plein air sketches

Have we honored 9/11?

2011-09-11T16:20:00.004-07:00

I didn’t listen to the morning news as I drove to work on Sept. 11, 2001. The annual fundraising golf tournament for the John C. Lincoln children’s programs was set for the next day in Anthem, Ariz. There would be a lot to accomplish on this cool, clear Tuesday in order to prepare for Wednesday. I needed time to think.

Oblivious to what had occurred in New York City and Washington D.C., I arrived at the office early. Our office coordinator met me at the door, breathless: “It’s been crazy already…we’ve received tons of calls…there are tons more to pick up on voice mail…mostly, people want to donate blood. What do I say? We don’t take blood! Should we call….”

“Whoa, whoa whoa. Why are all these people suddenly calling to donate blood?” I interrupted.

“Oh…you don’t know.”

She quietly took my hand and led me into our TV room to see the news. As I gaped at the TV, trying to comprehend what I was seeing, the North Tower imploded and a gigantic column of dust rose where the North Tower had been.

Our hospital had a decision to make. It might have seemed small compared to the events of 9/11, but it was gigantic to us. We had been planning the annual golf tournament for more than a year. Would we hold the tournament, or would we cancel it in the wake of 9/11? What would be our logic, our justification for a decision either way? If we cancelled it, how would we tell people? If we didn’t cancel it, would anyone show up?

Most poignant of the questions our team faced: had our liability insurance been completed? It was being coordinated by a woman whose office was in the North Tower. Someone found the paperwork – was it possible that this woman’s last professional act was to fax us our liability insurance?

Finally, our CEO made the decision, “This tournament is for the kids. I’m not giving it to terrorists.” He took a tremendous amount of flak during and after the tournament, but this was merely one of tens of thousands decisions made by individuals trying their hardest to do the right thing for America on 9/11.

The tournament was held underneath the gray and eerily silent skies of Sept. 12, 2001. Nearly everyone who had registered came – not to play golf, but to be with each other and to do something positive in the wake of tragedy.

Although I’d always been a hard worker, my career had mostly been a sideshow to my personal pursuits. Given the choice to pursue rock climbing or a career that might impact people’s lives, I chose rock climbing. So much more interesting, I thought. But, now I knew of a woman who might very well have died after accomplishing an ordinary daily work task – making sure we had the necessary insurance to hold a golf tournament to help children.

In fact, most of the people who died on 9/11 became American heroes not because they had committed to risk their lives by joining the military or the police corps or the fire department. They became heroes because they were stockbrokers and secretaries and lawyers and insurance coordinators and all kinds of ordinary people who decided to show up for work that day and perform everyday tasks.

In Rudy Guiliano’s first speech of 9/11, he said that while we didn’t yet know the number of people who died, we knew it would be, “more than we can bear.” It was in that moment, I decided to change course and give my career everything I had.

Ten years later, and it's Sept. 11, 2011.

Ten years later, and I completed a second degree and earned a position as a director at an excellent health care organization, where I have the opportunity to impact people’s lives positively.

Ten years later, and my son graduated from Chapman University in May, moved to Chicago and began work in his chosen career and passion – theater.

Ten years later, and our nation has brought the perpetrators, chief among them Osama bin Laden, to justice.

Ten years later, and magnificent tributes to those who died on 9/11 have been built.

Ten years later, and let me ask you this: Do you feel good about what we as individuals and as a nation have accomplished since 9/11?

Ok, I’ll answer first: I don’t.

Please, don’t misunderstand – I’m extraordinarily grateful to all those who helped me achieve my personal goals, I’m proud of my son, I’m glad our nation brought the perpetrators to justice and I believe we are all honored by the hard work of creative Americans who designed and built beautiful memorials to those who died.

But, let’s turn our frame of reference about 9/11 toward our economy: the recession, the sputtering recovery, the collapse of the housing market – especially here in Arizona, the lack of capital for growth, the number of jobs lost since 2007.

Ten years later, and our economy is as eerily fragile as the silent, gray skies on Sept. 12, 2001. Have we, as individuals and as a nation, fully honored the hardworking lives of those who became heroes on 9/11 with the economy we currently live in?

I argue that we have not. I also believe that together we can fix it.

Just as we focused the last 10 years on bringing the perpetrators to justice, let’s decide now to commit everything we have in us for the next 10 years toward bringing the American economy back to its fullest potential.

And let’s not wait for the government to fix our economy for us. Let’s stop blaming everything on our elected leaders. For starters, we elected them. And, after all, this is America.

As individuals and as a nation, let’s start instead by committing a singular focus toward creating intelligent, productive work. Like the tens of thousands of individual decisions made on 9/11, let’s make the tens of thousands of individual decisions we need to make right now to create meaningful, valuable and creative work that will drive our lives, our families and our nation forward.

For those who died on 9/11. For our children. For our country. In the words of Todd Beamer, “Let’s roll.”

Precious Memory

2011-01-09T21:53:00.004-07:00

Dad remembers me now.

One scorching hot day in June, Mom needed to stop by my house to…well, never mind why. So she bundled Dad into her car and brought him with her. Ever the gentleman – even in his dementia – Dad held the front door for my mom. After she walked in, he stepped in after her, looked at me, furrowed his brow and said, “You look like a Krecker.”

“That’s because I am a Krecker, Dad. I’m your daughter. Beth.”

Could it be because I used my childhood nickname? The furrowed brow relaxed into a thoughtful squint, then a smile suddenly lit up his face like a thousand-watt light bulb.

“Oh…of course!” he said. He reached out with both arms and hugged me hard – hard as if I were the prodigal daughter.

And there it was. My Dad remembered me. After nearly a year of being just the nice lady who takes him to church on Sundays, he remembered who I was. My name. My face. Me. Judging by the way he hugged me, it was apparent he also realized there had been a long hiatus since the last time he remembered seeing me. Never mind that I saw him every week.

That was in June. Now it’s January. He is in hospice care. He can't walk anymore and doesn’t talk much, either. And when he does, he can only talk in grunts or, at best, whispers. Every so often, he’ll spill out a complete sentence in giant gulps like he’s trying to suck down the last drop of water on earth. But whenever I visit, he sees me, instantly recognizes me and then whatever room he is in lights up with his thousand-watt smile, and he says, “Oh…you’re here! How wonderful!”

No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember why my mother needed to stop by that hot day in June. But, it doesn’t really matter. Because the day is nigh when my father will no longer be on this earth. And when I visit to comfort him in his last days, he knows that his daughter is comforting him.

Hearts of Champions

2010-05-09T20:44:00.004-07:00

I was wrong. Really wrong. Ok, it's hard for me to admit just how wrong I was. But here it is: I take back everything I said about the Suns when D'Antoni left. Yes, I was sad. Bitter. Disappointed. Disengaged. And when nothing came together for the Suns for the last three years: Justified. But with Alvin Gentry at the helm, the Suns ignited into a fiery ball of flames--to the tune of a 4-0 sweep against their nemesis, the San Antonio Spurs.

And as amazing a player as Nash is, his game tonight was incomprehensible. To think: Nash played in an NBA playoff against some of the best players in the world with one eye swollen shut. And fired his team to a 107-101 victory.

The Suns, indeed, mean business this year.

Memory Lost and Memory Gained

2010-03-01T16:46:00.004-07:00

When I stop by my parent’s house to pick up my Dad for church on Sundays, I always greet him by saying, “Hi, Dad!”

And he always says, “Hi, honey!”

I don’t let this simple greeting fool me though. I know perfectly well he has no idea who I am. In his world, I am not his daughter and have become, instead, the nice lady who helps him go to church. And yet, for some reason, it doesn’t seem odd to him that a stranger calls him, “Dad.”

As we drive to church, we chat—usually the same conversation, one that starts with, “Where were you born?”

I answer, “East Orange, New Jersey.”

He says, “Really, that’s where we’re from!”

And so the conversation goes.

We drive the exact same route each time. Routine helps him remember things. Or at least I can hope. And we always pass the intersection of 64th St. and Shea Blvd. in North Scottsdale. One Sunday he pointed north of the intersection, and said, “That’s where our first house in Arizona is, just right up there on Cholla Street.”

How exciting! I’d seen the old house, and it didn’t look much different than it had when I was a kid. I was certain that if I showed it to him, it would help his memory. Maybe, just maybe, he would even remember me.

“Really!” I said. “Would you like to see it again? We can drive past it right after Mass!”

“Um…ok,” he answered. His tentativeness only added fire to my enthusiasm. I could barely wait for Mass to be over.

As we drove back after Mass, Dad talked the whole time about the house. In fragmented sentences, missing all kinds of verbs, he managed to tell me about how he and my Mom built it, how he had planted lots of trees, built a corral and bought two horses for the family to ride. He remembered both horses, Penny Patch and Big Red. He even described how Big Red would buck off everyone except my mother. And me. Except he didn’t remember that second part.

We reached the intersection of 64th St. and Shea Blvd and turned north, then right on Cholla. A few houses down, I stopped and said, “Look, there it is!”

Dad looked at me, puzzled.

I went on, “See, Dad! See the same u-shaped windows, the same u-shaped driveway, even, the same creosote bushes—only they’re much bigger now! And see, all the trees in the back! Look how tall that eucalyptus you planted is now!”

He looked at me again, even more puzzled, and said, “How do you know all that?”

I’ve learned not to embarrass him by pointing out what he doesn’t remember. If I do, he only clams up. If I let him think his memory is normal, he oddly remembers more—at least sometimes he does. So, I said, “Well…you told me all about it.”

“Oh,” he said.

But my ploy didn’t work. We sat in the car and I continued to point out memories, but he could not connect the house in front of us with the house he built with my Mom. The house where I learned how to ride Big Red so he wouldn’t buck me off like he did everyone else. The house that he and my Mom rebuilt after a devastating tornado. The house where we held a party for me and all my friends when we graduated from high school, my parents serving champagne in a nod to our budding adulthood.

We stared at the house for a while longer, then he said, “We should get home. Sue is waiting for me.”

I turned my truck around, and we headed on our way. We were both quiet for some time, then he said, “I have a job now.”

“Really?”

I felt so weary then. I was still lost in the sadness of the memory of our old house, and I didn’t think I had the emotional energy to hear about something else he wasn’t going to remember.

Nonetheless, I replied, “What do you do?”

“I go to a place where there are a lot of people who aren’t as capable as they once were.”

I note how he says all this in a complete and complex sentence. This is big.

“And they need a lot of help,” he continued. “So, I help them.”

“How do you help them, Dad?”

“Well, I help them play cards. They don’t always remember the rules and they do silly things. So, I say, ‘Joe, you can’t do that.’ And Joe laughs and does what I tell him. And sometimes I help walk them to places in the center. Like the TV room when it’s movie time. It’s good work, and it’s rewarding work. And although I don’t get paid for this work, I’m glad that I can do this for them. It’s important work, even more important than what I once did as a CEO.”

“That’s wonderful, Dad. Really, that’s really wonderful. You’re right, it is important work and I’m glad you get to do this, too.”

And I am glad. Beyond glad. Because one of the many blessings of my dad’s new life has been the John C. Lincoln Adult Day Health Care Center. I’m not quite sure who said what to who and how it all came about, but somehow the people at this center have given my Dad purpose. The kind of purpose we all need: Work that makes us feel like we’re moving the world forward.

His life may seem sad to others—so many memories and abilities lost forever—but to my father, his life is rich in the memories he still holds and in the new memories he gains each day, not the least of which is the nice lady who helps him go to church on Sunday.

And my life is richer for experiencing his new life with him.

dementia brain injury my father Dad family Catholicism daily life

The Kindness of Strangers

2010-02-06T12:22:00.002-07:00

On my way to my parent’s house this Sunday, I called my mom to tell her I was picking Dad up a little earlier because it had been very crowded at Mass lately. She said, “Ok…but just so you know, we’re having a rough morning.”

My voice lowered and I said, “Ok, Mom…what am I in for?”

She replied, “It’s just going to be a rough day.”

He seemed confused when I arrived. He hasn’t known who I was for some time, other than that I’m the nice lady who helps him at church. But today, I’m not sure he remembered even that. And as oddly as his brain works now, he’s usually able to complete a thought, but as we drove to church, he could only speak in short phrases losing his train of thought midway through each try at forming a sentence.

As successful as we’d become with the rituals of the Catholic Church, I sensed that today would be a good day to sit with the older handicapped people and ask the Eucharistic minister to bring the Eucharist to us. Given his confusion, the idea of navigating the pews and the lines of people during Communion, holding people up so that I can show Dad how to take the Eucharistic—it all seemed like it would be too hard on both of us, not to mention everyone else.

Little did I know that Communion would be the least of my worries. On this particular Sunday, he couldn’t remember anything about the Mass.

I explained it all loudly, so he could hear me, and in great detail. People turned and watched. “Dad, put down the song sheet and turn around and shake this nice lady’s hand now.” “Dad, hold my hand so we can say the Our Father together.” “Dad, move your foot so I can put down the kneeler.” “It’s time to kneel now, Dad. See? See how everyone is kneeling? “Let’s make the sign of the cross, Dad. Watch me and do exactly what I do.”

The hospitality minister was having a rough morning, too—challenged juggling all the needs in our area—but he finally managed to tag two Eucharistic ministers for us.

Communion was over, the music had stopped and the congregation, about 1,200 people, kneeled in quiet prayer. As the two ministers headed our way bearing a gold-rimmed chalice and a shiny silver bowl, I noticed that the lady behind me was signaling me—a lovely woman in her late 60s with bright eyes, a stylish haircut and a crisp red suit.

“Do you need Communion brought to you, too?” I whispered, trying not to disrupt the congregation’s prayerful moment.

She shook her head silently, held my eyes for a moment, then signaled for me to continue. I leaned over to the minister, and whispered to Dad, “Watch me and do exactly what I do.”

He didn’t seem to understand. Dad would hate to call attention to himself, but I knew he would hate to mess up the Body and Blood of Christ even more. So, I said it again, loudly, and many people turned toward us, their silence disturbed. I pretended not to notice, took the bread and then the wine, and he followed my lead. His hands shook when he took the chalice, so all three of us helped him. The ministers moved on, the music began and the congregation turned away, rising in song.

The lady in red tapped my shoulder. I turned around and she said, “Is that your dad?”

I could only nod to her in response.

She looked into my eyes, the brown irises of her own as big as the earth and wet with tears, and she said, “You’re a good daughter.”

I rarely cry. And I never cry in public.

Tears spat out of my eyes. She reached over and hugged me. My chest heaved. I dropped my forehead onto her shoulder and sobbed for a few moments, then said, “It’s so hard.”

We turned away from each other and joined the church in the closing song. In the crowds after Mass was over, I lost her. But in that moment, we bonded. As though the lady in red were a close friend or relative—someone who knew me and loved me deeply.

As only two people can bond when a stranger reaches out to another during a fragile moment.

dementia brain injury my father Dad family Catholicism daily life

A Tale of Two Churches and My New World View

2010-01-31T15:16:00.010-07:00

A Presbyterian since 1969—when he converted from Catholicism in order to join a church with my Mom—my Dad suddenly decided in 2008 that he wanted to go back to the Roman Catholic Church. The only Catholic left in both our immediate and extended families, he looked to me, his eldest daughter, for help.

It was a warm September afternoon when we had our first conversation while enjoying lunch on the sunny patio of an Italian restaurant in Paradise Valley.

I said, “Have you asked Mom?”

“Um. No.”

“You better ask her, Dad. I think that’s a conversation you should have with Mom, not me.”

Meaning: This wasn’t a conversation I particularly wanted to have with my mother. I could only imagine how she might feel about her husband going back to the Catholic Church.

As adamant as he had been about his conversion to the Presbyterian Church, Dad became equally adamant about going back to the Catholic Church. Perhaps because his mother was Catholic. Perhaps because he had been an altar boy and had strong memories of the Catholic Church—memories he thought he might be able to hold onto. I didn’t really understand why.

But for many months, every time I saw him, and as soon as my mother was out of earshot, he asked if I would take him. And I kept answering, “Have you talked to Mom, yet?”

“Um. No.”

In July of this past summer, my Mom and I concluded we needed to take stronger measures to slow down my Dad’s decline. I told her about his request to go back to the Catholic Church. As we talked more about it, we agreed that going to the Catholic Church—rich in ritual and repetitive activity and 2,000 years of tradition—might help his motor ability and his memory. And he wanted it so badly, it seemed wrong to say no.

Most Sundays since then, I drive to my parent’s house, pick my Dad up and bring him to 10:30 Mass at St. Patrick’s Catholic Community in Scottsdale, where my son and I have been parishioners since 1996.

We Catholics joke about our rituals—how being Catholic is like riding a bike; you never forget when to sit, or stand, or kneel, or how to make the sign of the cross. But Dad can’t remember any of the rituals from one week to the next. So, I quietly show him what to do and he repeats after me. Otherwise, he looks and acts normal to me and to everyone else in the congregation.

And since I’ve been going to our church for 14 years, and have been involved in nearly every ministry, a lot of people know me and want to meet my dad. They start conversations with him as though he were a regular dad. He smiles his charming smile and shakes their hand and laughs at their jokes—and most walk away having no idea that he has dementia.

One Sunday in November, I picked him up, we climbed into my truck, snapped in our seat belts and headed down the driveway. As soon as we reached the road, he said, “So, where were you born?”

My heart stopped.

Minutes later, or so it seemed, I answered, “East Orange, New Jersey.”

He said, “Really! That’s where we’re from. Small world!”

I said, “Really! Where in East Orange?”

And he launched into the history of his life in New Jersey. He flashed his charming smile at me as he talked about meeting my Mom in high school and wooing her in college, having his first daughter (that would be me) at a Catholic hospital in Montclair, New Jersey, living in a tiny apartment in East Orange, then moving to a house in Cedar Grove and having more children (my siblings).

A few weeks before, my sister-in-law shared with me that my Dad had told her all about the nice lady who helps him go to church on Sunday. I understood how he might not remember who I was when I wasn't in the room. It never dawned on me that he could no longer connect that same nice lady with his eldest daughter sitting right next to him in her truck.

But on this cool November morning, I listened to every word my Dad said and interjected questions at appropriate moments as though I were a stranger making conversation with the nice gentleman who I helped go to church every Sunday. And throughout our conversation, my mind could not stop churning around what would become my new world view—my Dad has absolutely no idea who I am.

dementia brain injury my father Dad family Catholicism daily life

Memory Lost

2010-01-27T22:04:00.004-07:00

Before we start Christmas dinner, each member of my family takes a turn at giving thanks for something in their life. There are a lot of us, generally between 15 and 20 at holiday dinners, so this process takes a while and the food gets cold, but it makes us happy.

When his turn came a year ago, my father said, “I’m thankful that each day I wake up and I remember my name.” We chuckled. Uncomfortably.

My dad is a charming man and a warm man, but he has never been demonstrative. Since that Christmas, however, whenever he gave me a goodbye hug, he hugged hard. Really hard. And held on as though he'd never let go.

I didn’t completely understand then. He was healthy; it’s not as though he was dying and had to worry about whether or not this was the last time he would see me. He didn’t have Alzheimer’s disease, just a brain injury that left him a little spacy. Well, he was always a little spacy, so what’s a little spacier?

