chas: "........... "

AT&T: "Would you please give me the last four digits of your social security number?"

Chas: "...."

AT&T: "Now I need the answers to a couple of security questions~"

Chas: "I'm not Osama bin Laden!"

AT&T: " I guess we wouldn't be having this conversation if you were! Just a couple more, sir. What was the name of your childhood pet?"

Chas: "Blackie."

AT&T: "What was the street that your wife grew up on?"

Chas: "River Road."

AT&T: "You have answered all the questions correctly."

Chas: "Do I get a prize?"

AT&T: "I suppose I could sing for you, since my name is Melody! Otherwise, how can I help you, sir?"

Chas: "Melody,I have a very simple request. We have your UVerse system for two phone lines and high-speed internet. We are leaving Florida to go north for four months and would like to put our service on seasonal hold."

AT&T: "I'm sorry, Mr. Carey, but I can't help you."

Chas: "Excuse me? We've been putting our account on hold each summer for fifteen years!"

AT&T: "Yes, Mr. Carey, but you didn't have UVerse before this year. I'm afraid UVerse customers will have to do that on-line."

Chas: "But only my wife deals with the computer. I don't touch it!"

AT&T: "Then have her go on-line to AT&T.com and I will walk her through the steps."

Chas: "I don't think she'll want to hear about steps right now. She's in the middle of a project. I'll have to break it to her at another time. Can't you just flick a switch or fill out a form, like the cable company?"

AT&T: "I'm afraid it's not that easy, Mr. Carey. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

***********************************************************************************

Next evening

Chas: "Are you having any luck getting our service suspended?"

Pam: "I've been on for over an hour and opened every possible link under 'UVerse.'
When I hit 'Move or Change Service,' it asks where we're moving to!"

Chas: "This \/!!***! Company is useless! What other links are there?"

Pam: "I've tried 'My Account' and 'Technical Support.' The word 'Suspend' or 'Hold' doesn't exist in their vocabulary. Call them back for specific instructions."

*************************************************************************************
Next morning

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Samantha."

Chas: "Am I speaking to a real person?"

AT&T: "Yes, I'm a real live wire!"

Chas: "I'm so excited for you! I have spent one evening on the phone with your Company and my wife~"

AT&T: "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but would you please give me your phone number?"

Chas: ".............."

AT&T: "May I please have your password?"

Chas: "...................."

AT&T: "Now I need the account holder's name."

Chas: "Samantha, I AM the account holder, and my name is CAREY and the last digits of my social security number are .... and my childhood pet was named BLACKIE and my wife grew up on RIVER ROAD and I am UPSET! Please HELP ME!"

AT&T: "What can I do for you, Mr. Carey?"

Chas: "I want to put our UVerse service on seasonal hold for four months. I have called your Company once before and we have tried to do it online. Nothing has worked! Can you please give me the steps to follow on your website?"

AT&T: "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Carey. Let me find out how you can proceed."

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey?"

Chas: "I can't believe it, but I'm still here!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, I'm the Supervisor, Scott Regan, and I'm here to help you."

Chas: "That remains to be seen! I just want to put my UVerse service on hold for four months while we leave Florida for the summer. It used to be so easy!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, I'll find out how to do that. Would you mind holding?"

Chas: "Do I have a choice?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, are you still there?"

Chas: "Is that you, Scott?"

AT&T Supervisor: "It's me. Thank you for holding. Now, tell me, is it correct that you do NOT have your cable t.v. with UVerse?"

Chas: "That's right, Scott. We live in a condo, and the building is wired for Comcast. We have no choice in the matter."

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, you see, Mr. Carey, right there is the problem! You have to have the ENTIRE PACKAGE in order to put your account on hold for the summer. You have to have phone and high-speed internet and t.v."

Chas: "So what you're telling me is that after two phone calls and an evening on your website, it's impossible to put our account on seasonal hold? What's the minimum we'll be paying each month over the summer?"

AT&T Supervisor: "$69.95."

Chas: "Even though we won't be here? That's outrageous!"

AT&T Supervisor: "I'm afraid so! But that's still quite a savings each month. Then when you get back, you just call us to reinstate full service."

Chas: "As simple as that, huh?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

Chas: "I'd rather not say."

Snapshots from Key West

2011-04-25T18:38:00.000-07:00

Charley and I head south - as far south as we can go until U.S. 1 runs out, just ninety miles from Cuba! We trade chocolate Easter bunnies for females with bunny ears who stroll the sidewalks with cups filled with frothy pink liquid.

Key West is a paradise for writers - and artists, lovers, snorkelers, divers, boaters, fishermen, campers, birders, foreigners, lesbians, gays, transvestites - ANYONE! Just the drive down is worth the trip. It takes five hours from Delray Beach, over forty-some bridges. The sea changes color on both sides of us, from deep azure far out to vibrant turquoise in the channels to beige over the sand bars to thin pea-soup-green in the runoffs. Nonstop photo ops, but not at 45 mph between Key Largo and the end of the road.

We try to go every year for the Conch Republic Independence Festival. It is a week-long celebration (the end of April) of the (unsuccessful) attempt by Key West to secede from the Union. Here, the bizarre becomes commonplace and acceptance is the norm. A young Irishman walks the sidewalk with pink dye in his blond mohawk. The spikes on his head are outdone only by the spikes on two green iguanas grazing on sea grapes at the edge of our beach. A van in orange and white psychedelic swirls advertises a number for pickup to "Live(!) Naked Dancers." As opposed to what - dead naked dancers? The mainland seems a million miles away.

First, there is the drag race down Duval Street. Men in drag - sequined dresses, bright makeup, wigs, and revealing undergarments - RUN in stiletto heels while pushing a cart. Then they have to jump through tires. Some of the shaved legs are pretty shapely, and the butts aren't bad. The contestants clearly work out for this! There are no bulging guts, but WAIT!! Something seems to be bulging from one of the tube tops! Could it be?? A starter stands with legs wide apart in a thong and no top. Somehow, HE just doesn't fit in!

Another event is the bed race. Beds are decked out as floats and pushed by the above "beauties" while real-life natural beauties sit on the mattresses, feathered, flocked, or fried. Monkeys and a lemur squat on spectators' shoulders, peeling peanuts, while parrots and macaws sqawk at the contestants. The pigeons are busy! We see a dog with its limbs spread-eagle in a baby back pack.

The other event that is a blast, literally, is the Coast Guard's attempt to subdue the rebel "Conch Republic" pirates in their ship off Mallory Pier. The Pier is the site of sunset kisses, cruise or Navy ship dockings, and acts of wonder at night (we have seen the same contortionist, now age 57, remove himself from a chained straightjacket for ten years). It is also the spot to be for the water fight. The Coast Guard, with its superior hoses, subdues the rebels, but not before they have thoroughly doused the spectators. None of us care, since we all have a glow from the sun or whatever.

There has been a gradual transformation in our modus operandi since Charley and I started going there. I no longer wear flip-flops with cute crystal beads cutting between my toes. Charley does not walk in his Birkenstock sandals. Instead, we ramble up Duval Street and back (two and one-half miles,total) in sturdy walking sneakers and socks. I have an elastic bandage supporting one knee that is burning. Charley does not wear his golfing straw hat or even a baseball cap. Instead, he dons his wide-brimmed Galapagos hat, looking for native Key West species. He sports a three-day beard, Papa Hemingway-style, and blends right in.

We no longer stop by the Hog's Breath Saloon, Sloppy Joe's, or Margueritaville. The stink of beer venting onto the sidewalk makes me sick. Instead, we stop on a porch near the Southernmost Hotel for a glass of ice water, lemonade, or iced tea.

There is a problem during our walk. I must shop by memory. "I absolutely HATE to shop," Charley reminds me. "You could always go out later, while I'm at the beach." The first day he indulges me by stopping in a few places. Thereafter, I must do a memory snapshot of the exact item in a window, the shop it is in, and where the shop is located. I down my ice water in the wicker chair and run back to look at the beach bag, watercolor, or necklace closest to the porch on which Charley sits. I know I will have only the time it takes him to finish one bowl of tobacco.

We have "done" the tourist attractions: snorkeling the reefs, the Glass Bottom Boat, Conch Train, Truman Summer White House, Hemingway House, Audubon House, botannical gardens, butterfly conservatory, Shipwreck Museum, Sunset Cruise. Now we collapse on our hotel beach after the morning walk. We can order lunch from our chaises, without moving. Reminds me of a story.

We have taken two different couples with us to Key West. While we were eating at an outdoor lunch place with one couple, the husband (Ed) kept jumping up and running toward the car. "What in the heck is going on?" Charley asked, when he returned to our table.

"I'm deathly afraid of cats. One attacked me when I was a kid." Needless to say, there are cats all over Key West to keep the rat population down. He only ate a few bites.

We proceeded with Ed and Kiva to our hotel beach after lunch, having no idea that the section we chose was designated "Topless." Ed settled in, took one look at what was in front of him, and never moved a muscle for the rest of the afternoon. He didn't even bother to open his book. "This is where I want to have lunch the rest of the trip," he declared.

It has been a process of elimination choosing the right place to stay. In the mid-nineties, our first booking was in a cheap motel at the southern end of Duval Street. It was the only thing available in our price range, so we walked five miles a day finding places to eat. Next we tried an inn that had been recommended. That meant we had no beach and had to lug our stuff. The inn compensated by providing free cocktails at Happy Hour each day! We stayed there two years.

Next we did a time-share promotion at a Hyatt facility on the southern end of the island. Charley was NOT happy about spending half of one day roaming around the property which he did NOT intend to invest in! Finally we tried the Pier House Resort, next to Mallory Pier. Great location and food, but we had a wall three feet from the edge of our patio. No view, and we were next to the lobby!

Tried the Pier House again, but this time I specified a room in the new "Spa" building. It was luxurious, compared to what we'd had before! We unpacked, roamed, ate, drank, and climbed in our king bed. Only trouble was, we were the end unit against a side street. The crowds of drunks kept us awake till 1 a.m. At 5 a.m. a very loud rooster began crowing on the property directly behind our room. At 8:30 a.m. the gardeners began SAWING down a trellis attached to the side of the building (and our room). We packed up and headed for the office!

We got an immediate upgrade. Following the guy pushing our luggage, we continued past the restaurant onto a dock. We were hanging over the water at the beach. We went up one level and looked at a king bedroom with adjoining living room. Beyond that lay our own private plexiglass balcony with chaises that continued around the corner of the building. Can we order lunch?

