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.  

 

Does a Quilt Have Healing Qualities?

Since childhood, I’ve always believed that physical items hold certain attributes and capabilities. My mother brushed off these notions as childhood fantasies, yet as I grew older, they did not dissipate. If anything, they became stronger, especially as I entered adulthood. 

Twelve years ago, I suffered a near-fatal pulmonary embolism. It’s not something you ever want to experience. According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control, 10 to 30% of people with a pulmonary embolism will die within one month of diagnosis. While that’s a pretty sobering statistic, in approximately 25% of cases sudden death is the first symptom.  

The doctors in the hospital where I was treated told me that no one in that hospital had ever survived an embolism that massive. The hospital was a regional center for treating pulmonary embolisms. In other words, they knew what they were doing, so when they told me that no one had survived an embolism as large as mine, I was more than a bit concerned. I attributed my survival to it not yet being my time. I also wondered if my handmade quilt that lay over me might have helped. Quilts can make a person feel loved and protected and comforted, something you need when you’re sick. Makes sense, right? 

Fast forward to late 2019 when I underwent surgery to see if a large growth was cancerous. It was one of those 50/50 situations where it might have been, and only by removing the massive cyst and performing a biopsy would we know. As I recovered in the hospital, I lay under the same quilt I’d layed under in 2011 and that I’d layed over my husband when he underwent a quintuple heart bypass in 2013 and another surgery in late 2018 – both of which were successful.  Over the years we came to call it The Healing Quilt. If either of us needed to be in the hospital that quilt went along. 

Ten days after the 2019 surgery my surgeon told me the cyst was benign and for a few days I thought I was good for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper was not deterred so easily. Though I’d beat the Grim Reaper in 2011 and did again with the 2019 surgery, the Grim Reaper had other plans. A couple of weeks after the surgery, I began experiencing familiar breathing problems that felt an awful lot like the pulmonary embolism of 2011. An urgent visit to the ER confirmed that the Grim Reaper was at it again, only this time he upped his game. I had not one, but two large embolisms, one in each pulmonary artery, plus a slew of smaller ones. I was admitted into the hospital, along with the quilt. If the Grim Reaper was going to play hardball, so was I. Some people use amulets to deter evil spirits. Me? I use a quilt. My quilt. A couple of days later I was discharged along with a blood thinner I would take for life and a caution to take it easy. I figured that GR might finally give up. What was I thinking?

A week later I got hit with a serious bacterial infection that took me down like one of those implosions you see on TV when a company internally blows up a building in order to use the land to build a new one. I won’t go into all the gory details. Suffice it to say it was nasty, debilitating, and painful. My husband brought me a quilt, though not The Healing Quilt because we didn’t want it to get messed up. He brought me a different one. I wondered if a different quilt could work the same healing magic. Ultimately, it didn’t seem to matter that I was using a different quilt because I got through it. Two weeks later the infection reared its ugly head and once again I lay the healing quilt over me at home as I started a new round of antibiotics. 

In my latest recuperation, I took no chances. The Healing Quilt had gotten me through several serious health issues, some of which had high mortality rates. I figured that if the Grim Reaper was gonna keep coming at me then I was going to use everything I had to keep him at bay: the best healthcare I could find, The Healing Quilt, and prayer. In each case, I had a bevy of prayer warriors calling on God. I have no doubt that all combined that’s why I’m still here which brings up the question…… Can a quilt or other inanimate object really impart healing qualities? I’m kind of experienced in this matter and I can say unequivocally that yes, it can, but only if you believe. I did and I still do. So, back off, Grim Reaper. I’ve got a Healing Quilt and I know how to use it.

                                                                                

Previously published as "The Little Dog Who Chose Me," Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Dog, 2023.

Saving a Small Life

A sad little dog with soulful brown eyes ran into my yard and begged to be picked up. From the innocent look of him, I doubted that he was vicious. Not with an old man’s face like his, etched with sorrow and a slight glimmer of hope.

Turned out that a friend of my neighbor’s gave her the scruffy little dog. My neighbor didn’t want him and boy, did he know it. Every day he snuck out of her yard and roamed the neighborhood looking for someone who would love him. He found me on his first foray. Though he was adorable I knew I couldn’t take him because I was pretty sure that my indoor cat would never tolerate a dog. I felt so bad for him. He had been owned by an older lady who was put into a nursing home. She asked a friend to find a good home for him. The man dumped him at my reluctant neighbor’s. 

Discovering how often he visited me, my neighbor asked me twice to take him and twice I declined. Nevertheless, the little dog kept coming around. When he saw me, he would run toward me like a scene out of the movie “Ten” and whether I was ready or not, he would leap up to me from several feet away, confident that I would catch him. The moment I did he would shower me with doggie kisses. He made me laugh which made him grin and slap me with his wagging tail.  