I’m thankful that I never pulled away or was irritated by his sudden demonstrativeness. Because now I realize that he wasn’t holding on to me—he was holding on to his memory of me. Before any of the rest of us understood, he knew. He knew he was losing his memory.

dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life

Momentum

2010-01-24T13:34:00.004-07:00

Author's Note: The post below was originally written last July. At the time, I didn't have the heart to publish it. I completed the post, gave it an editing pass, let my mouse hover over the "PUBLISH" button, then stopped. Angry. Angry at myself for giving up so soon. My dad hadn't given up; how could I.

Our unwillingness to give up set in motion a flurry of activity focused on arresting my father's dementia, and preserving his memory and physical ability to function in the world. Little did I know that six months after writing this post, I would be thankful that my dad didn't remember what I did for a living, but at least remembered who I was.

He hasn't given up yet. And neither have I. But our goal now is to preserve his dignity and give him what joy we can within his capability for comprehension.

And surrender to the knowledge that no matter what we do, each day he will decline.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 24, 2009

We want to feel like we’re moving forward. We want to grow in love, grow in knowledge, strength, intelligence, fitness and happiness. And we want to see those we love grow, too.

We want—no, we expect things to look forward to in our lives and in the lives of our friends and family—the next relationship, the next job, the next award, the next wedding, the next graduation, the new house, the new promotion, the new dress, the new friend.

My dad will not move forward anymore. There will be no more growth or new or next. With luck, and a lot of time and attention, maybe we can keep him from sliding so deep into dementia that he no longer knows where he is or who we are.

Maybe.

I watched a friend of mine take care of his elderly dad for years. He would bring him every Tuesday night to Bible class and every Sunday to church. His dad had been a nuclear physicist and had been one of the best and the brightest when this science was in its infancy. He was a sweet dear old man whose brain was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease. And all I knew was the sweet dear old man. I never knew the brilliant scientist my friend knew as his dad.

And this is part of life. Right? People grow old and sweet and mindless. And aren’t we supposed to accept it gracefully?

Sure.

I didn’t know my friend’s dad when he was brilliant, but I did know the brilliant man who was my dad. Top of his class in high school. Princeton graduate. First salesman at IBM to demo a then little-known invention called a hard drive. Turned an insurance company around as its CEO. Midas touch with real estate and investments.

Truly brilliant.

In his own way my dad is a new man now. A brain injury has turned his brilliant mind into marbles rolling about in peanut butter. My mom and I talk to each other while he looks on, trying with all his might to comprehend our conversation. And every so often, for a blink of an eye, the marbles all line up, he tunes in and you can see his mind churning out a brilliant thought. But like a lucid moment in a dream, before it’s fully formed and he can say it out loud, the thought is gone. Then, his face twists into confusion, he shakes his head and mumbles. And that’s the end of the conversation.

What once was a lively and constant intellectual challenge—keeping up with my dad’s mind—has become a moment of sad realization.

We took my dad today to visit an adult day care center. A lovely place, filled with energetic happy people who are good at what they do and truly love caring for the elderly. I should be happy that we found such a lovely place with such wonderful people.

Forgive me if I’m not.

Today forced me to admit that I’ll never have the same relationship with my dad again. Never mind that I can’t rely on him for investment advice or to help me install a new faucet. No, this is what is tearing me up—I may never again be able to go to him for career advice because he can’t remember what exactly it is I do.

dementia brain injury my father Dad family daily life

Grit and Poetry

2010-01-06T23:21:00.009-07:00

Hmmm. So what would make me start a blog entry with these two words?

Simple answer. Tim Tebow and Urban Meyer.

Hmmm. So how did those two names ever get connected with poetry?

Not so simple answer.

The story starts with my love affair with football. Which, in truth, I never really understood until two years ago when a friend took me to my first professional football game. At the Superbowl. Yup. The Pats and the Giants in Arizona.

As you might imagine, it was a first-time football experience on steroids.

Then there is my love affair with the Gators. Just this year, a girlfriend asked me, “How can you be a Gator. When. You. Never. Went. To. Florida.”

And she said it just like that.

Ok…so I guess we need to begin our story even farther back than Superbowl XLII.

Eleven years ago, I met Susan Fuchs at work. It was hard to miss Susan’s office for all the orange and blue paraphernalia, not to mention the various and sundry alligator replicas, decorating her workspace. Then, one morning in 2000, she came into the office with eyeglasses askew and a voice barely audible from having personally screamed the Gators men’s basketball team to victory during a crucial March Madness game.

On that day, I finally confessed my secret to her. I was jealous. Truly jealous. Truly, madly, deeply jealous.

I went to art school, not college. Our only sports team was a tennis team. A tennis team that actually took me in as a member. If you’d ever seen me play tennis, you’d know what a dismal statement that was. We didn’t even have a mascot. After all, what would we be? The Pratt Institute Paintbrushes?

I explained to Susan how fortunate she was for having experienced such a full college life—a life she could re-experience regularly through her passion for Gator sports. She answered, “Why don’t you come to our viewing of the final game of the NCAA tournament?”

How fun, I thought! So I went. The Gators gave me a blue t-shirt. Taught me the fight song. The game was thrilling. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again.

Local NBC affiliate, 12 News, showed up to film those crazy Gators routing their team onto victory all the way west in Phoenix, AZ. We screamed. We yelled. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again.

I vaguely remember a camera pointing my direction. We screamed. We yelled. We were ahead. Then behind. Then ahead again. Alas, in the end, we lost.

Channel 12 ran our story that night. And there was my face. Plastered all over the TV. Immortalized on the 10 p.m. news as the Gator poster child. And the Gator Nation welcomed me with open arms.

I’ve been a Gator ever since. Through good seasons and bad. I’ve got the beads. The alligator replicas. The name badge. The t-shirt. Even the blue and orange toenail polish.

But for the last three years, under the inspired coaching of Urban Meyer and the passionate leadership of Tim Tebow, being a Gator has been nothing short of magical. And I’ll remain eternally grateful to the Gators and Susan for having embraced me so that I could enjoy it as a member of the Gator Nation.

My language skills aren’t honed well enough to craft the poetry those of us in the Gator Nation experienced. Maybe Homer could have accomplished the feat. But since Homer never met Tim Tebow, I’ll let Pat Horan, editor of this video mashup of the 2008 season, tell his gritty version instead.

leadership Florida Gators college football
Urban Meyer Tim Tebow daily life writing

Dead White Knights in an Upside-Down World

2009-05-03T13:19:00.014-07:00

In the year since I last posted an entry, the world stood on its head.

My beloved Suns missed the playoffs for the first time in five years, the D-Backs ended the 2008 season with a dismal .506 record, U of A was controversially awarded the last at-large berth in the NCAA tournament field and no one remembers what happened to the Coyotes.

All of this might paint a grim portrait of Arizona sports, but for the Arizona Cardinals and ASU Sundevils. The Cards made it all the way to the Superbowl for the first time in their 89-year history, and both the ASU men’s and women’s basketball teams reached the NCAA Tournament—ASU's women going all the way to the elite eight.

In business and politics, the first African-American in history was elected President of the United States, while stalwarts of the financial industry crashed and burned in balls of fiery flames taking the global economy with them.

In Arizona, housing prices plummeted and our beautiful state went from the fastest growing in the U.S. to negative growth and a $3 billion dollar deficit. No one’s certain whether or not we will have a state government after July 1.

On the home front, my neighbor’s yard, which he’d kept impeccably neat during eight years of residence, spontaneously sprouted a lush green carpet of weeds. They flowered and grew to more than 5’ tall choking his rose bushes which withered and browned. We suspect foreclosure.

Meanwhile, The-Man-Named-Bill (a.k.a. The Teenager) moved to California and into a dorm, started college, moved out of the dorm, signed a lease on a house, changed his major to theatre, got a job with South Coast Repertory and bought a refrigerator, range, washing machine, dryer, microwave and broom. His house now smells like socks.

A lot has happened in the world, and a lot has also happened to me.

About this time last year, I was working through the application and interview process to join the 2008-2009 Class of Valley Leadership. I felt nervous and excited, like a high school senior applying to her college of first choice.

It’s a good thing the windows were rolled up in my truck when I read my acceptance letter or I’m sure my neighbors would have called the police. I screamed. Loudly. Then I called my two friends who had written letters of recommendation, and we hollered some more.

Funny thing was, I had no idea why. I didn’t understand the program, and didn’t know what to expect. But on our first program day last Oct., we heard a talk by Bill Post, former CEO of Pinnacle West and Valley Leadership Man of the Year 2006.

“The white knight-style of leadership is dead forever,” he said, going on to describe coalitions formed by behind-the-scenes leaders (people few have heard of) that brought to Arizona important growth initiatives including all-day kindergarten and light rail.

I told my friend who had convinced me to apply to Valley Leadership that hearing Bill Post’s talk was a religious experience. She replied, “So, you drank the Kool-Aid. Good.”

Yesterday, after a class year marked by one inspiring speaker and amazing experience after another, we heard a talk by Dick Bowers, former city manager of Scottsdale, Ariz. Even though I went to high school in Scottsdale and lived in or near there most of my adult life, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’d never heard of Dick Bowers.

More accurately, I must not have been paying much attention. I can list from memory all of the mayors under whom Mr. Bowers served, including Herb Drinkwater, whose daughter went to the prom with my brother, and Sam Campana, who visited with my son’s Cub Scout troop and whose sister is one of my Valley Leadership classmates.

Then again, perhaps my apparent lack of attention to local politics isn’t entirely to blame. City manager of a small city in a not particularly notable state isn’t a position that we think of as breeding inspirational leaders. In Western culture—the culture of King David and Achilles and Lancelot and John Wayne—we’re more likely to look to sports coaches or Olympic athletes or presidents for inspiration. I’d wager a steep bet that I’m not alone in my obliviousness to the life and story of Mr. Bowers.

And Mr. Bowers prefers it this way. “Leadership’s not about being famous,” he said.

Quietly, behind the scenes of noisy council meetings and negative news reports and complaining citizens, Mr. Bowers engineered the transformation of Scottsdale from a potential future as a sleepy suburb of Phoenix into a hugely successful city.

His technique? Value-centric servant leadership. “It’s the bedrock of everything we did,” he said. His message, that every one of us can and needs to be a leader, comes not a moment too soon.

It seems the world is upside down and we need more leaders like Dick Bowers to help us stand on our feet again. According to Mr. Bowers, that means we need more leaders like you and me.

leadership phoenix suns daily life writing

The End of an Era

2008-05-11T22:42:00.014-07:00

Mark D’Antoni has left the building.

Ok, so Steve Nash hasn't. But for how long? Nash lives and plays what D’Antoni breathes—wild and fast and furious and totally insane basketball.

The end of the 2007-8 season never felt quite right. In spite of a spectacular first half of the season and massive hype, the energy…well…nothing seemed quite the same as the previous three seasons. With the loss of chemistry between general manager Stephen Kerr and D'Antoni, came a subtle loss of chemistry within the team. And in the rough and tumble NBA, the smallest shift in chemistry can alter the trajectory of even the finest of teams.

Particularly the Suns with their style of play, reliant on both Steve Nash's brilliance and fantastic team chemistry. At the start of the last game of this year's season, Steve Nash declared the night “Fans Night,” thanked all the fans for giving the team the motivation to play, and then said of the playoffs, “Let’s go win this thing,” with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

The fans felt it, too. The Suns win against the Trailblazers was a blowout and the fans left the building—right around the third quarter. I’ve not seen that happen since the end of the 2003-4 season. Starting with the 2004-5 season, even when the final game was a complete blow-out, even knowing they would face a one-hour traffic jam in disorienting downtown Phoenix, the Suns fans stayed until the end of the game and beyond—like small children entranced by a magical fairy tale they never wanted to see end.

And a fairy tale apparently it was. We never did get that coveted national championship, our fast and furious style of basketball stymied by a Texas team four hard-fought years in a row.

Could this image be one of the defining moments in recent Suns history?

Did we ever get our steam back after Nash was sent sailing across the court in a blatant foul by the Spurs during the 2007 conference semifinals—and the Suns, NOT the Spurs, were penalized for the favor?

New York City is the only other place on the planet I’ve ever called a hometown. I grew up in Connecticut dreaming of going to college in the City, and eventually did. When I’m not too busy thinking of myself as an Arizona cowgirl, I think of myself as a New Yorker. In fact, I still have my Yankees baseball cap, in spite of nearly getting lynched the last time I wore it in Phoenix.

But the Knicks never gripped my heart the way the Suns have. And the D’Antoni/Nash fairy tale team brought to bear all the hopes and dreams that the City of Phoenix has held for an NBA championship since the team’s first year of play in 1968. Never mind that D'Antoni changed the history of basketball by bringing his European-style of play to the United States.

Just as New York City is a baseball town, Phoenix is a basketball town. Specifically, a Phoenix Suns town.

During the 1976 NBA Finals run against the fabled Celtics, Phoenix was painted purple and orange. And then there was THE game—arguably the most exciting game in basketball history. Game 5 of the ’76 Finals, the game that went into triple overtime with Garfield Heard's buzzer beating jumper from 18 feet.

Yeah, that game. The game that launched the Suns into the national spotlight and sealed my future as a rabid basketball fan.

Then there were the low years—the late ‘80s. The post-drug-bust years. Those are the kind of years that separate the boys and girls from the fans.

The company I worked for at the time was based in Canada and had bought season tickets. They had no idea how poorly regarded the Suns were at the time; poor saps—they couldn’t give those tickets away.

My friends and I, all poor artist/writer-types, sopped up all the leftovers and got to watch Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan in their heyday—not to mention the youthful K.J. and Dan Marjerle who eventually became the heart of the Suns of the early ‘90s.

During the 1993 Finals run against the Bulls—which included yet another triple overtime game—Phoenix was even nuttier than it had been in 1976. The city was hungry now. There wasn’t a restaurant, taxi cab, office building, bus, truck or bar not painted purple and orange and draped with Suns logos.

Game 7 overshot rock concert decibel levels. From the first quarter on, my friend and I couldn't hear a thing the other said, the fan noise was that loud and it never once let up.

Sadly, we didn’t win that series either, the elusive NBA championship slipping through our fingers yet again. In spite of the loss, 5,000 fans braved 105 degree temperatures a week later to celebrate the Suns amazing run.

And while these two seasons were enthusiastic and insane and wild, nothing before or since held the sheer poetry of the 2005-6 season. Or the fantastic power of the 2006-7 season. These two seasons gave us much more than hope and enthusiasm—they gave us wonder and awe.

Thank you Mark D’Antoni, for changing the history of basketball in the most unlikely of places—this sleepy little town called Phoenix, Arizona.

We’re better, much better, for your presence, and we wish you the best.

Photos courtesy of the Phoenix Suns photo gallery, AP and NBAE.

Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging

My Grandmother's Ring

2008-04-26T10:40:00.001-07:00

My grandmother's ring bears an oval-shaped amethyst as large as the tip of my pinkie finger. Set in 14-karat gold with 16 bulky prongs holding it in place, it reflects light in a kaleidoscope of rosy purples.

When I inherited this ring, a gift from my mother, I was sure I'd struck gold. It's hard to believe the stone is fake, so pure is its color, so smooth and cool it feels against my finger tips, the ring's prongs, worn with age, catching my skin gently as I rub the stone.

Each time I bring it to a jeweler for repairs, I ask, "Is it really fake?"

Their answer is always the same, "It's a very good fake. But it's a fake."

I don't care. Like the fairy tales my grandmother used to tell my sister and me at bedtime, the stone may be fake, but the extraordinary feelings it evokes are real.

When I take her ring off my finger and set it on the porcelain plate by my bathroom sink, it makes a glassy clink and the face of my grandfather - his enormous brown eyes, thick shock of black hair, chiseled cheekbones and a smile fed by a positive nature and perhaps a hair too much bourbon – pops into my mind.

When I look at this ring, I remember the smells of the places my grandparents lived: the metallic smell of diesel fumes on the streets of urban East Orange, New Jersey; cool clean ocean breezes wafting through the screen door of their home in Los Angeles; the smell of strong coffee and fried chicken at the grocery store cafe where they took me to lunch as a teenager in Phoenix.

Sometimes I lick the amethyst to polish it; it tastes of 90 years of grit and salty tears.

She returned to Wisconsin in the early 1900s after hitchhiking to Hollywood at age 16. My grandfather Howard was handsome and charming, maybe a little dangerous - that's what she would have liked. She married him. He gave her the ring as a birthday present.

She wore it every day of her life until the day she died in a nursing home with one person, a chaplain, to sing her a final lullaby. I was too young at the time to comprehend that when the nursing home called to say, "She doesn't have much time," they meant "She'll die within hours." I arrived too late.

Seventy-one years of this ring's grit and tears belong to my grandmother. The other 19 are mine.

On Tipping Points and Modern Life

2008-03-21T10:02:00.009-07:00

How easy for us to ride the rollercoaster of e-mails, emergencies, meetings, urgent projects, administrative details, needs and obligations that pour into our daily lives both at home and at work. We think we are accomplishing so much.

But are we? Really? Or are we just going around in circles?

Every day I talk to people who, when asked how they are, lower their eyes and shake their heads and mumble, “Busy. Just so busy.”

What are we doing to ourselves?

As an example, many of us start blogging from our hearts, develop a following, then burn out and either enter a long hiatus, or drop our blogs altogether. Sound familiar?

Yeah. Pretty obvious that I’ve gone there, too.

In my case, I launched with high expectations. I read someplace that bloggers should blog two to three times a week and post comments all over the blogosphere. And I believed it. So I did. Until blogging became a chore and no longer a cozy place to share stories, philosophies and inspirations with like-minded souls.

I’ve met many amazing people through blogging and plan to continue, but not at the same level as before.

Anil describes the joy of discovery found in journaling, writing and blogging, “…certain threads that lie in the subconcious might actually untangle themselves and unveil the 'unknown' or provide for a fresh train of thought.”

If you visit Anil’s blogs (he has a both a photo and writing blog) you’ll see his philosophy in action. Sometimes he posts photos or entries several times a week; sometimes there are hiatuses. But Anil always leaves sparkling gems behind—colorful words and images that can inspire new dreams and ideas, or simply lift spirits with their beauty.

It’s time to say, “Enough.” It’s time to recognize how much better we can be by accomplishing a lot with a little, instead of trying so hard to do a lot with less than we have.

Thank you, Anil, for your inspiration.

The Book

2008-03-08T15:48:00.021-07:00

Many of my friends have asked lately about the progress of my book, THE BLACK PIT. As might be obvious from the dearth of recent entries in this blog, I haven’t been writing. I could give you a thousand reasons. But there’s only one.

The ending stumps me.

My grandfather died for a purpose…but what?

At one point, I thought the life of Paul Rusesabagina, and my experience meeting him at an Immortal Chaplains Foundation dinner, might hold a clue. Except Mr. Rusesabagina didn’t learn of the sinking of the USAT Dorchester or the Four Chaplains until long after his own heroic acts.

No real connection there beyond a memorable conversation, a few photos and a donation to Amnesty International.

Shortly afterward, my son and I had an opportunity to go to Chad to videotape a group assisting refugees from Darfur. Could this be it? All too quickly, our window of opportunity collapsed along with the few remaining remnants of peace in this torn and bloodied region.

Puzzled, I spent the last year nibbling around the edges of my book. A little research here, a little more there. A little plotting. A tentative first chapter. A whole lot of balled up paper in my wastebasket.

Some writers start writing and, as they write, eventually the story takes them to its ending. They remind me of 17th century explorers setting off across unknown mountain ranges until they reach their fertile lands. Very brave, indeed.

