Modesty Is For Suckers

January 11, 2016 · 5:12 pm

Trying again

The harder it is to get words out, the more I know I need to. I’ve started this post several times, then deleted it when it just wouldn’t happen. I almost did it again, just now, but I’m going to push through it and see what happens.

I failed. I’m a bad mother. The proof stares me in the face daily. I let one of mine die. The fact is in his empty room. In the images I’ll never get out of my head. In dreams I have no control over. A mother’s job is to keep her children safe, fed, loved. Two out of three isn’t bad, but that one I failed at? Yeah, it was the most important one.

There. I said it. Ridiculous, of course. I almost just deleted this post again; the stupidity of such a statement infuriates me. But that’s the whole point–I’ve been holding back from these pages, from writing any of this, because it causes those I love grief. It makes people uncomfortable. And yet, the more silent my sorrow, the deeper its shadows grew, the more tenacious its hooks. No one wants to be that person, the one everyone avoids because all she talks about is her grief. The person who gets so mired, her black hole just keeps getting deeper instead of less ragged. There has to be a balance between that person and the one who holds her sorrow too close. Doesn’t talk about it. Puts up a brave front. Both are in danger of letting the shadows tell lies we start to believe.

Silence killed my son. He was hurting far worse than we had any idea because he kept it to himself. Whether there’s something beyond this life and he’s having many adventures, or death is simply the end, he is no longer here with me, with us. That doesn’t mean I failed. I fought for him from the day he was conceived, fiercely. Sometimes harder than he fought for himself. I gave him everything I had. More than I ever knew I had to give. That it wasn’t enough doesn’t negate all I was able to do. I did–and continue to do–the same for all my kids. For them, it has been enough.

Modesty is for Suckers started out as a writer’s blog, and morphed when Chris died. It will be a writer’s blog, still. But my life motto isn’t just about writing. A form of modesty has kept me silent, and, like a sucker, I let it. I tag all my entries. If you get here and the content isn’t what you’re interested in, don’t feel you have to say anything. I’m not looking for anything from anyone–just a place for my voice.

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January 5, 2016 · 4:06 pm

Tennyson

I hold it true, what’er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most,

Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

from: In Memorium by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Between one year and the next

The week after Christmas, before New Years Day, is typically a week of recovery and reflection. I have a lot to reflect upon this year. Stuff I don’t really want to reflect upon. I’m also battling a wee case of pneumonia (complete with ear infection–huzzah!) to make it really spectacular. I pushed myself through all the beautiful chaos in the house, the coughing, the exhaustion, the joy and the sorrow. I didn’t have much time to think. I suspect that was partially what my family had in mind all along. How I adore them.

Monday, I finally went to the doctor because I promised my kids I would. I knew I was fine, so much better, in fact. What a waste of time, right? Wrong, kind of. I had pneumonia, but it was clearing on its own. I also have the beginnings of an ear infection. The doctor said she wouldn’t force the issue of antibiotics, since my body was fighting it off on its own, but strongly urged me take them, as I’d been coughing for three weeks. Yeah, I know. No need to torture me with that.

I’m left feeling pretty exhausted, and a little foolish. Instead of pushing myself through the holiday, I could have actually enjoyed it without the constant haze of coughing and the headache all that hacking caused. Reflecting on it now, I think maybe it wasn’t just me being stubborn. I think it might have been something along the lines of distraction.

And maybe a little punishment.

The distraction part is pretty obvious. The punishment part is only something that occurred to me after seeing the doctor. I’m not an idiot. I knew I had more than a cold. What a grand job I did of fooling myself otherwise, and why? Because who am I to enjoy the holiday, this year of all years? My throat closes up writing this. I’m fighting back the tears. How does an otherwise intelligent, introspective, intuitive woman do this to herself? Here I learn another lesson–the mind is far more tricksy and powerful than anyone suspects. It’s like there are a whole lot of “others” in there, with their own agendas, playing their parts independent of the rest. Sometimes, it takes a while to get into a collective mindset, to see the big picture, and the harm being caused by a part not cooperating with the others. And here I learn, too, how incomprehensible my son’s mental pain truly was. How at odds he was with himself. I understand how an intelligent, introspective, intuitive person can make the wrong choice, knowing it’s the wrong choice, and not truly considering the consequences that independently-acting player doesn’t want to know about.

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December 18, 2015 · 6:46 pm

Broken Shells

I collect sand and seashells. My office/loft holds shelves and shelves of treasures from the sea. I’ll admit to being somewhat of a snob about it. I don’t like broken seashells, chipped ones. I’ll rarely bring home anything less than whole.

