It's Getting To Be That Time of Year 

Though it's only September as I post this I'm just so darned excited that I had to post this topic earlier than usual. Why? Because the mercury never shot above the 80s for the last few days. Most of yesterday it was in the 70s. Was I giddy? You bet! I donned a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and closed shoes (I usually wear flip-flops.) And we had rain, lots and lots of rain. In fact, two inches fell at our house. I could practically taste autumn. Which means that it’s that time of year when I start thinking about pumpkins and ghosts and turkey and cranberries and one of my favorite holidays, Thanksgiving. 

Feeling rather fall-ish, my mind began to wonder. My first thought was -- when did Thanksgiving start being celebrated in the Lone Star state? Curious critter as I am, I did a little research and discovered that a Thanksgiving was celebrated here long before the one in Plymouth in 1621. And I stumbled upon a few other gems as well.

That first Thanksgiving was held in 1598 when Spanish explorer, Juan de Onate, landed in San Elizario after an arduous and perilous expedition to the Rio Grande. The party dined on game provided by the Spaniards and fish caught by the Manso tribe, followed by a Mass. 

Fast forward a few centuries to 1912 when the town of Cuero in SE Texas held its first Turkey Trot. Local farmers used to move their birds on foot to the turkey processing facilities. Someone came up with the idea of making an event out of the turkey drives. In November 1912, some 30,000 people showed up to watch turkeys make their way through the town’s streets. Cuero instituted its Turkey Trot, which started a nationwide dance craze by the same name, and eventually, towns everywhere began holding Turkey Trot runs, where participants dressed up as turkeys and ran for three to five miles. In 2011, the Dallas Turkey Trot set a Guinness World Record for the largest gathering of runners (661) dressed up as turkeys. 

Ever heard the expression that everything is bigger in Texas? It really is true, especially when it comes to wild turkeys. The largest turkey on record killed in Texas occurred in 1993 in Montague County. Just imagine how many people that 30.75-pound wild bird must have fed. 

Considering the holiday’s somber beginnings and rightful focus on giving thanks, it’s interesting how a number of oddities surrounding Thanksgiving have evolved. Number one in my book is the annual presidential Turkey Pardon. We’re probably the only country in the world that pardons an animal before everyone eats the bird’s relatives at feasts nationwide. In weirdness, it’s on a par with Frozen Turkey Bowling, started in 1988 at a Lucky’s grocery store in Newport Beach, California where they used the store’s aisles for the bowling alleys and set up soda bottles for pins. I can't fathom the mess that must have made when some of the soda bottles burst, which you know they did.

At North Technical High School in Florissant, Missouri, the students get a chance to throw pies at the administration and teachers as part of an annual event. Did your math teacher give you a low mark on a test? Have at it – cream that teacher! Not to be outdone, at a high school in Indianapolis, athletes dress up dead turkeys in baby onesies, light them on fire, and throw them across the football field. Why? Who knows. Guess it’s a testosterone thing to see who's turkey flies the furthest. 

Then, of course, there is the strangest tradition of all – Black Friday. I’m sure that the retail industry came up with this one and while it sure has become an economic boon for the stores, sadly it has disrupted a lot of family Thanksgiving meals as people start lining up at the stores on Thanksgiving Day to get that bargain the next morning. It’s a sad commentary on American society that shopping madness has usurped the importance of giving thanks and family time. 

On a more cheerful note, I take heart in several sweet traditions that have evolved over the years. Whether you live in New York or watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, it’s an annual tradition in many homes to watch it as a family. I'm a sucker for watching it every year. 

Some folks make and serve favorite dishes loved by relatives who have long passed even though no one attending the family’s meal likes or eats the dishes. Think mincemeat pie, scalloped oysters, creamed onions, and molded cranberry gelatin salad. It’s considered a way of honoring long-gone loved ones. 

When I was growing up in a Navy town my mother extended an invitation to a couple of sailors at the local base to join us at our Thanksgiving table. The young men were homesick and far from their families. Even though they didn’t know us they appreciated having a family with whom to spend the holiday. As I recall they always cleaned their plates and accepted my mother’s offers of seconds of everything and slices of pie to take back to their barracks.  

One tradition I heard about recently that is just the sweetest thing is to have everyone sign a white tablecloth in various indelible ink colors while seated at the Thanksgiving table. Afterward, the mother or whoever in the household can sew embroiders the names with various thread colors to preserve the signatures. Each year the family uses the same tablecloth and adds the signatures of new family members and friends in attendance. Talk about creating a family heirloom! I love that. 

I hope that a few of these traditions give you something to think about as the holiday approaches. After all, it is a day of giving thanks. I don't think that you can ever express thanks enough or too early.  On that note, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving full of grace, joy, friends, and family. 

 

 How to Write a Book 

For a while now I've been posting stories here, which I hope have brought a smile to your face and a bit of joy to your day. Over the years a lot of people have asked me how I became a published author. What was my magic formula? Did I know someone in the publishing biz? How did I do it?

There's no easy answer, though I can tell you I started writing about the age of six or seven. I wrote stories about everything. When I was 11 or 12 my parents gave me my first blank book, which I filled with poems and stories. Every year they gave me a new blank book, and after a while, I bought my own blank books.

In seventh grade, my English teacher took me aside and encouraged me to keep writing my stories. He told me I had a talent and the only way to develop it was to keep writing every chance I got. And write I did. Until life came along.

In college, I wanted to make a difference in the world. So instead of being an English or creative writing major, I studied social welfare, followed by a Master's in social work and when it came time to find a real job, there weren't any. I fussed around with various jobs, feeling lost and very disillusioned. I couldn't fathom where I'd taken a wrong turn.