Aging Gracefully

2011-04-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

There is age with grace, but no such thing as "aging gracefully." It's an ugly process. In fact, I'm going down kicking and screaming!

Parts of my body are not where they should be. I wore two-piece bathing suits till I was fifty. Now I dread having to purchase anything to wear near the water. I must take a pile of swimsuits two sizes larger than my dress size to the changing room. They must have underwires in the bra. Speaking of the bra, if I tie the halter strings so tight around my neck as to actually lift my boobs, I am gasping for air. My butt hangs down below the suit and I must take it (the suit, not my butt) to a seamstress to have tighter elastic sewn in. My belly "pooch" will only disappear if I purchase a swimsuit with a blouse-like top. Yes, I know 10,000 steps/day will rid me of the pooch (what's in there, anyway?), and no, I do not intend to add an eighth day of exercise to my already overbooked routine!

I began noticing in photos that my right eye was only half open. So I figured the opthomologist would be able to measure the eyelids and lift the right one - a simple procedure, according to my friends. Dr. Wesley measured and informed me my eyelids were exactly the same and had not drooped. What had drooped was my forehead! That procedure is surgical and would cost a minimum of $5,000. And oh yes, the plastic surgeon could not assure me of raising the brow more than one-quarter of an inch!

I have acquired new parts growing on my body. I have odd-shaped lumps under my arches and on tops of my toes. A podiatrist informed me that they are benign cysts, created by the friction of certain shoes. And then there is the matter of the bunions. They are round balls sticking upward and outward from each large toe. My sister and I both inherited my father's feet. He used to insert a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next when he went to bed. I simply ignore them, but for vanity's sake, the bunions cannot go unfettered! I must choose enclosed fronts on my shoes or bands across the balls. The days of hubby giving me a foot massage are over, and who can blame him?

My hands have developed raised blue veins, and the bones protrude in-between. My granddaughter refers to the squirming veins as "blue worms." The same plastic surgeon informed me that I could inject each hand with fat to hide the veins (wonder what part of my body the fat would come from?). The cost would be a mere $5,000 per hand.

Parts of me have gone missing. Such as hair that is falling out. But I guess I shouldn't worry, since I am gaining it on my chin and above my upper lip!

I was born without three permanent teeth. I am lucky that is all that was missing! The holes where they were supposed to appear didn't matter when I was still eating baby food. Eventually, however, the teeth that did appear moved over into the holes, necessitating braces. Twenty years later, I needed bridges. And now, implants. Why bother, if dentures are next??

Choosing the proper foods and portions at this age is like being in boot camp. Especially with high cholesterol. Charley and I count our blessings that we do not have high blood pressure, heart disease, kidney disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, multilple sclerosis, hepatitis, shingles, Crohn's disease, Parkinson's, colitis, osteoporosis, hemorrhoids, rheumatoid arthritis, AIDS, or cancer. We are continually digesting complex carbohydrates (fruits and veggies, meaning a salad at EVERY lunch)), 100% whole grains, fish, and poultry. I begin drooling when I think of a medium rare hunk of steak! Peanut butter, cakes, pies, ice cream, frozen yogurt, candy, do not even enter our home. Cheesy or creamy sauces and pizza never enter our mouths. We snack on Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, hummus, granola bars, and fruit. One wine or beer is our limit before switching to water, juice, or soda. I still have the "pooch."

There is the matter of hearing loss. Charley claims I cannot hear him and I tell him the reason I can't hear him is because he has a pipe in his mouth, is mumbling, and is in another room. I claim he cannot hear me, even if I am in the same room. When I have to repeat everything, I simply get louder. Eventually, I am shouting. "You don't have to shout!" he tells me, all huffy. I ask him to get a hearing test, and he asks me to get my ears cleaned out.

Hot flashes are the worst part. Charley fondly proclaims that I have had them for twenty years, which is close to the truth. What would men do if they were overcome throughout the day (in dress shirt and tie) with a prickly rash, and waves of sweat? In our Florida apartment we arrive at a compromise: I keep the temperature low, and Charley wears a light sweatshirt. He is used to my pulling the covers up to my chin to protect against the blast of cold air hitting my side of the bed. He is also used to my subsequent thrashing to get those covers off about ten minutes later. His body is like a furnace if I cuddle against him, so I reach over with only an arm. Immediately I begin to feel a burning lightning bolt shoot through my limb. I count that as a good thing!

I saw an ad in THE SUN SENTINEL Sunday paper for a choice of nightgown or pajamas designed to help women "who suffer pain, night sweats, and other discomforts" to get restful, comfortable sleep. The nightwear comes in a handful of styles and colors and the cost ranges from $29.95-$69.95. I was actually considering looking at the manufacturer's website until I read further. The journalist tried the pajamas and felt the same old YOU-KNOW-WHATS! But maybe if I looked good, I'd acquire some grace???

Living in a Pocket

2011-03-24T05:55:00.000-07:00

When Charley and I bought this condo in Florida, he went to Delray Beach Library to get a card. "Sorry," the woman behind the desk told him. "We can't give you a card because you don't live in Delray Beach. You live in a pocket."

"But I can show you my driver's license!" Charley responded. "It clearly says my address is Delray Beach."

"It says Delray Beach, and that is probably where your mail is processed. But your number on Route A1A is in a pocket that's not part of any town," the woman maintained.

Being Irish, Charley persisted. "I'd like to see the head librarian." When he started to create a scene, I headed for the car. In a short while, he approached the car waving a library card. Clearly he had intimidated her. I was afraid to show my face in there. Instead, I made lists for him to pick up for me.

When we got back to our condo, Charley questioned the manager of our complex. Tom Hill had been there since the buildings went up in the early 80's, and he still provides all our answers!

"Tom, I've never heard of anyone living in a pocket before. What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that our building and everything for half a mile south of us along A1A are in an unincorporated pocket. We're not part of any town. Thirty percent of the land mass of Florida is in unincorporated pockets."

"What do we do about taxes and services?"

"You pay your taxes to the county and all emergency services have to come from a county station. It's way out west in Boynton Beach and it takes a while."

"So we live in a pocket, pay taxes to the county, have no library, and could croak before the paramedics arrive? Whose water are we drinking and who's the lucky recipient of our sewage?"

"Boynton Beach." Tom was a hands-on manager, but a man of few words. He dispensed information on a need-to-know basis.

"How do we claw our way out of the pocket?"

"You have to be invited to be annexed by a surrounding town."

"What if we don't want to be annexed by that town but by another one?"

"The pocket has to vote and the town that's annexing has to vote."

The karma in the state of Florida was bad enough after the "hanging chad" incident that elected G.W. In its infinite wisdom, the legislature recently mandated that unincorporated pockets would have to be absorbed by surrounding towns. In 2007, the Florida Coalition for Preservation mounted an offensive to prevent the overdevelopment of Briny Breezes mobile home park. They were successful. Next, the Coalition worked to persuade the town of Gulf Stream to annex our pocket. Gulf Stream is an incorporated town on Route A1A between our pocket and Delray Beach. Our pocket would benefit, if annexed, with a lower tax base than Boynton Beach to the north; a strict zoning code for future building along the ocean, preventing the skyscrapers in Boynton Beach that sit vacant; and round-the-clock police with closer fire/rescue.

After a year of campaigning, we have this month become part of Gulf Stream. Now we have a different problem. Should we change all our legal documents (passport, wills, health care, etc.) to the new address? Mail delivery from Delray Beach and our zip code will remain the same. If we stand in the DMV for four-five hours (no exaggeration!) to change our driver's license to Gulf Stream, when we get to the front of the line the clerk will say, "Show me proof that you live in Gulfstream, not Delray Beach." What are we supposed to show? I think Charley and I will take two cars!

Pam the Android

2011-03-04T17:57:00.000-08:00

I have been amusing myself lately writing about the eccentricities of my parents, Ev and Walt. They were healthy in mind and body into their nineties and lived independently near us in Florida. The chapters I have been working on will become part of my manuscript titled something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS.

Most recently I have been describing the ritual my mother performed every night before going to bed. She would first change into a tee shirt and then flannel pajamas, in case she got cold under the a.c. Then my father would rub BenGay on her back under her tee, where she suffered from a bulging disc. The smell would permeate the house for days! By the time she entered the bathroom, my father, already in his flannel pajamas, had removed his hearing aids (if he'd worn them!), inserted a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next one, and was snoring on his back with his mouth open.

Once in the bathroom, my mother would sit to let her noontime Metamucil wafer perform its advertised function. This would often be a slow, unhurried process, accompanied by a crossword puzzle book. Thereafter, she would brush her teeth, smear Oil of Olay over her face, and wind a few strands of auburn hair under bobby pins. No need to set the alarm. There was no reason to get up at any particular time! Bottles of vitamins on the kitchen counter awaited morning consumption next to a cereal bowl, cup and spoon reserved for instant Maxwell House, and a plate for toast.

I have become "My Mother, Myself!" But my bedtime ritual produces a different image. Charley and I enter the bedroom together. He has earlier brushed his teeth and flossed, while I was scrubbing the pots and pans in the kitchen. He takes off his clothes, throws on an old tee shirt with his shorts, and sets the alarm. I am lucky if I have even put away my shoes, earrings, and watch, while he turns out his bedside lamp. I finish changing into my pajamas by the light in the bathroom. I used to wear sexy lace babydolls, but that was twenty years ago. I graduated to full-length lacy nightgowns, but that was ten years ago. Now I wear flannel pajamas as a courtesy to my legs, that twitch or cramp after lengthy tennis matches.

In the bathroom, I rub ointment on my rotator cuff. I take my vitamins at night - better absorption, the doctor said. I reach for my three containers of "C," "D," and a multi, then my soy supplement, my cholesterol pill, my calcium, my fish oil. I hear Charley's rhythmic deep breathing coming from the bed. I hate how he can fall asleep so fast! How do men do that? I still have nine steps before I hit the mattress.

I must use water to transform yellow fiber powder into a thick, cold liquid that I can barely swallow. A rinse of antiseptic follows brushing and flossing - I don't know why I bother with the antiseptic, since the only person who might smell my breath is sound asleep! But the dentist told me to.

Next I insert a clear plastic appliance in my mouth that will keep my jaw from grinding at night and ridges from forming in my teeth. I wash my makeup off with an exfoliant for my clogged pores and carefully wipe eye liner off with astringent pads. I smear green goop that promises miracles under my eyes, around my mouth, and across my forehead. A topcoat of polish goes on my nails. God, that stuff stinks! Almost finished!

