The big decision

Seth made the decision yesterday to join the sixth grade band. It's been an issue that has plagued him most of the summer. "Mom," he whined on several occasions, "do I join the choir, band, or art?"

always gave him the "do what your heart leads you to do answer." This always disgusts him because it's not the answer that he wants to hear. Even though he wants to be considered an adult, there's still a little part of him that wants me to supply all the answers for him. As much as I would love to help him out, I can't; he needs to start finding the answers to his questions deep within himself.

He made the decision to join the band after our visit to my mother's house this weekend. I awoke early Saturday morning in anticipation of getting a little writing done. In my usual morning fog, I trudged into my mother's cheerful kitchen and turned the coffee pot on. I leaned against the counter and enjoyed the silence that embraced me. Home, I'm finally home, I thought happily. I'll have a cup of coffee and sit out on the patio and write. A noise from my old bedroom postponed my plans.

Careful not to spill a drop of my precious coffee, I walked down the hall to my room and peeped in. Seth stood looking at a display of medals that Mama had arranged in a frame and hung on the far bedroom wall.

"I know you're there Mom," he said, not bothering to turn around. "Did you really win all these medals in band? I mean, there's twelve of them here."

A feeling of pride washed over me as I smiled and nodded. All twelve had been won in either solo or jazz band competitions. In high school, I had sat 'first chair" clarinet all four years, and no lower then second chair tenor sax in jazz band. My band director taught me to play the oboe, and convinced me to compete with that has well.

Seth studied me intently. "What instruments did you play?" I was flattered that he was taking such an interest in my past.

"Hmm, let's see," I said, taking a sip of coffee and sitting on the edge of my old desk. "My main instrument was the clarinet for concert and marching band, and the tenor sax for jazz band. I played a couple of others though." Even though I had never competed with it, my band director had taught me how to play the alto sax. I took another sip of coffee and wondered over the sympathetic look that Seth was giving me.

"Gosh Mom, I'm so sorry," Seth said, shaking his head. "I guess you just weren't that good." Ack! I choked on a mouthful of coffee and almost fell off the desk.

"What do you mean I wasn't that good?" I spluttered. "Well, I mean if you had to try four different instruments. . ." I realized how that could be misunderstood. "No baby, I was good enough to play different instruments."

Seth turned pink from embarrassment. "Oh." Excitement once again radiated from his face as he turned back around to look at my medals. "Could I win a medal for band?" He asked hopefully.

"If you practice and try hard." "Then that's what I want to do, I want to be in band," he proclaimed happily.

Fast forward to yesterday. . .

Seth brought his alto saxophone home yesterday. Proudly he opened the case and showed me the horn inside. The horn reflected the light and gave off a welcoming glow. I never dreamed I would have the reaction I did. It had been fifteen years since I had held an instrument, and my hands ached to hold the gleaming instrument while my fingers caressed the keys.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Seth's lips as he gently lifted the horn and placed it in my lap. "Here, isn't that what you wanted, to play it?" I was dumbfounded. Was my reaction that obvious?

"I-It's been fifteen years since I've even held an instrument.” I stammered.

Seth smiled patiently. "I bet you can still play; go ahead, try."

My hands trembling slightly, I took the reed that he offered and stuck it in my mouth. "You uh. . .you have to get the reed wet before you play." I mumbled. I took the reed out of my mouth, stuck it on the mouthpiece, put the ligature on and tightened it. I said a quick prayer before I began to play. Dear Lord, please help me out here. I don't want my son to lose faith in me.

The sax felt familiar in my hands. I took a deep breath and began to play the only song that I was sure I remembered, "Mary had a Little Lamb." My eyes widen in surprise as I blew the first note; the sound was sweet and unfaltering. Tears rolled down my face as I realized that I could still play. I was reluctant to hand the instrument back after the song was over.

I had forgotten how much joy playing an instrument had brought me. Seth took the sax outside and began to try it himself. A few minutes later, I heard a chorus of "moos" the fence by the side of the house. I tried not to laugh at what I saw. A herd of cows were mooing at Seth as he blew on his sax. He looked at the sax in disgust. "I quit!" Seth yelled and tried to push past me.

I caught him by the arm and forced him to look at me. "No one sounds great when they start playing an instrument. My dad said it sounded like I was torturing a cat when I started playing." I said.

Seth eyed me skeptically. "Yeah, well. I'll never be as good as you." I pulled him close to me and hugged him tightly. "No. You'll be better ." I said.

Back . . .well, sorta

(Sunrise at my mother's house)





I'm back from my little jaunt to my mother's house. John decided to take a different way to our hometown and the scenery was beautiful. There were huge pine trees that towered on both sides of the road, and I could almost imagine their wonderful and comforting scent. The bright yellow hay bales lying in fields were a contrast to the sapphire colored sky; the whole thing looked like a calender page for an autumn month.

