Dirt, Water, and Sunshine

 

Dirt, Water, and Sunshine

Last week I wrote “I’m walking on sunshine.” I am. It is wonderful to have my mama staying with us. If you missed that post, you can check it out HERE.

I love Florida sunshine. And I love the weather this time of year... though it isn’t all sunshine. 

No matter what the weather, our cat, Tiki, loves to sit on our enclosed back porch. Mike often lets her out in the morning. She sleeps on the chaise or sits in front of the windows watching squirrels and birds in the backyard.

Early this morning, a plunking sound woke me. Mike was already in his office and Tiki was outside. She was at the window looking into our breakfast nook. She tapped at the window again asking to come in. 

Tiki: Weather Watcher

That’s unusual. She likes to stay out as long as we let her.

I opened the door and she scooted inside. The cat was barely in the house when a heavy rainstorm appeared from nowhere and moved across the lake toward our house. The rain pounded the yard and deck. The fierce wind threatened to blow the Spanish moss from the trees.

Somehow the cat knew the storm was on its way. We both watched it move toward us. 

It was dark and intense, but it was also strangely beautiful. 

Our house has a metal roof. Tiki curled up on the couch and I  headed back to bed, quickly lulled into a deep sleep by the sound of the storm on the roof. By the time Mike woke me up, the storm had ended, the sun was shining, and the grass was green. Rainstorms in Florida are often sudden and intense, but over quickly.

I grew up in Florida. I know it can actually rain in the back yard and be sunny in the front.

Yes. At the same time. 

But isn’t that kind of like life? We focus one direction and see clouds. Darkness. Rain. For some, that is discouraging. Yet if we look at our lives through a different window…or lens, we see sunshine.

My paternal grandmother once told me when I was bummed on a rainy day, “Remember, Becky, every living thing needs  a little dirt, water, and sunshine to grow.” 

She was right. I only came to fully understand the “dirt” part when I became a mom. 

Tiki came in to check out the blog.
She's great at proofreading, but never says anything about it.

Walking on Sunshine

 I’m Walking on Sunshine

When I was a teen, there was a popular song by Katrina and the Waves called “Walking on Sunshine.” It is a song of pure joy and anticipation of a bright future. 

Walking on sunshine is all that and more for me. 

Sun Through the Trees &
The Azaleas are Blooming!

My mom is in Florida. She is living with us for the moment. Mike and I bought this house with her in mind, but she wants a place of her own. I get it. Like me, Mom is fiercely independent. Actually… maybe a bit more fierce, truth be told.

Mom and I met with a wonderful realtor. We described what we wanted. Vicki showed us several options in the area. 

The condo Mom is looking at is perfect for her and not too far from us. The negotiations are in the works. But until she moves, Mike and I are enjoying having her stay with us.

 I’m walking on sunshine. And in sunshine.

Mom and I have enjoyed walking in our neighborhood, chatting with neighbors, sitting by the lake, and mostly, admiring all God has created. 

Each walk is a blessing. A time to talk. A time to enjoy nature’s beauty. I revel in this sweet time with my mama. 

As I type this, we are sitting on the back porch. The weather is perfect. 

Mom is talking with her oldest great grandson. Mike is down by the lake with his nephew checking a boat motor. I can hear their voices as well as the motor of another boater out on the lake. The sun is pouring through the window and I can hear the rustling of leaves as a gentle breeze blows from the south. The Spanish moss sways gracefully from the oak trees in our backyard. 

As the song goes… “I’m Walking on Sunshine…Whoa-oh,…and Don’t it Feel Good?”

Where do you find your sunshine? 

Our Bird "Neighbors"
Loving the Sunshine!

 

Three Kinds of People

 Three Kinds of People?

I’m a writer. I appreciate editors. 

Don't leave. This post isn't about writing. It's about living.

In the world of writing, we have different sorts of editors who look over manuscripts. A developmental editor or content editor makes sure the author is accurate, consistent, and keeps the story moving forward.  We even have editors who help in making sure the language of our text is clear and easy to understand. 