For better or worse, I write in much the same way as I take photographs. The story stews for days, weeks, months. In this case, years. When I least expect it, the story appears in my brain, like a landscape. Perfectly complete. As though it had been there all along, waiting for me to open my eyes and notice it. I see the story as it was meant to be written: every emotion, every character, every scene, from beginning to end. Sometimes, I see every word. Once I see the story, I write what I see.

My writing professors and friends shake their heads. Try to give me guidance on writer's block.

If only writer's block were the issue. When I try to write before I see the story, I end up with, at best, a meandering tale containing no human truth.

Right now, I see pieces of the story of THE BLACK PIT, but the ending is as dark as its name. And as long as I can't see the ending, the beginning and the middle can't take on a meaningful shape.

Some have told me to just write the dang thing. The story of my grandfather’s life alone is compelling enough, they say. And all but one of the books written about the sinking of the Dorchester are varied efforts toward achieving the same literary goal, leaving plenty of original territory for me to explore and for a publisher to publish.

Others say, "You need to write it, otherwise you'll just keep talking about it." But what I need now is to live the story.

Because there is more truth to this story. More even than the Four Chaplains, who crossed the borders of religion to die together so that others might live. More than my grandfather, who gave up a golden life to die with his men.

Hints to more truths lie in various substories of this story. The backdrop of the Allied forces’ near defeat during the bloody Battle of the Atlantic. The soldiers in my grandfather's command: farmers and fishermen who left their wives and mothers only to drown. The story of my family. Lt. William Arpaia. The survivors. The Coast Guard. Greenland. The not-so-noble actions of a few men aboard the Dorchester. Hitler. The Immortal Chaplains Foundation and the winners of its Prize for Humanity.

Disparate though these stories might seem there is a thread of truth that runs through them. If only I knew what it was.

And last, there is the legacy of World War II—the planet as it exists today. Which I can assure you is not the legacy my grandfather thought he was dying for.

The story will be clear to me one day. The day I understand my grandfather’s purpose—and my own. On that day, the book will appear as a picture in my brain, and I'll finish it.

In the meantime, there are lots of other stories to write.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith narrative non-fiction writing

Orange Cactus Flower

2007-10-21T21:43:00.001-07:00

Orange Cactus Flower, originally uploaded by plein air sketches.

This past spring we experienced another fantastic flower season. Odd, given we are in the midst of a five-year drought. I'm somewhat delayed in posting these pictures, but have finally created a Flickr account to share them with you. This image previews many more flowers from the Sonoran desert.

Clouds for Mai Wen #2

2007-08-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

arizona monsoon sunset photos photography

On Becoming a Tick Mark, and Other Tales

2007-07-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

My son sent me an e-mail.

For someone who once claimed e-mail was dead, for a kid who grew up on MySpace and Instant Messaging, this is huge. HUGE.

It gets better.

Attached to the e-mail were two Excel spreadsheets. The first details his monthly expenditures once he starts college, starting with that enormous bill called tuition right down to details like Saturday night dates.

He plans on sending us monthly reports.

I suspect certain details will go unspoken.

The second illustrates his financial plan for funding all four years of his college education. He detailed his scholarship, federal grant, student loan and committed income from Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw, his adoring grandparents, and, of course, moi. Detailed right down to anticipated dates of receipt.

We all now know exactly where we stand. We are no longer his loving relations. We’re tick marks in The-Man-Named-Bill's financial plan.

My financial plan when I started college? Grants, student loans and cocktail waitressing (Great tips. Cheap drinks).

Ya gotta admire Bill’s persistence.

He didn’t get into the film program at his first choice college. But he got a scholarship. So he’s going anyway. Plans on relying on chutzpah to eventually get into the film school.

And his job at the theatre production company became impractical when they decided to move their operation to San Diego.

Does he sweat a drop? Nope.

Calls the Dean of the Film School, actually gets the man on the phone (which is apparently a rare feat), and procures a list of recommended work-study programs that will better position his application for film school next spring.

Sounds a whole lot more strategic than wearing short skirts and peddling cocktails to businessmen.

I suppose I ought to start writing about something other than my son. I really thought my life would turn once he graduated from high school and went to college. That I’d find all kinds of other interesting things to write about like…well, like writing.

I know people think I’m proud of him. Which I am. But this is something more.

Bill fascinates me. Utterly fascinates me.

He fascinates me the way most of us find certain movie characters fascinating. Or certain film stars. Like Humphrey Bogart. Or interesting people we meet when we’re traveling.

I feel like I'm in the middle of a great of novel with a fascinating lead character. The kind of book that gets me so wrapped up that I can't put it down. Up till 4 in the morning reading. Poring over every word to make sure I don't miss a subtle plot turn or a single nuance of character development. Can't wait to find out what happens in the end, but more importantly, can't wait to find out what happens next.

August 21.

Bill starts college and the next chapter begins.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Paintjam Dan Dunn

2007-07-09T22:43:00.001-07:00

This is just so cool...

A Man Named Bill

2007-07-05T10:49:00.002-07:00

The other day a bearded deep-voiced man—who evidently lives in my house—told me that he was leaving for California on July 13. He starts his new job at a theatre production company on July 15. He wants to sleep on a friend’s couch, get settled into a work routine and sign up for classes well before he starts college in late August.

I turned around to look this voice in the eye, and saw someone I'd never seen before.

A man.

Not a "Young Man."

A man.

Hmmm. What should I call this man?

The Man?

Boring.

The-Man-Formerly-Known-As-The-Teenager?

Doesn’t exactly have a ring to it.

Technically, at 18 years of age, my son is still a "teenager." But he can no longer be "The-Teenager-Formerly-Known-as-Pumpkin." I can't even bring myself to call him "The Teenager."

He's too…too…big.

In size, yes. But big in personality, too. Huge, in fact.

Maybe it's the chiseled cheekbones and the creases when he smiles, the ones that replaced the baby-face cheeks of his teenage years.

When did that happen?

Maybe it's the confident swagger. The one that appeared after he was technical director for A Little Shop of Horrors. With this production, he accomplished a goal he set when he was just 14—to bring community theatre quality to his high school stage. A goal he turned right around and topped with his second play of the year, Curious Savages.

Or could it be the worldly snicker? That all-knowing "hmph" he makes whenever a politician he doesn't like (which is most of them) speaks on the evening news? When on earth did that happen? Maybe it was always there, and I just woke up and noticed.

But here's the truly telling part: He's not funny anymore.

He's Focused. Thoughtful. Stalwart. Earnest.

Oh sure, he's funny at times—like a comedian is funny. But he used to be funny all the time. Funny just because he woke up every morning wearing this awkward teenage skin. Now he's only funny when he cracks clever jokes about adult matters, like dating and presidential elections.

I spent no small part of this past year worrying about how it would feel when my son—this happy-go-lucky little guy who made me laugh through thick and thin for 18 straight years—left home for college in California.

But he’s already gone. And someone new has taken his place.

A man.

A man who grew up with a nickname for every stage of his life. First, "Godzilla." Then, “Pumpkin.” Then, “Little Guy" and then “Short Stuff.” Finally, “The Teenager.”

So…now what?

Maybe “Bill.” After all, his stage name is Bill.

When I tell theater people that, they grimace and say “Huh?”

Long story. The important thing is that everyone—everyone that is except for me, his dad and his dentist—calls him “Bill.”

When I visit his theater productions, people ask me whose mom I am. When I say "Justin," they look puzzled, not knowing who on earth I could be talking about. Then I say, “Bill,” and they grin wide and say things like, “Oh Bill!!! Bill’s great! We LOVE Bill!”

Even the announcer at his high school graduation presented him to the world as Justin “Bill” Snyder.

The cutsey nicknames just don’t work anymore. Not for this bearded deep-voiced man with the huge personality.

So, allow me to introduce to you a man. An awesome young man named Justin Keith Patrick Krecker Snyder.

Or, simply “Bill.”

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Cleaner Hits Bookstores!

2007-06-26T06:32:00.001-07:00

Today is a fine shopping day for spy novel lovers everywhere—my friend Brett Battles' new book, THE CLEANER, hits the bookstores!

Almost a year ago, Brett shyly e-mailed me his manuscript. I printed it out, all 400-some-odd-pages—and then barely breathed, never mind slept, for the next 24 hours. I simply couldn't stop reading.

It's especially fascinating that everyone has a different opinion on THE CLEANER's origins. Some say it's reminiscent of Robert Ludlum, others say Lee Childs or Clive Cussler. In my opinion, THE CLEANER is it's own style, and in ten years, people will be saying this new author or that new author writes like Brett Battles—because THE CLEANER is a true classic.

Nonetheless, just like all the other reviewers, I can't help but compare THE CLEANER to my own favorites: John LeCarre, Humphrey Bogart movies and the best of espionage classics like THE DAY OF THE JACKAL and HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER. Brett's writing style is well-crafted and tight—there's not a stray preposition or excessive adverbial in sight. And the breathless plot crosses the globe from Vietnam to L.A. to Berlin—places Brett has explored and writes about in loving detail. And I loved, loved, LOVED the leading female character. No delicate flower/hero girlfriend here—this lady is tough, smart and bitchy.

Here's what others say:

"Battles' debut novel is a page-turner that may remind some readers of the cult TV spy series Alias. Admirers of quality espionage fiction can look forward to a new series worth following." Publisher's Weekly

“A tense tale of betrayal and revenge.” San Diego Union-Tribune

"The Cleaner is a tightly written page-turner, filled with tradecraft and offering as much action as a James Bond film." Booklist

"A brilliant and heart-pounding thriller." Jeffery Deaver, author of SLEEPING DOLL and THE BONE COLLECTOR

"An unputdownable spy novel. The Cleaner has it all: exotic locales, James Bondian derring-do, and ingenious plot twists that will keep you sweating all the way till the end." Tess Gerritsen, author of THE MEPHISTO CLUB

The best part? THE CLEANER is the first in a series. Don't wait for this one to come out in paperback, because by that time you should be buying Brett's second book!

The Teenager Graduates from High School

2007-06-16T10:58:00.000-07:00

That handsome gent on the far right is my dad. Hmmm....wonder wehre the Teenager got his nose?