We passed through several small farming communities along the way, and I have to say that they facinated me. One community in particular caught my attention. We stopped at a red light, and by the side of the road, there was an old weather-beaten wooden general store. The screen door was rusty, and had several haphazard patch jobs on it. By the front door or the store sat an old man in a rocking chair. A battered staw hat, stained with sweat, was pushed to the back of his head, revealing a patch of thinning gray hair. The old man wore denium overalls that had seen better times. Our eyes met and he smiled, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. I smiled, and waved back at him happily. I couldn't help but wonder what his "story" was, and what the history behind the community was. Before I started writing, I never wondered such things.

I wish I could say that I got the rest and relaxation this weekend that I sought, but I didn't; far from it. On the first night I was at home, my mother revealed to me that she was having open heart surgery. She's 69 years old, and is plagued with all sorts of health problems. I'm scared; I turn 35 this week, and I still feel as helpless as a child. I just can't lose my mom.

This whole weekend I cleaned for her, did laundry, cooked. . .anything I could think of to make things easier for her. As I've said before, we raise Quarter Horses; last weekend two foals were born. When I checked the horses yesterday, a foal was missing. I didn't want to tell Mama, but I had to. It broke her heart. We walked the entire pasture, and couldn't find a body. Earlier that day I heard a cougar screaming; I think the cat got the foal.

Please pray for my mom, she really needs it.

On the road again

(Sunset at my mother's house)

The weekend is looming upon us, and once again I'm packing my bags to hit the road. Sigh. Here lately it seems like we're always going somewhere on the weekend. I'm not against traveling, but every once in a while I would love to spend a tranquil weekend at home.

This weekend we're going to my mother's house. I have to admit that the stay will be much needed and appreciated. I definately need to unwind, and my old home is the place to do it. Mama lives out in the country, wildlife is abundant, and her nearest neighbor is about a mile away.

By the way, for all of you who are writers, here is a great link to 667 paying markets that I got from a post at Momwriters.com
http://www.writerswrite.net/paylist.cfm

We're out of WHAT?

We have a potential catastrophe on our hands at my house. We are out of a precious substance that I'm severely addicted to, coffee. This morning, still half-asleep, I shuffled down the hall to the kitchen were I knew I would soon find what I so desperately needed. Yawning loudly, I reached for the coffee pot and smiled happily as the thick dark brew poured into my cup. Ah, nectar of the gods!

I licked my lips in anticipation as I lifted the mug. The first sip was always the best. For some reason, it took a few seconds longer then normal for the coffee to reach my lips. I glanced into the mug and saw that it was half-full; I squinted in disbelief. I know that I poured more than that, I thought. I turned back to the counter and saw that the pot was empty; usually the pot was still half-full after I poured my first coffee. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the shower. There was only one person up at this time of the morning, my darling husband, John.

That greedy dog, I thought. He drank all the coffee. Humph. I hope he chokes on it. I have to say that normally I am a very even-tempered person, and adore my hubby of thirteen years, but my "evil twin" emerges first thing in the mornings. That's right, I'm definitely not a morning person. I've been known to make inconsiderate "early morning calling,” phone solicitors cry. In order to spare the feeling of the solicitors, John enrolled us in the "Do Not Call List.'

It's bad. I'm getting to where I can't function without coffee first thing in the morning.

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Just wanted to let everyone know that I've updated my webpage. You can check it out at
http://www.freewebs.com/onthefrontporch

"Mommies Magazine" has accepted my children's story entitled "Cinnamon Rolls!" You can find it at

http://www.mommiesmagazine.com

Writing with the little guys

The morning sun is peeking over the trees and there is a hush over the land that is almost reverant. A cool breeze wafts through my open window and caresses my cheek, inviting me to come outside. I still have the a childish side of me that aches to dance among the glistening dewdrops that cling to the grasses, but I know better. This is my time to write.

My two year-old toddler--the real head of the household--is sleeping happily in his bed, a slight smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's obvious that he's dreaming of the mischief he will get into today. About a year ago, I learned how difficult it was to write with a toddler.

It started off as an uneventful summer day. As usual, my preteen son and toddler woke at the crack of dawn to watch "their shows" on PBS. Even though my oldest is WAY to old to watch Sesame Street, he and my toddler have made it a habit to watch it together. I look at it this way; years from now, that is something they can both look back on with great fondness.

After breakfast was finished and the dishes washed, I trod happily down the hall to my office, leaving them to watch their shows. As usual, the toddler raced happily up and down the hall, stopping occasionally to peep mischievously into my office at me. Every once in a while, I would hear the unmistakable clatter as he pulled something out of the toybox.