As the months rolled by the little dog grew thinner and thinner, his fur a mess. When the warm weather hit fleas took up residence on every inch of his little body, even his face and around his eyes. Still, all he wanted was love, until the day he showed up on my porch, his eyes imploring me for help. I picked him up; his ribs protruded and his dry tongue hung out of his mouth. I ran into the house and brought out a big bowl of water. He slurped every bit and looked up at me for more. I returned with more water and a plate of cat food. When he finished, I put out a cat bed on the porch. He curled up in it and slept the rest of the day and night. 

My sister brought over a bag of dog grooming tools she used on her own pups and topical flea medicine. We applied the flea medicine and the next day we began shaving and clipping away at his tangled fur. The more we shaved the more we marveled at the little being that emerged. We bathed him repeatedly and underneath the dirty gray and brown fur, we found a mostly white and silver dog. By the time we finished, that dog was smiling. He wasn’t just happy; he was grateful and at that moment I decided he was staying with me. 

I took him to the vet for a checkup and shots, where I found out he was about two years old and a Shnorkie (half mini schnauzer and half yorkie.) A few days later I walked him over to my neighbor and told her I was keeping him. She seemed glad to be rid of him. I asked if she knew his original name. 

“Mitch,” she said.

“Mitch? Who names a dog Mitch?” I asked. 

He was so sweet, my husband suggested we call him Mensch, the Yiddish word for someone who is good. We also thought that he might respond to Mensch because it sounded like Mitch. He knew his name the first time we said it. 

Since then the cat has accepted him into the household and we built a fence around the backyard to keep him from running all over the neighborhood. He plays with his toys, sleeps in his little cat bed, and warns us if the boogeyman approaches our door. 

I have never seen a dog grin as much as Mensch, and indeed, he does grin. It’s contagious. Every time I look at him, I smile too, and feel my heart race a little faster. It didn’t take long before we fell in love with one another, though I suspect that our mutual love affair began the day he found me. I knew that I had to save this little dog. He deserved a better life and everything in my being told me that I was the one to do it. 

 

  

 

The Art of Porch Sittin’

There was a time when porch sittin’ was as vital to the day as eating, drinking, sleeping, and working. Who doesn’t remember that when it was hotter inside than it was outdoors, people headed to the porch to sit a spell and relax, talk to family and friends, unwind and wait for the fireflies to make their evening appearance? It became a tradition long ago, especially here in the south, and a way of life. That was why every home was built with a porch. It was as indispensable as a kitchen.

Then technology and a faster pace of life began changing all that. Air conditioning kept people indoors because Lordy, it really was hotter outdoors and who wanted to sit on a porch and sweat? Long working hours drove another nail into the porch coffin. Arriving home from work at 7pm or later, rarely did people want to sit on the porch doin’ nothin', even though doin’ nothin' could be the best part of the day. Eventually home builders got the message that homebuyers weren’t so keen on porches anymore and stopped including porches in their designs. As time marched on the only way to buy a house with a porch was to find an old house with a porch of yesteryear.

Fast forward half a century or more and porches are once again in high demand. Families are recognizing that porch sittin’ has it attributes and spending time on the porch is good for the soul. There’s just something about a porch that boosts the spirit and relieves what aches, mentally or physically.

Now if you’ve never done any porch sittin’ you might be wondering how to do it. I know, what a ridiculous notion, you just sit on the porch, right? Well, yes and no. There is an artform to proper porch sittin.’ I know, because I’ve always wanted a porch. I grew up in nice houses, though none with a porch. As an adult none of the homes I’ve lived in had a porch. Even so, I never gave up hope. I knew that one day I would have a porch and it would be my little slice of heaven.

A few years ago, when hubby and I bought our current home, one of the things I liked most about the house was that it had a big back porch. Right away we started porch sittin,’ even though it needed some TLC and we knew little about the correct way to porch sit. I was confident that we would figure it out. And we have. Over the years I’ve learned a few things about proper porch sittin.’ Important stuff. Everyone knows that if you’re gonna do something worthwhile, like properly sittin’ on a porch, you might as well do it right, right? So, here’s what I’ve concluded are the essentials of picture-perfect porch sittin.’

First, and this one is really important: never sit on the porch without first getting something cool to drink – a lemonade, iced tea, a mint julep, a glass of wine, a bottle of Shiner, whatever. If it’s real hot outside, you’re gonna need it.