Of course, there are those editors who pick at punctuation and spelling. Go figure.

I’m working on a novel. I have poured through it several times. I try to polish it as best as I can before anyone else reads it. I look forward to getting into the hands of an agent or publisher. But I know that is only the beginning. 

Once accepted, a publishing house will assign my work to an editor. This week I was thinking about how editors make my writing better. Stronger. 

The thought occurred to me that everyone could use an editor.

I keep this on my desk...
a good reminder to edit.

Wouldn’t it be great if every person had a little editor on his or her shoulder? Someone to stop us before we say something we’d later regret or at least delete the comment before it reached another person’s ears?

Here are a few ways an editor on our shoulder might help…in writers terms:

Tone or Voice. I remember my mother telling me, “Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, young lady!” Think about it. An editor on my shoulder could have saved me from being grounded.

Relevancy. You’re at a party and want to fit in with the new crowd of people you’re meeting. You start to tell a joke. The only joke you know. It would be great to have that little editor on your shoulder shove something in your face before you open your mouth and offend everyone.  Or perhaps…some of those folks are talking about a basketball game and you jump in telling them about your high school winning streak playing cards with your grandma at the senior center. An editor on your shoulder could have slapped you up the side of the head.

Jargon. An editor on your shoulder might stop you from speaking in those technical terms you use in your job at NASA at a party. Boring! An editor could suggest a better way to communicate your love of space. Something like, “Did you taste the dip? It is out of this world!” Or “I’m over the moon with this band!” Well, maybe not. But you get the idea.

Concise Language. You’re sitting at dinner and someone asks how your day went. A little editor on your shoulder might stop you from boring your family (or guests) with a thirty- minute story detailing how you unjammed the copy machine at work and then had to refill the paper tray.  Unjam? Refill? Copy machine? Four words max.

Maybe if we all had a little editor on our shoulders, we would get along better with those around us, avoid hurt feelings, and maybe even avoid everything from fights on the playground to wars in the world.  

What do you think?

Finding Your Way

Finding Your Way Around Town

This is a very special week for me. My mother and second oldest grandchild flew in  from Ohio. 

My Sweet Mama &
My Sweet Grandson, Spencer

For Spencer it will be a whirlwind visit, he’s been out on the boat with Mike, is getting in a round or two of golf  (One with his Uncle Ronnie) and spending significant time basking in the Florida sunshine. And…he cooked a wonderful spaghetti dinner for us!

It’s February. Enjoy it all, Spencer!

It will not be a whirlwind visit for my mother. You could say it is more of a shopping trip. 

Mom is planning a move back to the Sunshine state. Although she is welcome to stay with us, her plan is to find a place of her own. A home nearby. She has friends not too far from where we live. That’s a plus. And she has always liked Inverness…at least as she drove through it from her home in Lutz to her house in Dunnellon. 

Now it is time for her to get the lay of the land here. It takes a bit. When we lived just north of Tampa, in a then small berg called Lutz, to get to Dunnellon, we drove north on US Highway 41. Okay. But the highway is also Florida State Route 44 for a stretch through Inverness. Then, just out of the heart of town, the two split up again. State Route 44 continues west and US 41 continues north.

 And then there’s Gospel Island Road. Gospel Island Road turns north off State Route 44 then curves west then south to meander into the town of Inverness where you come to a light to turn north on 41/44 before they split again. 

Okay, you have my permission to skip all of that. 

When my mom moved to Fairfield, Ohio, she was a bit unsure of the roads there, as well. 

I told her not to worry. “All roads lead to Route 4,” I said. It was a good rule of thumb.

Of course, even Fairfield has grown since then. Now, in our new Florida town I’m saying, “Don’t worry, all roads will eventually get you to 44 or 41 somehow or another. 

The point is this: When anyone moves, it takes a while to get used to the setting, find the stores, and learn the streets. 

