The temperature's risin'

It’s 11 a.m. in the desert in an era of global warming.

It’s sunny and hot. VERY hot.

What else did you expect?

Not much happens in Phoenix in the summer. We cover our steering wheels with special reflective fabric in the hope of avoiding the searing pain of burning flesh when we climb into our cars at lunchtime. For a few moments of relief, we head to ice rinks, water parks, and desert lakes - even if we don’t like these places. If we’re endurance athletes, we train at 4 a.m. when, if we’re lucky, the temperature dips to 90 degrees. We try not to think too much, lest our brain energy raise the temperature one iota more.

We giggle with amusement when the national chains introduce fall fashions replete with wool skirts and leather jackets. In August. When the temperatures hit 115.

And the biggest excitement of the season? The introduction of the summer’s latest frappuccino drinks at Starbucks.

Hence, I believe there must be a story behind holding Thrillerfest, the International Thriller Writers conference, here in Phoenix next week, although no one will tell me for certain. Could this be a ploy by some enterprising author to research an adventure story set in the searing heat of a Phoenix summer while simultaneously indulging in pails of gin with her fellow writers at a storied resort whose hallways are filled with ghosts and skeletons?

It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Nonetheless, as hospitality is my nature, I’ve been encouraging all the writers coming to Phoenix next week. After all, it’s a dry heat. Last week’s forecast had the temperature hovering around 105 degrees for this first ever conference of the International Thriller Writers. Just another balmy day in paradise.

And Phoenix is celebrating this august occasion with book signings and news stories and bookstore displays galore. Thrillerfest is the hippest, coolest thing happening in Phoenix all summer long.

Except the good folks on the Weather Channel are, as I write this, discussing at great length the “amazing heat in the West.”

Except they just forecast a temperature of 113 degrees in Phoenix today.

Except my air conditioner is on the blink.

Just another balmy day in paradise.

Really.

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Photo art above by the excellent photographer, Steve Strauss.

So you say you want an evolution?

As I'm sure many of you have noticed, blogs often evolve beyond their original scope. Mine has not...well not exactly.

Originally, I sought only to share stories with my family and friends. I never, ever anticipated making so many new and inspiring friends in the writing community: my very first blog friend, the hilarious Bonnie Wren whose Monday Morning Mojo is the only thing that gets me to work; the talented and funny M.G., who was kind enough to be my first blog friend to invite me to her home, and her fellow bunions, especially E. Ann Bardawill; the amazing writers Cheetarah, Buffy Holt, Jamie Ford, Jess Riley and Sandra Ruttan; Adam Hurtubise, who first inspired me to post about my grandfather; Plant at Chasing the American Dream, who I've never met but who feels like a brother to me; the talented writers and thinkers who visit Barry Eisler's engaging forum, Heart of the Matter, especially Brett Battles and David Terrenoire; the steady and generous Bonnie Calhoun; Jessie, my kindred spirit in painting, writing and coffee; the amazing artist Katharine Tyrell who inspired me to start a blog featuring just my artwork; Robert Tolone, my high school friend who first introduced me to blogging and hasn't blogged since (y'all, go get on his blog and give him trouble, will ya!); and my newest inspirations thanks to Killer Year 2007, JT Ellison and Toni McGee Causey.

So, why am I telling you this?

Three years ago, with the advice of two mentors, one a dear friend and well-respected author with several published books to his credit and the other a former publishing house editor, I tried to hammer my first book proposal into the mold of narrative military history. I desperately wanted to sell it, and they convinced me this would make it sellable. I believe they are both absolutely correct. But this book isn't, and never was, the book I craved to write. So, what have I done with my finely-honed book proposal for the past three years?

Nothing. Never started the first chapter. Never sent even a single query out.

Now, entirely through your encouragement and inspiration, I am thrilled to tell you that I am revamping my book concept. Instead of writing a narrative military history, I will instead write the book I wanted all along: a book about my family, about my grandfather and his amazing spirit, about WWII, about the Battle of the Atlantic, about heroism and patriotism and spies and secret missions, about the love affair between my grandfather and his wife, about his conflicted relationship with God, about the men who drowned in the Arctic Ocean on a frigid night in February 1942, about the men who survived and about the men who saved them. It won't be in any genre, it probably will be a tough sell - if it sells at all - but it will honor my grandfather and the people he served.

Much like my blog, this book seeks to share a story with my family and friends. I can only imagine where that story will lead.

Thank you all, so very much, for your sincere friendship, for your inspiration and for helping me find my way in the world of writing! You're all the cat's meow!!

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Would I do it all again?

Today is not just Father’s Day, it is also my parent’s 51st anniversary. Instead of a big, loud Father’s Day affair replete with kids, noisy grandkids and noisier great-grandkids, they instead chose to celebrate with a quiet dinner at an elegant restaurant and only each other for company. After 51 years, they’re still in love.

Hah, you say. In this era? Impossible.

Think again.

This past Friday evening, I called my parents to make arrangements to drop some things off at their house. They were in the middle of making dinner and, as I had no particular plans, they invited me to join them. My mother had set a lovely table, as she does every evening, with candlelight, china and Waterford crystal--all for a simple supper of hamburgers and French fries.

After our meal, as we were waiting for coffee to brew, Mom plopped a large, gold-ribboned gift bag down in front of Dad and, with a coy little smile, announced that, since they were driving to Sedona to pick up the keys for their new vacation condo tomorrow, Dad had to open his Father’s Day present right now.

