Orange Cactus Flower

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

arizona monsoon sunset photos photography

On Becoming a Tick Mark, and Other Tales

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

This is just so cool...

A Man Named Bill

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!

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

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

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.

The Power of a Cardboard Oven and a Story

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

Sudanreeves

Sudan Tribune

Coalition for Darfur

Save Darfur

*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

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?