Last June, Frank and I took Jamie, Josh, the kids and Chris down the shore (Brigantine Beach.) I found myself drawn to broken shells, the pretty bits of pink and tan and white. I came home with a jar full of broken pieces, and put them on my shelf.

Chris was broken when we went down the shore, and yet I didn’t make any connection between that and the shells I was collecting. Before the month was out, he was gone. All this time later, spotting that jar on the shelf, it hit me. Egads. Had I written it into a novel, it would’ve been maudlin, too obvious a metaphor. And yet…

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December 16, 2015 · 8:19 pm

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I just finished the first book in a spin-off series to my Bitterly Suite. Cape Maybe Book 1 of Bitterly’s Bachelors. I will freely admit, it wasn’t what I wanted to write when I got to the end of Waking Savannah, but I do love the story–all three I have planned–I was fully immersed in the characters, in the world. But there’s this other story…

Traegar’s Lunatics has been the novel in my heart of hearts since before finishing Waking Savannah. I wrote Cape Maybe not because I really wanted to write it, but because I thought it was wiser to ride the wave, both creatively and professionally. There was something not quite right about it. I sent it off to Penny the Great, and she gave me some feedback that made it better. Much better. I wrote up my proposal for it, as well as the rest of the series. Long story short, Seeking Carolina only just released less than two months ago. I got a “let’s wait and see what the first series does first.” Fair enough. I was a little bummed. Surprisingly, I was also excited.

Of the six published books I’ve written, only two have been so without a home ready and waiting. Finder, and Seeking Carolina. It’s a good feeling. A really good feeling. I work hard, but I know I’m lucky. There are a lot of hard-working writers who don’t get that privilege. But there was a reason Cape Maybe didn’t sit right in my mind. I didn’t realize it until just this week, but now I know–I wrote it for the wrong reason. It should have been the story in my heart, not the wise choice.

Traegar’s Lunatics isn’t fantasy, and it’s not romance, even if there are fantastic elements as well as romantic ones. It’s the story of an old man and a young woman, one dying and one damaged. Within a collective story written by all the beloved lunatics in The Pen–a home for elderly writers–they both find what eluded them through their lives. The edges between story and reality blur, creating a world within a world where the old are made young, the damaged are made whole and anything is possible.

This is not a book I can write in four months. More like a year. Creativity unbound of parameters and deadlines. This excites me in ways I can’t explain.

I published three fantasy novels with Hadley Rille Books. I will have published three romance novels with Kensington/Lyrical Shine by the end of next October. Whether I publish with the same press, a different one, or do it myself, I’ll write my Bachelor books. When they’re the stories in my heart and not the wise choice.

Writing to contract is very comforting, rewarding, secure, validating. Writing without that safety net is a little scary after getting used to it being there, but it’s time to take the road as yet untraveled.

Traegar’s Lunatics it is.

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December 11, 2015 · 3:18 pm

A Frankie D Story

When our house was built thirteen years ago, the walkout basement didn’t get finished correctly. We have these two, six-foot, concrete walls that were supposedly to hold back earth, but there isn’t any earth there to hold. Thus we have an eye-sore. It was one of those things we wanted to do something about, but it just never warranted the time or money to do it right.

A couple of summers ago, Chris decided to build a roof for it. He wanted to make a workshop outside so he could do his woodworking, welding, chemistry projects without destroying the basement (which he had already pretty much taken over and destroyed anyway!) After starting the project, he shattered his ankle, the same leg he’d injured so badly years before. That did not thwart his efforts. He built the thing in the driveway, from his wheelchair. Once it was finished, we carried it around the house to the walk-out.

I had all kinds of plans for the roof, making it look like thatch, lattice, something nicer than the temporary tarp we put over it to keep out the rain. It never happened. We talked about tearing it all down and starting from scratch, and then Chris died. I couldn’t bear to tear apart this thing he worked so hard to build.

Yesterday, we had a proper roof put on the frame. It looks great. And here’s where the Frankie D story comes in…

Preparing for the guys to do their thing yesterday morning, Frankie D picked up an old, cloth potting container and disturbed the little mouse who’d built a home in it. He felt awful, but it had to be moved. Last night, the first thing he did when he got home was go look at the great job the guys did. The second thing he did was put the pot back so the little mouse could come home. He checked on it later, and sure enough, the mouse was there. He was so happy. It was adorable. I can bet without fear of losing that he’ll be putting bird seed out there through the winter.

My Frankie D. This is why I keep him around when there are times I want to strangle him.

