Category Archives: A question

Courtesy at the H-E-B

A question, George, Happening Now, Musings, ,

kindness-is-contagiousI went to the H-E-B grocery store yesterday.  As sometimes happens, I was really tired and drove the little electric cart around to pick up the items I needed.   This happens a few times a year–when I hurt or exhausted–and every time I think I need to write about how rude people are to the handicapped.   So, here I go.

Many able-bodied people (a pejorative in some circles) see a person in a wheelchair or the electric mobility aid and think, “Slow.  Must get ahead of.  Must get around.”   I have seen shoppers actually hurdle the feet of people in wheelchairs or dash in front of me so I have to hit reverse suddenly so I don’t run over them.   It’s as if there were a race with money riding on who got the loaf of bread and carried it to check-out first.  Why?

Even worse than the shoppers who do this are the workers there who have nearly pushed me out of the way in their haste.   I’m a woman of little patience but I’ve learned it in the grocery store because otherwise I’d probably start yelling profanities.   Yes, I write the sweet books in which the characters don’t use those words, but I have heard them and I could use them.

So I beg of you, concede the right-of-way or wait and please don’t run in front of handicapped people.  It shows more about you than you might think and teaches your children a negative lesson.

What can shoppers do to help?  At first, when people in front of me in the check out lane asked if they could unload my cart for me, I was insulted.  I can take care of myself, thank you.   Now I appreciate the offer and accept it.

Also, if there’s something on a high shelf or in a freezer case, offer assistance.  I can stand on my own but getting up and down often is painful and many in wheelchairs cannot.    We can always turn you down but I’m always grateful for the possibility.

Treat handicapped people as you treat anyone else.  I have a brain.  Talk to me.  Don’t ask my friend if I want something.   Ask me.

Wander around the store to see if it seems accessible and tell the manager if it’s not.  Today I’m calling my local H-E-B because in the bakery department, many small tables had been set up to display items, so many that I had great trouble getting around.  I had to back down aisles, move back and forth to make a turn.  If I’d been going straight, the aisles were wide enough but having to turn, no.

What else can you thing of?   I’d like to add to the list.

 

My life by tote bags

A question, Church, Confession, Kansas State University, Musings, Stuff, Uncategorized, , ,

toteIn an earlier blog, I mentioned my problems with organization, how I use baskets and notebooks and colors to keep track of all my stuff and what I should be doing.   In THE MATCHMAKERS OF BUTTERNUT CREEK, Gussie uses different totes for the various sections of her life.  Yes, I took that from my life.  I had one tote for school–a very large one–another for church, and many others for volunteer activities.

Today, I mostly use my totes for shopping and realize anyone looking at them would learn a great deal about my life.   One is from an anniversary of the founding of my college sorority at Kansas State.  Whenever I carry that, I make sure my hair looks good, my shirt is clean, and my shoes don’t look too ugly.  I do that because living here in Austin, I fear a young collegiate Theta will see me and think, “I didn’t think alums looked that bad.”

I have another with the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) logo on it.  This is a communion chalice on a St. Andrews Cross.  That cross is on its side and looks like the letter X which causes people to ask me if I’m a member of the temperance league.

Another tote has this written on it:  “My  hero can kick your hero’s . . .”  Well, I’ll allow you to fill that in so I won’t insult any readers.   I have totes with Romance Writers of America conference themes and one with the symbol of one of my publishers, all of which might tip people off that I’m a writer.

Many years ago, my dear mother-in-law gave me a tote with “Cats and Books” on it.  That pretty well fills in my other interests:  pets and reading.

What’s your favorite tote?  What does it tell people about you?

Domestic violence

A question, Love

This was not the blog I’d planned to post today but it became obvious this morning that it’s one I have to post.

When the video of Ray Rice pulling the limp body of Janay Palmer, his fiancée–his unconscious fiancée and the mother of his only child–from an elevator first appeared, I was appalled at the lack of outrage.   His coach said Rice is a good guy, a man of character  who made a mistake, the mistake being that he punched his fiancée out and left her unconscious.    The NFL answered with a resounding lack of horror at the act or concern for the victim:  a two-game suspension.  No one asked, “What happened in that elevator?  Why did the man who professes to love and should protect this woman from harm–why did he have to pull her out of the elevator?  Why was she unconscious?   Had the football star knocked her out?”

Even more incomprehensible:   she was accused of a crime, obviously for having her face in the way of Ray Rice’s fist.  She apologized for her behavior during a press conference, again for blocking her fiancé’s fist with her face.

Then the tape of the blow appeared yesterday.  From comments on news programs, it’s been around for a while but never made public, never used in the court case against Mr. Rice.  It shows the now Mrs. Rice walking ahead of her fiancé into the elevator.  She looks at him and gives him a shove and her beloved punches her so hard, she immediately loses consciousness and falls to the floor, her head hitting the railing of the elevator as she fell.