After downing a cup of much needed coffee, I turned on my computer and steeled myself for the job before me. Days ago, while working on a manuscript, I had encountered the dreaded writers' block. That manuscript soon became an albatross around my neck. I spent hours grinding my teeth and pulling my hair, searching for that bit of inspiration that would get me over the "hump." I think I would have slammed my head in the bathroom door a few time if I thought it would help my thought process.

Maybe it was the coffee or the fact I had allowed myself to relax, but that morning inspiration flowed through me. My fingers fairly flew over the keyboard. This is wonderful, I thought. I'll be through with the manuscript by lunch at the rate I'm going.

My celebration was cut short when I realized it was quiet, too quiet. It dawned on me that it had been several minutes since I had heard the slap, slap, slap of toddler feet in the hallway.

"*Seth?" I called to my older son.

"What?"

"Where is your brother?"

"Oh, I don't know. He's around here somewhere." That was not the answer I wanted to hear. My heart in my throat, I raced down the hallway. I soon found my toddler. I have a loveseat that is against a window in my living room. To my horror, Rob was standing on the back of the loveseat, leaning against the window. He had his mouth and his hands plastered against the window. He looked like one of the suction cup animals you find hanging in car windows.

More relieved than angry, I removed a protesting Rob from his perch. I knew that since he just learned how fun climbing on the sofa was, there was NO WAY I could write without jeopardizing his safety. At the moment I changed my writing schedule.

Here are a couple of suggestions on writing with a toddler around.

1. Schedule your writing around your toddler's sleep schedule. For example, write early in the morning, during naptime, and after your little darling goes to bed at night. I find that writing early in the morning works well for me because my thought process is a little better.

I use the time Rob is up to clean house and spend time with him.

2. Create a "kid-friendly" area in your office. I took an old dresser, removed the mirror, and filled the drawers with toys, papers and crayons. Since Rob doesn't see those toys very often, they are always new and exciting to him. I also have a bookcase filled with children's books that he has easy access to.

You know you're getting old when. . .

I posted this question a month ago to an online writing group. If you can think of any that you would like to share, speak up.
Have fun!

1. The bartender or cashier doesn't ask to see your I.D. when you purchase alcohol

2. The bartender or cashier laughs when you offer to show your I.D.

3. What you wore twenty years ago is popular again.

4. Your child asks you what life was like in the old days and the "old days" were the 1980's.

5. Your child proudly tells you that you are 3x's older then he is.

6. Boyscouts try to help you across the street.

7. You find it hard to stay awake past midnight.

8. The lyrics that Madonna sung in the 80's are now considered "PG"

9. Shows like "Three's Company" is considered vintage TV.

10. Your children have no idea what a record (audio) is

Wishing

First, let me say thanks for all of the warm and welcoming comments that many of you sent me. I really appreciated it.

You would think that I'm insanely happy over getting "Snowball. . ." into the book, but I'm not. Sure I'm very excited, but the one person that I really want to share it with is not here; that would be Daddy.

We had a wonderful relationship, and I was definately "Daddy's little girl." When he was killed, I wrapped myself in a thick veil of self-pity and retreated from the world. I wanted to drop out of athletics, band, jazz band, and drama, but Mama wouldn't let me. Looking back on that time frame, I'm really glad she didn't. Those activities helped to ease some of the pain. Each one of them had their own standards of discipline, and I was forced to give them all my attention and effort.

Through the years I learned to cope with my grief, and thought I was doing a great job until now. I guess what bothers me the most is that I can't remember what his voice sounds like; he's been dead for almost 20 years.

Anyway, I know that I can get through this.

Always my baby

As I sat in my office and worked on the computer tonight, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I turned, expecting to see my hubby plodding down the hall in a sleepy stupor. I was surprised to see my preteen son, *Seth, instead.

"What are you doing up?' I asked cheerfully. Seth paused and leaned against the doorway.

"Wha-what? I'm going to get a glass of water. Can I do that, or is that against the law?" It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep my mouth shut. My son was normally a very easy-going young man, but, like me, he was not pleasant to be around after he woke up.

I listened as the wooden floors creaked beneath his steps. He no longer had the light hesitant step of a toddler; his tread was more solid, more determined. It was the walk of a young man. Part of me wanted to follow him into the kitchen, to make sure that my baby got what he needed. I knew that he would resent that though. *Seth had told me just a few days ago that he wanted to do more things for himself. So, I opted to stay in my office and take "a trip down memory lane."

I walked over to an old blue glider-rocker and stroked the frayed fabric tenderly. It seemed like only yesterday that I rocked Seth--then an infant--to sleep in it. Carefully I sunk into the rocker and let the warm memories engulf me and carry me away. Many precious hours were spent in that rocker. I would gently rock my slumbering baby while softly singing to him. While he slept, I gently stroked his downy hair and whispered my pledge of undying love into his ear.