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December 8, 2015 · 5:01 pm

Sadie Mae, the boa-wearing diva

Sadie’s gone. Her kidneys went, and we have no idea why. It happens, and it happens fast. She was suffering with mouth ulcerations so bad they bled. She looked like a vampire kitty. Frank and I took her to the vet this morning and let her go.

The irony of euthanasia and how it works hits me harder than her dying. What an awful thought, huh? But this is where I put them, so yeah. You’re welcome.

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December 2, 2015 · 6:53 pm

Blanking

This is not untrodden ground. Many have

been here before. I

have been here before.

And yet I’m unprepared, because what everyone says is true–

it’s different for everyone.

Happiness makes me sad. Seeing it.

Feeling it. I listened to my family sing

Christmas carols on Thanksgiving,

watched them ham it up.

I went into another room and cried.

If he were there, he wouldn’t have been singing with them.

He’d have been standing off

to the side, watching.

Smiling.

When he sang, it was with his ukulele, and solo.

And beautiful.

I hear him singing, all the time.

There is no such thing as silence in my mind.

If words aren’t filling it, music is.

My brain sings,

not always in his voice, but often.

Clear. So clearly.

I hear every crack in his song.

I have learned how to push down

the memories that flare

up unbidden and precious.

“Don’t. Not now.” I can do it

and I do. I have to or go mad with sorrow.

Remembering hurts, and so does refusing to.

I don’t want to forget. Anything.

But most memories will turn into

ones I want rather than ones that were.

It’s how I’ll be able to remember without crying

the time he cut out coupons, thinking he could use them to buy toys;

how he walked his baby sister to her classroom, kissed her good-bye. Every. Day.

that he befriended every misfit in his world;

all the times I held him, making sure he kept breathing through the night;

His chaos. I don’t want to forget that either.

but I will. I will.

I had a son, and now he’s gone

no matter what anyone says of heaven or the other side of stone walls.

I open my arms and shout his name,

trying so hard to feel that presence still imbuing this house.

He’s everywhere I look. Every corner, every wall full of the life he lived here,

but I don’t. I try. Maybe he does too.

Or maybe it’s just too soon, and it just hurts too much.

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November 28, 2015 · 5:31 pm

I have a confession to make…

I’ve been watching a lot of Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. There. I said it. Out loud. That dirty, shivery feeling will pass in a moment. In the meantime, Lucy, let me ‘splain.

Frankie D is a romance junkie. No lie. When we were first married, he called his favorite category of movie “sexy comedy.” Now, he’s adopted a new favorite term. Rom-com. Don’t give him world powers and their intrigue, dystopia, or indie films about unlikeable characters doing unlikeable things. He loves a happily-ever-after wherein the problems encountered are either hilarious or of the romantic kind. Preferably both. If any Saturday Night Live alums appear, all the better. Don’t tell him I told you. Actually, you can. He loves his rom-coms and has no problem admitting it.

It’ll come as no surprise to anyone, now, that the Hallmark Channel is his favorite for holiday fare. I’ve formerly refused to watch any of these movies. This year, we both need a bit of over-the-top schmaltz, so I relented. Some of them are cute. Some of them have me rolling my eyes. Some, laughing out loud and not in any way the writers meant for me to. Oy, many are just really, really bad, but having watched a few of these movies now, I’ve learned something. The writers know exactly what they’re doing. They’re giving the public what it wants, what it expects when they turn on a Hallmark Christmas movie.

Such viewers aren’t looking for Alistair Sims’ version of A Christmas Carol, or Bad Santa. They’re looking for a feel-good, over-the-top cute holiday romance complete with adorable kids, puppies, and the darling pair of lovers never angsting over one another for more than thirty seconds before the dilemma of the moment is resolved. They know the villain will get her comeuppance, and the girl’s going to win the guy. Mom’s cancer will go into remission, Dad will get an unexpected leave from the war overseas, and Rover will find his way home. The cheesier the dialog, the better. The acting is akin to the soap-opera kind. And I noticed something else–there is no actual chemistry between the romantic leads. Chemistry equates to sexual tension, and aside from that longed-for kiss, there will be no tension suggesting s-e-x. Deviating from this path is not an option. And it’s all very purposely done.

The writers and producers are marketing not just the movie, but the channel, and they’re doing a bang-up job. Are these movies great? Even memorable? No. They’re not meant to be. Like a fair amount of romance in general, it’s meant to be enjoyed and forgotten. Why? Because if you remembered it, you wouldn’t watch–or read–the next one exactly like it.

Sometimes, I’ll pick up a book and wonder how the hell it sold a gazillion copies. The answer is simple–it fills a need. I get it now. While I believe a steady diet of this sort of thing is frighteningly escapist, we all need a little something sweet once in a while. The part of me that feels dirty and shivery when she sits down with her Frankie D to watch one of these movies will get over her damn self and enjoy it. Thanks Hallmark Channel.