But Remember: The sun still rises in the east and sets in the west.

And if you need it, there is this always this foolproof MAP from the New Living Translation of the Bible: 

"Seek His will in all you do, and He will show you

which path to take."

 

 

 

Choose Wisely

 Choose Wisely

This week Mike celebrated his birthday. The man made it tough for me by buying three of his own gifts. I’m serious. He ordered what he wanted, paid for everything, and had the items delivered. He then handed the presents over to me to wrap.

What’s the fun in that?

I figure he didn’t trust I would get him something he liked. 

He was wrong. 

Several weeks ago, we watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. If you are familiar with the movie, the Nazis are searching for the Holy Grail, purportedly the cup from which Jesus Christ drank at the Last Supper.

In the movie (part of which was filmed in Jordon at a place known as Petra, by the way) Jones and the Nazis make it into a room filled with goblets of all shapes and sizes and made of everything from gold, silver, and precious stones to a simple clay cup.

A picture of the carved rock temple of El-Khazneh of Petra
(No I wasn't there...this is from my Bible)

The Last Crusader guarding the Holy Grail warns the intruders they must choose wisely. When the Nazi drinks from the jewel encrusted goblet instead of gaining eternal life, he is cursed and wastes away before the viewers eyes. The Last Crusader quietly says, “He chose poorly.” 

True. There is only one way to eternal life. It is not from drinking from a certain goblet. (Message me if you want to know more.)

So…What does all this have to do with Mike’s birthday? 

As I said, a couple of days before his birthday, Mike handed me the three gifts he purchased for himself so I could wrap them. I added a couple of gifts of my own choosing as well as a small used jigsaw puzzle someone slipped into the book exchange box at the end of our driveway.

I arranged all of the gifts on a table. I did my best to disguise what each present held. They were different shapes and sizes but all wrapped in coordinating paper. 

"Choose wisely," I told him.

I reminded him of the movie we recently viewed. I also told him he could not pick up nor touch any of the wrapped gifts. He could only describe or point to the one he wanted.

Mike “chose wisely” on his first go. A gift certificate to our favorite restaurant in Inverness, Stumpknockers on the Square. When he opened the used jigsaw puzzle, I said, in my best Crusader monotone, “...you chose... poorly.”

"Uh-oh...You chose... poorly."

The man may have tried his best to buy his own gifts, but our little celebration after breakfast was fun. AND as it turned out, he liked everything I bought for him by myself. 

Maybe I can be trusted to buy for you, Mike! Happy Birthday and live knowing you are loved. 

 

On Blogging

 A Blog Post for Wednesday

As I craft this post, it is Tuesday. Tuesday evening. My blog post comes out on Wednesday.

Assuming I have it written by then. 

I know there are a few people out there who craft a post EVERY DAY. Not me. I often struggle with what to write each Wednesday and frequently wait until the last minute to capture my thoughts on paper. 

Why? My once-a -week blog isn’t the focus of my life…or even my writing.

Blogging is a tool. For me, it is a pathway to both discipline and discovery as a writer. It is also a social presence to bring potential readers into my world as an author.

Being an author is only one facet of who I am. I am so much more.

·      I am my mother’s daughter. 

·      I am Mike’s wife. His partner in life.

·      I am both a mother and mother-in-law.

·      I am a grandmother. 

·      I am a child of God.

But yes…I am a writer. And an author. The difference? 

Writers Write. Authors Publish.

Recent short story in
February's Peddler's Post

When I started on this journey, I looked for ways to connect with other writers as well as readers. I looked for opportunities and tools to hone my writing skills. Blogging offers that and more on a consistent basis. 

Writing. Revising. Editing. You get the idea.

 

Writing to publish takes hard work and self-discipline. 

The weekly discipline of crafting a blog post is part of that ongoing work. 

It is more than pouring words out on paper. More than a diary with an audience of one. 

Every time I write and hopefully publish a book, story, or blog post, I am honing my skills. I am searching for “word illustrations."