I reach into the bottom of the closet and grab the contoured foam pillow that I will position between my legs, if my dislocated disc acts up. I turn out the bathroom light and creep to my nightstand in the dark. There, I grab two wrist braces for my carpal tunnel - one for each hand. The android is ready for bed!

Charley feels my weight tilt the mattress and rolls over to give me a good-night kiss, a token to our yesterdays. "I guess we won't be having spontaneous sex tonight," he mumbles.

Life's Timeouts

2011-02-26T18:21:00.000-08:00

I'm supposed to be working on my manuscript. Instead, I have been distracted recently, while having fun in gorgeous Florida weather!

---We flew to N.J. for the baptism of twin grandsons and the birthday of their three-year-old sister.
---Right after we returned, our two granddaughters from Massachusetts arrived in Delray Beach with their Mom for a visit.
---I played tennis three times, worked out at the fitness center three times, and walked four miles.
---I spent time emailing and snail-mailing former high school classmates about the upcoming reunion in Connecticut in October.
---I attended a lecture and a writer's critique group.

All of these things are on my "bucket list," so I don't know why I feel guilty about not writing. But I do!

Writing Dilemma

2011-02-09T17:40:00.001-08:00

The manuscript I have been working on is approximately two-thirds complete. It is a memoir describing a daughter's caregiving during the final three months of each of my parents' previously healthy, independent lives in Florida. It is also a chronicle of the hilarious eccentricities of the elderly. By interspersing my memory bank of laughable moments with scenes from the hospital, rehab unit, and nursing homes, I am trying to recreate a scene that is too familiar to many.

My parents were in no way extraordinary. They did not abuse; they were not alcoholics or schizophrenics; they did not suffer from bi-polar disease or obesssive compulsion. They were loving, involved parents and devoted partners. However, my relationship with them shifted when they became dependent on me as their caregiver. Mine is the story of millions of sons and daughters who must balance their own very full lives with the daily concerns for their parents' survival and their own self-preservation. By creating a memory bank, I was able to deal with my parents' struggles and my own.

Here's the problem: this manuscript is not marketable. There are thousands of published works out there about caregiving of the elderly, as well as Alzheimer's Disease. A memoir, if it is to attract a publisher, must tell a very unique story. Should I go in another direction with this, or continue as planned?

If I decided to write this purely as a family history, I would finish the manuscript as originally planned and let the kids and grandkidc have a copy someday. But I am constantly asked for advice from friends who are undergoing the same stresses and concerns with their parents. I have concluded that balancing elderly care and a life of one's own is truly a common experience among the 50-and-60generation, simply because our parents are living longer.

So here's what I have decided to do. I am going to finish the original manuscript, although it is slow going, and then redirect it. The new working title will be something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS. The HANDBOOK will provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on the bizarre, laughable, memorable antics of my ninety-year-old parents. It will also provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on my navigation through hospital surgeries, rehab facilities, nursing homes, health care agencies, parental alienation, and family rivalries. A HANDBOOK will provide levity while dealing with a demanding, stressful world that is neither black nor white, a world of laughter and tears. Suggestions???

My "Bucket List"

2011-01-21T17:53:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed the movie, "The Bucket List." It is a little far-fetched to think most of us could create a "carte-blanche" list of wishes and then proceed to check them off. But the premise seems good, especially the older I get (!).

Time is flying. Each day seems to get shorter and shorter. Although I accomplish numerous things and am lucky if I get eight hours sleep each day, I haven't spent time writing as often as I'd like lately. I have put people at the top of my "bucket list." Too many friends are sick or have left us. I'd rather spend my time with old friends and new, as well as relatives. I still work on my manuscript each day, just not to the extent I'd like. Nevertheless, I plan to finish.

Since we are retired, my husband enjoys his own activities. We still laugh a lot and enjoy each other's company, after forty-five years. We love movies, restaurants, books, tennis, some golf, and travel (though we no longer play tennis together - we're each too competitive!). We are fortunate to spend every anniversary at a favorite hotel on the Italian island of Ischia. My "bucket list" includes more time with Charley.

High on my "bucket list" are things to do with our five grandchildren. Although the twins are only six months, I hope to develop a memory bank with them at our Massachusetts beach, as we have with our three granddaughters. There is so much to tell them and show them and explore with all five of them! I learn from every encounter, whether it's a dance recital or collecting periwinkles or feeding baby cereal. I'd like for all of us to take a trip together or rent a place together. If that isn't feasible, maybe I could travel with one or two at a time?

Which brings me to the places around the world I'd like to visit. Charley and I have pretty much decided which areas don't interest either of us, but there are still so many to explore: Vancouver and British Columbia, Turkey, islands of Greece, Basque region of Spain, Australia and New Zealand, Fiji, Africa on safari. Some of these don't interest Charley, but that's ok. It's my "bucket list!"

Favorite Christmas Memories

2011-01-01T17:06:00.001-08:00

We all have some favorite memories of Christmas. Each year seems to add a unique perspective or a new family member. What are yours?

Here are a few memorable ones of mine.

Age 12

As much as I'd like to say that my favorite Christmas growing up revolved around a family gathering, trip, or even a funny mishap, it's not so. It was the Christmas I was twelve and received my first set of 78 LP's! A whole new world opened up - a world in which I could practice dance moves for the Friday night mixers. There was the Platters' "Earth Angel," Fats Domino's "My Blue Heaven," Al Hibbler's "Unchained Melody," Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti," as well as "See You Later Alligator," "Mr. Sandman," and Elvis, of course. Over and over I played each record, never budging from the spot in the living room where I practiced the jitterbug. I had struck gold! I gave up on the singing, though.

A Christmas Eve with Young Sons

While our two sons were growing up, we had a Christmas Eve routine. We would spend time at the home of one of our boys' best friends, Derek Laffey, in Cumberland, R.I. Stepping into the Laffey's home was like stepping into the pages of Architectural Digest. Kiva and Ed welcomed all of our family, including my parents, as part of their own. After that visit we travelled to the coast of Massachusetts to spend the rest of the evening with my husband's family. Since Charley was the oldest of seven children, there were six siblings' families (with ten grandchildren) all opening gifts. It was chaos. Papers flew everywhere and kids grabbed and rode everything, especially if the toy belonged to a cousin! Each family put its gifts in trash bags and kept them separated. On the Christmas I most remember, we arrived home at 1 a.m. with a bag of trash instead of gifts!

My Parents' Visits

After my parents moved to Florida, they would fly up to join Charley, Tim, Todd, and me at our home in Massachusestts for the holiday. Eventually the walls of our house bulged with fiancees, wives, and in-laws. Now we have added the grandchildren.

My parents were troopers, following us on our Christmas Eve trek, as well as to local parties. As they entered their eighties, we hosted the parties at our home so they wouldn't have to leave the house or stay up too late.

However, in 1996, a blizzard wound its way up the coast. It hit Philadelphia first, where my parents were catching their second flight for Providence. They sat aboard their plane on the tarmac while U.S. Air decided whether to proceed. Meanwhile, Charley and I waited in Providence, until the airport closed. U.S. Air officials there claimed my parents' flight might still be coming. All one had to do was look outside to see a complete whiteout! We headed home after midnight in six inches of snow.

Around that time, my parents finally deplaned in Philadelphia. They slept on benches in the airport. The food court had closed, so they had nothing to eat.

The next day, they arrived in Providence bleary-eyed and shaken. "Never again!" they told us. "Please don't ask us to fly up here again, especially in the winter!" They went right to bed at our house, missed Christmas Eve, and after Mom opened her new fur jacket on Christmas morning and posed for a photo in the snow, they went back to bed. They slept a total of seventeen hours.

2010

Charley and I reside in Florida, and it has been several years since we have hosted the family for Christmas in Massachusetts. We have, however, travelled to our sons' homes. And we have slept on airport benches - only it was in Atlanta.

This year, we arrived safely in New Jersey and were able to enjoy not only our twin grandsons born in July, but also their almost-three-year-old sister, and our other two granddaughters visiting from Massachusetts. It was a memorable Christmas, with everyone together. To top it off, we got snowed in with a blizzard for two days! Two more wonderful days sitting by the fire, feeding the twins, playing dress-up, eating pretend concoctions from the pretend kitchen Santa brought. After seven days together, it was time to rebook a flight home and grab some ZZZ's!

A Wish List for My Grandchildren at Christmas

2010-12-18T17:49:00.001-08:00

May you never underestimate yourselves but always overestimate the effort
it takes to fulfill your own expectations;

May you search deep inside to find out what is important and then
let go of things that are not;

May you have enough self-esteem to recognize your mistakes
and correct them;

May you share good times and bad with loved ones and continually
reach out to show how important they are to you;

May you find one good friend who will last a lifetime;

May you speak your mind with respect and listen with equal respect;

May you never be exclusionary and always complimentary;

May you judge others not by superficial things,
like the color of their skin or their clothes or dwellings,
but by their actions;

May you forgive easily;

May you marvel at the world that surrounds you and
actively protect it;

May you one day walk in the shoes of someone less fortunate;

May you spend time with an elderly person to learn wisdom,
patience, and companionship;

May you learn early that life is not fair, but that you can
deal with what comes;

May you never feel entitled to material things,
just because you are lucky enough to have
generous parents (and grandparents) who would happily grant
your every wish;

May you never feel entitled to arrogance,
just because you have achieved successes;

May you discover your unique talents and follow them
to the end of a dream;

May you develop a love of books and learning for its own sake;

May you find someone who will love you and make you feel
safe forever, as I did;

And may that person kiss and hug you in front of people
and always hold your hand!

REMEMBER, YOU HAVE MAGIC INSIDE EACH OF YOU!
With lots of love this Christmas, Granny Pam 2010

Keeping Up

2010-12-09T17:11:00.000-08:00

I know a writer should write every day. I can confirm the benefits. My Palm Beach Writers Group can confirm the benefits. If you want to be taken seriously as a writer, you must sit down every day at the same time, with no distractions. Your manuscript will begin to flow if you block off several hours. By returning to the work the next day at the same time, simple grammatical errors, timewarps, or contradictions in plot and character will appear glaring. Similarly, the storyline will flow more easily. It is a job to be taken seriously.