Now, my lap was empty as I rocked, rocked and worried. Through Seth's early school years, I wanted to fight his battles against the playground bullies; instead I wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to give him the courage to fight his own battles. I knew that if I fought for him, he would never be able to stand up for himself. Not that I didn't want to; it broke my heart to hear of other children being so cruel to him.

I hoped with all my heart that I had instilled enough morals and value in him to enable him to make the right choices in life. There were times that I had been strict with him, maybe too strict. Like me, Seth is a outging person who loves to talk. I thought of the times I had asked him to be quiet for a while. It suddenly hit me like a thunderbolt. There would soon come a day when these walls would no longer ring with childish laughter and chatter. There would only be silence; a depressing damning silence. I dropped my face into my hands and wept unashamedly.

I don't want that. I want my baby with me forever, I thought. Suddenly, I felt another presence in the room. I looked up and saw Seth smiling gently at me. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly.

"Uuh, Mama," he stammered. "Could you. . .I mean so you think. . .would you sing me to sleep? You know, the way you used to."

Silently, we tiptoed to his room. I tucked him into bed and sang his favorite song. I held his hand and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. He would always be my baby.

I gotta brag

The past few days have gone by in a blur. It's final; the last "I" has been dotted and everything has been signed. My anthology, "Some Snowballs Don't Melt' will be in the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul. The book is scheduled to be released the early part of October of this year. Ever since I got that last email, I've like I've been in a dream. I've gotten things published before, but never have received as much recognition as this piece will bring me. Chicken Soup contacted me via email and said that a public relations person will be working with me in reguards to setting up personal appearances and book signings. They will also send me tips on how to get through interviews.

On yet another positive note, I have a contract pending with another publisher wanting to use one of my anthologies in their collection.
(Snowball from "Some Snowballs Don't Melt")


Please don't pinch me; I don't want to wake up from this dream.

A little about me.

I have to admit I'm somewhat apprehensive about starting this blog. I feel totally exposed and vunerable; I hate that. I was taught at a very young age that I needed to conceal a lot of my emotions. My father--who I loved dearly--was an old cowboy. He was a wonderful, compassionate, man, but believed that showing a lot of emotions made you appear weak. I was definitely "daddies little girl," and what he said was "gospel."

I grew up in a rural Texas town named Rosebud. As a child, I thought that it was a terrible place to live. Not unlike the fictional town of "Mayberry," everyone knew each other and was constantly in someone's business. Quite often, my parents knew what mischief I had gotten into before I got.

As an adult, I can look back on those times with fondness. It was those same people that were always there for each other when tragedy occurred. I live in a town ten times the size of Rosebud, and I have to admit that I miss that "small town" hospitality. Don't get me wrong, people here are friendly, but they're too preoccupied with their own affairs. In other words, don't expect a casserole brought to your house by a loving neighbor if something happens to you; they just don't have time.

Anyway, I digress. I spent seven years as a deputy sheriff, and hated it for five of those years. You literally deal with the scum of the earth every day. Your heart begins to harden when you deal with that constantly. After getting shot at, stabbed, and threw up on by drunks, I decided to hang up the old gun belt and pursue other interests. One positive thing that happened while I a deputy was that I met my future husband. We've been together 15 years, married 13, and have two very mischievous boys. I am also the proud "mama" of two cats and 15 horses.

Here's an excerpt from my website, http://www.freewebs.com/onthefrontporch that explains me a little more.

Throughout all the trying times in my life, writing has been a comfort for me. Ever since I can remember, I have loved to write. It has, in a sense, allowed me to "escape" from the stress that was on me. My parents began instilling a strong sense of morals and a strong work ethic in me at a very young age. My earliest memories are ones of kneeling beside my grandmother in her garden and sifting through the dry powder-like dirt, searching for potatoes. I have had various paying jobs ever since I was sixteen, but none as rewarding and gratifying as writing.I started my career in writing a couple of years ago by submitting articles to non-paying newsletters and websites. As my passion in writing is increasing, I have ventured out into different genres.


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(Taken at Mustang Island Beach)

Sometimes inspiration jumps up and hits you in the face. A few weeks ago I traveled with my hubby and boys to the beach. We went to Mustang Island, just a few miles away from Port Author, Texas. Mustang Island is not very popular with the surfing crowd, so there wasn't many people on the beach. The closest person on either side of us was about a mile away; there was plenty of wildlife though. It was fabulous!

Having a toddler has granted me the ability to occasionally see life through his eyes. I watched as he ran after sea gulls, and followed tiny sand crabs down the beach. He "oohed and ahhed" over the empty coquina clam shells that we found on the beach. We even witnessed a coquina clam burying itself into the sand.

My toddler and his experiences prompted me to write an early reader about the beach. I, along with the help of a marine biologist, finished the book last week. I'm sending it off on Monday . Keep your fingers crossed for me!