Only then did people say, “Maybe knocking a woman out isn’t acceptable behavior for anyone, even if he makes the team and the city and the NFL rich.”  After seeing that tape, his teammates  who had supported Rice after seeing the tape of him with his unconscious fiancée finally admitted that perhaps this was serious, that perhaps they had supported a man who brutalized a woman, supported him because he was, after all, a good guy.  Finally, with the knowledge of what happened when a heavily muscled athlete assaulted his fiancée, actions anyone who saw him dragging from the elevator HAD to have known happened–then these men decided he hadn’t just made an error.  He’d committed a crime for which he’ll never be charged because the case was quickly tidied up and he entered a program which consisted of no jail time but counseling.

What does this say about the status of women in America?  Oh, yes, I know men are assaulted but the great majority of those assaulted are women beaten by males larger than they or more violent than they and–especially if those men are wealthy or important or talented or have connections–it’s okay.  It’s a private matter between the woman and her assailant.   And all to often, those who benefit from the talent or money or connections close rank, blame the woman, and say the abuser is a nice guy.

Sadly and amazingly, this abused woman, Janay Palmer Rice, sees no problem with her husband’s behavior but that’s a topic I won’t go into because there aren’t enough words to explain this.

What are your thoughts?

Lessons I haven’t learned

A question, Confession, Happening Now,

About twenty years ago, I hurt my foot somehow.  When I went to the doctor’s office to have it checked, the receptionist who sat behind an open counter that was at least four feet high asked me, “Where’s the injury.”

To the amazement of the office staff,  I swung my foot up, rested it on the counter, pointed, and said, “My right foot.”

You know, that counter may have ben higher.  Maybe even five or six feet.

When I broke my toe a week ago, I discovered I can’t do that anymore.   Knowing I had to soak my foot, I put ice and water in the bathroom sink and attempted the same move at a much lower level.   I’m lucky I didn’t cause myself serious injury.   To the accompaniment of  many creaking joints and a fet grunts and screams, I was able to shove my foot into the water but worried the entire time I’d never be able to get it out again.

Lesson:   One cannot do everything one did twenty years ago.  However, I also know that one can do things that one couldn’t do twenty years ago such as publishing ten books.

This morning, I stubbed my broken toe.   Ouch!

Lesson:   people with broken toes should wear shoes.  However, I don’t like shoes and love to go barefoot which suggests more pain.

What lessons have you been taught that you refuse to accept?

The definition of insanity . . .

A question, Church, Coming up, Hysteria, ,

noisy neighbor 2Some of you may remember my postings on Facebook nearly a year ago about the new and very noisy neighbors upstairs.  We lived in this apartment for six years with no problem with the family upstairs.    A few months after George died, that family left and the cacophonous family with enormous horse feet moved in above us.  For a few months, I joked about this on FB.  Then, working with the manager of the complex, I thought the problem was solved.  I even took them cupcakes to thank the two boys (ages seven and nine, probably) for being so cooperative.   I even signed a lease for another year because I’d thought the problem was sloved and I’ve always heard, “Don’t make a big decision like moving within a year of the death of a husband.”

The noise started again exactly two days after the lease took effects:  a kickball game with the two sons and their very large cousin.    I complained, the parents told the manager they paid rent and could do whatever they wanted in their apartment.  Other tenants told me they referred to me as “the ** * * * downstairs.”

I didn’t believe I could leave.   The cost of breaking the lease and moving was more than I could afford.   Also, my health wasn’t good enough for me to consider moving.  Moving is my least, least, least favorite thing in the world other than people who put nuts in fudge.

In May, the management moved the family to another apartment. Peace, blessed peace, reigned for three weeks.  Then another family moved in with a sweet little girl and an eleven-year-old boy who has springs on his feet, a living, constantly in motion pogo stick.   This time, I addressed the problem immediately.   On the second evening of broomcontinuous thud, bang, thump,  I pounded on the ceiling with a broom–a signal the preceding family ignored.   Within seconds, I heard a knock on the door.  It was the father, a young, tall and muscular young man.

First, he lied to me, said they were all watching a movie when I pounded on the ceiling.  Yes,  I pound on the ceiling because I’m attempting to build my upper-body strength.   Then the husband attempted to intimidate me.  He leaned over me, obviously much stronger and healthier than I.   He said he liked his kids to be rowdy and didn’t care about me.  Then he said, “If you think there’s a lot of noise now . . . ”  He stopped and glared at me.  I took that as a threat that I’d better shut up or he’d join in the running and jumping.

definition of insanity 2I was hysterical, a little crazy.  Went into my apartment and shook.  Then, I experienced enlightenment.   “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”  Those people upstairs were never going to be quiet.  Never.   They wouldn’t change but I could.