I have not been able to do this lately. First of all, we were flying to join our family in New Jersey for Thanksgiving. I took up some Christmas gifts, all wrapped, since we will be returning for Christmas. Nothing was more important than our visit or the preparation.

Now, with Christmas upon us, I am almost ready. We will again be leaving Florida and the gifts are done. Although we are not putting up a tree this year, there are Christmas decorations all around our apartment. I have begun working on Christmas cards. In addition, we are seeing visitors who come down from up north and local friends for dinner. We will have a cocktail party.

I know that neither the holidays nor regularly scheduled activities nor exercise routines are excuses not to write. The final straw to keep me from writing is the extraneous stuff necessary each day to be a writer - the blogs, the emails, the websites, the newsletters, etc.

The blogs are necessary and informative that appear in my "Inbox" every day. They are from publishing groups, agents, and marketing specialists and I have subscribed to them all. I need them for specific agent listings and insights into the writing/publishing process. But do I need them to appear EVERY SINGLE DAY?? Some of them are so repetitive that it's just too much.

In addition, there are the two local writers' groups I belong to. One is informational and a terrific support group. That group validates me as a published author. The other is a critique group. The writers in the critique group are honest, positive, and insightful. Both groups meet once a month, and I really enjoy them. Right now, though, there is no downtime to even READ a book.

I'm not complaining. I'll prioritize. It's just that there's so much more to writing than just writing.

Am I Too Old for This?

2010-10-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

I just attended the Fla. Writer's Conference near Orlando. Like any conference, the three days were packed with double-session seminars, speeches, and meetings with agents/publishers. It was very well-organized and illuminating, but discouraging.

Prior to attending, I had submitted my memoir, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS (published in 2009), to the state-wide contest for that genre. In July I was notified that I was a finalist!

I didn't get my hopes up, but was pretty excited. The Writer's Association told us it would announce the winners at the banquet during the conference. Which they did. It seemed everyone in attendance was a finalist in one of the categories - 300 people! The winner in my category, including biography and autobiography, told the tale of a child kidnapped in 1939 from her aristocratic, Catholic family by the Nazis. No competing with that!! I moved on!

We listened to speakers describe the wreck of an industry - publishing - and the growth of ebook sales. I knew all this firsthand, since New River Press, a division of which published MOM, is no longer in business. My ebook sales weren't even worth mentioning, though paperback versions have sold 70% of the first printing (1500). We listened to marketing experts describe the necessity for authors to have blogs, websites, Twitter, Facebook, and "Fans of ---." I already had that. I moved on!

We listened to flip agents from California use buzz-words (nonfiction must have a "platform" and every first page must have a "hook") and tell first-time writers that their expectations were entirely personal - i.e., if they succeeded in creating a manuscript that didn't sell, they should feel satisfied! None of us were there to hear that. Move on!

I met three other women writers my age and together we rocked! We laughed at the repetitious "we love ya'll's" of the FWA President on the microphone and made snide comments about the numerous awards in Young Adult Fiction (that's what's selling!) and Horror Fiction (that's what's selling!). We moved on!

None of my three buddies have been published. However, the former newspaper reporter had previously won a $1000 writing prize. Two of the others had submitted their short stories to the Writer's Association annual anthology and gotten accepted. My submission had not. I moved on!

Among the four of us, three had elderly parents they were either caring for or had cared for. We all anticipated that would be the subject matter of our next manuscript. Two of my buddies met with agents. Verdict: as a subject, the elderly is flooded, aka LOSING MUM AND PUP and STILL ALICE. Move on!

I have conscientiously read Nathan Bransford's blog for several years to learn the most concise, accurate info on how to get published. Nathan is a literary agent for Curtis Brown and his young-adult novel, JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, will soon be published. That should have told me something! Nathan held a contest for five guest bloggers to take his spot while he was on vacation. I submitted an entry. I know I'm way, way over the hill, but I still write English, don't I? The winning entries were HIP!! A guest blogger sat in Starbucks and talked about the new genre she was writing in - a "cozy." Another answered the question, "Who would be your literary BBF?" with the following: Alice Cullen from TWILIGHT and Harriet the Spy from NANCY DREW MYSTERIES.

At least I got something out of the conference. On the solitary ride home for three-plus hours, I decided to finish the manuscript I'm working on, then take it in a whole different direction! Or should I move on to bridge??

The Hard Work of Creativity

2010-09-19T18:54:00.000-07:00

Writers understand the joy that comes from investing onesself in the creative process. In fact, that could be said of anyone who totally immerses himself in his work. Artists, inventors, performers, architects, teachers - the list is endless - know that hard work becomes FUN when they completely lose themselves in the process. These creative moments lift us out of the everyday into a zone where focus is fixed on a particular spot - a sentence on the computer screen or a ridge on a sculpture or a brushstroke on a canvas or a pencil line on a paper or the faces in a classroom. It is something we are driven to do.

But the work doesn't come without effort, discomfort, and sometimes pain (physical cramping, carpal tunnel, etc). Technically perfect work may not display greatness. The discomfort of doing and redoing, working and reworking, is what distinguishes quality from mediocrity. It is the fourth draft of a written work that is again revised into the fifth draft that may give the effort its finishing touches.

Dedication is not an easy thing to describe. It demands discipline and mental toughness. Sacrifices must be made to see a project through those finishing touches. I write because I love to express myself, and I think I have something worthwhile to pass on. It is a slow process, and must not be rushed.

I am not competing with a clock or with any other writers. I have plenty of time in my retirement years. Fortunately, I do not have to rely on the income (thank goodness!) to write. I am merely competing with myself. I want to leave something lasting during my lifetime.

I have no doubt I can go the extra mile and maintain a positive attitude while I produce better and better writing in my second book. The work is only one-third done and is far from perfect. Yet I know when the manuscript is finished, it is not finished. I will make extra, uncomfortable efforts at revision. It may mean the difference between being published again or remaining unpublished.

The Best Is Yet to Be!

2010-09-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

Who knew what a fantastic summer this would be! Here in New England we had two spectacular months of sunshine - July and August - ranging in temperatures from eighty to one hundred degrees. Not great for the electric bills, since we never turned off the a.c. from July 4th weekend until mid-August, but for any outdoor plans, the weather never failed. Even the sixty-six-degree temperatures in Buzzard's Bay didn't cool us off some weeks.

Charley and I started the summer in June by exploring a different part of Italy we had never been to - Puglia. It is located on the heel of Italy's boot on the Adriatic, and we were not disappointed. There were olive groves as far as the eye could see, gorgeous sand beaches (both deserted and mobbed), converted farmhouse hotels that served locally-grown produce, and architectural wonders seen nowhere else in the world. Two examples of the latter were the beehive "trulli" homes, built of local limestone with slate roofs and never a nail or mortar. These dated from the 13th century. There was also a city of cave-like dwellings or "sassi" homes, dating from the Bronze Age. We topped off our stay in Italy by returning via hydrofoil to our favorite island of Ischia, in the Bay of Naples.

Following the annual July 4th parade, gathering at our beach, and cookout, our two new fraternal grandsons were born. They weighed six pounds four ounces and five pounds thirteen ounces each. Today, at seven weeks, they are both inching up on ten pounds. Charley and I are astounded by the miracle of TWO healthy births at once, following the succession of three healthy granddaughters' arrivals within the last five years. We have spent a total of ten days with the boys and their sister, and can't wait to return.

There has never been a happier time in our lives! Charley and I are still enjoying each other's company after forty-five years(!), active on the golf course and tennis courts, seeing old friends and making new ones, and ENJOYING each opportunity to have granddaughters jump into our arms in a pool or zoom over and over again into our arms down a slide, collect periwinkles with us at the beach, play miniature golf together, or put on singing and dancing performances any time the urge arises (which is frequently!). Although I have not accomplished as much writing on my next book as I'd hoped, what's more important than LIFE? Who knows what will happen next!!

Awaiting the News

2010-07-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

We are expecting twin grandsons in N.J. sometime between now and early August. Our son (the expectant father) has told me to keep my phone charged and with me at all times. He is going down a list of "Things to do before the boys arrive," and is, understandably, edgy. So far it seems the list is getting accomplished: the upstairs floors have been refinished and walls painted, cribs are set up, baby clothes (received as gifts) are washed and put away, double stroller is on loan from a friend, car seats are installed in the new mini-van, his wife is registered at the hospital, and the doctor's appointments have gone by without incident. Each grandson is already five ++ pounds at thirty-five weeks.

Our daughter-in-law is calm and asserts she is still feeling reasonably comfortable, thanks to air-conditioning in the 90 to 100-degree temperatures they've been having. She is even going into the lab a couple of days a week.

We all have our assignments. The neighbor next door has agreed to take the two-and-one-half year old sister, who will be deposited there with the neighbor's four children when mom and dad take off for the hospital. The other grandma has the assignment to retrieve our granddaughter from the neighbor when she gets the call. She lives just fifty minutes away. "When will you see the boys?" I asked.

"When you arrive," she answered. Since we are six hours away, our assignment will be to notify those not yet given the call, then to hop in the car and begin driving. I asked our son if we could stay in a hotel near the hospital, since grandma #1 will be unpacked in the guest room. "We have made room for all of you!" was the answer. Fortunately, we get along famously with grandma #1, since we will be bonding closely.

We will visit briefly while mom and babies are in the hospital, then head home when they are released. Next assignment: to return indefinitely when grandma #1 wants some rest! We are on an alternating schedule for the remainder of the summer. With our son taking time off from work, there will be at least three of us to help while Charley and I are there. Fatigue will gradually diminish the excitement, I'm sure. But for now, we're all busy trying to stay busy!

Serenity

2010-06-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

Since my husband and I will be travelling for several weeks, I thought I'd post a last-minute blog before signing off till the end of this month.

Over the Memorial Day Weekend, we had the entire family with us at the beach in Massachusetts. There were our two sons, our two daughters-in-law, three granddaughters, and two EXPECTED twin boys, due in early August.

The weather was idyllic - hot sun, with no humidity. Definitely beach weather, which is where we sat for two out of three days. In-between, of course, three little girls, ages five and under, sampled swingsets and slides, supplied the bird feeder and hosed the perennial beds, had LOTS of wagon rides in the yard while licking ice cream with sprinkles, and sat over-looking boats, sliding across the water, while we waited...and waited...and waited at a restaurant for our dinner.

One of our sons was getting over a sinus infection; a daughter-in-law had an ear infection; the other son and a granddaughter had chest coughs. Charley and I prayed we wouldn't get sick just before leaving for a college reunion and a European trip. All of that was forgotten in an instant.