And the handsome gent on the left is, who else, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw. Hmm…wonder where the Teenager got his personality?

~~~~~~~~~~

My friends knew that, as a single mom of an only son, the Teenager's graduation ceremony would be an emotional experience. The next day, they all asked me questions like, "Are you ok?" and, "Did your mascara hold up?"

In truth, although I cried plenty, I didn't shed a single tear over my son. Nor will I.

Two weeks before the 2007 graduating class of Chaparral High School walked down the aisle to accept their diplomas, one of their classmates, Phillip Vogel died. A popular kid, Phillip went to our church, played hockey, enjoyed rock climbing, and hung out with the same group of kids as my son.

The teenager and I talked about Phillip's death--particularly in light of its cause, street racing. Our pastor discussed the community's loss and the family's sadness at our Sunday evening teen Mass. There was a memorial service. We contributed to an account set up for charitable donations.

We thought we had moved on.

Then came the graduation ceremony.

It began with a eulogy for Phillip. One of Phillip's teachers gave a heart-wrenching speech about living for the moment because we really never know what will happen next. One of his hockey club teammates spoke about how Phillip said he wouldn't change a single thing about his life. It was the longest speech of the night in a stadium filled with 3,000 people, and yet you could have heard a pin drop.

Then, Phillip's parents calmly walked up to the stage and accepted his diploma posthumously.

After that, all any of us could do was honor Phillip's memory and his parent's grace by feeling nothing but happiness and gratitude for all the graduates of Chaparral High.

If Phillip's objective in life was to remind as many people as possible to fully embrace each and every moment, he most certainly achieved it. And I can't help but think that Phillip was looking down and smiling his great big toothy grin someplace in the sky above us. So, for Phillip: Congratulations to the Class of 2007!!

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Spirit of Andy Devine

2007-04-30T19:18:00.000-07:00

Something else happened while I was napping. Something so totally cool, that it deserves its very own blog post.

My friend Bob Ryan launched his MySpace page.

For years--in between working full-time and raising a family and staging theatrical productions and serving at his church and forming the Ernest Borgnine Musical Appreciation Society--Bob created a collection of Americana/Roots music. He finally gathered them all, found a great producer and published a CD, The Spirit of Andy Devine. You can hear a taste of his tunes on his MySpace page.

So do something good for your soul. Pay Bob a visit and enjoy his music at www.myspace.com/bobryan66.

While I Was Napping

2007-04-25T18:01:00.000-07:00

What did I do during my blog sabbatical?

Not a whole lot.

Well...some. I'll write about that later.

In the meantime, look at all that happened while I was napping:

1) Ballpoint Wren, home of the addictive Monday Morning Mojo, announced her own hiatus from the blogosphere. (Peace to you, Bonnie!) She’s much nicer than me. I just stopped blogging one day. Bonnie was kind enough to actually tell her friends. So, don’t be hard on her. She deserves the break.

2) Twitter exploded beyond the confines of the technogeek space and made its way to the pages of the New York Times. Suddenly, you’re not hip if you don’t twitter.

3) Speaking of hip, M.G. Tarquini proved herself the coolest of uncool parents by being uncool in TWO languages on the same day. (She's my hero!)

4) MySpace and PhotoBucket found war and peace.

5) Bambi meets Angie.

6) Brett Battles relaunched his web Web site, blog and MySpace page with new designs, while he rewrote his second novel and prepared for the launch of his first novel. (Whew! I’m out of breath just saying all that!) Most importantly, he received a very nice plug from Publisher’s Weekly.

8) Web 2.0 goes mainstream with the introduction of Blogger & Podcaster, a print magazine for “aspiring new media titans.” (Like…huh?)

9) It’s official. The 2008 presidential election will be decided by YouTube. (Like…duh!)

10) Adam Hurtubise revealed his bluer-than-blue-state-with-a-healthy-dose-of-gun-rights political leanings. I like this about Adam. Because this story isn't about politics. It's just plain wrong.

11) THE PHOENIX SUNS ROCKED IN THE FIRST TWO GAMES OF THE PLAYOFFS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

12) And last, but anything but least: The Teenager outdid himself as technical director of the last musical of his high school theatre career, Little Shop of Horrors:
The cast and crew spent two days decorating the construction site outside the auditorium to match the mood of the musical. Too bad the graffiti didn't come through on this shot.

Opening night.

Normally relegated to the orchestra pit, this time the band was on stage in their own bluesy little pub called Eddie B's.

The Doo Wop girls open the show with Seymour and Audrey II.

The real Audrey.

Mushnik's Flower Shop.

Audrey II reveals her appetite.

Skid Row.

The bloodlusting dentist.

Audrey II entices her namesake.

Encore.

I wish you all could have seen this show. These kids were fantastic. Community theatre quality all the way.

The kids will be producing one more play this year, but Little Shop of Horrors was the last big high school show for the Teenager-formerly-known-as-Pumpkin. He graduates in just a few months, and will be off to his future.

Wow.

parenting teenagers Phoenix Suns daily life humor writing diary

The Power of a Cardboard Oven and a Story

2007-01-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

Think about this the next time you make dinner for your family: More than half the world’s population – three billion people – cook their daily meals over a wood or charcoal fire.

And some risk their lives just to gather the wood.

As the world’s population grows, wood becomes increasingly scarce especially in arid and semiarid regions like Sahelian Africa. In some places, young children scavenge far and wide instead of going to school. In others, families descend deeper into poverty as the cost of wood takes gigantic bites from their pitiful income.

In 1997, a Dutch solar energy enthusiast named Wietske Jongbloed formed the KoZon Foundation to teach people in Burkina Faso to use a cardboard solar oven called the CooKit. Jongbloed saw the CooKit as a way to reduce poverty, prevent deforestation and desertification, and provide income for those who help promote the program.

Local women learned how to cook with the ovens and then enthusiastically trained others. CooKit’s popularity and reach quickly spread to other countries in Sahelian Africa.

But in 2003, as the crisis in the Darfur region of Sudan escalated, the cost of scavenging for wood took a bloody turn.

The arid regions of Chad and eastern Sudan, where more than 2 million people have been displaced due to fighting and genocide, produce little wood. The sources for the conflict are both ethnic and economical: Sudanese Arabs attempt to drive off, and in many cases slaughter, their black African neighbors; and, as desertification reduces water sources in the region, farmers fight nomads for what precious little water is left.

In southeastern Chad, 200,000 Sudanese refugees have settled in lawless camps near the border. At first, the female refugees needed to walk only a few hundred yards to find wood. But scarce sources were quickly depleted, and now women walk for miles making them easy targets for bands of Janjaweed militia who cross the border to prey on them. Many women are kidnapped and brutally raped, and far too many are murdered.

And there are few men to protect them because so many have been slaughtered in the war.

Sponsored by the KoZon Foundation, Derk Rijks, along with African teachers Marie-Rose Neloum and Gillhoube Patallet, began distributing CooKits to refugees in a Chadian camp in 2005. And, at tremendous risk to their own lives. The Janjaweed militia also targets aid workers.

As a result of their work, Rijks, Neloum and Patallet have been chosen by The Immortal Chaplains Foundation for the 2007 Prize for Humanity. This prize, given in memory of The Four Chaplains, honors “those who risked all to protect others of a different faith or ethnic origin.”

My parents and I will attend the presentation in Long Beach, CA. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for about four hours trying to find words to explain how this makes me feel.

Because in the dead of a wintry night during WWII, four Army chaplains - one Catholic, one Jew and two Protestant - gave their life jackets to terrified soldiers on a torpedoed troopship and then joined arms in common prayer.

Because even though 675 died, most frozen to death by the time rescuers arrived, the story of the chaplains' sacrifice survived the sinking of the USAT Dorchester on Feb. 3, 1943.

And, because of the power of the chaplains’ story, we honor the heroism of Rijks, Neloum and Patallet this Saturday, Feb. 3, 2007, the sixty-fourth anniversary of my own grandfather's sacrifice and death aboard the Dorchester.

And those solar ovens? The materials, training and a year’s maintenance for a solar oven for a refugee family of six costs about $25.

Think about that for a second.

For less than you likely spend on a single day’s meals for your family, a cardboard oven could save a woman from rape, or worse, murder.

If you’d like to support the efforts of Rijks, Neloum and Patallet, you can become a member of Solar Cookers International for a mere $50. That’s $.07 a day to enable two refugee families to cook in relative safety. And the 60 plus teachers who are paid through donations to promote the ovens take tremendous pride in work that helps protect the safety of their families, their community and their environment.

For more information about the conflict in Darfur, and to find more ways to support the work of people like Rijks, Neloum and Patallet, visit these web pages:

Don Cheadle's opinion article in USA Today

*Thank you to Dr. Rijks and the KoZon Foundation for permission to use the photographs here, and for reviewing this post for accuracy. And special thanks to Mai Wen, my sister in spirit and in all things Africa.

Four Chaplains heroism Darfur refugees human rights africa narrative non-fiction writing weblog

The Story of the Big Black Ford Truck

2007-01-27T21:37:00.000-07:00

I’m barely 5’3”, weigh 110 pounds soaking wet, dress in expensive suits and spend a fortune at the hairdresser every month. So when people see me driving my big black shiny Ford Explorer SportTrac, their mouths fall open. Every time.

Maybe it’s the bright red and orange racing stripes down the side.

Everyone wants an explanation. How does the studious daughter of an urbane Princeton University grad fall in love with a big black truck?

I can hear them thinking: “Naw…reeeeaaalllly?? You?”

No one believes me when I tell them how much I love rugged vehicles. They wait for the part about some boyfriend or another buying my truck for me. But it didn’t happen that way.

I’ve always liked interesting cars. My first car was a Rover, my second an MG Midget. My first brand new vehicle purchase was a red Toyota pickup truck. I had it for five years and 80,000 miles and it never once broke down.

When I became a mom, pregnant with the Teenager-formerly-known-as-Pumpkin, I decided to buy the first sensible car of my entire adult life. A powder blue Toyota Corolla.

I hated that car.

And so did the universe.

I was rear-ended in it no less than six times and t-boned by a red light runner. Sadly, I’d leased the dang thing, so I had to wait the full FIVE #@!$%^$# YEARS of the lease before I could dump it. (And I still had to pay $5000 to get out of the deal. Grrrr.)

Few days in my life were happier than when I bought a used red Toyota 4Runner and named it “Big Red” after a quarterhorse my family once owned. I drove off the dealer’s lot and onto the freeway and, instead of trying to run me over, other drivers slowed down to wave me into traffic. SLOWED down. I swore I’d never own a sensible car again.

Big Red marked the beginning of my rock climbing era. Four-wheel drive, a backend big enough for four people’s climbing gear, room left over for a week’s worth of food and reliability bar none. My partners and I drove Red all over Colorado, Wyoming, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Texas, Arizona and California. When the Teenager was still small enough to be called Pumpkin, we took Red camping and slept in the back when it rained. I went from liking interesting cars to loving Big Red.

Six years and 120,000 miles later, it was finally time to sell Big Red. He looked weathered and each new repair cost more than the last. I checked Blue Book and priced Red a generous $8000, figuring I’d have to drop to $7500. Instead, a bidding war ensued at 6 a.m. in our sleepy little suburb, and I sold Red for $9500.

I’d discovered another fabulous feature of owning interesting cars. When you sell them you get CASH!

And I learned something about myself, too. Big ‘ol fat salty tears rolled down my cheeks when I handed the keys to Big Red’s new owner. Waved at Big Red as he drove away.

Thought about Big Red for days. Years actually. Even after I bought a Jeep Wrangler.

I like to think of the Wrangler as my transitional boyfriend. I loved the Wrangler, too…but never quite as much as Big Red. And have you ever driven a Wrangler across the Mohave desert in 120 degree heat? Not, not, NOT a good idea.

Just three years later, the newly minted Teenager and I drove the Wrangler to a dealer’s lot with every intention of trading it for a Ford Explorer SUV. But an Explorer with a sunroof (a requirement after the Wrangler) was out of my price range.

Discouraged, we turned to leave. And then, we saw it: A big black shiny Ford Explorer SportTrac with bright red and orange racing stripes and a sunroof. I looked at the Teenager. The Teenager looked at me. We both nodded.

A new love affair was born and Black Beauty (named after a race horse in a book I read as a young girl) became ours. We drove him all over. Showed him off to my parents and to the Teenager's best friend. Hung an American flag in the slot for the front license plate (after all, he's a Ford).

Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw is a fanatic for all things on wheels, so I called him the next day. He asked, “Did you sleep in it last night?”

How did he know?

Striving for Perfection

2007-01-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

The Suns made history last night by beating Milwaukee 98-90 to extend their winning streak a franchise-record 16 games and tie the 10th longest streak in NBA history. Their 11-0 record against the East is the best for the West since the Utah Jazz 1994-95 season. Marion's 23 rebounds were one off his career high, and Raja Bell hit seven three-point shots for a game high of 27 points.

But there was no champagne in the Suns locker room.

"There's no rings for streaks," said Steve Nash to Associated Press reporter Colin Fly. "We've had a tendency to really take people lightly and not be as focused as we need to be, and I think you saw that again from us tonight."

The Suns took the day off before their game against Milwaukee. It showed in their disjointed play. But they made history. And, ya gotta love a team that can win ugly.

So, the question of the day: Is good, or for that matter great, ever good enough?

Photo of Raja Bell by Gary Dineen/NBAE photos

Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging

Why I Love the Phoenix Suns

2007-01-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

Have you watched the Phoenix Suns this season? Unless you live in Phoenix, or happened to watch the Suns play your favorite team, my guess is not.

Foolish you.

“You could be bouncing your grandkids on your lap someday and telling them that you watched the 2007 Suns,” said Bill Simmons of ESPN’s web editorial Page 2 on Jan. 17.

I thought about following this quote with a poetic analysis of the Suns...but why? None of you will believe me. You’ll pass me off as just another sports fan rabid for their hometown team. So, read Bill instead:

“…The Suns are 26-2 in their last 28 games. Here were their two losses:

Dec. 22: They lose to the Wizards in OT (144-139) in a game that Arenas tied with a 3-point play in regulation, then Nash missed a wide-open 3 that could have ended it.

Dec. 28: They lose in Dallas by two (101-99) when Nowitzki made a jumper with 0.1 seconds left.

With two reasonable breaks (Nash making the 3-pointer, Nowitzki missing the jumper), the Suns could be working on a 28-game winning streak right now. I've mentioned that to three people over the last 48 hours and all of them said the same thing: "Wait a second ... whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat??????"

It's true. You can look it up.”

For the record, Bill is a Celtics fan, and a depressed one at that. (Have you watched the Celtics this season?) Here is why the Suns have given him reason to live for basketball:

“You never imagined that an NBA team could score 111 points a game, shoot 51 percent from the field, shoot 81 percent from the line, make 40 percent of its 3s, double as the best transition team since the Showtime Lakers and still manage to be half-decent defensively, right?

Well, it's happening.”

Mike D'Antoni, Steve Nash and this kind of playing are why I waxed poetic about the Suns at the end of the last season. My fellow fans and I saw it then. Bill sees it now, too:

“…if you care about basketball at all, if the sport has ever meant anything to you, if you remember the Magic-Bird Era fondly in any way, if you're remotely interested in watching a professional sports team peak ... then you need to follow the Suns. They're sniffing at true greatness.”

Read the rest of Bill’s article here.

And watch a Suns game. Better yet, come to Phoenix and watch one with me. Just don't complain if I paint your face purple and orange.

Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

May all your wishes come true and all your children pick up their socks!

Teenager Steamrolls Entertainment Industry

2006-12-29T14:07:00.000-07:00

A month ago, the Teenager mentioned that he wanted to hold a fundraiser for his high school’s theatre department. “A rock concert,” he said. “With a name band and a big sponsor, like maybe Coca-Cola!”

Precious, I thought.

I might have worried when he told me he was invited to a meeting with the school district’s attorney, the superintendent of schools and his high school principal. But I thought the whole concept would blow over right then and there.

Who knew a 17-year-old could navigate the muddied waters of politics and regulations at a large public school district?

The concert is happening, and the Teenager's desk has turned into a flurry of e-mails and paperwork. There are budgets and contracts, and there are security guards to hire and sound systems to arrange. In between sponsorship negotiations with, yes, Coca-Cola, and a host of local businesses, radio stations and guitar shops, the Teenager debates whether to fly a name alternative rock band in from New Jersey, or hire an up-and-coming Phoenix band with a huge local following.

A momentary roadblock arose. Construction on the school’s auditorium was scheduled for completion after the concert date, which meant the lobby would be boarded up. How gauche. And where would the Teenager locate the sponsor’s booths?

The Teenager suggested to his school’s principal that the school’s construction schedule be rearranged to complete the auditorium lobby in time for the fundraiser. The principal agreed wholeheartedly. At a private tour yesterday of the half-completed lobby, the construction director explained to the Teenager how he had moved an entire crew off of the gymnasium construction onto the auditorium project so that the lobby could be completed a month ahead of schedule, just in time for the concert.

My mother holds a special place in her heart for the Teenager. For his fifth birthday (he was still called Pumpkin back then), she gave him cash and noted, "Pumpkin thinks a lot about money, and I think that's a fine thing."

I knew Mom would be pleased by Pumpkin's fundraising plans, so I called to tell her all about it. "Well, I think that's just wonderful," she said. "You know Alice Cooper has been very involved with the local schools here in the past. The Teenager should call him!"

"Omigosh, what a grand idea," I said. "And I might even be able to track down people who know his people!" Thrilled that I could make an adult contribution to the Teenager’s dreams, I called the young man right away. His reply?

“Oh, yeah, we already talked to him.”

“You…t-t-t-talked...to Alice Cooper?”

“Yeah. He’s got a charity for teenagers and he’s not going to play at the concert, but he's agreed to make an appearance.”

“Did you just say Alice Cooper agreed to make an appearance at your concert?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s pretty cool ya know.”

Yeah, kid. I know.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

TIME Magazine "Person of the Year"

2006-12-17T13:06:00.000-07:00

Imagine: the good people at TIME Magazine have chosen me (yup, you read that right - ME!) and YOU and YOU and YOU, too, as Person of the Year.

This weird geeky world that a mere 13 million of us inhabited in 2005, is now so ubiquitous that even my parents, who are in their 70s, are hooked on YouTube (a video of John McCain imitating Barbara Streisand doubled them over in laughter, and I've not been able to stop them since!).

Congratulations to us all!!

Just One More Week

2006-11-28T20:33:00.000-07:00

The first batch of The Teenager's college applications are due Nov. 30. Then there's the ACT tests on Dec. 2, and the next batch of applications due on Dec. 4. The last batch in February 2007. (Can you believe we're talking about 2007 already?)

Bear with me gang, we're heading down the home stretch!

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Hubbub on Teenager Hill

2006-11-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

Life has been pretty lively over here on Teenager Hill – hence my hiatus from blogging. With many apologies to all of my dear friends who have so kindly worried about me, here is the rundown on recent events:

First, the Teenager was in a car accident (no one was hurt) which involved something to do with donuts in a parking lot on a rainy day, a telephone pole and a police officer which resulted in a reckless driving ticket that we're trying to get reduced which involved begging everyone we know to write letters to the City of Scottsdale about what a fabulous kid the Teenager is which resulted in lots of tears from Queen Mom when she read all of the letters and realized just HOW fabulous everyone thinks her Teenager really is and all of this happening at the same time as Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw's job along with car insurance for the Teenager, not to mention the Teenager's future college career, dangled in the balance of Intel's current restructuring plan which resulted in Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw flying all over the country in his effort to rescue his job (which he did) and all of this happening at the same time as the Teenager's college applications are due (Nov. 30) which involves a complicated process because in order to get into film school (the Teenager's life ambition) the Teenager has to fill out not one, but two complete applications for each college which involves essays and teacher recommendations for each of these two applications multiplied by five colleges thus quintupling not only the Teenager's workload, but that of all the lovely people who just put their hearts and souls into letters to help the Teenager stay out of jail and are now being asked to write college recommendations and, oh by the way, all of this happening at the same time as Queen Mom's job exploded which involved adding a huge new responsibility (our company's entire web development plan) and moving her office to a different campus and all of this happening at the same time as the Teenager was producing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" AND studying for the SAT and ACT tests and, because he was spending his afternoons and evenings producing the play, the Teenager could not attend the SAT and ACT study classes so Queen Mom has been tutoring the Teenager and if you'll recall how much…mm…fun it was when your parents tried to teach you how to drive you might have some sense of just how much…mm…fun Queen Mom and the Teenager are having adjusting to their new relationship as Tutor and Tutoree and all of this happening at the same time as Queen Mom's dear friend and attorney came down with a serious illness which resulted in a continuance of the court case for reckless driving against the Teenager and, let's not forget, throughout all of these events the Teenager's truck was wrecked and spent two months in the body shop which means that, since Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw has been flying all over the country, Queen Mom has been chauffeuring the Teenager to school, to rehearsals, to various and sundry film production projects, to Homecoming, to football games and to church which brings us back to the donuts, the telephone pole, the police officer, the car accident and the rainy day which started the whole affair.