Then one day I remembered what my seventh grade teacher told me. It dawned on me that what was missing in my life was my calling. I wasn't using my talent. So, I bought a new blank book and started writing again. I began writing articles and submitting them to publications. Never mind that I didn't know what I was doing. I just kept it up and got published. I even wrote a cookbook filled not just with recipes, but also stories about the foods and their origins. Through sheer luck, I found an agent who found a publisher. I was kinda astonished and thrilled at the same time. The cookbook did very well. It was a Book of the Month Club selection and a Better Homes and Gardens Book Club selection. Even though I was now a published author I decided it would be a good idea to refine my writing. I enrolled in the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley. Over the course of two years, my writing improved substantially.

Ever since then, I've been writing regardless of where I've lived. I've held down communications jobs writing medical articles and newsletters, written two novels and a children's book, plus been a contributor to a dozen Chicken Soup for the Soul books. In between, I've written countless freelance articles on subjects of my choosing. And I'm under contract for a new novel coming out in August of 2024.

To get back to the original question of how I came to be a writer, the answer isn't that complicated. In short, I believed in myself and when I got off track, I got back on track. I just started doing what I'd always loved. I figured that if I was the only person who ever saw what I wrote, that would be okay because I loved to write, and doing what I loved wasn't a bad way to live a life.

My message to you is that if you want to be a published author, you can be. The key is you have to truly want to be a writer, more than anything else in the world. But wanting is just the first step; you also have to be willing to put in the work. A lot of hard work. Writing and dedication to the craft isn't easy. Ernest Hemingway famously said that anyone can be a writer, you just have to open a vein and bleed. Because that's what writing is -- putting your heart, soul, and blood into your manuscript. Want to be a writer? Start writing. And write every chance you get. Don't expect everything you write to be perfect because it won't be. Much of your writing will be garbage. I promise you that if you keep it up, eventually, your writing will improve.

Plus, take lots and lots of writing classes. Buy and read books on writing. Listen to podcasts by writers you admire. Become an avid reader, if you are not one already. Read everything you can get your hands on. Join a writers' group where you can meet and interact with other writers. Learn from others. No one ever cranked out a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel the first time they sat down to write. But that doesn't mean you can't write one. You just gotta start putting down one word at a time.

 

Flies, Honey, and Vinegar

“You catch more flies with honey, than with vinegar,” Nana said in her slow Texas drawl, the word ‘honey’ stretched out long and sweet. At the time, I was little, and I don’t think I had any idea what she was talking about, but I knew that if my Nana said it, first, it was true, and second, I better do it. I adored her. 

Nana, my maternal grandmother, born and raised in Cleburne, was Texan to the core. Born in the late 19th century, she was raised in a strict household of a dozen children who were expected to do their household chores whatever their age, obey, speak only when spoken to, and not talk back. Absolutely no talking back. As long as everyone behaved, life was good in the crowded household. All the children, including Nana, the youngest, were instilled with Texas wisdom and truisms that she passed down to my mother and to me. 

Though I was raised in a different south, Southern California, I grew up listening to Texas vernacular. And lots and lots of advice. It was common to hear about something not being worth a "hill of beans." I knew when trouble was brewing because I heard that someone was "blowin’ up a storm."  I knew that when Nana said, “If I had my druthers,” she meant she’d really prefer to be doing something else or doing it differently.

During my teen years, I often heard “hold your horses,” particularly when Mama became exasperated with me. I knew she meant to stop whatever it was I was doing or thinking or saying. 

Even though I was being raised in laid-back San Diego, and by then Nana lived up the road in Los Angeles, she still expected me to behave like a Texas young lady and if it took every ounce of her collective Texas will, she was going to make sure I towed the line.  

Though my grandfather gave her a good life, and she never wanted for anything, she had standards for her daughter and her granddaughters. Mama was raised in Texas, where Nana tried to instill principles in a headstrong daughter determined to make her own way. She wasn’t always successful, which is why she was determined to mold me into a proper Texas young lady at as early an age as she could. However, she was up against a societal force, the 1960s, where change led the rallying call. If I said that her ways were old-fashioned, and not how we were doing things today, Nana would flutter her hand, as though she were batting away an annoying fly. 

“Manners never go out of style,” she would respond, a firm tone to her voice.

While I heard about manners a lot, it was that phrase about flies and honey and vinegar that kept seeping into conversations. When I was around five, I asked what she meant. Nana explained that I would get a lot further if I was nice than if I misbehaved. And didn’t talk back, definitely, no talking back, just like in the house where she was raised. 

I thought I was an easy-going kid who rarely needed disciplining, but in retrospect, I now realize that I must not have been as perfect as I thought because I heard that phrase a lot. I’ll tell you one thing, it sure made an impact. It was simple advice on how to get along in this life. She wasn’t just telling me how to get what I wanted, as in – be nice to people and they will be nice to you, which was true. No, it was about good manners, how to act properly in a civil society, and how to treat others. Without even being aware of what was happening, I took her advice to heart. It became a way of life.

It wasn’t until years later, long after she passed on, that it dawned on me that she knew exactly what she was talking about. Born in a slower time, when the most exciting moment of the day was watching fireflies dance in the yard as the sun set on the horizon, she saw society changing faster than she could comprehend. Yet, she knew that some things shouldn’t change, and if she worked at it, she had a shot at instilling old-fashioned grace and sensibility in her grandchildren. It was all she had to give us. And give, she did, with all her heart. She taught me well that honey is sweeter, and sweet wins over sour any day.