The perfect moment - the moment that will be etched in my memory bank for a long, long time - was when three little girls all cooperated to build a sand castle, collecting rocks for windows and turrets, while their dads scooped the sand into buckets and their moms in beach chairs supervised, amid their chatting. This was the moment of serenity when I thought to myself, "Life can get no better than this!"

Reentry

2010-05-24T16:53:00.001-07:00

We have finished our "snowbird" move from Florida to Massachusetts. The older we get, the more effort it takes! We will remain in Massachusetts for four months, but the transition has taken a week.

I am certainly not complaining!! We are among the fortunate ones to have two residences to enjoy, especially in this economy. We try to forget our age in the process.

But there are way too many boxes and suitcases to unpack from the SUV. I still have not learned to bring the minimal amount of clothes for each location. Charley (my husband) claims he is brought along simply to drive his shifts and to load and unload the car! The files, papers, folders, computer equipment, and everything related to my book sales took up half the space in the car and then we have to find locations for all of it once we arrive. Which means throwing out a lot of stuff I never look at, just to put the other stuff from the car away. The floors are littered.

Then there are the things that don't work when we walk in. This time, there was no hot water, no water pressure in the master shower, no cable, and the floodlight outside our bedroom kept going on and off all night. Oh yes, we also had (and still do) a running toilet. So we take turns waiting for the plumber, electrician, and cable guy.

Did I mention that my beloved husband of forty-five years (next month) left the trunk door up on the SUV as he drove it into the garage, after we had driven 1500 miles? And smashed the entire back window? And claimed it was NOT because he was tired? Mind you, this is MY car that I drive every day, but THANK GOODNESS it wasn't me pulling into the garage! There were tiny fragments of glass in every crevice of the car, all over the garage, and scattered out onto the driveway. We are still tracking them into the house. The windshield wiper was torn off and its motor disabled. The entire first afternoon after our arrival we spent with the dealer and insurance adjuster. Fortunately, we got a loaner and four days later (and almost $500 later, after deductible) I got my car back.

Summer is wonderful...truly!! I look at the green expanse of golf course leading down to Buzzard's Bay, and every time am convinced that I've never seen anything so beautiful. Not to mention that we are now just over an hour away from two of our adorable granddaughters! So now that the first week's reentry is over, I'll shut up and enjoy.

A Writer's Hardest Task

2010-05-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

I am looking out the window of our Florida condo and seeing a glistening aqua pool that beckons. Since it is ninety-something degrees in early May, the beach is packed. I'm retired from the interior design business and from teaching high school. So what am I doing sitting at a computer instead of enjoying the Florida sunshine?

I am making myself sit here to work on some chapters on the new book I started. It is about my parents, who lived to be ninety and ninety-five, with sound minds and bodies. This memoir will reconstruct the last three months of each of their lives, the months when our roles reversed and I became the caregiver for all the surgeries, hospitalizations, rehab unit, and nursing homes.

But this memoir will also reconstruct some of the hilarious things my parents did...some of the idiosyncrasies that we as their kids used to make fun of, and are now repeating...some of the reasons we remember them so well and loved them so deeply, despite what happened during the last ninety days.

A writer's hardest task? To make myself sit down every day and produce something on the computer screen, despite the distractions and the temptations. I know that almost every job takes self-discipline, and being a writer most certainly does. It is the satisfaction of production that far outweighs lounging on the beach or swimming a few laps. Those relaxing moments come eventually, after I know I've put in a good morning/afternoon of work. Self-discipline comes after years of practice. I taught my classrooms of kids the tricks, and I taught our own kids. It's a great leveller, too, since a lot of people without superb talent have the self-discipline to work harder to even the playing field.

Bottom line? I love what I'm doing, so I don't mind putting in the effort and missing out on a few things. The product is definitely worth the sacrifice. In other words, put the butt on the seat, and make something happen!

Question Most Often Asked

2010-05-06T17:42:00.000-07:00

I was recently honored to be on a panel in Cambridge, Mass., with our younger son Todd and Tom Brady, Sr., along with Nancy Brady (Patriot quarterback's father and sister). We had lots of things in common and the audience learned some insider stories about the famous quarterback and the support group that is his family. During the question and answer session, an audience member asked the question that I am most frequently asked after publishing MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS(the story of Todd and his brother in the minor league system from rookie team through "AAA"). We were asked, "When did you know your sons were elite athletes?"

My answer is always the same. As a mom, you keep hoping that your kids have the skills to simply make the team at the next level! Never once did it cross our minds while they were growing up that they would enter the ranks of the pros. After all, we lived in a small town in Rhode Island, and although Tim and Todd were both on all-star baseball and ice-hockey teams, we had a rather small circle of comparison. Our goals athletically never looked beyond the team at the next higher level. Finally, when Tim and Todd were in college and playing intercollegiate ball, we had a more legitimate basis for comparison. At that point, when college coaches were telling us they might be good enough to play professionally, we listened. The major league scouts at the game were tracking them, but they were tracking a lot of other players, too.

Of course, we facilitated our sons' wishes to play at each new level. They attended baseball camp at the University of Maine and hockey camp at Providence College during the summers, and still played all-star baseball and hockey eleven months a year. When college coaches began recruiting them, we took them to a selection of schools to meet the coaches. It was instant like or dislike.

Tom Brady, Sr., agreed with me. He had no idea if Tom would ever continue to play after a disappointing freshman year in high school. Tom was the backup freshman quarterback in San Mateo, California. "Tommy rarely made it off the bench, never threw a touchdown, and his team never even won a game that season," he said. But Dad hired private coaches, sent him to camps, and produced a recruiting video so Tom, Jr., would earn a scholarship to the University of Michigan.

Tom, Jr., was in love with football, just like Tim and Todd loved baseball. Tom was a back-up quarterback at Michigan with big-league dreams. "You don't limit their horizons because of your horizons," Tom, Sr., told the audience. "We got our chance. Now they get their chance."

I added a P.S. to that story: have a back-up plan! In our home, education was the top priority. That was one of my jobs as a mom: to make sure they stayed focused on their studies. Our expectations as parents became their expectations. My other job was always to support their performance on the field, and not to criticize. There were coaches to do that.

In Tom Brady, Jr.'s, case, he probably won't need a back-up plan. But when the seven years of minor league ball were over, Tim and Todd did. By that time, Charley and I knew our kids were gifted athletes, but there were lots of other things they had gifts for, too.
...with thanks to Brooke deLench for her blog on MomsTeam.com

Ripples of Connection

2010-04-10T13:28:00.000-07:00

There's a quote from a memoir I read entitled TALES FROM THE BED by Jenifer Estess, as told to Valerie Estess. It goes like this: "It isn't what you know, but how you perform. Skills are the essential piece of the puzzle. They help you deliver the goods."

During the last year, I have been consumed with my book that was published in April, '09, entitled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. I thought I had "delivered the goods" by writing a unique story and a readable one, then finding a publisher interested in getting it on the market. Turns out that was only step one! Marketing the book became a full-time job - book signings, radio and tv appearances, etc., etc. All of which was new to me, fun, and certainly interesting. The marketing took on a life of its own (and overtook mine in the process) and proved to be another challenge in which I had to (and still am) "delivering the goods."

The impact of publishing a book cannot be imagined beforehand. In a previous blog, I described reconnecting with a former minor league player who was on the Red Sox with our two sons in the '90's. I had written about this player, who is now a Little League coach in Florida. He's coaching a kid whose mom had read my book and contacted us. We surprised the coach with a visit.

This past week more ripples surfaced. I heard from two of my former high school English students, both from Old Town, Maine. They had heard about the book and tracked me down on the internet. Their sentiments and compliments about turning them on to the written word in the classroom (and making them memorize Shakespeare!)touched me greatly after all these years. As I told them, a teacher can remember his/her failures in the classroom with great clarity, so it is hugely satisfying to learn of the successes, as well. I guess at some point during my teaching years I had "delivered the goods."

I sincerely hope the ripples continue, not only about the first book of mine, but about the next memoir that I am now starting. Let's hope I can "deliver the goods!"

Sustaining an Injury

2010-04-08T18:31:00.000-07:00

On April 22nd at 6:30 p.m. I will participate in a panel discussion in Cambridge, Mass., with our son Todd and Tom Brady's (the Patriot quarterback's) dad and, hopefully, his mom. Our son Todd, along with his older brother, were the subjects of my book published last April entitled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS (on Amazon). The subject of the panel discussion will be, "Parenting Elite Athletes."

I'm sure that somewhere in the discussion the topic of injuries will arise, particularly injuries in the pros, where jobs are at stake. Although I am not in that category, I would like to relate my recent experience with a back injury.

I am a grandmother who works fairly hard to stay in shape. I have played on a tennis team at a rather high level for twenty years. We compete all around South Palm Beach County, Florida, from September till the middle of May. I have worked out at a fitness center twice a week for the same number of years, and I play golf twice a week. Sevven days a week I am running off to compete or exercise, including four-mile walks with my husband. I live to play sports, which are a huge component of my life, along with my family, and writing/marketing my book. Many of our current friendships today were made on the courts.

When my mother was in her eighties, she suffered from osteoporosis, then dislocated and herniated discs. Her will power enabled her to exercise faithfully for three months in a pool. This was a godsend, which kept her free of surgery till she was ninety. At that time, she cracked a vertebra, and the angioplasty (gluing procedure) which had worked for my father, unfortunately, had unforeseen consequences for my mother. After a piece of vertebra fractured off into the spinal column during angioplasty, she sustained two emergency surgeries and could not regain her strength. Ninety-two days after entering the hospital for the first operation, she passed away.

I have just experienced my first back problem, and it is purely a result of my mother's genes. Fortunately, I don't have osteoporosis, but I have a herniated and dislocated disc which has put me out of action for five weeks already.

When people say they experience back pain from stenosis or sciatica, I now know what they are suffering. The back is so fragile, and yet we put so much pressure on it with gigantic purses, books, cartons, groceries, even children and grandchildren that are too heavy for us. We do not lift with our legs, but instead with our backs. Women's heels put the back at an unnatural angle. I have learned that any treatment for the back is a matter of TIME and exercise, and the mending cannot be rushed.