 

When I began the blogging journey, I had no clue what a blog was, much less how to start writing one. I read information on the internet by Jeff Goins about blogging. I learned I needed a theme.

 

Since my goal was to write and publish a novel, I called my blog “A Novel Creation.” Those first few posts were accounts of what I was learning about crafting a novel and the world of publication.

Over time, the blog morphed into a more personal view of what I was learning about writing. Then after my husband, Tom, died in a bicycle accident in 2014, I merely muddled through the motions of writing. I kept the blog going as I shared my heart.

 

 I moved to Kosovo in 2017 to teach fourth graders in an American School. My blog served as a way to share my new life with my friends and family in the United States.

 Through those posts, I came to realize I am A Novel Creation. I am.

I am created in the image of God. 

Now I write articles, short stories, novels, and…every Wednesday…a blog post. 

How about you? What are you writing?

The Derelict

 The Derelict

This past week, the Tampa Bay area once again celebrated the landing and invasion of Jose Gaspar. Gaspar is depicted as a pirate purported to loot and ravage the west coast of the peninsula. Though many say he is but a mythical character, others suggest Gaspar was real.

It doesn’t matter. Every year hundreds of boats, decorated for the occasion, escort the iconic Spaniard into Tampa Bay where he makes his once-a year-landing and the mayor hands over the keys to the city.

May not exactly Jose Gaspar...but thank you Pixabay for the image.

When we were in high school, Gasparilla Day meant a day off. We would attend the parade, try to catch the real honest-to-goodness plastic gold coins and candy the pirates threw into the crowd, and cheer for our high school band as they marched by. And a few years later, they threw real plastic beaded necklaces. Sometimes the invasion was only a day or at most a week ahead of the Florida State Fair. 

I haven’t been to the Gasparilla Day Parade in years.  Actually, I have no desire to go. No desire to find a place to park, fight the crowds, and eat corn dogs.

I thought it might be an age thing. I thought perhaps I had outgrown the fantasy of pirates and hidden treasure. 

But something happened on Gasparilla Day. 

The weather had turned cold. We even had the threat of temperatures dropping below freezing. They didn’t, but there was a definite chill in the air. That morning of the invasion, the sun was shining.

Mike and I walked out onto the deck. Somehow, in the night, a boat had freed itself and drifted into our cove. We watched as the chilly wind pushed the unmanned vessel through the tall grass and around the point. Slowly through the day the craft moved about. 

The next morning the derelict boat was still there. Eerily waiting for its master and crew. The boat came to rest in the vegetation on the other side of the cove. Then the next day it was gone.

I’m pretty sure if we searched that grassy part of the cove hard enough, we’d find hidden treasure.

Sorry. It’s the storyteller in me. 

Maybe I’m not too old for Gasparilla Day after all.

 

Solar Power

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

A couple of years ago  I crafted a post called "Agree to Disagree." In it I shared the notion of "perspective." In that previous post I used the illustration of the five blind men and the elephant. Each held a view of what was before them based on his own limited perspective. 

In a sense, this post is also about perspective. 

Not limited. Informed.

It's about the weather. As I craft this week's post, Mike and I have been pretty much housebound. We have been fighting a virus of some sort and the weather has not lent itself to going out and soaking up some much needed sunshine.

Sunshine cures many an illness. It's a fact. Sunshine is packed with vitamin D. Vitamin D builds strong bones and helps the immune system fight off those nasty viruses and such. 

Even though we live in Florida, the Sunshine State, our weather in Citrus County, as I craft this post, is NOT warm. We do have lots of sun, but at the moment, we are experiencing a not so balmy 45 degrees. It is a cold forty-five. In fact, my weather app says it feels like 41 degrees. I think it feels colder than that. Especially near the water. The wind has been blowing and dead leaves are strewn across our deck as if it were a sunny and warm autumn day. 

It is January. It is sunny. But it is not warm. It is winter. It is supposed to be cold. Maybe... but I don't have to like it.