[deep breath]

Surely there's a moral here.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

A Little Sunday Afternoon Soiree

2006-10-01T15:58:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday afternoon, and many of my friends are winding down their adventures at Bouchercon, a popular mystery writer conference. Since I was unable to go, I'm throwing a little party here for those of us who stayed home to toil away on our book projects or in our yards or wherever we landed on this fine September afternoon.

So let's take a break, crack a bottle of 2003 Tumbling Tractor Zinfandel, make ourselves an olive, cheese and cracker plate, and meet some entertaining bloggers and great writers!

First, let me introduce you to Adam Hurtubise, keeper of Random Thoughts. When I first visited Adam's blog, I pictured him as a politically-inclined intellectual living in a classic colonial house in a tony part of Boston only to learn that he hunts in the backwoods of upstate New York with a guy named Ed, has a penchant for venison jerky, writes of yard work using murderous verbs and thinks Bruce Springsteen is God. More importantly, Adam is a great friend to writers, and, if his skill at blog entries is any indication, his own book is just a few steps from publication and rave reviews.

Then there's the sassy and smart Mai Wen, my dear BFF (blog friends forever!). Mai Wen does sweet things like quietly posting cloud pictures on her blog for me. A study in contrasts, she writes literary fiction, reads Crime and Punishment, and blogs about the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Speaking of sass, next up, is M.G. Tarquini, known to many as The-Force-of-Nature. She insists she's shy, but if M.G. Tarquini is shy, then my skin color is green. Recently, Mindy invited me to team with her to interview thriller/mystery authors Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath for an article for the Fall 2006 issue of Spinetingler. I'd known Mindy for less than a month when the invitation came, but I agreed. Why? Because it's impossible to say no to M.G. Tarquini. Mindy drove, I taped, she wrote the first several paragraphs, I followed with several more and a close, she dumped my close and found a better one, I wrote a funny story, she wrote a funny story, she rewrote my copy, I rewrote hers, we edited the whole thing together in a weekend marathon and by the time it was all done we'd be hard pressed to tell you who wrote what. I'd do it again in a heartbeat!

And then there's Mindy's partner in crime, the lovely and multi-talented Angie of the Lazy Artist's Lounge. Once an editor for a crime encyclopedia, Angie now works in radio theater, is currently working on her first novel and lives in the picturesque town of Prescott, Arizona. In a perfect illustration of the magic of the blogosphere, Mindy and Angie met only recently, but to watch them talk is like watching two life-long friends at a gabfest. Oh yeah, and Angie's got more than enough sass to keep up with Mindy. Which reminds me, I'm supposed to get her a t-shirt design! Yikes!!

Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath are both accomplished authors with particularly interesting blogs. Barry's blog, Heart of the Matter, covers politics, rhetoric and social issues. While many similar blogs descend quickly into loud-mouthed and pointless banter, Barry manages the tone and tenor of his blog to provide visitors with a true "marketplace of ideas." Although he posts about emotionally-charged subjects, Barry maintains objectivity and seeks through conversation and rhetoric to get to, what else, but the heart of the matter. Be sure to read Barry's thriller series about a half-Japanese, half-American assassin named John Rain. The series starts with his debut novel, Hard Rain.

J.A. Konrath, known to friends as Joe, has developed a wholly unique approach to the business of writing. A former bartender, Joe wrote and queried for 12 years before finally getting published. His blog titled A Newbie's Guide to Publishing chronicles his career as a writer and provides a forum for aspiring writers to learn more about the business of publishing. His books, a series about a character named Jack Daniels, are both terrifying and hilarious.

While I'm on the subject of writers willing to help others, I want to mention another good writer's blog: Robert Gregory Browne's Anatomy of a Book Deal. A former screenwriter living in Los Angeles, Rob has a gift for writing about the writing process. I've learned more about writing fiction from Rob's thoughtful posts than I did in an entire semester of creative writing in college. And I can't wait to read his book due in 2007, KISS HER GOODBYE.

Another excellent writer, Brett Battles, should be teaching creative writing classes at UCLA on how to use dialogue to drive story. His first novel, THE CLEANER, is scheduled for release in Oct. 2007. I had the good fortune to read his final manuscript and couldn't put it down. Brett creates the kind of characters you don't want to let go when the book ends. For a taste of Brett's fiction, visit Flash Fiction. Brett also has a serialized story posted on the Killer Year blog. Here is Part 1 and Part 2.

One more entertaining writer/blogger before we close: Stephen Blackmoore, a short story and crime fiction novelist maintains L.A. Noir, a compilation of outlandish true crime stories from the Los Angeles area. If you're a mystery writer running short on ideas, just stop by Steve's and he'll give you plenty. Steve also has a gift for short story writing, in particular, a gift for getting into the heads of mob hit men. Odd...because Steve is one of the sweetest people I know.

Next week, we'll have another party and we can meet some more great writers. In the meantime, if you've found any great blogs or writers not mentioned here, please let us know by posting their link in your comments. We'll be sure to invite them to the next soiree!

On the Road with Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath

2006-09-14T21:21:00.000-07:00

During the Thrillerfest conference held in Phoenix in July, M.G. Tarquini and I had the good fortune to escort Barry Eisler and J.A. Konrath for two days of their book signing tours. This Friday, Spinetingler will publish our co-written story about our trip featuring the authors’ approaches to marketing, their friendship and their great sense of humor.

During our journey, we interviewed both authors with the intent of putting together a classic interview article. But, as our trip evolved, we realized that an interview-style article couldn’t capture everything we wanted to portray. Instead, we wrote our article as a narrative feature story. And, as is so often the case with writing, we sacrificed some of our favorite quotes for the sake of the story. The excerpt below features one of my favorite conversations.

We asked both authors to tell us the story of their road to publishing. J.A. Konrath -- friends and family call him Joe -- labored for 12 years before he published his first book, and might have given up if not for his encouraging wife. Barry Eisler worked on his book for five years, and, on his 51st query, found an agent. Then, he spent another three years making extensive revisions before finally bringing his first book to market. Once the first rights to their books were sold, both authors became overnight success stories.

In the following excerpt, the authors discuss Barry’s experience working with his agent to revise his novel and bring it to market:

Barry: My agent was the first to really devote a lot of editorial effort to what I’d written. His message was pretty simple: he said ‘I think you have talent. I can see that in here. I don’t think this manuscript is commercial-grade yet, and I’ll tell you why. If you agree with me, then we should revise it and we can work together. And if you don’t agree with me, then I may not be the right agent for you. You have to make that decision for yourself.’

Though his comments were really extensive, and it was a little depressing to realize how far I was from the finish line when I thought I was pretty close. I recognized that his comments were good. The thing wasn’t what it needed to be.

Joe: How did you recognize that?

Barry: I don’t know.

Joe: Because it’s very hard to be objective when you’re looking at your own work.

M.G.: You never had a crit partner?

Barry: No, I was stupid that way. I could have gotten better a lot faster if I would have read how-to books or gone to certain writer’s conferences. In anything you’re trying to acquire, whether it’s a new language or a martial art or a musical instrument or writing a novel, there’s an optimum blend of theory and practice, and I didn't have anything remotely like that optimum blend. Mostly it was all practice and no theory, except in so far as you get theory inadvertently by reading a lot. And if I’d added just 10% theory to the mix, I’d have gotten better at writing much, much faster.

Since I published my first book, I’ve read a lot of how-to books and been to a lot of conferences, mostly in a teaching capacity, and I’ve realized there’s a ton of good information out there. I wish I’d known enough to go seek it when I was writing my novel.

I don’t know how I recognized that what my agent was telling me was right. It’s a mystery how I’ll work on a scene, and I think it’s good that day, and I write more. Then the next day I go back, and I look at what I wrote, and it’s not quite right, so I play with it some more. It could be anything – dialogue, description, setting, whatever. The third day, I go back, and it’s getting closer, but it’s not quite right. And then there is a day when I look at it, and it’s perfect. It’s perfect because there’s nothing more I can do to it. How do I know? Because to judge something like this, you must have some template by which you measure it, right? What is that template? I don’t know.

So when my agent told me there were problems in the manuscript, there must have been a template existing in my mind because I wasn’t flying blind. It wasn’t as though he was trying to guide me and my eyes were closed and he was saying ‘Trust me. I’ll get you there.’ It was more like he said ‘I think this is the way to go,’ and I could see it. It made sense to me.

It took me a long time to implement all those changes, quite a few series of revisions. Each time I’d send it to him, he’d write back and say, ‘Well you addressed this, this and this, but I still see this problem and that problem,’ and I’d say, ‘Damn he’s right again.’ And it hurt, because I just desperately wanted to be done at that point. I’d been working on this thing for years, a lot of extensive rewrites.

Finally, in the summer of 2000, I sent him a manuscript thinking again that it was finished. At this point I was inured. I thought, ‘I trust this guy. He’s giving me good advice. I can sense that.’ I fully expected him to come back and say, ‘It’s better, I can see you addressed these things, but we still need to get this or that aspect up to speed.’ I was braced for that, and I was fine with that because I was just not going to quit.

But instead his e-mail said, ‘Barry, this is a terrific rewrite. There are just a few problems we need to address, but I see no reason why we can’t take this out for auction.’ And I actually started to cry. I printed out the e-mail and just wordlessly took it into the kitchen and showed it to my wife, wiping tears from my face.

* * *
Check out the soon-to-be-published Fall issue of Spinetingler for the rest of this story, and for many other features, interviews and thrilling short stories!

thriller fiction writing

Remembering September 11, 2001

2006-09-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

September 11 American flag

The American Flag: Five Years After 9/11

2006-09-10T13:23:00.000-07:00

Of all the visual images that define 9/11 and its aftermath, one grew so ubiquitous as to become symbolic: the American flag. The image pictured above zoomed around the country via e-mail and the internet in the days following the 9/11 attacks. Stores couldn't keep American flags in stock, and manufacturers couldn't make new flags fast enough. Car windows across the country sported miniature American flags flapping in the breeze of rush hour traffic. And remember New York’s Finest parading the tattered American flag around Yankee Stadium during the World Series? Even the burliest sports fans couldn’t restrain their tears.

Illustrating the iconic power of the flag as a symbol of this momentous event, the center spread of today’s New York Times bears two full-color ads from two competing networks, the Discovery Channel and ABC. Each ad advertises a show about 9/11 that will appear in the same time slot: 8 p.m. EDT tonight, the 5th anniversary of 9/11.

At first glance on a sleepy Sunday morning, I suspect many readers didn’t realize the ads came from competing television shows. I know I didn’t. They are nearly identical.

This weird juxtaposition poses a number of questions:

Did one network’s ad agency steal the idea of from the other? Darned unlikely. I worked on the creative side of advertising for many years where I learned that agency creatives want, perhaps more than life itself, to distinguish their work.

Did the two networks actually desire association with each other’s shows? With competing media ownership, competing time slots, and a firestorm of controversy surrounding ABC’s 9/11 docudrama, it’s highly doubtful that either network wants any association with the other.

What miscommunication within one of America's largest newspapers caused these two competing ads to face each other? On the center spread of the front section of the Sunday edition, no less? I can't even venture a guess; in fact, I suspect that at this moment frantic phone calls are crisscrossing the continent as television network, agency and newspaper executives attempt to unravel the bizarre coincidence.

Then again, was it a coincidence?

Now, this isn't a rhetorical question, nor do I pose it to imply conspiracy. One of the most intriguing aspects of creative thinking lies in how often ideas are replicated among people who have no conceivable contact with one another. For example, in his book, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Josepth Campbell demonstrates that a version of the hero myth appears in almost every culture on earth.

The fact that that two separate sets of creative teams, who had no inkling of each other’s approach, came up with a nearly identical concept illustrates more clearly than any TV commentator or editorial writer could how far America has come as a nation since September 11, 2001.

The images in these ads transform 9/11's most noble symbol into a mask of subterfuge, and their replication poses one last set of questions: Editorial writers and TV commentators said 9/11 would change everything, and it certainly changed a lot of things in our country -- airport security, the war in Iraq and the skyline of New York City to name just a few. But did 9/11 change us as people? If so, how? Are we better, or just more suspicious? Do you think it changed you?

September 11 American flag media media criticism

How Many ___ Does it Take to Change a Light Bulb?

2006-09-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

A light bulb burned out on the track lighting in my kitchen.

Since my ceilings are 14’ tall, changing a light bulb requires borrowing a gigantic ladder from my mother. Which requires arranging the calendars of a teenager, a retiree with too much to do, a working-class gal, a truck and a truck bed full of bungee cords.

Weeks later, we finally procure the ladder. The Teenager brings it into the kitchen, I climb up, twist out the old bulb, twist in the new. The new bulb doesn’t work.

Hm. Why?

I fiddle and futz and find an interesting little switch I think might be the “on” button. I switch it to the right.

Wrong.

It is the "attach" button. The entire light bulb fixture falls out of my hands and vaporizes on the ceramic tile 14' below.

I go to Ace Hardware and buy a new fixture. I climb up on my mother’s ladder to install it, but can’t make it fit.

Hmmm. Why?

Back to Ace Hardware. This time I bring the Teenager-Who-Is-Expert-In-All-Things-Mechanical. We learn that my track lighting system is obsolete. No one makes a light fixture to fit. No one.

We buy a brand new brush-metal track lighting system with halogen bulbs. VERY trendy.

We take down the old fixture and discover that the paint underneath it is lavender. Ick…but nothing a little touch-up won’t fix. Except my touch-up paint is dried out.

Back to Ace Hardware, hauling the Teenager-Turned-Helpful-Ace-Hardware-Man with me, where we learn that the base paint for the paint color of my 14’ tall, 325 sq. ft, kitchen/Arizona room ceiling is obsolete. The paint can’t be matched. Ever.

The Teenager disappears.

My mother leaves longing messages about her ladder on my voice mail.

I purchase gallons of new paint, furniture covers, painter’s tape, scrapers, rollers, a long handle and brushes. It takes me three weekends to repaint the ceiling. We have no light. I burn lots of dinners. The ladder becomes a permanent fixture in the center of our kitchen complete with a collection of coffee cups and unpaid bills.

The big day arrives. The Teenager and I turn off all the circuit breakers in the house. He installs the new track lighting system. Gently unwraps the halogen bulbs. Twists them in. We turn back on the electricity.

Eleven weeks, $253.16 and 19 burned dinners later...we have a fresh light bulb in our kitchen.

Time Waits for No Parent

2006-08-27T21:06:00.000-07:00

This morning, I stumbled out of bed at 6 a.m., walked into the living room and ran into a 5’ tall tripod. After regaining my balance and checking my nose for damage, I tripped over a light stand. I went into the kitchen and found a giant digital video camera recharging where my coffee pot used to sit, then stubbed my toe on a duffel bag filled with cords and strange metal parts.

Overnight, my house transformed into a movie and video production studio.

Three months ago, the Teenager couldn’t find a job flipping burgers. Now, he’s directing the TV news program at his high school, and is stage manager for A Midsummer's Night's Dream. He will direct the building of a $10,000 set for the annual musical production, Little Shop of Horrors. His teachers are funding his schemes to transform the school’s TV studios and stage sets. People pay him, and well, to shoot and edit videos. Local production companies hire him as a production assistant and grip.

And, he has minions: Goofy, Spiky, and a host of teenage writers, actors, news reporters and tech staff to help him achieve his lofty ambitions.

Worst of all, he works for my company’s competitors…and won’t tell me what they are doing.

The Teenager is 17 years old, and not yet a legal adult. Or at least he was still a teenager the last I checked. That was yesterday. And not a metaphorical yesterday, either. Yesterday: August 26.

Today, August 27, he is a young man.

Children don’t grow up all at once. They grow up in moments all strung together. It’s only parents who hang on to the past and see their growth in stages.

I remember when I realized my son was no longer a baby. He found an old pair of cowboy boots in my closet and pulled them on over his chubby legs, his diapers hanging over the top rim of the aged leather. He donned a straw hat and a denim jacket to match, and squealed all over the house, whooping it up like a cowboy on a cattle drive. I could no longer deny it. My baby was a toddler.

A couple of years later, he woke up at dawn and ran stark naked into my bedroom to wake me up, too. Suddenly, he realized he was naked. He swiveled on his heels, covered his butt with his tiny hands, and walked briskly away saying, “Don’t see me, don’t see me!” I knew he was no longer a toddler, he was now a little boy.

The little boy stage segued slowly into the big boy stage, the entire transition lasting several years. Until the sixth-grade, when he came home after school one day and said, “Ya know, Mom, all the popular girls are really cute and really smart. They get the best grades and never get into trouble. But all the popular boys get the worst grades and cause all the trouble. And all the popular girls want to date the popular boys, but they don't want to date the nice, smart boys.”

Even though he was just 11 years old, I knew he was already a teenager.

The Teenager has been trying to tell me for the past year that he’s a responsible adult and doesn’t need my prodding. I've tried to back off, but couldn’t quite believe he was past his adolescent forgetfulness.

As I massaged my bruised toe, he came into the kitchen for breakfast bubbling over about his plans for the theater stage sets, and the steady cam he’s constructing, and the clever way he handled the controlling teacher who has charge of the school’s TV equipment, and the bus stop movie he's making with.…his words ran together so fast I couldn’t discern the rest.

I smiled, and listened, for hours it seemed, then said, “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

His smiled wide, so wide it looked like his face would crack open. For a fleeting second, he was a little boy again. “Finally, Mom! You’ve said you’re proud of me! I’ve waited for this for so long!”

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Sinking of the USAT Dorchester

2006-08-23T06:46:00.000-07:00

USAT Dorchester Sinking
Media: Acrylic
Size: 5' x 3'
Painter: Dick Levesque

In an earlier post, I shared the work of Dick Levesque, a marine painter and historian who developed a fascination with the WWII story of the USAT Dorchester, her Coast Guard escort on her last fateful journey, and her heroic Four Chaplains. Recently, Dick completed his second painting inspired by this story, an illustration of the sinking of the Dorchester.

Here is Dick's commentary about this piece:

"This painting represents the sinking of the USAT Dorchester in wintry seas 150 miles south of Greenland on Feb. 3, 1943 during the Battle of the Atlantic. At 12:55 a.m., two torpedoes fired from German submarine U-223 hit amidships just aft of the stack and below water. Almost immediately, the Dorchester lost power continuing a short distance under her forward momentum before becoming 'dead in the water.' She then settled slowly towards the stern, rolled to starboard sinking bow first within 20 minutes of the initial blast.

"The painting illustrates her starboard side. On the upper deck, men frantically try to cut a frozen drum raft free while others attempt to clear two lifeboats.* Many men can be seen slipping on the ice-covered deck, others are only partly clad, having ignored their captain’s orders to sleep fully clothed and with their lifebelts on, and others, dazed, contemplate jumping into the frigid water, where they might last 20 minutes before succumbing to hypothermia, or taking their chances with the ship. The Dorchester’s famed Four Chaplains [link to Chaplains page] are depicted on the lower left of the main deck as they give their last life jacket to a man who had lost his own.

"Several survivors said the sinking ship looked like a 'giant Christmas tree of humanity with hundreds of glowing red lights on the life jackets.' There were 902 men aboard the Dorchester as it sailed into an area alternately known as 'Torpedo Alley' and 'The Black Pit.' Only 227 survived.

"The USAT Dorchester Sinking is now on permanent display in the Immortal Chaplains Memorial Sanctuary aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA."

*The port side life rafts could not be released due to the severe list of the ship to starboard, some of the starboard side rafts were damaged from the blast, and the remaining life rafts were frozen into place by the severe weather. Based on a contemporaneous survivor report by Lt. William Arpaia, I believe my grandfather, was on the upper deck helping the merchant marines and Army troops try to free the rafts. They managed to free only two larger rafts, and, In the end, they freed as many of the smaller drum rafts as they could hoping that when the ship sank, these smaller rafts would survive the suction of the ship and be available for the men who had jumped into the water.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith honor USAT Dorchester writing

The zen of photography

2006-08-17T18:46:00.000-07:00

If I'm struggling to figure something out -- maybe it's an idea for a scene or maybe it's something deeply personal -- I pick up my camera and make pictures.

Other times, I see a moment, and can't find the words to say what it makes me feel, so I make pictures instead.

And sometimes I make pictures for the sheer joy of seeing what takes shape inside my camera's frame.

These are for the joy.

Clouds for Mai Wen

2006-08-15T10:28:00.000-07:00

Rain

2006-08-12T05:56:00.000-07:00

Arizona’s summer skies tease us. They fill with evening thunderclouds, dust us with virga, and taunt us with distant lightning. Then...nothing. No wild thunderstorm to thrill our souls, no rain to soothe our parched earth or dusty throats. Nothing but hot dry wind.

Until early this morning, when a gentle rain fell for hours, the sweet pungent smell of creosote filling the air.

It’s raining words, too. At least here in my computer. Last weekend, the outline for The Black Pit came together like a perfect summer storm, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.

Can’t seem to think about much else. I’ll post more soon. Promise.