I refused cortisone shots (a stopgap measure, in my view, and dangerous if too many) and stopped all activity. I entered five weeks of physical therapy; I wore a brace; I used a heating pad and always wore (and still do) sneakers for support. In order to sleep with the pain going down my leg, I bought a hard, contoured foam pillow to put between my legs to keep my spine straight. I swam laps five-six days/week. And I succumbed to taking an anti-inflammatory pill for one week, before I discontinued it because of warnings about stroke, cardio-vascular disease, and bleeding ulcerations.

Did I have withdrawal symptoms while I couldn't play team tennis? NO! I was too busy swimming laps in the pool; reading books I had piled up for months; and starting to organize the writing of my second manuscript. I actually loved the time off from the treadmill! Of course, I'm counting down the days till I step back on the court, but it will be a friendly social tennis game, not a competitive match. The matches might return eventually. One thing I've learned: you can't rush the mending of your body. Oh yes, I learned another thing: to get off the treadmill and do some things that are on your "bucket list."

Reconnecting after 17 Years

2010-03-17T17:48:00.000-07:00

The phone rang and my husband answered. "Yes," he said, "I am the husband of Pam Carey. Who is this?"

(Pause.) "Sorry, I don't recognize the name."

We were getting used to that kind of call, since the publication of my book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. Community events people called to book a signing/presentation; publicists called to enlist me as a client.

"Just a minute," Charley said, "I'll give her the phone."

"Hello?" I inquired.

"Hi! This is Becky Kaczman, and you don't know me, but I have just read your book and have a boy playing Little League on Hillsboro Boulevard. I wanted to connect with you because my son's team is coached by Marty Durkin, and he is mentioned in your book!"

Here's what happened next: Charley and I made a trip to the baseball fields down Hillsboro Boulevard, in Florida, about thirty minutes from where we live. We wanted to see the coach of a kid we didn't even know. Why? Because of our fond memories of the years our two sons played pro baseball with Marty Durkin during Red Sox spring training and Fla. State games; because of the many hours we spent in the stands with his parents, huge baseball nuts and supportive parents; because of the memory of one huge spread, complete with Honeybaked Ham and all the fixinigs, his mom put out at their house in Ft. Lauderdale for our Red Sox team; and because of this mom, Becky, who was now living my life and trying to surprise her son's coach by our appearance.

Marty's team got clobbered, but we didn't care. Our surprise visit was special - seeing his wife again, meeting his middle son, talking about minor league days and where everyone was now. We threw names of former players around that we've seen or kept in touch with. We talked about Marty's three sons, who all play baseball, and about his parents, who still live in the same house and are allowing Marty's oldest son to live with them so he can attend Cardinal Gibbons High School, to play on the same team as his dad.

If anyone were to ask me the benefits of our kids' participation on a sports team, I would probably not list reunions high on the list. But for several hours last weekend, it was right up there at the top. And Marty had even purchased his own copy of the book! Thanks, Becky!

Life's Evershifting Focus

2010-03-08T17:46:00.000-08:00

As Judith Barrington wrote in Writing the Memoir, "life doesn't have a shapely plot in the way that fiction often does. It goes on day by day with an ever-shifting focus as various themes unfold over time."

The plan I had laid out for myself this winter was to begin to shape my next book, a memoir about my parents. I had all the material in journals (an old writing and teaching habit), as well as the memories of my parents' funny habits and the caregiving decisions that became necessary during their last several months.

When I sat down to organize the notes, I realized I was not ready. I had more caregivers' memoirs to read and research to do; I had a data base to collect from the sales of my previous book (Minor League Mom: A Mother's Journey through the Red Sox Farm Teams). My new writing project still waits for a narrative.

Then, suddenly, I was in pain. The bulging discs in my back had erupted and one had moved one-half inch. I had trouble walking, let alone competing in tennis and golf matches or going through my routines at the fitness center. So began the rounds of doctor's appointment, x-rays, physical therapy, and swimming laps....

Interrupted by a trip to New Jersey to celebrate a granddaughter's belated second birthday and on to Massachusetts to celebrate another's belated fifth birthday.
Life didn't have a shapely plot. I had trouble picking the three little girls up, and went to bed with heating pad, Advil, and Stop-Pain for my aches. But oh, it was so worth the effort!

I have another memory bank to draw from now - one of little girls putting on a "Disney on Ice" show complete with three changes of costume; a two-year-old getting up from her crib in the morning yelling, "Grandmaw, where are u?"; a beach party in the middle of the kitchen floor with sunblock, cardgames, towels, and snacks; a pre-school breakfast for parents, etc., etc.

The pain had to wait, and so did my writing project. Day by day there was an ever-shifting focus, one that I didn't want to miss.

HOMEWORK: Reading, 'Rithmetic, Then 'Riting

2010-02-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

Like any other project, I cannot just dive right into it. It's the same with studying Italian or building a shed or learning to drive. There's homework that comes first to build up my skills and to learn how to structure the project.

My new project is writing another book. It will be about my parents, who lived into their nineties with healthy minds and bodies. The focus will be the funny, idiosyncratic things they did that made us laugh and remember them, before the caregiving started. That last part will have to be in there too, since the point of the book will be that I had a memory bank to draw from when the tables reversed themselves and things got rough.

I thought I was ready to begin writing. I have all the notes and journals I kept for those last years of their lives, right up until they passed away almost exactly one year apart. But I wasn't ready. I hadn't done all my homework.

I had not READ some of the books published about caring for elderly parents. Naturally, I don't intend to read them all, but at least some, that deal with the same subject about making difficult decisions with two remaining parents, then one. So I ordered a couple of them to see how they were structured and whether I had anything new to say. So far, my story and my viewpoint will be unique, as it should be. I am different, and so were my parents, from any of the other characters whose stories I have read. A publisher wants a new twist, even if it is an old story.

I had also not done the 'RITHMETIC necessary before starting this project. I had records from my previous publisher about the sales and expenses of my first book(MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, published by Barking Cat Books, a division of New River Press). I knew I had to sell virtually the entire first printing of that book before we broke even. We are well on the way.

But the preparation for writing involved creating a data base ('RITHMETIC) for the next book. I have now spent a month and a half putting lists together: names, addresses, emails of people who bought the book; names, addresses, emails of group members I have had the opportunity to speak before; contacts for bookstores, libraries, clubs, colleges, where I have appeared and where I hope to appear; invitation lists for book signings, etc., etc. There are over 1,000 listings so far.

Finally, when these homework steps are complete, I will begin 'RITING. 'RITING the first draft from the journals I kept will be fun. I anticipate that the storytelling will flow easily. After all, I knew the subjects intimately, since it will be a memoir. Revisions and redrafts will follow.

When the manuscript is complete, that's when the hard work really begins. Finding a publisher interested in the story is like finding a needle in a haystack. Only perseverance and luck will make it happen. And then comes the marketing, after I sign on the dotted line. That's when all the homework will pay off.

DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT: be different

2010-01-26T18:07:00.000-08:00

Why, I ask myself, would anyone want to read a book about a mother with two sons in the Red Sox minor leagues (MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS)? But they did! After ten months, my book has sold half of the first printing. I am astounded by this, so I analyze. I had read everything in print on the subject of minor league baseball before I started writing and discovered that I had a unique story to tell...a story of a family with two sons playing for the same pro team, with the same goal: becoming a major leaguer. Neither of them ever made it. There would be no instant name recognition to this story. Still, a mother's point-of-view was unique in the world of pro sports.

But my story also had to be readable. So I wrote my memoir in the best way I knew how. As a former writing teacher, I knew the pitfalls. I needed to have my sons, the two main characters, grab the reader's attention and sympathy. They are likable kids, smart and motivated, so that was no problem. There was plenty of family history to write about. Both boys worked so hard through the seven years in the Red Sox system, yet they were so different.

Now I am at a crossroads before beginning another memoir, this time about my elderly parents in their nineties - their funny habits and idiosyncracies, before the caregiving started. They were each healthy in mind and body until the last several months. However, I plan to chronicle the caregiving, too, since that lasted only a short time for each of them, and Ev and Walt died almost exactly a year apart. They would have passed together, if there was any way they could have planned it. I am still reading memoirs and essays published about caregiving for aging parents. I don't want to repeat what is already out there.

Here is the point. In order to do something different that a publisher will want to print and that readers will want to pick up, I've got to have a new twist, a new hook. And I do. Why? Because I am different from all those other caregivers, and my parents were different from all the other parents - loving toward their children and each other, set in their ways, yet able to charm and joke. They were fun to be around, and Walt's blue eyes created instant girlfriends among the women he met. My mom was sweet and smart, but had a real adamant streak when she decided someone had tried to get away with something. The memory bank I have is different from anyone else's.

It is this memory bank of funny stories that I will recount in order to show how I got through the end of the story. That is my twist. It is difficult enough to hold your parents in your arms while they make the transition. Without the memory bank, it would have been nearly impossible. I am different because my story is different. Isn't everyone's?

A NEW BEGINNING

2010-01-08T14:36:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR! A new year, a new decade, a new lease on life after spending the holidays looking at things from the perspective of a toddler. Always puts the important things right back in front of my nose! What else? A new job for some, and certainly for me...a new book to start.

I'll begin something I look forward to - writing - just as others look forward to beginning a new task at work, or perhaps sowing the seeds of a new relationship. Why? Since the publication of my first memoir, MINOR LEAGUE MOM, part of my self-definition is that of a writer. I really enjoy the process. The other reason is that I like to challenge myself, like during a team tennis match or while travelling to a different part of the globe.

I don't agonize over what's ahead. I'm not nervous about how to begin, or what the theme of the writing will be. I've been collecting material my whole life, so there is no great abyss. I'm not staring at a blank page, wondering when the ideas will come. I don't create a huge block of granite in my mind that I must chip away at (though I do) by constant, steady work. Nor do I create a complicated outline (though I've got a rough outline in my mind). I just begin.

Where? At the farthest place back in the notes I have kept about my parents, the subjects of my next memoir. They lived into their nineties, healthy in mind and body. I have so many journals about the funny things they did, the things that gave us barrels of laughter and pleasure before the caregiving started, that I can jump in almost anywhere. I'll give as much background as necessary during the telling.

Everybody's got a memory bank to draw from. Some of it may be disposable, some of it precious. But we've all got talents and successes that make us unique. Or memories! Maybe it was a childhood friend who stood by us, maybe a family member we could confide in, maybe a mentor or teacher who believed in us. Everyone's got a reservoir to draw from to start over or redo. Dig down and take a look, even if you didn't keep notes!