The 12 Dates of Christmas from ABC Family’s 25 Days of Christmas was really cute. Any favorite Holiday movies you care to share?

Mine? A Christmas Story, Trapped in Paradise, Scrooged, Bad Santa, Christmas Vacation, to name a few. Not a yearly must-watch but memorable movie is The Family Stone.

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November 20, 2015 · 4:22 pm

Grandma Grace’s Artichokes

My grandmother made the best stuffed artichokes. It’s a well-known fact. My mother tried for years to get her to share her secret. Gram always told her she’d tell her one day, but that day never came. Grandma Grace died without ever passing her recipe along. Since then, mom’s tried. I’ve tried. We both think we know what it was she did, but neither of us have ever been able to duplicate them. It’s not that our stuffed artichokes aren’t good. They’re just not Grandma’s.

My grandmother was never an amazing cook. Plain and simple was her style. That’s what her artichokes were too. (She did share with me once one of her secrets–Wonderbread. Yes. Wonderbread.) I’m good with flavors, at being able to pick out even the most subtle herb in any dish. Why couldn’t I figure out Gram’s simple recipe? With Thanksgiving coming up, I bought four artichokes to practice on. If I got it right, I would bring them to my brother’s for Turkey Day.

Mulling over past attempts, trying to devise a new strategy, I had an epiphany. At last and finally, I realized I was never going to be able to make Gram’s artichokes. Ever. She’s gone, and she took her secrets with her. I couldn’t duplicate her recipe, only replicate it to the best of my ability.

My best is pretty damn good. Honoring her tradition, I used the ingredients I know she used, but for the first time, I made them my way. I added things I knew would enhance what I’d tried in the past. They were amazing. Dare I say it? Even better than Gram’s. Yes. I dare. I think she would agree. Mine were over-the-top delicious. The only nit I had was that there was too much stuffing. Next time, I’ll stuff them less.

I don’t do measurements, I eyeball everything, but here’s my recipe.

Gracie’s Stuffed Artichokes, Terri-Style

Four large artichokes

1 sixteen inch semolina loaf (has to be semolina)

1 cup grated parmesan cheese

1 cup grated romano cheese

2 eggs

1/3 c olive oil

garlic–lots of garlic (I used about a tablespoon and a half of minced, dried garlic. Gives it more of a kick than fresh.)

1 tsp salt (never skip the salt. It’s not like you make artichokes often)

1 c fresh baby kale*

1 c fresh watercress*

(*I threw these in because I had them in the house. It gave the artichokes a nice, earthy flavor. Arugula would have worked really well, too.)

32 oz container chicken stock

1 1/2 c white wine (not too dry, not too sweet)

2 tsp capers

3 tbsp lemon juice

2 tbsp butter

Cut stems off the artichokes so that the bottoms are flat. Clip the tips (they’re sharp!) off the leaves. Wash thoroughly, opening up the artichoke nice and wide to make stuffing easier (see photo below.) Turn them upside down to dry while you assemble the stuffing.

Steaming liquid: Put the stock, wine, lemon and capers into a large stock pot. Bring it to a simmer while you assemble the rest. NEVER BOIL IT! Boiling kills the flavor of the wine and capers, and makes the lemon bitter.

Stuffing: Chunk up the semolina and put it in the food processor. You want it coarse, not fine. Toss it into a big bowl with the cheeses, eggs, olive oil, garlic, kale, watercress, and salt. Mix it well. I use my hands. It’s the best way to make sure it’s all incorporated. The stuffing will hold together if you press it into a ball. If it doesn’t, add a little olive oil until it does.

Stuff the artichokes between each of the larger, outer leaves. You should be able to get fairly close to the center before they get too small. Shove a good bit into the center. This is messy business. Do it on a cutting board to make re-gathering the stuffing that misses the artichoke easier. Don’t over-stuff it. Yummy as the stuffing is, it gets to be a bit much.

Carefully lower the artichokes into simmering liquid. The liquid will come about halfway up the artichokes. Cover and let simmer 45 minutes to an hour. When an inside leaf pulls away easily, they’re done. Remove artichokes from the liquid and set them onto a plate. There should be a good couple of cups of simmering liquid left. If there’s more, reduce it by simmering a little while longer. Remember–never boil! Take it from the heat, stir in the butter and pour the sauce back over the artichokes.

Eat them hot or cold, but warm is best.

If you try them, tell me! And send me a picture. This is not an actual pic of mine. I forgot to take one. But this is pretty much what it looked like.