The next day I started looking for a place in an independent living center.  My criteria were   1)  pet friendly   2)  swimming pool    3) Cat-tree affordable.

The next week, I found one.   I’ll be going from a three-bedroom apartment (or, as our friend Ron always said, “A one-bedroom, two-study apartment”) to a one bedroom with heated pool and accepting of the cats.    The Salvation Army is going to haul of some furniture off in August and friends are coming to help sort and pack and carry to Goodwill or the dumpster.   I move in early September.  Yes, it will cost.    I’ve blogged on the fact that I’m very, very cheap and paying to break the lease is painful.  However, I decided my mental/physical  health and my ability to write come first.  It’s difficult to be creative when there’s a kid overhead wearing cement blocks on his feet and doing jumping jacks.

One of the best parts:  the apartment is only three minutes from church.

That’s what I’ve been doing for two weeks:  making changes and writing novels.   I’m happy and optimistic.

Any experiences you’d like to share about your neighbors?  I hope they are all good.

Vanity, thy name is Jane

A question, Confession, , , ,

strawberry blondI was a strawberry blonde for twenty years and loved it.  People called me the redhead and I loved that as well.   However, a few years after I passed forty, I decided it was time to go back to my real color, whatever that was.  I’d had boring light brown hair before I became a redhead.  My thought was I needed to know what my real color was now and how much gray I had and I should do this while I still looked pretty good.  I figured the older I got, the more I might fight old lady with red hairlooking old, the more I might want to cling to my red hair and rapidly vanishing youth.  Didn’t want to become one of those elderly women with pink hair and heavily rouged cheeks who wore white go-go boots.

I figured my hair had darkened over the years so I bought a box of dark brown hair dye and, over the weekend, went back to brown.

The reaction was funny.  If you know thirteen-year-olds, you’ll understand this.  When I walked into my eighth-grade Spanish class, the students didn’t look at my face.  Their mouths dropped open and their eyes were riveted to my hair for the entire fifty minutes.  Usually noisy and chatty, they were silent–aghast or horrified.

My friends said, “You had such beautiful hair.  Why did you dye it brown?”   I was amazed they believed my hair was natural.  For goodness sakes, I have brown eyes!  And there were times that I didn’t get around to coloring it and had half-an-inch of roots showing.  I’d thought everyone knew I wasn’t a natural redhead.

When I became a brunette, I had a little gray which relieved the dark brown my hair had become.   LIttle by little, of course, I got more gray and less brown.   Recently, I’ve felt very washed out because my skin is so pale–perfect for a redhead–and my hair is so white.  I tried bronzer and rouge and darker makeup but none of that helped.

Some people look good with gray hair.  I don’t.George Clooney

I decided to change my hair color, only a little and just around my face .  Truly didn’t want to become a brunette.  People might notice.   I found a temporary hair color that came in what looked like a large mascara wand.  Perfect.  Yesterday I opened the package and brushed the dark brown on the gray around my face, not too much. Merely enough so I didn’t look washed out.  Looked pretty good.

A few hours later, I reached up to touch my hair.   It was hard and had dried in clumps.   When I removed my hand, my fingers were brown.   I rubbed my hair with a Kleenex.  It turned brown.  I ran into the bathroom to look at my hair which had turned a garish russet color.  I no longer looked washed out.  I looked as slutty (hope this word doesn’t offend you but I couldn’t think of another way to say it)  as a woman my age can.   I immediately took a shower and watched the water turn brown.

Fortunately, it all came out.  I do not believe I will try this again.

Have you made any mistakes due to vanity?  I’d love to know.

 

 

My obsession with words

A question, Craft Tuesday, Musings, Reading, Writing, , , ,

POWer of words aI love words.   I roll them around in my mouth and taste each.    When I hear a new word, it tickles my ears and delights me.   Words carry history with them and emotion.   They are not formed only of letters but of  feelings and experience and much more.

My obsession began when I was in eighth grade.  In English class, the dictionary 2teacher would leave a dictionary on the desk in front of each row so we could look up a word and check spelling while we wrote a theme.   I usually finished my theme early and would spend those extra minutes in that front desk, reading the dictionary, learning new words, savoring them.

No wonder I majored in English and Spanish in college:  new words in two languages.    I loved the study of language, the history of words.  I could go on forever talking about root word, about how, in Spanish, words that began in F centuries ago changed to the letter H.  Consider yourselves lucky that I’m not going to discuss the verb satisfacer and how it’s conjugated.

My favorite word is from Spanish:  carcajada which means a deep belly laugh.    It sounds like what it means and has such beautiful rhythm.

words I loveI understand not all people love words as I do.  When I got excited about a word in Spanish and attempted to explain its origen or uses or something equally fascinating to my classes,  students looked at me as if I were absolutely nuts.   And, yes, I may be.