I'm excited, and why not? I'm a grandmother who takes one look at our granddaughters and falls in love every time. I have a husband of forty-three years I still adore. I'm fortunate enough to be healthy and involved in activites I enjoy. I have long-standing friendships with people I love, who love me back.

Getting the jitters about beginning a new book? No way! I'm lucky to get the chance to start over. There have been other, far more daunting phases of life when starting over involved a lot more than just looking at a blank page.

Making Lists

2009-12-04T19:30:00.000-08:00

I'm a list-maker. I think it's in my genes, and my sister's, too. My calendar has an 8 1/2 x 11" page for every three days, and they are FILLED! I list the phone calls I have to make each day, the stops in the car, the correspondence, etc.
The only thing I don't put in there is the grocery list. I have a separate sheet for that. I guess you can tell I don't bother with a Blackberry - it would take me way too long to enter the items and I couldn't read three days all at once.

A long time ago I began to keep an open notebook for lists of things that pop into my head. Sometimes I write down a great-sounding phrase, or a page reference for a really unique idea that I just read. Sometimes I jump up in the middle of the night and creep into the kitchen to jot things down. I don't turn on any lights till I get there, so I won't wake Charley. When we're on trips, I record the restaurants where we had a great meal, or where we should return to a hotel, or even where we might go on our next trip!

My list-making turned into journal-keeping. That's how my first book got published, MINOR LEAGUE MOM. I kept journals of everything that happened to our two sons while they were playing pro ball with the Red Sox farm teams, as well as to Charley and me. Now that MINOR LEAGUE MOM is in print, I'll begin writing my next one about my elderly parents: all the funny, idiosyncratic things they did and the great relationship we had until I became their caregiver (and our roles reversed). All of those stories are in journals waiting to be put into a framework.

I have also started a journal about the tennis team I am on in South Florida. We play interclub matches from late September till middle of May. If I ever produce a book on that subject, it could be a soap opera! Some of my teammates are now feeding me material.

Here's the point: it's easier for me to write from notes than to begin with a blank slate. And I like to write what I know about, since the reader will discern that the details are true. It makes the writing fun, not work, while I recollect the experience.

Here's another point, and it is a problem: I become obsessed with checking off the items on the list! That means I must see these tasks through to conclusion, whether it's phone calls, grocery-shopping, or emails. Now in the case of writing, self-discipline is a good thing. To a point. I write till I get too hungry or too tired. Sometimes a month goes by and I haven't relaxed by the pool with a book or sat at the ocean (right outside our window!). That's when Charley says, "It's time to go to a movie!"

In addition to writing the second book, I'm still marketing the first. Check out MINOR LEAGUE MOM's website for an idea of things I've been up to: www.minorleaguemom.net. Plus I've got other stuff I still want to accomplish. But that's another list I've started in my head!

HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU'RE GOOD ENOUGH?

2009-11-20T18:56:00.000-08:00

OK, so you've written pretty much on and off your whole life. You have researched, written, then rewritten (maybe for years) your first manuscript. Facts have been verified and properly credited. How do you know if you're good enough to get published?

In order to get published, a writer has to do something well. And in order to write something that the reader will hold onto, a writer must believe in his product. That belief shines through the work, and the reader becomes a believer. The writer has put in the time and effort, and has been validated.

No one writes his best on the very first draft. It helps to read it aloud, to himself or others. That's where a writer's group or critique group comes in. After all, his wife and kids all thought it would be a best-seller! A group will give input and tips on general improvements to make. In the case of nonfiction, a pro who is knowledgable in the subject should look it over.

I am a newly-published author (MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS). Obviously, I knew my subjects intimately (my two sons) and my research involved the seven years that my husband and I followed them through the minor league system, from the rookie team through AAA (baseball's highest level). I kept journals as I watched. I collected all the newspaper articles from the towns we were in, and programs from games, etc., etc. When I finished my manuscript, I networked to find a sportswriter to read it.

After calling/emailing literally hundreds of people I knew and didn't know, I was lucky to find a published author/sportswriter who was also a reader for a literary agent in Boston. He agreed to edit my manuscript (my first truly objective reader). When he'd finished the manuscript and we went over the suggested revisions, he declared, "You've got to publish this!" That was my first real validation.

I sought a second one. I rewrote the manuscript, making many (but not all) of the revisions my paid editor had recommended. The second opinion was from a sportswriter for The Providence Journal (another published author). He perused the first fifty pages of my manuscript and told me I had a unique story to tell and a readable one. I had been validated twice!!

During the following eighteen months, I tried to find a literary agent to represent me (dealing in sports memoirs, of course). I collected a folder of rejection letters. It was a "Catch-22." No agent wanted to take a chance on a first-time author, but no new author can get published if an agent isn't willing to take that chance! During all this, I continued to believe in my story and in my writing.

I decided not to self-publish. My "Plan B" consisted of soliciting independent publishers from Maine to Florida. Luckily, I found New River Press in Woonsocket, R.I., which had formed a new imprint division called Barking Cat Books for first-time New England authors. I had a literary contract attorney look at the contract, then I signed. I sent the manuscript and all necessary photos, dedication, footnotes, and bibliography, electronically to the publisher. He in turn sent it to his editor electronically.

Over the course of three months, I received only three emails from the editor, while the publisher was in constant touch with her. I had heard stories of the great relationship editors develop with their writers! Not in my case. She kept us waiting until the last possible minute before returning the edited galleys. We almost missed our printing deadline. And she had cut practically nothing!!

Once again, I was validated. In the end, it meant a much longer book, since we were hoping the editor would direct me in consolidating parts of the saga. Since she didn't, we went with the manuscript almost exactly as I had submitted it.

My book has sold half of its first printing (1,500 copies)in seven months, and I am still doing book signings and presentations at libraries, book stores, and clubs. MINOR LEAGUE MOM has taken on a life of its own, and certainly overtaken mine! Who would have thought that I was good enough for all this?

Taste is in the Mind of the Reader

2009-10-08T12:55:00.000-07:00

As a follow-up to Nathan Bransford's recent blog on Oct. 6. '09 (literary agent for Curtis Brown), I would like to reinforce his opinion that taste in literature (or anything) is always:

#1 extremely personal

and somethimes:

#2 a way of trashing something you don't agree with.

In the case of literature, as Nathan points out, to trash a book is highly risky. Not only will there be others (including the agent and publisher, of course) who disagree with you, but there might be thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, who are reading the book. Therefore, as a writer, there is something to learn from that book's formula for success.

In other words, if you trash a book because you believe it is unworthy of being on the same bookshelf as a "classic," you are neglecting the thousands of books who have given readers a "quick read," a "beach read," or even a "plane read." They may not be a MOBY DICK, but they have provided hours of pleasure, nonetheless, for readers who may not be looking for a timeless treasure that can be dissected.

There is something else happening here. Trashing a book does, indeed, mean closing off a part of your brain that learns from whatever was deemed worthy of publication in that book by either an agent or a publisher, or both. If I hate a book, I don't trash the entire thing. I will simply point out in my book clubs what I didn't find up to par: plot, character development, voice, symbols, etc. However, if there was any small redeeming factor in the writing, I also point that out, too. I cannot remember reading a book that I did not finish, for that reason. But then, I am one to never walk out of a movie, either, even when I dislike it intensely!

REINVENTING MYSELF

2009-09-14T18:40:00.000-07:00

There are many people writing on websites more qualified than I, giving advice on how parents can help their children become successful individuals (athletics being only a part of that formula). I would like to discuss the flip side: how to maintain a balanced lifestyle as the parent of athletes (thereby raising well-adjusted and happy kids!). It's not an easy task.

My book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, has just been published by Barking Cat Books. For a complete profile, visit www.minorleaguemom.net. The book is my story of the seven years of triumphs and tragedies, as our two sons journeyed through the minor leagues, from the rookie team through AAA (the pinnacle) during 1992-99. What I had considered to be my balanced lifestyle definitely became one-sided during those years! Here's the background of how it developed.

STAGES ONE AND TWO: FROM TEACHER TO FULL-TIME MOM
I obtained a Master's Degree from Columbia U. Teacher's College and before we had children, I taught high school English in three different states. I sometimes got so caught up discussing books with students afterschool that I would forget to pick up my paycheck! I absolutely loved teaching, although this was before the days of weapon- and drug-checks in the hallways.

When we had our boys sixteen months apart, I decided to become a stay-at-home mom. I absolutely loved that, too! I was always busy, either taking the boys to museums or zoos or later volunteering for things at their school. Our neighborhood mothers would meet for coffee to share recipes, stores and restaurants that had opened, kids' experiences at school or on teams. Those of us who didn't work put each other's names on the "Call in an Emergency" list for our children at school. There was always an instant playgroup in the yard with neighborhood kids (including the sisters), and the play usually involved a ballgame. We didn't have to arrange many "playdates." I volunteered for everything: President of the YWCA, President of the Preschool Parents' Association, President of Newcomer's Club, team mom in Little League. Our social activities revolved around our friends in these organizations or tennis court friends.

STAGE THREE: RETRAINING FOR A NEW CAREER IN INTERIOR DESIGN
When Tim was around ten and Todd nine, I decided to return to the work force. I felt I needed to direct my creativity to something beyond the boys' classroom projects or directing annual funds, budget proposals, raffles, or bake sales. I tried to get back into teaching high school English, but in the early 80's there was a glut of teachers. So I went to my first backup plan. I decided to retrain in something I also enjoyed: interior design. We lived close to R.I. School of Design, and the commitment involved four years of night-school for an advanced degree. My husband, Charley, was completely supportive. Although he had a demanding job that involved travel (often international for ten days at a time), he took over the homework check after dinner with the boys while I worked on perspective drawings or studied for architecture exams, often till sun-up. During this time I also apprenticed for a local designer during the day, but was available when school let out.

When I opened my own company, I chose to do so out of our home. I used the dining room, right off the central hall, as my office. This allowed me to arrange my work hours around school, practice, and game schedules. I don't want to minimize the stress this schedule caused...often I was in Boston at the Design Center with a client and would be looking at my watch to get on Route 93 South in order to avoid rush hour and be able to pick the boys up on time. My stomach was often in knots. I worked till midnight many nights on the accounts, after attending one of their hockey games or drilling them for a test.