Arizona summer weather writers daily life writing diary

Lessons in Raising a Teenager, Part III

2006-08-02T22:19:00.000-07:00

All ye Southern Californians: Rest easy. The Teenager and his Teenager buddies, Spiky and Goofy, will not be driving to Tinseltown tomorrow.

Spiky and Goofy bailed. It’s not entirely clear why. A lot of grunting and a few noises that sounded like girlfriend and job and car emanated from Teenager’s Stinky Palace this evening.

Queen Mom said, “Welcome to life, kiddo.”

Queen Mom thought, Thank GOD, I can SLEEP this weekend after all!

Lesson #3: Let life happen. Anything less only annoys the Teenager.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Sky's Promise

2006-07-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

From this morning to early afternoon, the sky turned from white to charcoal grey, the air thickened with moisture. Winds kicked up in short gusts, only to subside momentarily, like the capricious calm on the New England coast right before the North Atlantic unleashes one of her notorious nor’easters.

It rarely rains here in the Sonoran Desert, which encompasses most of southern Arizona, the southeastern corner of California, and the western half of the Mexican state of Sonora stretching south to the tip of the Baja peninsula.

Occasionally, a dramatic cloud sprinkles a few drops then scoots away leaving blue sky and unsatisfied soil.

But when a monsoon thunderstorm rolls across the hot desert floor, giant raindrops bullet down in sheets of water from black skies exploding with spidery lightning balls and thunderclaps so loud they sound like a hundred jet fighters blasting through the sound barrier at once.

The day’s foreboding weather makes me certain we will see such a storm. Then, for hours after the sky began to threaten, nothing. Even the wind gusts settled, a gentle breeze carrying the distinct aroma of the desert before a rainfall the only remaining hint of possibility.

Finally, it’s dark, the afternoon’s damp breeze replaced by a dry hot wind, an impending downpour the ghost of a lover’s promise.

Arizona summer weather writers daily life writing diary

A Tragic Prelude

2006-07-24T20:59:00.000-07:00

Title: USCGC Escanaba/USAT Dorchester 1943
Size: 20"x16"
Media: Acrylic

While the inspirational World War II sacrifice of the Four Chaplains, and their role on the USAT Dorchester is well-documented, the artist who created the painting above, Dick Levesque and I have run into similar frustrations uncovering the rest of the story -- the true history of the sinking and rescue, and the fatal errors in judgment that lead to the Dorchester's vulnerability. It's these questions that make the sacrifice of the Four Chaplains, and the tragedy of the deaths of 675 men, including my grandfather, especially poignant.

The ship in the foreground is the USCGC Escanaba, one of three Coast Guard vessels charged with escorting the USAT Dorchester and her convoy to Greenland. When the Dorchester sunk, courtesy of a German submarine's torpedo, the Escanaba was first to the rescue. The larger ship in the distance is the Dorchester, and in the far distance, the USCGC Comanche, the second of the convoy's three Coast Guard escorts.

With much gratitude to Dick for allowing me to post this work, and, perhaps more importantly, for sharing with me his interest in establishing the true history of the ship and its men, below is an account of his painting's creation.

* * *

USCGC ESCANABA/USAT DORCHESTER

My name is Dick Levesque and I am a retired Coast Guardsman and marine artist. I have previously read accounts of the Dorchester sinking and the remarkable sacrifice that the four Army Chaplains made on that bitterly cold morning of February 3, 1943. Most of my marine artwork revolves around historical events that pertain to the U.S. Coast Guard.

While researching the history of the USCGC Escanaba I became intrigued with the Dorchester incident. I knew that I wanted to portray both ships but was unsure how to go about it. I tried some rough sketches at first showing the sinking but I felt that this was too gruesome. I even attempted depicting hundreds of men floating among the wreckage struggling for survival with others lifelessly adrift being held up only by their life preservers. I rejected this also as it seemed too disrespectful to these poor souls and the families that might have the opportunity to view the finished painting.

My research indicated that the Dorchester sank rapidly shortly after midnight with one survivor account stating "it was a moonless night and bitterly cold". There was no fire visible when she slipped below the surface and another account indicates that "star flares" were fired about 45 minutes after the sinking. This would make a portrayal of the sinking very difficult as there was no illumination for some time.

I shelved the project for many months randomly wondering how I could complete this painting. One evening while dozing off to sleep it suddenly hit me that the most reverent way was to show both vessels in their glory the day before this tragedy.

After a very restless sleep I awoke and could hardly wait to begin. I had all the research information on both vessels and hastily put it to paper to see if it "worked".

It did and I think it honors all those involved including the USCGC Comanche barely visible on the left horizon. I have received reviews including: "You have really set the stage for one of WW11's major tragedies. The sea, sky, color, all puts in your mind that something bad is going to happen. Sadly, it did!" And, "It brings a chill to see the Dorchester in the background, knowing what would happen soon afterward." And finally, "You can almost feel a bitter cold wind. You can look at the picture and wonder what those guys must have been feeling and what was about to happen." I am very pleased with the results and feel blessed to have been able to pay tribute to the four Chaplains and ALL that gave their lives that fateful day.

* * *

After much thought, and a conversation with Barry Sax and David Fox of the The Immortal Chaplains Foundation, Dick decided to attempt a 5'x3' painting of the sinking of the Dorchester and was kind to give me a glimpse of his unfinished work. It's haunting, chilling, terrifying, particularly to the granddaughter of one of the figures he has carefully painted on the ship. As soon as Dick has completed it, he's agreed to allow me to post this painting, also. The final work will be donated to the Immortal Chaplains Foundation.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith honor courage Patriotism creative non-fiction writing

The Teenager Gets a Job

2006-07-22T19:18:00.000-07:00

Remember your first job? Not the first time you mowed a lawn or baby sat the neighbor’s kids; I mean the first time you showed up at a place of business wearing appropriate clothing, did whatever your boss told you to do and, a week or two later, came home with a paycheck. Your first real job. Or, at least the first job your parents called a real job.

My first real job was at a health insurer processing claims for two summers in a row. I like to think of it as preparation for my next medical mystery.

Ok, so it was deadly dull. But it sure felt good to start college with a few thousand dollars in my savings account.

The Teenager believes his future lies in the film industry. A noble thought. Since Steven Spielberg hasn’t offered him a position as executive producer, however, his car remains devoid of gas, his calendar devoid of dates, and his plans to go on a three-month road trip with his Teenager Buddies a pipe dream, at best.

Since The Teenager is, after all, an intelligent, capable and clever human being, he sought only jobs he believed worthy of his potential. He prepared a resume, developed a job hunting strategy and filled out applications at every computer or sporting goods store within a 10-mile radius -- all to no avail.

Why? Everyone wants those jobs. Three months into The-Great-Job-Hunt-of-2006, and the Teenager had not so much as flipped a burger for $5 an hour.

“I don’t understand it, Mom. How can J get a job so easily? He's lazy, and a space cadet besides!”

“Where does he work?”

“Baskin-Robbins.”

“Why don’t you apply there?”

“Nah, I don’t want to scoop ice cream.”

“What about where that wild-haired buddy of yours works. Why don’t you apply at Barnes & Noble?”

“Nah, I don’t like books.”

“Maybe you should try cutting your hair?”

“Come on, Mom, this is serious.”

We knew he’d hit bottom when he called ten of his friends to find someone to join him for a movie, and all of them were busy. Why? They all had jobs.

Then, Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw threatened to take away his (gasp) truck. The Teenager responded with renewed verve. He cut his hair, expanded his strategic sphere, and, miraculously, an interview appeared on his calendar.

Friday, the good news arrived.

The Teenager is now The Ace Hardware Man.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part II

2006-07-18T22:39:00.000-07:00

Be forewarned, all ye Southern Californians: The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies will tour Tinseltown Aug. 3-5.

Yup. I caved.

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

Lessons in Raising a Teenager: Part I

2006-07-13T19:51:00.000-07:00

I was 17 when I graduated from high school and moved out of my parent’s house. The Teenager knows this. Therefore, he believes that since he is now 17, he’s eligible for all the rights, responsibilities and privileges his mother enjoyed.

Lesson 1: Never tell your child anything about your childhood. He will use it against you.

The Teenager and his Teenager Buddies have mounted a well-planned and brilliantly executed public relations and marketing campaign to convince their parents that an unsupervised trip to Los Angeles in a rickety Ford with a bad transmission is a critical step toward their future as movie moguls.

The Teenager, in particular, displayed notable business development skills:

Smart Move #1: The Teenager first determined which of the six parents was the most likely to succumb and create a domino effect of agreement among the other parents.

Smart Move #2: Next, he determined the key points most likely to convince said parent, and developed a sales pitch complete with Excel spreadsheets and Power Point slides.

Smart Move #3: Given that Teenager Buddy J rarely strings two words together to make a thought, much less a sentence, and Teenager Buddy C has hair so wild it sends lurking coyotes yelping for the nearest dark cave, the Teenager nominated himself as the Public Relations Spokesperson.

Lesson 2: Never teach your child business sense. He will use it against you.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mom, I need to talk to you about my career in film. It’s really important for me to spend as much time in L.A. as possible to develop connections. Also, because of the set designs in my next film, I need J and C to learn more about the technical side of lighting, and there is no better show to demonstrate this than “Stomp.”

“No.”

“We’ve each saved $200, we’ll drive J’s car, which is very fuel-efficient, we’ve stocked it with plenty of water and a first aid kit, and we can purchase temporary driver’s insurance so that we can all drive and no one gets too tired.”

“Isn’t that the car that you guys are always pushing out of parking spaces because it doesn’t have reverse? No.”

“We’re staying with C’s uncle who is a responsible adult.”

“No.”

“We’ve planned….”

“No.”

“Mom, please...will you listen to me before you say no.”

Smart Move #4: Pull the guilt card at precisely the right moment.

Anyone care to lay odds on Queen Mom and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw joining The Teenager and Teenager Buddies in a remake of The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing titled The Nuclear Family Goes to Tinseltown?

parenting teenagers daily life humor writing diary

The Sounds of Silence

2006-07-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

Setting.

In a two-minute conversation with Jim Fusilli at Thrillerfest, my writing changed forever. “Setting will anchor your story,” he said.

All I can think about now is setting.

Yesterday, Toni McGee Causey posted a beautiful essay about her life growing up in Cajun Louisiana. Setting.

And this morning, Bill Cameron responded by posting a poignant story about his nomadic life growing up following his mother’s inclinations. Setting.

But, my experience of my surroundings will never be the same as it was when I was growing up. Not since February of last year, when I suddenly and inexplicably lost most of the hearing in my left ear to have it replaced by a constant ringing sound.

Go find a piano and hit high “G.” Now imagine that note as a ringing tone in your ear. Constant. Night or day. 24/7. 365.

And medical science has no idea why, nor any clue how to fix it.

Deafness, even partial deafness, is an isolating experience. I listen to jokes, but miss a lot of punch lines. When more than two people talk at once, I can’t hear a word anyone is saying, making conversations with two or more a challenge. And at large tables of people having dinner together, I can only comfortably converse with one or two people on my right, since I can’t hear much of what anyone else is saying. Unless they shout. And that just annoys everyone.

I've never liked a lot of attention, so I don't usually tell people lest I make them feel they have to treat me like a princess. Instead, I'd rather feel stupid. And I often do. Because I know I'm missing important points in conversations.

And once in a while, I'll meet someone with a voice I simply can’t hear at all. Then I'm brave, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath, I boldly tell them I have a hearing problem and what it is and what it means. But people don't really understand. So, after saying "huh?" a hundred times, I'll give up and smile and nod and hope they don’t ask me something that will reveal I haven’t heard a single word they’ve said. I don't want people to think I'm not interested. I am. I just can't hear so much.

I long at times for what I once had, but I still have much to be grateful for. I have two friends who are completely deaf. They grew up deaf and know nothing else and are happily married to each other in their own silent world. They've never heard the sounds I’ve heard and they never will and they don't care. They don't think they are missing anything at all.

The world is rich with sound, and the story of sound plays an integral role in my strongest memories of the places I’ve lived.

Setting again. All i can think about right now is setting.

The sound of the ocean waves crashing rhythmically against the beaches of Long Island Sound, playing in the cold water until our lips turn blue, salt air tickling my nostrils, cool breezes against our damp skin, the setting sun turning the water a cool grey-pink. Setting.

The constant hum of a busy urban city punctuated by sirens, honking cars and the distant shouts of pedestrians, the gritty scent of New York City’s air, the dark that's never really dark because there are so many lights…I always think of New York City first at night. Setting.

The pure silence of the Arizona desert in the ‘70s, before everyone on earth started moving here. My friends and I would ride our horses out a few miles and stop in the middle of nowhere and marvel that we could hear nothing. Nothing but the sound of our horses breathing and the warm dry wind in our hair. No planes. No cars. No hum of heaters or air conditioners or anything else from the modern world. And in the middle of a hot desert day, not even a bird. Nothing.

And that is what I miss.

I still hear birds and crickets and frogs. I still hear ocean waves. I can hear the hum of a city, blues music on the radio, and if I listen really hard and overcome my fear of calling attention to myself, I can still hear a lot of what people say.

But never again will I hear the sounds of silence.

Writing paradise

2006-07-03T09:50:00.000-07:00

The monsoons have come to Phoenix: towering thunder clouds and psychedelic sunsets, dust storms and distant lightning, and thunderclaps so loud I bolted out of bed at 2:30 a.m. last night wondering who dropped the bombs. Somehow, our wild weather seems like the perfect way to end the first ever conference of the International Thriler Writers, Thrillerfest 2006.

I've attended all kinds of conferences in my various and sundry professional positions, but never, EVER, have I attended one where the camaraderie between attendees was so instant and complete; never, EVER, have I talked so much, laughed so much and slept so little; never, EVER, have I met so many industry stars who were so eager to lend a hand to newbies like me; never, EVER, have I attended a closing conference lunch with so many red-rimmed eyes and gigantic smiles; and never, EVER, have I left so fully and completely inspired on so many levels.

I attended because it was cheap, set in my hometown of Phoenix and I knew I'd get to meet Clive Cussler. I left with 350 new best friends and a brain so full of ideas it's about to explode.

To the founders of the International Thriler Writers and the intrepid organizers of Thrillerfest 2006, a giant thank you!!

The temperature's risin'

2006-06-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Phoenix summer Weather writers thrillers daily life humor writing diary Blogs

Photo art above by the excellent photographer, Steve Strauss.

So you say you want an evolution?

2006-06-24T09:46:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-06-18T21:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-09T21:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-06-04T09:04:00.000-07:00

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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GOOOOOO SUUUUNNNNSSSS!!!!!!!!!!

2006-05-30T22:06:00.000-07:00

(Ronald Martinez/NBAE Photos)

Never mind Game 5, folks, tonight is Game 6 and the boys are back in town!!! GOOOOOOOO SSSSUUUUUNSSSSSSS!!!

(And my condolences to all my friends from Michigan and all you Pistons fans. We're gonna make it to the finals and stomp all over the Heat on your behalf!)

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

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IN MEMORY OF MY GRANDFATHERHonor, Courage and Faith:The Sinking of the USAT Dorchester

2006-05-27T19:17:00.000-07:00

Capt. Preston Stewart Krecker didn’t have time to despair over the decision he was about to make. As he clung to the rail of the slippery deck of the USAT Dorchester, surrounded by ammonia fumes, ice and chaos, he looked below at a mass of wild-eyed soldiers clinging for life to the ropes beneath the ship’s port side lifeboats.

Frozen sea spray off the wintry Greenland coast had jammed the lifeboats’ mechanisms and several men risked their lives to release them. Precious few moments were left before the angle of the listing ship would make it impossible to drop the boats into the sea. But, if Capt. Krecker ordered the lifeboats dropped, they would scrape all of the men clinging precariously beneath them into the icy waters below. These men might not survive the trauma. With the starboard lifeboats shattered by the torpedo blast, if he didn’t order these boats dropped, no one would survive.

The path that brought Capt. Krecker, lauded as one of the top bonds salesmen on Wall Street in 1941, to this tragic decision is a tale of romance, family, honor, courage and faith.

Born in Brooklyn, NY in 1905 the only son of Preston Stuart Krecker, Sr., and Margeurite Madden Krecker, Preston was raised by an extraordinary woman.

A devout Catholic, Margeurite pioneered the women’s political movement in New York City following the lead of Susan B. Anthony. With her fellow suffragettes, she boldly battled indifferent men and apathetic women, who were much too frazzled by their daily lives to care about voting.

The young Preston’s brilliant smile, thick blond hair and musical talent made him the poster child of New York’s suffragette movement. He appeared on magazine covers, carried signs at rallies, marched with his mother in parades and played piano for meetings of the Women’s Democratic Forum, which Margeurite founded.

Tragically, Margeurite died from pneumonia in 1922 when Preston was just 17. Deeply shocked and saddened by his young mother’s sudden death, he stopped attending Catholic Mass and, by all accounts, lost his faith.

Six months later, Preston entered Princeton University. Out of a profound desire to serve his country, culled from both his mother’s and father’s sense of civic duty, in 1923 Preston joined the R.O.T.C.

At Princeton, Preston befriended fellow student Jimmy Clunan and often visited the Clunan family during school breaks becoming especially close to his friend’s father, John Clunan, and eventually falling in love with Jimmy’s sister, the slender and vivacious Katherine Clunan.

After graduation, Preston continued his military service, and was appointed an officer in the U.S. Army Reserves. He married Katherine in March 1927 in a small Catholic ceremony out of deference to her devout faith.

The young couple, whose love affair continued throughout their marriage, moved several times, finally settling in New Jersey, and had four children: Pat, Gwen, and two twin boys, Richard and John – who looked so much alike they often, and purposefully, confused family and friends. Preston’s winning smile served him well in business as he quickly became a successful bonds trader on Wall Street.

In March 1942, as war rumbled through Europe, Preston left Wall Street for the Army and was commissioned as an intelligence officer. Though the work allowed him to remain near his beloved family, Preston wanted most to serve his country in war. When the Army attempted to transfer him to a post in Trinidad in an intelligence unit, Preston requested instead transfer to a field artillery unit.

In December of 1942, shortly after the attacks on Pearl Harbor, Colonel James Mott gave Preston command of an army unit of 500 men scheduled to depart on a merchant marine vessel, the USAT Dorchester, to reinforce the army’s Greenland base station and set up an outpost to gather intelligence on German activity amid the bloody Battle of the Atlantic.

Early on the morning of Jan. 5, 1943, young Richard woke early to peek out of his bedroom window and see his father for the last time as Preston walked hand-in-hand with his wife to attend Mass, the only time he had been to a church since his wedding day.

Preston left directly from the church to meet his troops in Massachusetts finding among them a sergeant who had served under him before. “He was tickled to see me as I was him,” Preston wrote to his wife. “Now all I need to do is tell him what orders I want issued and then I can relax.”

As tales of the brutal Battle of the Atlantic stirred fearful rumors along the North American coast, three Christian ministers – from the Methodist, Catholic and Dutch Reformed denominations – and a Jewish rabbi joined the troops to serve as Army chaplains. They immediately began forming powerful bonds with the men, including the faithless Capt. Krecker. They also quickly bonded to each other, as one soldier described, “They were always together, they carried their faith together.”

Preston remembered his father-in-law’s stories of a childhood set in an era of intense religious discrimination – stories of burning crosses on the family’s lawn and of boys beat bloody on their way to school for the mere fault of being Catholic. Like many, he was amazed by the chaplains’ friendship, and wrote to his father-in-law of them and of his own growing friendship with the Catholic chaplain from New Jersey, Fr. John Washington.

Along with the soldiers and their four chaplains, a Naval gunnery crew and a contingent of merchant marines lead by the ship’s captain, Master Hans Danielsen, the USAT Dorchester set sail on Jan. 22, 1942, traveling with a large convoy of ships on calm seas. The ship stopped in St. John, Newfoundland to pick up additional supplies and travelers, then headed out again, breaking away from the convoy with two freighters and just three Coast Guard cutters for protection. On this leg of the journey, the tempestuous North Atlantic seas threatened to crumple the tiny Coast Guard vessels as they escorted the Dorchester to Bluie West, Greenland.

At approximately 3 p.m. on Feb. 2, 1943 one of the ship’s Coast Guard escorts signaled to the Dorchester that an enemy submarine lurked in the vicinity. Lt. William Arpaia immediately ordered his Naval gunnery crew to their battle stations. Capt. Krecker ordered his night watch of 17 men doubled to 34, and ordered his remaining men to sleep fully clothed and with life jackets on. The ship’s lights were blacked out, and the men began a vigilant watch across the water.

Master Danielson confidently told Lt. Arpaia and Capt. Krecker that if the ship wasn’t torpedoed by midnight when they would reach the Arctic icepack, they had no more to fear. Once they were in the iceberg-riddled waters off the Greenland coast, he believed the German submarines could not maneuver and strike them. And so, fifteen minutes after a calm and moonless midnight, as the ship slipped quietly into the icepack, Lt. Arpaia and Capt. Krecker retired to their staterooms, but warily ordered their men to stay on watch. A wintry cloud cover blocked the stars; the night went icy black.