She hovered over him, wringing her hands with excitement, as he pulled a bright red toolbox out of the gift bag. Forgetting entirely that I was there, they whispered and smiled and cooed over each high-tech gadget and shiny tool as my Dad dug deeper and deeper into his new toolbox. He smiled at her, she smiled at him, they looked in each other’s eyes and cooed some more.

This was a side of my parents’ married life I’d rarely glimpsed: here were my stoic dad and my practical mom, both now in their 70s, acting like 14-year-olds giggling over their first kiss.

Mom remembered the coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, just as Dad gasped as he realized he hadn’t opened her card.

He looked at me with the puppy-dog eyes of a boy who knows he’s about to get into trouble, and I said, “Quick, open it before she gets back!”

As he read it, I watched his face visibly soften and his eyes grow full with wetness.

“This is really sweet, would you like to read it?” he said, barely able to speak, and handed me the card.

The cover of the card said: “Father’s Day: If I had it to do all over again, would I?”

The lengthy poem inside continued the question: “Would I go through the hurts and the laughs, the crying and the happiness…,” and so on. I think it ended with something like “…absolutely, I would,” but I can’t be sure; by the time I reached the end, my eyes, too, were blurry with tears.

My own romantic life has been radically different from my parents. At some critical point in our relationship, my son’s father, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, and I realized that we were not meant to live together, much less be married, begging a far more somber version of the question, “Would I do it all again.”

Would I go through the years of fun before our son was born, the exhilarating joy of childbirth, the agony of splitting up, watching Dad roll around on the living room floor with his six-month-old son like a couple of puppies at play, the first day of kindergarten when our Pumpkin got on the bus and never looked back and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw tenderly put his arm around me and walked me home while I cried, the torturous nights of second-grade homework, the years when neither of us could agree on ANYthing, the day we stood together at the airport and watched our son swagger off an airplane like a 9-year-old adventure hero after spending two weeks backpacking through the Swiss Alps with his grandfather, the lonely summer weeks when the Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin went away for summer camp for the first time, the bullying of junior high, the first agonizing days of high school, the sleepless nights after the Teenager first got his driver’s license, his second place finish at a triathlon, his debut as stage manager over a $10,000 set design for his high school musical, the mad dash to the hospital when he had a concussion, the California college tour when we both chewed our tongues near through as we watched the Teenager interview with admissions counselors, the day this week when our son proudly came home to announce he’d received a 4.8 GPA for this past semester….

Would I do it all again?

In a heartbeat.

Thank you, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, for 17 of the very best years of my life.

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The nuclear family has a new pet

A mongrel dog with brown shaggy hair, smelly feet and puppy-dog eyes lumbered into my house yesterday afternoon, growled, snatched a pair of jeans from the dirty laundry pile, and lumbered back out leaving dog-slobber all over the front door knob.

About an hour later, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog lumbered back in snarling something that sounded like: "grrrrGGASSS grrrrMMMONNEY." Oddly for a brown shaggy-haired mongrel, he was wearing a pair of filthy jeans that looked vaguely like something I'd once purchased at REI for my teenage son.

Shortly afterward, I received an urgent phone call from Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw. Shockingly, the very same brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had lumbered into The-House-of-Dad.

Now, there is only one hard-and-fast rule in The-House-of-Dad, and it's quite simple: no shoes on the cream-colored carpet.

Too lazy to take off his shoes, the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had skirted the law by crawling on hands...er, paws...and knees through Dad's house. The mongrel dog's front paws were fully covered with dirt all the way up past his elbows and his fingernails...er, claws...closely resembled the La Brea Tar Pits thereby eliminating, in one fell swoop, all benefit gained from said "no shoes" rule.

The brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog was snarling something at Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw...something that sounded sort of like: "gggrrrrrSAT grrrrSSCOORRES."

A few moments later, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw reported that the brown shaggy-haired mongrel dog had brought him a ragged piece of dog-slobbered, chewed-up paper in his teeth. At the top of this paper was printed something that started with the words, "College Boards."

The rest was obliterated by dog slobber and chew marks.

I wonder if we'll ever know how the Teenager scored on his SATs.

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The 2005-2006 Phoenix Suns: What a story, what a season, what a ride!

To the Phoenix Suns,

You took Steve Nash, a 6'3" injured Mavs reject and made him NBA season MVP for the second year in a row. You took Atlanta cast-off, Boris Diaw, and made him Most Improved player in the NBA this season. And, after Amare Stoudemire went down for the season, and everyone thought the Suns would become bottom-feeders, you gave us a 54-28 record.

Your coach, Mike D'Antoni, took this rag-tag team of short, skinny, rejects with bad backs and sore joints, and single-handedly changed the face of basketball with his style of play. And even though no one dreamed we'd get into the playoffs, you clinched the division title and home court advantage in the first round.

As though a stellar season weren't enough, after falling into a 1-3 hole against the Lakers, you clawed your way back with a vengeance and a 31-point win in a Game 7 played so perfectly it was more like watching a well-produced movie than an NBA playoff.

And just to make sure the nation stood up to take notice, when no one thought we'd get past the Clippers, you played like heroes in every game of the second round and landed us a slot in the conference finals.

We, your fans, were swept up into your gritty determination like trees in a tornado. Just as you raised the entire game of basketball a notch, you raised our game, too. We cheered, we screamed, we cried, we stayed through every game to the end and past, win or lose. You brought grown men to their knees and turned women into maniacs.

You rose from the ashes and showed us what wits, guts and a whole lot of heart can accomplish.

You didn't just make us fans again, you made us believers.

Thank you, Phoenix Suns, for the season of a lifetime!


















Photos courtesy of the Phoenix Suns 2006 playoffs photo gallery and NBAE photos.

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