In addition, I was not earning nearly what I would have if I had joined an interior design firm in a city. But the trade-off was a more balanced lifestyle and a happier me. Charley and I both participated in the boys' activities to a huge extent, once they chose to commit to a team (always their choice and no quitting was allowed). Often dishes piled up, the grass grew long. Our commitment to their education (ALWAYS the first priority) and their team sports became their commitment - habitual, expected, a way of life. I suppose that the discipline they learned early from balancing studies with extracurricular activities paved the way for the self-discipline they needed later, both in the Ivy League and in professional sports. They began to reap the rewards: state championships, All-Star status in both hockey and baseball, entrance to Dartmouth and Brown, All-Ivy status for both boys in baseball, and finally, THE BOSTON RED SOX!

STAGE FOUR: AN UNBALANCED LIFE
Todd, our younger son, was drafted in the ninth round by the Red Sox in '92. He had just completed his junior year at Brown. He promised us he'd complete his degree in the off-seasons, and because of his strong work ethic, we knew he would. Tim, his older brother, graduated from Dartmouth and signed ten days after his brother as a free agent. I still had my interior design company, but things became part-time. About this time, Charley lost his job. We decided to relocate to Florida permanently. That meant we could attend spring training in Ft. Myers and follow the boys' careers on a more frequent basis.

Over the course of the seven-year Red Sox journey, their dream became mine. I changed from supportive mom to Red Sox addict to obsessed minor league mom. Their tragedies and triumphs became mine, as interested fans and relatives constantly besierged us with questions. I needed another back-up plan! I found it in the journals I began to keep about the experience of dealing with the Red Sox farm system. Into what would have been his third season, our older son, Tim, was released at the end of spring training. My role as Mom kicked in. He went to Japan to teach, then to graduate school, and began another career. He survived just fine! When Todd's career ended just one step below Fenway Park (AAA), he went back to graduate school and on with his life. I survived those last five seasons with Todd in the minors by writing about it - reinventing myself with my journals.

A NEW LIFE AND NEW LESSONS
It's been ten years since Todd last put on a pro uniform. I turned my journals into a narrative, eventually found a publisher (through persistence!), and began a new career as an author. It is challenging, fun, exciting, and time-consuming. And who knows where my journey will go from here?

The lessons I learned?
ALWAYS HAVE A BACK-UP PLAN - whether it's education, a career, finances, or anything else!
IF YOU ARE ABLE TO FIND FULFILLMENT in what you are doing, your family will be happier,
too.
IT MIGHT BE TOUGH TO BALANCE all the facets of your life, and sometimes something will
have to be put on "hold." You might have to take a PAY CUT, to NOT volunteer for
things you would like to, and perhaps to NOT work so hard.

But when you are a grandmother, as I am, you will be able to look the rewards in their little faces and smile!

2009-08-29T16:41:00.000-07:00

HOW DOES AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR GET PUBLISHED??

Here is my journey from handwritten journals to printed book.

Our younger son, Todd's, professional baseball career ended in 1999 during spring training with the L.A. Dodgers. He had spent six years with the Boston Red Sox, attaining AAA status (the highest level of the minor leagues) for the last two years. When the Dodgers released him in '99, it was time to move on. Our older son had played in the same Red Sox minor leagues with Todd during '92 and '93.

I had written all my life, first as a child writing poetry, then as a high school student who won writing prizes. I obtained an MA from Columbia Teacher's College in NYC and went to work teaching high school English in Connecticut, Georgia, and Maine. So it was natural for me to keep journals during our sons' saga through the Red Sox minor leagues. Besides, I think every English teacher believes he/she has a book buried within!

It took me eighteen months after the story ended to corroborate the facts and convert the journals into narrative form. That was the fun part for me! Memoirs must be completed in full to be sold.

The first step

I did what every author has encouraged future writers to do...I networked! I contacted at least 100 people I knew and told them my story; then I contacted at least three times that number whom I did not know to tell them my story. The first break was finding the brother of a Colby classmate of my husband's who was a reader for a literary agent and a published author himself. He edited my 400+ pages and convinced me I had something worthy of publication - a unique story and a readable one! His editing took six months.

The most important thing!

I then called a sportswriter for The Providence Journal newspaper (also an author and friend of the family). If you want something badly, you have to believe in yourself and then sell your product!! Over lunch, Bill Reynolds perused the first fifty pages of my manuscript and declared, "You've got to publish this!" He also recommended two resource books to purchase:

How to Write a Proposal for Literary Agents and

Guide to Literary Agents (2002) .

The latter is published yearly.

Literary Agents in a Nutshell

Manuscripts are not submitted in totality to an agent. Agents only accept proposals, which must be preceded by a query letter. Writers can spend months on the wording of the query letter, which is an introduction not only to you, the author, but also to your manuscript. Queries should only be one page long. Nathan Bransford, literary agent for Curtis Brown, Ltd., has excellent suggestions for writing the perfect query letter on his website: http://www.nathanbransford.com/. Although Nathan did not take me on as a client, I am devoted to his blogs!

I included my query letter with my proposal, since I had a prior entree to the literary agent in Boston through his reader, who was editing my manscript.

In general, if the agent likes the query letter, he will ask for the proposal. If he likes the proposal, he will ask for a partial manuscript. If he likes the partial, he will ask for the complete manuscript. I spent six months developing a seventy-page proposal for this agent in Boston, who handled sports memoirs. It is very important to find an agent who specializes in your genre, since each agent has his own niche. My query letter and proposal were hand-delivered to the literary agent in Boston by the man who had edited my manuscript.

The Waiting Game

The literary agent rotated my proposal between his office in Boston and his office in NYC. Six months later (!) I got a two-line rejection letter. Eighteen months later, I had received seventy of these two-liners. It was a Catch-22: literary agents aren't interested in an unpublished author, but how does an unknown author get published if no-one is willing to take a chance on him/her?

It was now four and one-half years since our son Todd had finished playing pro ball. Then life interfered! My Mom and Dad, healthy and in their nineties, were hospitalized for the last ninety days of their lives in successive years in the town next to us in Fla. I concentrated on their remaining months and settling their affairs for three years.

Persistence Pays Off!

Finally, I went to Plan B. I explored the option to self-publish and decided that wasn't the road for me. So I began to solicit small, independent publishers, from Florida to Maine. Fortunately, New River Press, in Woonsocket, R.I., was interested in my proposal. They had formed an imprint division for new authors from New England called Barking Cat Books. We signed a contract twelve months ago (Aug., '08), with scheduled publication for April, '09 (to coincide with the opening of baseball season).

The Hard Part

I submitted the manuscript and all the photos to the publisher electronically by early December, '08. He sent it electronically to his editor in England. As part of my proposal there was a two-page marketing plan. I began to market the book and myself on the internet in January '09. The publication date was set for April 7, '09, since my husband and I reside in Florida until May and book signings were already scheduled there before the "snow birds" went north.

The Waiting Game

We waited for the editor's final proofs...and waited...and waited. In an ideal world, the editor and author work closely together. In my case, I got three emails over three months from the editor, while the publisher remained in close contact with her.

There is something else over which the author may have little control - the book cover. In my case, I sat with the publisher and artist. Together we changed the title of the book and developed the cover. The upper section of the cover with the "heart hands" is my contribution.

Finally, the third week of March, the editor sent the final proofs, without having cut anything! The book was supposed to be shorter, with larger print. The theory in publishing is that anything over 300 pages won't sell well. Because of time constraints, we had to go with almost the entire manuscript as the editor had returned it; hence, we needed smaller print. We were under a tremendous deadline to print in THREE WEEKS!!

The pros of small, independent publishers and a lousy economy

In general, the process I am describing, from manuscript to published product, can take a year or more. Small, independent publishers have a much shorter turn-around time. The publisher chose a printer close to us in nearby Deerfield, Fla. Because of the economy, the printer was able to slide our job in first. My husband and I almost had nervous breakdowns awaiting the finished product! Invitations had gone out and deposits had been made for the book signings at various clubs around Fla. We made it with FIVE DAYS to spare!!

The cons of small, independent publishers and a lousy economy

And so began a marketing campaign that in ideal circumstances would be handled by the publicist on the publisher's staff. In this economy, my publicist was now part-time and had five other authors to deal with. The internet, book signings, the ads, radio interviews, press became overwhelming for me. I hired a publicist in NYC for three months - all I could afford. Like agents, publicists specialize. Mine handles radio and tv. All the rest is up to me, except distribution and websites. I now spend two - four hours every day marketing. I hired a videographer and we put a promo video on YouTube. The book has its own website; I have a Facebook page, and two blogs (this is one). I am still learning how to spread the viewer base on the internet. I have two book signings/presentations with powerpoint show every week which I must prepare for.

A Wild Ride and a Full-time Job

So, ten years after our second son finished his pro career, I have a finished product called, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. It's been a new life for me, from teacher to interior designer to author - interesting, challenging, exciting. Certainly the most fun has been interacting with wonderful people I meet at the book events. As Nathan Bransford said in his blog on August 11, '09, "There's no such thing as 'just an author' anymore, and I suspect there never was."

Visit the book's website: www.minorleaguemom.net

NO TIME TO WRITE!

2009-08-25T17:11:00.000-07:00

I have published a book in April from Barking Cat Books entitled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. It is the saga of our two sons in the Red Sox organization from 1992-99, and is written entirely from a mother's perspective. It chronicles the triumphs and tragedies of the minor leaguers on their way to the big leagues, as well as the effect on the parents. Although neither of our sons made it to the majors, one played at the highest level of the minors (AAA) for two years with many future stars who did make it.

I kept journals during the seven years the boys played in the pros. After their dream ended, I converted the story into narrative form. I promised them I would wait to publish until they were firmly established in other careers. I also promised our sons they would be the first to read my manuscript and could edit as they wished. This is indeed what happened.

Another time I will describe my journey to get my manuscript into print as a first-time author.
At the moment, I want future authors to know that once my book was in print, I have had an almost full-time job to market the work. This is expected by the publisher, especially in today's economy, with staff cut-backs. Unfortunately, I am spending ALL my time on the internet, developing book signing/presentation dates, preparing for them, or doing radio/tv interviews, etc., etc.

I have been a fan of the literary agent Nathan Bransford (Curtis Brown, Ltd.) since well before I found a publisher, despite the fact that he passed on my query to have him represent me!
I find fault with his latest blog, which describes the publishing process. He neglects to reveal the incredible commitment an author must devote to marketing during the year after publication.
To his credit, however, in a blog on August 11, '09, he stated, "There's no such thing as 'just an author' anymore, and I suspect there never was." How true!