Do you have a word you like?  Perhaps because of meaning or sound?  Please share that.  I’d love to know and I won’t feel so alone.

 

 

 

 

The Evolution of a Cover

A question, Coming up, Technology, Writing, ,

Matchmakers cover 2Readers always ask me if I design my own covers.  A resounding NO on that!

One of the reasons I like traditional  publishing–where a publishing company buys the book and puts it out–is that I prefer writing to all the techie stuff.    With both Steeple Hill and FaithWords, I sent in a cover art sheet on which I made suggestions about scenes for a cover and described the setting and characters.  Then the editors took over, sent the pages to an artist, and she–the editor–worked with the artist.   And, voila, the cover was created.  I was happy with every one of them–except one.

I’ll use my first  published book The Mad Herringtons as an example.   I first contracted with a small, niche publisher in 1999.  The editor had an artistic friend come up with a cover.  The novel took place in England in 1812, during the dazzling Regency period, a time of waltzing, flirting, and house parties on huge estate.  That first cover started with a great idea:  a ball with the couples swirling around the dance floor.   Sadly, however, she had drawn a large chandalier on the ceiling of the ballroom that looked a great deal like an enormous pink spider.  The scene seemed like a horror movie with a mutant creature poised to fall on and consume the dancers.   Wish  I had a picture of this to show you.

That publishing house went bankrupt and I got the right back just as Mad HerringtonsAvalon opened their historical line.   Avalon sold our books to libraries so they were somewhat conservative and very lovely.  The plot took place at a country estate.   Here’s that cover.

A few years ago, I received my rights back from the-mad-herringtons-2Avalon which means I was free to publish this book myself.  It took me a while but I recently got in touch with By the Page.  The nice people there came up with this beautiful cover which will be sold to readers on Kindle, Nook, and most electronic readers.

Did that answer any questions?

An Old-fashioned Love Story

A question, Celebrating, Love, ,

salvation army bandHow my grandparents met is a true love story.    In the early years of the twentieth century, my grandmother Jennie Dunn was a member of the Salvation Army.    One afternoon while she played in the band to bring sinners to the service, a gang of young toughs decided to harass them.  My grandfather John Myers was  part of that group, but when John saw Jennie,  his life that changed.  Love at first sight for both.  She left the Salvation Army to marry him.  He found faith and wrote religious pamphlets that were very popular in Wichita, KS.  They had seven children, one of whom was my father.   I’m named for my grandmother whose name was Jane.  Jennie was a popular nickname for Jane back then.

I only knew my grandmother when she was much older, nearly seventy.  Completely deaf at that time, she looked a great deal like Whistler’s mother in Arrangment in Black and Gray.   She sat straight and unsmiling and never said a word.  I knew her children adored her but I knew her not at all.old fashion love story

But she had experienced a love strong enough to steer her life in a different direction, to leave what she knew and begin life with a man so different from her.

How often we judge people on how we see them not who they are or who they were before we entered their lives.   How much we miss out on!

Do you know an unexpected  love story you’d like to share?  I’d love to read it.

 

 

Read the instructions

A question, Confession, Reading, Technology, ,

There are two kinds of people:  those who read the instructions and instructionsthose who don’t.  I imagine most of us belong to the latter group.     As a teacher for years, I can swear to the fact that teachers are worse about following instructions than students.  I guess we all believe we’ll figure that out.  We’re smart and creative, right?

In 1987, I went from Kentucky  to a work camp at Inman Christian Center WANG2in San Antonio during a really hot July.  We were scraping and painting  the playground equipment.  On the second day, one of the center staff asked if anyone knew how to set up a computer system.  We had Apples at home.   I used mine all the time but felt sure someone knew more than I did.   However no one did and the task meant working inside in the air conditioning so I volunteered.    This was a WANG, one of the early makes and not a bit user friendly but I set it up and trained staff.   When I called George to tell him what I was doing, he gasped and asked, “How did you do that?”  To his great surprise, I answered, “I read the instructions”

Sometimes that’s a good place to start.

coffee makerI learned that again a few  weeks ago.   I make a full pot of coffee every couple of days and stretch the length of time it lasts by adding water to the tank.    However, it does get weaker and weaker so I decided to add the already made coffee to the tank which will warm it up without thinning it.   Yes, I know the instructions say, “Use only water in the tank” but I considered that over regulation by a big business and poured my coffee in.   An hour later, I smelled something burning and searched for the cause.   Quickly I realized it smelled like burning coffee.  Oh-oh.  I poured water into the reservoir.  Issue resolved.  Coffee odor gone.  Lesson learned.

Which are you?  Do you always follow directions or do you take off on your own?