No one saw the torpedo, but everyone felt its tremendous impact when it slammed into the forward of the beam on the starboard side at 12:55 a.m., and exploded into the refrigeration system, destroying the engine and electrical systems, and spewing ammonia.

Sleeping men, many who had ignored Capt. Krecker’s order to wear their clothes and life jackets, were hurled out of their bunks and the ship immediately began to list wildly to her starboard side.

On deck, pandemonium raged, as terrified, half-naked men scrambled for safety in the dark leaving their life jackets behind in their bunks. No one knows which of the chaplains gave up their life jackets first, but in the end, all four did knowing that without a life jacket no one could survive the frigid Arctic water.

Capt. Krecker and his men had done everything they could to free the few remaining lifeboats and to encourage the soldiers clinging below them on the ship’s port side ropes to jump into the water. Terrified of the icy sea, the soldiers refused to budge. After exchanging a hollow-eyed look with his loyal sergeant, Capt. Krecker issued the order to drop the remaining boats. They tumbled down the side of the ship, soldiers screaming as they were knocked off the ropes, but as soon as the boats were in the water, men began climbing in to safety.

The sound of collapsing metal signaled the ship’s ultimate demise.

There were still many men on board, all terrified of the frigid water. Preston raced among them, using the same winning smile and positive nature he’d once used when selling bonds to encourage the men to dive into the water, find a raft, an ice chunk, anything – this, their only hope for survival.

As the ship creaked and listed, and freezing waves began to sweep over the remaining men, through eyes blurred by tears and frozen air, Preston saw Fr. Washington and the other three chaplains gather, linking their arms and raising their voices to the sky in prayer.

Their voices lifted him, he knew their prayers would carry across the moonless night and cheer those men still clinging to life, just as they had cheered and comforted the men throughout the journey, and maybe some of them would survive. He could now see around him a sea dotted with red blinking lights, the sign that many men had made it into the water alive and had lit up the red lights on their life jackets so the Coast Guard cutters escorting the Dorchester could find and rescue them in the night.

Only then, just 18 minutes after the torpedo strike, did Preston understand that, in the tradition of commanding officers at sea, he would go down with the ship. The prayers of the chaplains rang in his ear and he, too, began to pray. He saw his precious Katherine’s warm face, generous smile and tender shoulders, hovering before him as though she were right there in the night, and gathered around her, he saw his brilliant daughter Pat, his beautiful Gwen, so much like Katherine, and his impish twin boys as the waters closed around his head and the ship’s swell drew him underneath the water into icy blackness.

****

Note: This account of the sinking of the USAT Dorchester, one of the worst naval disasters of World War II, and the death of my grandfather is based on numerous historical documents including: family documents and letters; survivor accounts; interviews; the official military report; and contemporaneous newspaper and magazine articles. Many of these documents present competing views of exactly what happened in the early morning hours of Feb. 3, 1943. I’ve attempted in this story to make plausible sense of the final hours of the USAT Dorchester as my grandfather might have experienced them, but I do not pretend to have captured every historical detail of this momentous event. If you would like to receive a copy of my bibliography for this story, please leave a comment with your e-mail address.

Everything written here is based on historical evidence, however, because there were so few survivors, no one can know exactly what Capt. Krecker might have seen or thought during the final moments of his life. That portion of my account is based on my family’s knowledge of Capt. Krecker’s character and supported by family records and survivor accounts, including a documented account from survivor Lt. William Arpaia.

The Immortal Chaplains Foundation was established to perpetuate the legacy of the Four Chaplains’ friendship, faith and heroic sacrifice. To learn more, visit their web site.

To learn more about the courageous Coast Guardsmen who rescued the survivors of the sinking of the USAT Dorchester, see the account written by Gary Turbak for VFW magazine and reprinted by the USCG Reservist.

World War II Four Chaplains heroism faith honor courage Memorial Day Patriotism narrative non-fiction writing

Eloquence Lost, Basketball Gained

2006-05-26T20:27:00.000-07:00

The Phoenix Suns are battling it out with the Mavs in the Western Finals.

The Teenager doesn’t like basketball. We are barely speaking.

All diatribes dive for cover.

All clever quips flee.

All humor hides
under the sofa quivering
in fear for the sight
of the wild brunette
in the Steve Nash tank.

Only Basketball remains.

GOOOOOO SSSUUUNNNNNSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(The photos here are from the Phoenix Suns 2006 playoffs photo gallery. Top photo by: Ronald Martinez/Getty Images. Photo above: NBAE)

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A moment of literary criticism and The Da Vinci Code.

2006-05-18T22:08:00.000-07:00

Like many people, I wondered for years what the fuss about The Da Vinci Code could possibly be. After all, isn't this a work of fiction? Who cares if it's a tad inaccurate if people think it's a fun read? And why, I often asked, are people taking this fictional account SO seriously?

After following various posts on Ben Witherington's site about The Da Vinci Code, and, perhaps more importantly, after being challenged by the teens in the youth groups I work with at my church, I finally read the book.

And now I get it. This book raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and not because of its theology or its vehement anti-Catholicism - though both certainly got my attention - but because of the deceitful game I believe this work plays with a well-established and respected form of literature. Since many writers visit this blog, I'd like to pause from humor for a moment and start a conversation about The Da Vinci Code not on its theological terms, but on its literary terms.

Now, I like a good adventure tale as much as anyone. Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Clive Cussler...bring 'em on. And, much like these excellent adventure authors, Dan Brown paces his tale brilliantly, peppering it at well-chosen moments with convincing "historical" background.

Plot twist after plot twist kept me hanging by my fingernails, forcing me to suffer through reams of "historical" background before I could find out what happens at the next plot twist. But unlike most adventure novels, it wasn't the plot twists that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

I believe that the debate about The Da Vinci Code should not first be a debate about theology, but instead a debate about how we define fact and fiction. Historical fiction, by every definition I've ever heard, sets a fictional story inside well-researched and accurately presented history. The Da Vinci Code, rampant in historical inaccuracy,* hardly lives up to this genre. And yet, book review after book review refers to The Da Vinci Code as "historical fiction," which not only belittles the hard-working authors who so carefully pen their tales amid real historical fact, but lends credibility to The Da Vinci Code by its association with this genre.

While we could easily write The Da Vinci Code off as pure fiction, Brown cleverly ekes out just enough fact to make his "historical" background appear accurate and, more cleverly, convinces many of his readers that he is, indeed, portraying well-researched historical fact. In other words, The Da Vinci Code is written as though it were a card-carrying member of the genre of historical fiction making those reams of historical background believable to the unsuspecting reader.

And if you think for a second that The Da Vinci Code is not believable, then please join me at our next teen group discussion at St. Patrick's here in Scottsdale, Arizona. You will meet a generation of kids from our public high schools who are reading The Da Vinci Code as an example of historical fiction, and they believe it to be an accurate rendition of historical fact, not fiction.

That's what raises the hair on the back of my neck.

*The historical inaccuracies in The Da Vinci Code are well-documented. For more information, see:
- The Da Vinci Code's Top Ten Errors – Novopress
- Cracking The Da Vinci Code - CBS2 Chicago
- Hollywood Heresy - The New Yorker
- The Truth Behind The Da Vinci Code by Richard Abanes

*****************

Since writing this post, a number of people have responded with some excellent resources:

My brother recommends Janet Batchler's blog. Blatcher writes about the power of fiction to influence a society's beliefs. See her excellent post on The Da Vinci Code at The Power of presupposition, Part 2.

Bonnie Wren provided in-depth documentation of the historical inaccuracies from various Catholic sources - and it is Catholicism that is most under attack in this book:

Dismantling The Da Vinci Code, by Sandra Miesel

Da Duh Vinci Code, also by Sandra Miesel

Interpreting the Da Vinci Code: Perspectives from a Church Historian, by Amanda D. Quantz

And last, Paul Boyer recommends an extensive explication at The Da Vinci Opportunity, Section 1: How the Popularity of The Da Vinci Code Book
and Movie Can Be Helpful to Christians and Others, by Mark Roberts

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Happy Mother's Day!

2006-05-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

Some wisdom from Dr. Richard Carmona, the U.S. Surgeon General: At the Go Red for Women/American Heart Association luncheon in Phoenix this past Friday, Dr. Carmona told us that when he goes into a community to institute programs to improve public health, the first group he reaches out to is the mothers. Then he said, "To all of you mothers, you're the ones who will change the world because we men have screwed it all up."

Today's for you, moms, and especially my mom!

Be strong, be powerful, be good to yourself, be you!

Yours truly,

Elizabeth

P.S. Sorry guys, he said it, not me.

More conversations with the Teenager

2006-05-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

Three minutes left in the game, the playoff series tied at 1-1. The Suns and Clippers trading shots all night, the Clippers ahead…barely. Marion hits a three-point shot tying the game.

I sit cross-legged on the living room floor clothed in my lucky Steve Nash jersey and Suns baseball cap, red-rimmed eyeballs inches from the TV screen, frenzied hair standing on end, arms flailing, throat raw from screaming helpful hints to the hometown boys.

The Teenager arrives home, bleary-eyed from a tough evening attending his girlfriend's dance concert.

“Mom, are you really watching that?”

“Uhhhh, yeah.”

Click.

Cable news and the Duke University case. Mayhem prevails.

“Honey, do you mind if we watch the game?”

Click.

Commercial break on ESPN.

Click.

The History Channel and the warring Mughals. Murder and mayhem.

“Sweetie, can we switch back to the game? That break won’t last long, it’s almost over!”

Click.

The game explodes back onto the screen, just as Marion flies under the basket and scoops a wild left-handed shot bringing the score to 92-86, Suns, with 42.9 seconds left.

“GOOOOOOOO SUUUUUUNNNS!!!”

Click.

The History Channel and Hitler now. Murder, mayhem and drug addiction.

“Dearheart…pleeeease?”

“Mom, this is the HISTORY channel. It’s educational.”

I cannot speak.

Finally, a commercial break.

“Please, please, please, honey?”

Click.

The game is over, the post-game show is over, and ESPN has switched to a time-delayed baseball game from some place back east. Not a word on who won or lost.

And we pause for a moment to ponder...where did we go wrong?

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Dinner conversation with Teenager

2006-05-09T06:25:00.001-07:00

"Mblmrlmrnbl mrnmlb"

(picture food spurting out of teenage mouth)

"I'm sorry, sweetie, what did you say?"

"Mbmrl mrnmb lbrml nmmmlbrml"

"Still can't hear you, kiddo."

"MBMRL MNMRL BRMAL AVLEM SMCNM"

"Honey, maybe it would help if you stop eating for a second."

(fork slams down onto plate)

"CAAAAN IIII HAAAAAVE SEEEEEECONDS, MMOOOMMMM!!??!!!??"

parenting teenagers daily life humor

From white taffeta to the deafening roar of hometown fans

2006-05-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

Saturday began with my goddaughter’s first communion. Sweetness and light, little girls in white lace and taffeta, little boys in sparkling white suits, little hands in prayer, little lips lifted in mischievous grins, marching down an aisle filled with adoring parents, relatives and friends. Precious beyond words.

I hadn’t seen my goddaughters in 5 years. The older, Alana, whose first communion was the cause for our reunion, had grown from chubby, sassy toddler into shy, slender pre-teen with waist-length black hair and a killer volleyball spike. The younger, Dominique, who is 8 going on 28, had grown from sweetness and vanilla cupcakes into sassy pink-skirted dancer and family socialite.

Dominique and I were best buddies within minutes. Though I’m usually stoic and obedient during Mass (old habits die hard), I quickly found myself giggling, tickling and cuddling with Dominique as though I were her newest bestest friend.

Alana is quieter and incredibly focused – her focus likely the source of her killer volleyball spike. Whereas the other girls wore white lace, ruffles and taffeta veils, Alana chose a simple white dress with her silky black hair as her only veil. The second she was home, she tore off her dress and climbed into baggy soccer shorts, a t-shirt and running shoes, while Dominique, still in pink, showed off her jazz slippers.

As though we’d never become too busy to call, my girlfriend and I giggled and chatted the afternoon away. Until it was time to change out of my spring flowered-suit into jeans, a Steve Nash basketball jersey and a Phoenix Suns hat.

I dressed for the game with no small amount of trepidation. Never mind that this was Game 7 of a playoff series the Suns nearly lost after a torturous Game 4. Never mind that the Suns star player was out for the season. My old friend and fellow Suns fan, who I hadn’t seen in 13 years, had suggested we both wear matching orange jumpsuits to add to the old home team cheer and had even procured them for the occasion.

He then sent me photos of himself titled “Born to be Wild” lest I not recognize him. From white taffeta and giggly girl talk, I drove to boy land with a fearful heart. Thankfully, I skated out of the orange jumpsuit, so impressed was he by my Steve Nash ensemble.

The game was rowdy and fantastic and surreal. The Suns played with fluidity and focus, and, from the minute the clock started ticking, the Lakers never once found momentum. This win was so sweet, that no one left the stadium even though our thirty point lead by the middle of the second half signaled clearly that the end for the Lakers was nie. The Suns fans stayed to the very end and beyond, screaming, shouting, crying, leaping and high-fiving with uninhibited exuberance.

From white taffeta to the deafening roar of hometown fans celebrating the sweetest of wins. Priceless.

Phoenix Suns basketball writing diary Blog Blogs Blogging

How to Succeed at Hole Digging Without Really Trying

2006-05-02T21:10:00.000-07:00

Babes on beach pay no attention to the Teenager behind the flip-flop.

Teenager gets bored. Dreams of hole digging glory.

Teenager enlists Teenager Buddy and Teenager-Wannabe in hole digging operation.

Holes-‘R-Us Corporation successfully completes first project. Fame spreads. Donald Trump sends contracts for appearance on next season of The Apprentice.

Teenager has grown up in desert. Thinks “TIDE” is what keeps clothes clean.

Tide waits for no one.

Teenager-Wannabe steps down to enthusiastic support role. Teenager Buddy nowhere to be found. Holes-‘R-Us Corporation stock plummets.

Babes on beach to the rescue.

Holes-‘R-Us stock price implodes. Teenager bails.

Amid crowd of adoring fans, Teenager raises hands in victory…over exactly what only Teenager knows for sure.

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Of Light and Shadow

2006-04-27T19:45:00.000-07:00

When I first conceived this blog, I envisioned a repository for all my artistic inclinations, a virtual storehouse filled with brilliant poetry, elegant prose, sublime photography and splendid drawings -– and perhaps a dabble in fiction or two -– all in keeping with the spirit of plein air painting, my inspiration in both life and art.

Who knew the Teenager would provide such fertile fodder? Or my own foibles, such grand entertainment for my friends?

As I sit here this fine Thursday evening, editing my pastel drawings for posting, I cannot help but ponder the dim possibility of reconciling the vast cultural gulf between "“Red Roses #2"” and "The Nuclear Family Goes Skiing."”

This blog has clearly evolved beyond its original scope, as the talented Katherine Tyrell so kindly worded her comments.

Therefore, I am pleased to announce of light and shadow, an art blog of drawing, maybe some painting and photography, and perhaps the occasional poem or two. The author is the same, as is the intent, and while the result may appear as two entirely separate universes, I hope that you will embrace my split creativity with me.

Thank you all for your inspiration, your comments and, most of all, your friendship!

Cheers,

Elizabeth

Elbow deep in blue food and Mr. Clean

2006-04-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

Before the Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin came into my world, my house was always clean. Spotless. Impeccable. So clean, in fact, that my friends hated coming over for dinner lest their husbands expect them to live up to the standard I’d set.

And then, my son was born.

Along with the joy and happiness of being a new mom, came laundry that was never done, floors that rarely got mopped, baseboards that were never dusted, clutter that was never picked up, and refrigerators that were never cleaned.

It's understandable that my housekeeping skills slid while my son was young, but what makes it so difficult now? After all, he’s a teenager, he drives, he has a girlfriend, he's in sports, he’s in theater, he’s hardly ever home to do much other than eat or sleep or talk me out of gas money.

This morning I woke up at 6:00 a.m. with just one goal on the day's agenda: clean the refrigerator. Hours later (ok, there was a lot to do), elbow-deep in Mr. Clean and blue food, the phone rang. It was my son’s orthodontist. Yesterday, while cleaning up after a theater project, the Teenager clocked himself so hard in the jaw that he nearly knocked four of his teeth out. His orthodontist wired his teeth back together and was understandably concerned.

“What did the emergency room doctor say?”

“Well, Dr. W., after we finished at your office, we went over to the ER only to find it packed to the gills, with ambulances lined up and down the street waiting their turn. Everyone else looked so sick, and my son looked fine, so we decided to just watch him at home for the evening. He looks great, you did a wonderful job!!”

“Oh no! You didn’t! Oh my, this is serious! He’s a strong kid, and if he was hit so hard that he blacked out, never mind nearly losing his front teeth, you really need to get him checked out immediately. He could have broken his jaw, or cracked his skull or his neck, who knows!?!”

Guilt rushed through my bloodstream like storm surge after a hurricane. I’m a bad mom, a terrible mom, my son’s face could fall apart at any moment just because I didn’t want to wait in line!

Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw knew better than to argue. He raced the Teenager to the emergency room, and, as my penance, I was nominated to host the gaggle of teenage friends who had shown up for the weekend’s film project.

Several hours, a CT scan, a clean bill of health and buckets of teenage angst later, and it’s now 4:30 p.m. I’m again elbow-deep in blue food and Mr. Clean.

Maybe, with luck, I’ll finish by Sunday night.

Converting the world to wildflowers

2006-04-20T06:27:00.000-07:00

The Phoenix metropolitan area, now a shadow of its former self, has evolved from a desert wonder into a sea of rooftops. Thirty years ago, only the big houses along Central Avenue in downtown Phoenix had manicured lawns and topiary hedges. Where I lived in North Scottsdale, the yards were filled with desert plants - sometimes planted, sometimes wild.

Our high schools had three disctinct groups - freaks, jocks and cowboys. Real cowboys and cowgirls who practiced things like calf roping and barrel racing in the afternoons. And many of us who didn't wear boots, tight jeans and wide-buckle belts to school, still had our own horses.

In the evenings after school, my girlfriends and I headed straight home to saddle up, then strode past yards filled with spindly creosote bushes and palo verde trees atop our chestnut quarterhorses until there were no houses or streets or planes in the sky, and we galloped through the open desert to both rider and horse's content.

Or we'd ride into the center part of North Scottsdale through the Drinkwater's Liquor Store drive-through and buy ice-cold Cokes.

Afterwards, we ambled home in the gentle glow of the setting sun, the clear desert sky wide and silent around us.

My, how things have changed.

Now, we all live on tiny little lots that can barely support a dog, much less a horse. We drive on six-lane wide boulevards filled with SUVs that race through red lights at 60 mph and planes, both large and small, buzz constantly in the skies above us. The very idea of walking anyplace, much less riding a horse, sends shivers down our spine. Our once clear skies are filled with brown haze and regular pollution warnings keep both the asthmatic and healthy indoors.

And Drinkwater's Liquor is now Sportsmen's Liquor and sports the largest collection of fine wine in the area. Teenage girls atop chestnut quarterhorses can no longer buy ice-cold Cokes at the drivethrough, not that they would dare brave the roads to get there.

Arizona changed, but I didn't change with it. I am the neighbor that causes all the other neighbors to wring their hands in despair, "Will she ever trim those bushes? Will she EVER pull all those weeds?'

My yard is filled with desert shrubs including a mutant brittlebush. Brittlebushes usually grow about two feet tall, three feet at best. Mine shot up to six feet tall within two years of planting, and explodes with brilliant yellow blossoms from February through August. I rarely trim it, much to my neighbor's collective chagrin, lest I lose any of the blossoms; the flowers attract hoards of monarch butterflies during their migration.

I can hardly bear to go to work during the migrating season; I dream of sitting in a lawnchair in my driveway sipping iced tea and watching enormous orange and black butterflies dance around my bush for days on end.

Every year like clockwork I get a letter from the HOA saying the weeds in my yard have gotten out of hand.

And every year like clockwork I send a letter with copies of pages from Sunset's garden book explaining that these gentle little sprouts are not at all weeds, they are desert wildflowers and are SUPPOSED to randomly fill my yard until they grow and bloom into yellow desert marigolds or brilliant red penstemons or flood my yard with gentle pink mexican poppies.

And every year like clockwork someone from the HOA comes to visit. They don't believe me.

And every year like clockwork they end up speeding straight from my house to the garden store with pages from the Sunset garden book clutched fiercely in their hands to purchase their own desert wildflower garden.

My goal in life: to convert the world to wildflowers one HOA inspector at a time.

Happy Easter from Arizona!

2006-04-16T07:15:00.000-07:00

What’s that part about ME again?

2006-04-15T12:09:00.000-07:00

Since turning 13 (in 2002 - a watershed moment in my life) the Teenager leaves the table, as soon after dinner as he can get away without risking a sound smack to the back of his head, and settles in for an evening of IMing, web surfing and blogging.

I didn’t know he was sporting kelly-green rubber bands around his braces for six entire months.

He acquired a girlfriend, lost her, acquired another, lost her, acquired a third and kept her for two whole months…without ever saying a word.

He learned HTML, without any help from his mother, without even so much as asking a word of advice, without ME.

He studied the entire SAT test preparation book and got an “A” in his writing class AND his calculus class, WITHOUT MY EVEN KNOWING!

Me, the single mom totally devoted to my one and only son – wasn’t it me and The-Teenager-Formerly-Known-As-Pumpkin against the world from the very beginning of time?

Last week, he promised to be home early for dinner so that we could spend a little time together before he went out. I lovingly prepared his favorite meal only to wait for hours until giving up, feeling more lonely than a jilted lover.

