Lost my oomph

 

Christian's porch plants

Somehow, today, I lost my oomph. Not all that unusual on a Sunday. Sometimes my body seems to say, “Nope, it’s Sunday. The day of rest. I’m not gonna do that, no matter how you nag.” And my brain follows right along. So I fiddled the day away, browsing on the net, napping, reading.

I did a couple of good things—sent off a critique to an as-yet unpublished author. She replied that she was taken aback by some of my comments, and I admit I was brutally honest. But the manuscript didn’t engage me, and I saw some clear ways to fix it. I was honest about the fact that I only read fifty pages—because I was bored, though I didn’t say that—and she of course said if I’d read further, I might have been more engaged. I replied that if most readers have to go fifty pages into a book, they just won’t do it. Ideally, you should capture the reader on the first page. I have lingering regret over the whole thing—it will teach me not to volunteer to critique. But I couldn’t see encouraging a writer about a manuscript that, in my best judgment, has no market appeal. At least, I was honest, and it’s off my desk.

And after a bit of difficulty I sent the neighborhood monthly newsletter to the designer, so that too if off my desk. But it will come right back in the form of proof tomorrow.

Jean came for supper, and Christian fixed his delicious hamburgers. I made smashed potatoes to go with them, something I’ve just learned to do. The first time I asked Christian to get tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, he got about four times the number I thought I needed. So tonight I cooked what was left. In duck fat. Jordan and Jean really like the potatoes but would like to call the fat something else. When Megan first told me she cooked these, she said she had chicken fat. I refrained from asking if it was kosher schmalz, but I don’t think the girls would like this any better. The first time I used duck fat, I thought it instantly made my tiny kitchen small like Thanksgiving. It makes terrific potatoes.

The big accomplishment of the day belongs to Christian and Jordan: tonight they pulled the electric wheelchair to the middle of my closet, located the charger, found that the chair still turned on, and plugged it in to charge overnight. My brother goes home from rehab tomorrow, so the timing is good. Now we have to get the chair from Fort Worth to Tolar and all is well. Except of course that the chair is in the middle of my closet—no way my walker and I can get in for clean clothes, laundry, etc. Zenaida comes tomorrow, and the first thing she does is start a load of my laundry in the house. Not tomorrow. I am telling myself none of it is the end of the world.

I had a hilarious conversation with Christian tonight—because I thought I was talking to Colin. Too detailed to tell all, but the voice said he would need make and model number of the wheelchair to check the battery location, and I said, “Sweetheart, I sent it to you days ago.” The voice, incredulous: “You did? I don’t remember seeing it.” When I asked when he thought he might come look at the chair (mind you, this was, in my mind, Colin who is four hours away in Tomball), he said, “Well, tonight when I come out for supper.” That was my clue I was talking to the wrong person.

The fact that they were able to charge the chair is good news/bad news. It means there is no excuse to get Colin up here to do chores, and as I freely admit I will use any excuse to get any of my children to come visit. “Want a deli sandwich from Carshon’s. Colin? I’ll buy!” But I don’t want him to drive all this way if he doesn’t need to.

One of the things that the voice said to me in that misbegotten phone call was, “I’ve been out all day planting.” Didn’t sound like Colin to me—he is more likely to spend the day building or repairing something big. But who am I to ask. It was of course Christian, and he was busy with the pots on the front porch. Christian is a pot gardener (no, not that kind!), and each year the front porch is amazing. I’m letting a couple of his photos carry the weight of this blog tonight.

Hope everyone has their oomph in place as we approach this new week, the last for most pubic school kids in Texas. Who knows what the schools

will look like in the fall, after this legislative session is over. Fingers crossed, prayers said.

The Grandmother Mystique

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, Paula Gail Benson. A legislative attorney and former law librarian, Paula has published short stories in the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable (http://bwgwritersroundtable.com/), Kings River Life (http://kingsriverlife.com/), Mystery Times Ten 2013 (Buddhapuss Ink), and A Tall Ship, a Star, and Plunder (Dark Oak Press and Media, released January 2014). Her latest, “Apple’s Lure,” will appear in the July/August 2014 issue of the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable. She regularly blogs with others about writing mysteries on Writers Who Kill, at http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com. Her personal blog is Little Sources of Joy at http://littlesourcesofjoy.blogspot.com, and her website is http://paulagailbenson.com. She’s looking forward to serving on the Steering Committee for the Guppy Chapter of Sisters in Crime, and we're already getting great ideas from her.