I checked the weather in other parts of the country where we have family. The temperatures in Ohio and Wisconsin are much lower than what we are experiencing. And the "feels like" temps? EVEN LOWER. 

My family members in Ohio and Wisconsin are seeing temps in the single digits. And their "feels like" temps are enough to make me shiver a thousand miles away.

As I said, the post is about perspective. When you are sick, you long for warmth. When you are "under the weather" you long for sunny skies and warm temperatures. Outside temperatures, that is. 

What is your go to "home cure?" Chicken soup? Gatorade? Or are you like me? A person who thrives on fresh air and warm sunshine?

Love/Hate Technology

My Continued 

Love/Hate 

Relationship with Technology

Yes. I both LOVE and HATE technology.

When it works, it is a writer's best friend. It not only holds my thoughts in one place, the computer offers advice for spelling and grammar. It can allow me to ramble now and edit with ease later. 

When it works.

It doesn't always work. 

For example, I turned to my go-to word program to compose this week's blog. Everything seemed to be going nicely...until...I no longer have the ability to copy and paste it into my blog? What's that about? 

I used all my known strategies to retrieve my blog post. 

Nothing worked. 

So I abandoned the post about the sweet memory of my early experiences at the University of Cincinnati, and spent the next three hours traveling every rabbit hole I could think of to fix my word processing capabilities. 

It is important. I have books I'm working on...stories to tell. I have documents I value. I need my ability to craft on my computer. 

I need to save documents and retrieve them. I am no longer attached to my No. 2 pencil or my blue pen that moves smoothly across the paper. I am attached to my laptop!

At least I know how to write with pen and paper. It may be a lost art. 

My biggest problem is reading what I write. I'm serious. I scribble and scratch as I write. 

And writing a story or book? I can get so engrossed in the writing I can't read it later. I sit there and stare at the scribbles on the page. 

I would consider dictation, but there is something about seeing the words and being able to revise as I go or follow an idea to the logical end that feels better when I am engaging my hands in the process.

Perhaps it's like kneading bread dough. You can tell much about the dough's readiness by the feel, the elasticity of it, the weight and color and the dustiness of the flour. Anyone can read a recipe, but to pull warm bread of the right texture out of the oven? There's a physical connection unlike any other.

For now? I am composing directly into my blog. My techies all live up north. I know it will work itself out or I'll figure it out. Or...well, there are probably fifty ways to leave your computer...hmmm...sounds like song in there somewhere. 

For a Caring Man...Go to Deer Lake Road

For a Caring Man...Go to Deer Lake Road

I am sick. Not the kind of sick that can be cured by Mike's Wonder Drug: Vick's. I tried. If you missed that post, CLICK HERE.

No. This is the achy, sore throat, totally congested sick that hits you suddenly and doesn't seem to want to go away. I have coughed all night. I'm pretty sure my raging cough scared Tiki Kitty. 

And today? Even as I write these words, I feel as if my head will explode. 

To top it off, I have a blog post in the wings for such emergencies, but can't seem to access it. Seriously. 

This Palm Tree Had To Be 
Removed.
It has nothing to do with this post except 
I'm pretty sure the inside of my head looks like this.

Stuff like this happens. We can never be fully prepared for what lies around the corner. Only to know it will happen. Our best intensions will be shattered and we need to remain calm. There is likely a reason.

I have no clue as to why I'm in this predicament, but here I am. And I have to trust I'll be better for it in the long run. 

Mike is taking good care of me. He has cooked every meal, brought me medicine, and, since it's Tuesday, he did the laundry. The man came for the water softener so Mike took care of that as well.

Sometimes Mike gives me jewelry and often he takes me out to dinner. But caring for me when I'm sick? That is true love. I have been blessed to have had two such men in my life. 

They were friends and both grew up on Deer Lake Road. When someone said to me once, "Where do you go to find a good man?" 

I told her, "Personally, I go to Deer Lake Road."