Sit on a comfortable chair. Though I’m no brain surgeon I figured out that the more comfortable the seating, the more I’ll want to sit outdoors. The rattan loveseat and chair with cushions are comfortable enough, for now. Next up I’m going get a couple of rocking chairs and hang a swing. There’s something about moving a little in a rocking chair or a swing that relaxes the mind and adds an old-fashioned charm to the day.

As soon as I settle in, I listen for birds singing, especially the cardinal’s trill, mockingbirds imitating every bird in the yard, crickets chirping, and squirrels admonishing my dog. Their melodic sounds lull me into serene bliss.

To get really good at porch sittin’ ya gotta make it a daily ritual. Sometimes I sit for an hour, other times just 15 minutes. It’s something I have to do every day. It’s become a habit, something I treasure and look forward to each day. If for some reason I don’t get out there, it feels like something’s missing.

By the way, I’m not the only one who likes a good porch. Bugs like em too. A lot – to the point that they have successfully driven me off the porch a few times and that really upsets me. It’s my porch – who are they to drive me inside? Hubby came to the rescue. He visited our neighborhood hardware store and got a mosquito trap. They sure do work wonders. He’s also installing a ceiling fan. I expect that it will blow those suckers into the next county. At least I hope so.

If you have some thinking and possibly deciding to do you won’t find a better place to weigh your options than a porch. I’ve done a fair amount of thinking in my lifetime and I can unequivocally say that porches are the very best place to think.

You can porch sit any time it suits you, that’s the beauty of having a porch. My favorite time to porch sit is at day’s end; you won’t find a better spot to sit quietly and drink in twilight’s song as you await fireflies take flight and light up the garden. At that magical intersect between day and night the sky changes, the air shifts, and you hear sounds you don’t hear at any other time of day. And suddenly you see the porch for what it is -- a place to soothe the soul, to entertain reveries, and your deepest wishes, and a place where memories are born.

 I wrote this during the throes of the Covid-19 pandemic when riots raged across the nation. 

Hope in a Child’s Garden

We are living in very challenging times. Scary times really. We see it, we breathe it, we live it every day. We wonder if our lives will ever return to the way it was before COVID-19 bore down on us like a tsunami, before riots broke out in our streets.  I have been as concerned as everyone, worried that our lives have been changed forever. Sometimes I think that we’re living in a dream or someone’s idea of a joke, and then I remember that it’s not a dream nor a joke, but a pandemic of biblical proportions and a societal shift in our country’s future. Thousands of businesses and homes have been destroyed by the virus or by rioting. It’s enough to make you want to stick your head down a hole, and hide from the world. Will this madness never stop? Is there any chance that our lives will ever return to something even slightly similar to our previous existence? 

After witnessing something recently, something extraordinary in its simplicity, I realized that it is possible to return to what our lives were like before havoc rained down upon us. Suddenly, I grasped what I’d been missing. I found myself craving the comfort of ordinariness, of normality. It was that familiarity that I’d been missing and all it took was a group of young children to remind me that there is ordinariness all around us; all we have to do is look – it’s there. 

I was in my backyard weeding my vegetable garden when I noticed the children next door hoeing, digging, raking, and prepping a small area in their backyard. I called over the fence and asked if they were going to plant a vegetable garden, too. They replied that they had found a baby bird who had fallen out of its nest and died. They were preparing a grave for the little thing they named Birdie. A couple of hours later I was back out in the garden when the kids called over to me. They said that they had finished the grave and were about to hold a funeral service for the tiny bird; they asked me if I would join them. How could I refuse?

Each child said a few words, remarking on Birdie’s short life and how it was now in a better place. These four kids, ranging in age from five to ten years old, took it upon themselves to do something right for a small being whose life was cut short. What they did wasn’t so unusual, kids are always burying things they find and giving them funerals. What lifted my spirits was how normal their actions were. They weren’t concerned about Covid-19, they weren’t concerned about the battles raging on Capitol Hill, or mayhem in the streets, they weren’t concerned that our economic prosperity had been yanked out from beneath everyone living and breathing on this earth. No, they were more concerned with providing a fitting funeral for a life, not unlike their own, young, sweet, and innocent. It was such a normal act of kindness; it reinforced my faith in the future. 

I believe it was the five-year-old who found Birdie, though there was some disagreement on that matter. I’m not sure which child suggested they dig a grave, give it a marker with Birdie’s name, and hold a funeral service. It didn’t really matter who initiated the gesture; all the children were in agreement that it was the proper thing to do. As I watched the children, I marveled at how they took it upon themselves to do the right thing for a little being they never knew, and at that moment I saw that our future is in good hands. All around us are children who know what is just and decent. Children who think that everyone, even a tiny bird, has worth. If our youngest generation can uphold and preserve what is important, I am confident that we’re going to be fine.