*****

I’m not a grandmother, but I’ve been mistaken for one. Early in the year, I was having coffee and checking my iPad at a McDonald’s near a local high school. A young man working there approached me to ask if I knew Stephanie. When I said no, he replied, “You look just like her grandmother.”

That took me a moment to process.

I’m old enough to be a grandmother. I have cousins and friends who are grandmothers, and they love the experience. But I’ve never been married and have no children. Grandchildren are not on my horizon. At least not for myself.

The young man seemed so happy to have made the association. He smiled as if he really liked Stephanie’s grandmother.

I responded, “I’m sorry.” But, as soon as the words left my mouth, I wondered if I should have said “thank you”?

My father’s parents died before I was born. I grew up assuming that everyone had only one set of grandparents, not two or more. I remember my maternal grandmother as tall and slender with long white hair she kept in a bun. Because she had diabetes, she was fragile and not active. She loved watching daytime soap operas. Her beautiful maiden name was Leora Blankenship. I always thought I would use it as a pseudonym if I wrote romance novels.

When my mother was expecting me, my grandmother became ill and was hospitalized. Mother’s brother called to say she needed come home immediately, and Mother had to admit she couldn’t travel because she was pregnant. I’m told Grandmother’s health improved quickly when she learned of her impending fourth grandchild.

At birth, I was a preemie who spent time in an incubator before coming home. Grandmother insisted on making a long trip to visit me. When I was twelve, she passed away after two years as a widow. Although our time together was short, I still remember and feel the bond of her love.

Even though I’m not a grandmother, I’ve written about a grandmother figure in a short story, “Confidence

in the Family,” in Mystery Times Ten 2013 (Buddhapuss Ink). Mona, a waitress who becomes owner of a pizza shop, raises Fred, an orphan whose records show the pizza shop as his last known address. Mona is a con artist who helps the adult Fred present himself as the long-lost heir of a wealthy woman, supposedly Fred’s grandmother. The problem is that there may be more reality to Fred’s con than Fred knows. Mona worries that she has lost him forever, but, without admitting the truth, finds a way to remain close while not denying him a wonderful life.

I have a dear friend who delights in sharing the world with her granddaughter. They have mutual interests and enthusiasms. My friend taught her granddaughter a lot about history and values. In return, her granddaughter lets my friend view the world through a young person’s eyes; helps program her TV and computer; and tells her which seemingly harmless words now have obscene slang connotations and should not be used in polite society.

After being mistaken for a grandmother, I began thinking about why that was a compliment. Here are my conclusions:

(1) Memories of grandmothers are usually positive images, reflecting a person’s home or heritage or something in which they take pride.

(2) Grandmothers are associated with wisdom, experience, and necessary background information not otherwise apparent or revealed by parents, especially those embarrassing moments from childhood that parents like to forget.

(3) Even if grandmothers are strong-willed, their aims are generally benevolent. Consider as examples the grandmother characters in two recent mystery novels, one who becomes a suspect in Shelley Costa’s You Cannoli Die Once and the other who becomes a murder victim in Susan M. Boyer’s Lowcountry Boil.

(4) While parents may be overwhelmed by work and keeping track of family members’ obligations, grandparents can be more relaxed. They have time to consider grandchildren as individuals, not just parts of the whole.

So, the next time a young person approaches me and asks if I’m someone’s grandmother, I hope I can say, “No, but I’ll bet that lady is pretty special.” That’s not patting myself on the back too much, is it?

Story Summaries:

A Tall Ship, a Star, and Plunder (Dark Oak Press and Media, January 2014)–anthology available from Dark Oak Press—“Ghost of a Chance”—Heck, a pirate first mate with a treacherous captain, spies a ghost ship following their vessel. Will the ghost ship prove to be Heck’s ultimate damnation or possible redemption?

Mystery Times Ten 2013 (Buddhapuss Ink)–anthology available on Amazon—“Confidence in the Family”—In a contest between two con-artists, who will triumph in demonstrating their true family feelings?