Lost and neglected, I watched his wild hair grow ever longer and bushier lit only by the dim glare of his computer monitor wondering all the while, who is this alien in the body of my son?

So I turned to you, my newfound friends in the blogosphere, and a joyful time it’s been! But now...I fear, the tables have turned.

Last night, as I was composing my evening’s blog entry, the Teenager wandered into the kitchen:

“Where’s dinner?”

“In the refrigerator,” I answer without looking up, the dim glare of my laptop lighting up my face in the dusk-filled kitchen.

Shocked, he practically shouts, “WHAT? You mean it’s not READY yet?

Barely registering his dismay as I clack away at a particularly clever turn of phrase, I answer, “Sure it’s totally ready, you just have to heat it up."

He ponders the situation - has his mother turned into an alien? “But…aren’t you going to MAKE me dinner?"

I glance up briefly to note his crestfallen face and answer soothingly, “I did make dinner. It’s wonderful, honey, you’ll love it! You just have to heat it up.”

“But…but…but, aren’t you going to stop and eat with me?” he asks in a painfully pitiful voice.

After picking myself up off the floor, I looked at him blankly and said, “You mean…you WANT to eat with me?”

“YES...YES, of COURSE I do…but you never do anything but BLOG anymore! What about family? What about having dinner together? What…what…what about ME!”

parenting teenagers daily life humor

The Feeding of Teenagers

2006-04-13T21:23:00.000-07:00

There is a theme emerging in the blogosphere this week: the feeding of teenagers.

Could it be the waning moon?

First, Bonnie Wren, of Ballpoint Wren, writes about the adventures of living with four cavernous maws.

Could it be we, the collective parents of teenagers, have all gone broke in a single week, and thus must publicly lament both our empty pantries and our pocketbooks?

Because next there’s Kait, of Kait’s Chaos , who writes about her nightly adventures in the kitchen, which sound to me more like “Nightmares in the Feeding of Teenagers.”

Clearly, the feeding of teenagers is, what they call in both storytelling and religion, a universal need.

Feeling nostalgic for my son’s voracious appetite at the ripe young age of 13, I revisited something I published several years ago:

“The first sign of a real advantage to harboring a 13-year-old, arrives in the form of the first evening feeding. He prepares this himself and carefully times it for my anticipated arrival. Today, it was roasted pepper and jalapeño tamales. An hour later, I served our second dinner – black bean enchiladas, rice and beans. An hour after that, I served our third dinner – this time a plate full of boiled Chinese potstickers and white rice, followed by a bag of Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Chip Cookies (yes, the entire bag) and a glass of milk.

At this point, you likely think I’m exaggerating…I’m not.”

It was then I realized that was several years ago, and this is today:

“Hi Mom, What’s for dinner?”

“How are you sweetie?”

“Great! What’s for dinner?”

“Your favorite, Spinach Pie!”

“Wonderful! When?”

“Oh, about ½ hour?”

“Is it ok if I have a little snack then?”

Two 2-qt. size bowls of mashed potatoes and an entire chicken pot pie later, we sit down to dinner. My spinach pies, filled with rich ricotta and parmesan cheese, plenty of eggs and just enough spinach to lure you into the belief that health will ensue, are his favorite dinner. Half of a single pie and a 1 lb. sweet potato later:

“What’s for dessert?”

At this point, you likely think I’m exaggerating…I’m not.

How little has changed in three years.

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Where did we go wrong?

2006-04-08T14:53:00.000-07:00

My son actually talked to me. I was so shocked that, had I been driving, I would have driven into a wall.

It began as a meaningful conversation. About a school activity, no less. He showed me a film he had created. And it was good. Very good, actually. REALLY good! And he talked to me about how he scripted it, his ideas, his goals, his dreams!! And the film was about stopping teenage drinking and driving!!! My son, the future Stephen Spielberg and every mother’s DREAM, all in one package!!!!

Then, I learned the truth. We’ve created a monster.

Queen Mom: “Sweetie, we’re looking into sponsoring a teenage drinking and driving program here at the hospital, and I’d love to show your film to the people in charge!”

The Teenager: “Well, if you use it, you realize it will cost you.”

Queen Mom: “Well, um, honey, I don’t know if they’ll use it, I just thought they might get some good ideas from it. We’re looking at how to reach teenagers.”

The Teenager: “Ah, so you want to steal my ideas. My book on filmmaking warned me about that.”

Queen Mom: “Well, er, um, sweetie, I just want to show them how you reached out to teenagers.”

The Teenager: “Ah, so what you really need is a marketing plan. My consulting fee is $90 per hour.”

Queen Mom: “Um, well, dear. Can’t I just show it to them? Promise…we won’t do anything else with it unless we talk to you.”

The Teenager: “Ok, well, then it’s ok if you show them the film, but you’ll have to agree to my Terms of Agreement. I’ll e-mail it to you.”

The e-mail came within minutes:

>>>

Dearest Mother,

By opening and/or downloading this attachment, you hereby agree to the
following terms:

1) You and/or the company you are associated with will not duplicate, replicate, use, distribute, reverse engineer, rebroadcast, modify or deconstruct any and all of the property contained in this attachment.

2) This attachment and the associated property, known as Stay Alive at 25, is a produced documentary film, whose sole ownership lies with Pulse Productions and its producer.

3) License to the above rights is available solely from Pulse Productions and its producer, who can be contacted by simply replying to this message.

4) Any deviation from these terms will result in a federal and/or state
lawsuit from yours truly, Pulse Productions and its producer.

Love ya!

Justin

>>>

At this point, I headed straight for the wine rack and opened a bottle of Zinfandel just as The Teenager bounded into the kitchen looking for his pre-dinner snack (usually an entire bowl of mashed potatoes).

The Teenager: “Mom, you shouldn’t be drinking you know.”

Queen Mom: “Honey, it’s ok, I was just going to have a little glass of wine before dinner.”

The Teenager: “I hope you don’t plan on driving ‘cause I’m hiding your car keys.”

parenting teenagers daily life humor

The Gospel of Mark

2006-04-06T06:15:00.000-07:00

I never met Mark in person. I first came to know him through photos and stories shared by his mother, Sue. Sue is tall blonde and fabulous, with a smile as brilliant and complex as her home state, California, and a heart as big as the sun, so it stands to reason her son would have a spirit larger than life. And he did.

Though I’d seen Mark, his own tall blonde good looks and brilliant smile, in photos, I first saw his physical body surreally buried up to his waist in a rich wood casket, dressed in a football jersey with a rosary clutched to his chest, surrounded by family all barely holding back their tears. Mark had fought a brutal and courageous battle with cancer. And lost.

Generally, people are shy and thoughtful at funerals. But not at Mark’s. The hospice spiritual minister, who had come to know Mark in his final days, lead the service and after opening with hymns, Bible readings and thoughtful words, he turned the service over to the people attending. One of Mark’s nephews played a heartbreaking song, and Mark’s stepsister, her grief shining through her red-rimmed eyes, spoke of his sense of humor, his great heart and his love for football – he’d wear the jersey of nearly any team all for the love of the game. Others close to the family spoke, then the minister invited anyone attending to speak.

The first speaker, a vibrant dark-haired young man in his 30s, bounded up to the lectern. He was one of Mark’s many best friends and, in a booming voice, told of Mark’s penchant for nicknaming everyone he met – after all, who needs a name when a nickname works so much better? He described how Mark always came to work twenty minutes before start time so he could back the biggest, baddest, blackest truck into the best parking spot on the lot.

Another spoke, then another and another – each story more eloquent than the one that came before. Finally, a gray-haired man walked to the lectern to tell of Mark’s relationship with his best friend in high school, the man’s son. Their nicknames were “Mutt” and “Jeff.” They played football together: Mark was the tall, strong and talented first-string player, while “Mutt” was the short, scrawny third-string player; but Mark always protected “Mutt” no matter what was going on in the game. Sadly, “Mutt” had also passed away, just a year ago. And his father believed the two were up in heaven together playing football as he spoke: “Mutt” and “Jeff.”

So young, Mark was just in his 30s so his friend had been young, too. One woman had to get up and leave, she was crying so profoundly; even the men lost control of their tears at this point.

Finally, the last speaker stood up to talk, another of Mark’s many vibrant handsome young friends. I’d noticed him earlier; he seemed a little out of place, a little uncomfortable about being there, as though he didn’t know many people. But he had an engaging smile and a booming voice and shared all kinds of funny anecdotes about Mark. After the heart-wrenching story we’d just heard, it felt good to laugh. Finally he ended his talk by explaining how he knew Mark; he was the “vending guy” at Mark’s place of work. And he’d come up to talk about Mark partly to share his anecdotes, but also so he could tell us: “And if the vending guy comes to your funeral, you know you’ve led a great life.”

So, here is what I learned from Mark Lucas:

1) Ministry is the people in your life.
2) Enthusiasm is everything.
3) There really is football in heaven.
4) Who needs a name, when a nickname will do.
5) If I can get the vending guy to speak at my funeral, along with 50 of my closest family and friends, then I know I’ll have lived a great life.
6) Owning the biggest, baddest, blackest truck on the lot gets you to heaven.
7) And, last, but not least, everyone in Mark’s family and all of his friends should know that Mark’s life will live on long past his passing from his earth.

faith catholic Spirituality Diary

Dumb and dumber

2006-04-01T18:53:00.000-07:00

As dumb as people can be, I, for one, can be dumber still.

Back when I was a newbie director in my company, I took a class on "Effective Presentations" with twenty of my peers, a group of people I sorely wanted to impress.

We sweat blood and tears for two solid days as we presented speech after speech, unscrupulously critiquing each other and wresting from our presentations every disconnected comment, stray gesture and unconscious "um." We bonded over our fears, our foibles, our foolishness. Best friends we became.

The big day arrived: our final presentations. I stayed up until 2 a.m., practicing. Mine would be brilliant, charming, adorable, filled with witty anecdotes and clever diatribes.

I strode confidently to the front of the room wearing my favorite orange jacket, a dashing scarf, my best black skirt, a brand new pair of nylons, and, of course, my lucky underwear. I'd even had a perfect hair day.

My subject: throwing an elegant dinner party. I spoke of growing up in stylish Weston, Connecticut, joked how Martha Stewart learned all her tricks from my mother, gave delectable recipes and insider tips on where to go for the best flower arrangements or the freshest fish. I was never more witty or charming, tossing my hair and revelling in my own fabulousness.

At the end, I asked if there were any questions. One of the directors gestured me towards her, leaned into my ear and whispered softly, "Elizabeth, there's a bit of a tear in your skirt."

I gracefully closed my presentation and sashayed outside the room (never let them see you sweat!), took a casual glance at my clothes and gasped. There it was: a gaping gash in my skirt stretching around my backend from hip to hip revealing...well...everything.

After screeching home at 80 mph, I arrived back in fresh clothes and slunk into the classroom, red-faced. My newfound best friends glanced up uncomfortably and stopped talking as I entered the room.

I cowed in a corner chair, it was worse than I thought. They'd seen...EVERYTHING.

Filled with pity and desperately wanting to be comforting, one friend sat down next to me, touched my hand gently and whispered in my ear: "At least you were wearing pretty underwear, dear."

daily life Writing work life humor

The nuclear family goes skiing

2006-03-31T20:06:00.000-07:00

Act I

Scene One: Teenager tells Queen Mom that he is going skiing with Teenager Buddy.

Queen Mom replies, “FOUR HOUR DRIVE? IN THE SNOW? BY YOURSELVES? NO WAY!!”

“We’re going with an 18-year-old Mom!”

“You’re going with an 18-year-old? EVEN MORESO...NOOOO WAAAYYYY!!”

“But…but…but….”

“NOT A CHANCE!”

“Will you take us?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING? DO YOU KNOW HOW BUSY WE ARE? NOOOO WAAAYYYY!”

Scene Two: Queen Mom and Dad-Who-Would-Be-Outlaw wake up at 3:30 a.m. to make four-hour drive to escort Teenager and Teenager Buddy to ski resort. Mythical 18-year-old nowhere in sight.

Scene Three: Nuclear family arrives at resort. Snowboards resting on shoulders, Teenager and Teenager Buddy march into falling snow like toy soldiers.

Scene Four: Teenager Buddy executes fabulous trick and soars back from far reaches of sky to stick landing. Snowboard catches in wet snow. Teenager Buddy careens face-first into snowdrift as snowboard snaps in half.

Act II

Scene One: Undaunted by tragedy, Teenager and Teenager Buddy share remaining half of snowboard for sledding antics (see photos above).

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Whose name is it anyway?

2006-03-28T21:41:00.000-07:00

Justin doesn’t like his name anymore. With its hyphens and hard Germanic sounds, he says it’s just too complicated for a filmmaker. He wants to be known only as “Bill.” No middle name. No last name. Just “Bill.”

“’Bill’? Why ‘Bill’? If you want an arty name, why not call yourself ‘B’? Or ‘J-man’? Or anything but ‘Bill’!”

“I just want a simple name. Bill.”

It started when he joined his high school theater program as a member of the props crew. At 14, he was the youngest kid in the show. No one knew his name. And he was determined to prove himself. Whenever anyone had a task they didn't want to do, they'd say, "Just have Props Kid Bill do it."

And he did.

He moved up on the crew, but by then everyone knew him as "Bill." His reputation grew and his new name spread throughout the high school.

When I was pregnant, his working name was ‘Godzilla.’ As my due date came closer, our friends and families convinced us of a more socially acceptable name. So we picked ‘Justin.’ We thought it was an unusual name, smart, different, creative. Little did we know that ‘Justin’ would turn out to be the ‘John’ of the '90s.

But ‘Bill’?

We refuse. We picked ‘Justin’ for a reason. It’s not his name. It’s ours. If we wanted a kid with the same name as an accounting practice you want to avoid, we would have named him Bill in the first place.

Bill. Not a chance.

For a few weeks after his announcement, we called him the artist formerly known as ‘Justin,’ or AFKAJ for short. But that was hard to explain to Mom and Dad, never mind his dentist.

So, now, we just call him “The Teenager.” Oddly, whenever I tell this story, people nod knowingly. And everyone, even the dentist, gets it.

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Friday: A new meaning to the word "experimental"

2006-03-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

Like Art Center, the modernist, rectangular structure that houses CalArts is perched on the side of a hill surrounded by tall trees and lush grass lawns. CalArts has an added advantage: it is one of only three art schools in the country that hosts both performing arts and visual arts programs in one place.

After the admissions counselors’ presentation and tour, I was sold. What a school! Musicians, character animators, dancers, actors, opera singers, painters, set designers and filmmakers all in one place! Famous teachers! A veritable smorgasbord of talent for a budding filmmaker! And they even have student housing!

Justin remained unconvinced. I encouraged him to be more open-minded, to think more broadly about his work. He dug in his heels.

I thought that my opportunity to change his mind lied within the experimental nature of film students’ work at CalArts, and so I talked Justin and his dad into accompanying me to the Film Services Library to view a compilation of recent student films.

The first film was a play on still photography as film. Clever, but dull. The second a rather odd story about a young girl who kills her abusive father. Not so clever and duller.

Dad fell asleep.

The next was a lot of artistic motion, cherry blossoms and distorted film. Duller still.

Dad began snoring. It wasn’t going well.

Finally, we reached a film with promise. It started out with a voiceover of a young couple talking about love as a cemetery scene rolled by on the screen. (Yeah, I thought...some meaning, some drama!) The movie proceeded slowly, the young girl taking a shower, a rambling voiceover soliloquy. Then we cut to a scene of the young girl naked, apparently in bed with a young man, presumably the filmmaker. The scene progresses…well, I’ll let you guess the rest.

My son quickly switches off the DVD, lifts an eyebrow in disdain and growls, “Do you still want me to go to CalArts?”

We no longer discuss “experimental” art.

parenting teenagers daily life

Thursday: The hallowed halls of Art Center

2006-03-25T11:04:00.000-07:00

The black Bauhaus-style main building of Art Center College of Design spans windy Lida Road and a lush green deer gully, and is nestled within a park-like forest halfway up the side of a small mountain in Pasadena, CA. Surely, the 270 degree view of the Los Angeles metropolis influences the heady ideas of Art Center’s students, many of whom develop the world’s next great automobiles, products and design trends while still attending classes in these stark white halls.

We met Justin's dad at the airport so that he, too, could enjoy this seminal trip. Was it his dad's influence, or was it his mood? Yesterday, Justin tried as hard as possible to be cool, wearing his sunglasses, distancing himself from me on the tours, growling at me whenever I asked questions. Today, he said far less, but stopped occassionally and leaned gently against me, like my golden retriever used to when she wanted me to know she was by my side.

I’d heard that Art Center was the West Coast version of Pratt Institute, the art school I attended decades ago. In some ways, yes – both schools’ students are bright, incredibly talented and driven beyond measure – but in many ways, no.

Pratt’s 120-year-old ivy-covered brownstone halls, wrought iron stairwells and leaky pipes could not be more different from Art Center’s rectangular, all black and white, modernist structure, dappled late afternoon sunlight streaming through black floor-to-ceiling mini-blinds.

Pratt uses a classical art school curriculum with an emphasis on foundational art courses such as drawing in the first semesters (even the architecture majors are required to take figure drawing), while Art Center students jump right into their major design courses after a few basic classes in studio design. Depending on the major, a student could easily go through Art Center without ever taking a single drawing class.

Because of this emphasis on fine art, the work of Pratt’s students reflects a broader range of influences. While this might give Pratt’s students a more personally fulfilling artistic life, it doesn’t necessarily give them a marketplace advantage. The gallery show and student work we saw at Art Center portrayed a remarkable professionalism and maturity, likely a product of the sharp focus of the school’s curriculum and the driven nature of its students. Better, the work was breathtaking.

But is this the place for Justin? I thought my son, who once debated between being an automotive designer and a filmmaker, would have found in Art Center his joie de vivre. Instead, he found the school too focused on design for his taste, and the opportunity for collaboration with music, drama and writing students on his film projects too limiting.

And so, we take a last lingering look at the panaromic view from Art Center's tremendous windows, breathe in the cool, clear air of Pasadena's hillside breezes, then head down to I-10 and another afternoon battle with L.A. traffic.

Friday: Disney's CalARTS

parenting teenagers daily life

Wednesday: Seeing is believing

2006-03-22T22:19:00.000-07:00

Today was a big day for both of us. We visited Chapman University, and my son exhibited a maturity beyond his years as we interviewed with admissions, met students and toured the campus. Me? I held back tears for the first of likely many times over the fact that my son is grown up. Not growing up anymore, but grown up.

Ok, so he’s only 16. But the choice of a college is entirely his – as it should be. He’s the one who has to choose, attend and pass his classes. He’s the one who has to get along with his college roommates, or not. He’s the one who has to graduate. He’s the one who has to find a job when he’s done. He’s the one who has to pay back his student loans.

He’s the one who gets to decide – and most likely he’ll make a far different decision than the one I would have made.

My heart burst today when I watched him ask thoughtful, intelligent questions of the admissions counselor and tour guides, when I saw how easily he fit into the college environment, how excited he was when he saw the TV studios.

At the same time I felt sad; I’m not sure what role I play in his life now, if any. When he was small I could anticipate his every need. But now, I’m not always even sure I know him.

I do know it is very important for me to take this trip with him. Perhaps, so I can see his maturity, perhaps to help him navigate Los Angeles, or perhaps he’s actually listening to me even though he pretends not to.

Chapman is beautiful, set amid Old Town Orange with its charming antique stores, Victorian houses and quiet streets – a small town college in the heart of one of the largest metropolises in the world.

After our campus tour and admissions information session, we walked with some other parents and prospective students to the film school. A young man with purple hair chatted with another student dressed entirely in black at the entrance. One of the girls in our group giggled and said, “You can tell we’re in the right place!”

The enthusiastic, down-to-earth students shared a warm collegiality as they bustled about in the cramped film school (a new 18,000 sq. ft. building opens next year), shouting notes about collaborative projects to each other, rushing through narrow hallways. The very air held the crispness of a place where people are getting great things done.

And maybe seeing this is why I’m here.

parenting teenagers daily life

He thinks I'm a geek.

2006-03-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

You guessed it. I'm talking about my teenager.

Tall, smart, accomplished. Shaggy hair and smelly socks. Bright. Lazy. Hardworking. Irresponsible. Responsible. All at once.

Teenagers are a walking stew of opposites.

He loves me. He thinks I'm a geek. And, in his universe, I am. Doesn't he realize I was cool once? Some people actually think I still am.

Poor kid. A "cool" mom. How embarrassing.

parenting teenagers daily life humor

Who are we, really?

2006-02-10T19:11:00.000-07:00

I'm a Baby Boomer, but I use exclamation points like a Millenial female - so what does that mean? It means we don't fit very neatly into the consumer segments that marketers like to use. Small wonder that advertising is often so poorly targeted.

A whole new world

2006-01-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

At this moment, my 16-year-old son, Justin, is working on his Human Anatomy & Physiology homework, checking out his current grade standings on his school’s extranet, searching on Google, listening to his Ipod and IMing his friends. Simultaneously.

Earlier this evening, I wandered into our home office, questioned his work ethic, then wandered back to the living room, a pile of laundry and a TV crime drama. He’s got a 3.8 GPA. I’m bored. Maybe he’s on to something.

parenting teenagers technology

About this blog

2005-12-27T18:19:00.000-07:00

"Plein air," or "open air" is a style of landscape drawing and painting defined by the painter's process: the painter goes outside into the landscape and paints what he or she sees with no photographs, projected images or other tools as an aid. The story a plein air artist tells in their art is a story about the wind, the light, the sounds, the color, the energy, the season, the weather and the sight of each landscape.

Through prose, humor, photography and conversation, "plein air sketches" tells stories from the landscape of daily life, much like plein air sketches tell stories about the landscapes they represent.

For my real plein air sketches, and other drawings, photographs and paintings, and perhaps even a poem or two, visit my art blog: Of Light and Shadow.

Copyright 2006 Elizabeth Krecker. All Rights Reserved.

writer writing art artist plein air daily life humor