Happy Halloween!!

     Trick or Treat! Halloween was always a favorite holiday when I was a kid. I loved dressing up, although I hated those plastic masks! When I got to 4th grade, and every year after, I was a gypsy. I got to wear make-up and pile on the jewelry. Once a fashionista, always a fashionista. I still love Halloween -- I get such a kick out of seeing the kids and their costumes.

     So, here is a little tale -- a Halloweenzie, if you will -- to read aloud when everyone is back home and in their jammies.

Katie Cat’s Halloween Adventure

 

By Pamela Greenhalgh Hamilton

 

        Katie Cat wanted to be part of the scary Halloween fun. She was a black cat after all. This was her night. She had to find the perfect costume.

        She scurried under a white scarf. She was a ghost, all set to haunt the neighborhood.

        Everyone laughed when they saw her.

        “I know that’s you, Katie Cat,” said Dylan. “I can see your black tail!”

        Katie Cat ran under the bushes. She looked up the street and down the street. She had to find the perfect costume.

        She spotted the jack o’lantern on the steps. She stuck her head inside and trotted down the sidewalk.

        Everybody laughed when she ran into the tree.

        “Watch where you are going, Katie Cat,” said Connor. 

        Katie Cat ran up to the porch and sat in the shadows. Why couldn’t she find the perfect Halloween costume?

        “MEOW!” she yowled.

        All anyone could see were glowing green eyes floating in the dark.

        Everyone ran away.

        “Meow,” Katie Cat said again, arching her back and flicking her tail. She was finally part of the scary Halloween fun.

 

My 2014 Bucket List

It's a new year, a new day, and I am off, spirits high and goals solidly in place. I hope this enthusiasm doesn't fade, as it so often does, and that next year at this time I can look back on 2014 and say proudly and happily, "I accomplished my goals." Actually, it's more of one goal -- to write regularly if not daily and get my work out there. To that end, I have put several things in place to help ensure my success.

I used New Year's Day as my December 26 and put my writer's workbook together. This suggestion comes from Suzanne Lieurance, founder of the Working Writers Club. Every December 26 she takes advantage of the lazy day in her house, as she describes it, to put together a workbook for the upcoming year. As I read her 'Morning Nudge," I realzed that New Year's Day would be the perfect day for me to do this. My workbook is a little different -- I have sections for picture book ideas, middle grade ideas, magazine fiction and non-fiction ideas, one for notes on agents and publishers, and another for my successes. Since its a loose-leaf notebook, I can add additional tabs if I find I need them.

I've already made use of my writer's workbook for the daily writing prompts from Start the Year Off Write. It is yet another challenge, this time providing 21 writing prompts throughout January. I write something each day, based on the prompt, then comment on Shannon Abercrombie's blog. There are prizes at the end, randomly awarded to participants who complete all 21 prompts. So far, I am off to a pretty good start. I am stumped by two of the prompts, but I have completed the others, and I have until January 31st to get "unstumped." The best thing about the prompts is that they get me writing every day. I'm having fun doing it, and each success -- finishing each prompt -- spurs me on to write other things as well, or at least scribble notes about stories I am working on.

I've also signed up for the Julie Hedlund's fabulous online, year-long writing conference 12 X 12 in 2014. I did it last year and while I started off strong, I didn't finish up that way. I am determined not to repeat that this year. This year I come armed with the drafts I did write last year, ready for revising, and 30 ideas generated for November's Picture Book Idea Month challenge. I've already commented on Emma Hamilton's blog post for January, revised a short-short story, and know what story idea I want to work on for my draft. I think January is in the bag!

All in all, 2014 is off to a good start. Not only am I writing, but I am feeling stronger too. January and February are usually my blue months, but this year I am feeling a bit perkier, a bit happier. I still have my moments. One of the writing prompts for Start the Year Off Write was to write down 10 memories from childhood. That was definitely  bittersweet. Putting my Christmas decorations away hs been an ongoing process all weekend. The house will look so dull without the sparkling lights of the Christmas tree and, truth be told, I will miss seeing all those mooses, snowmen, and Santas when I come home from work. Each one holds a memory for me, and, like the childhood memories, they are bittersweet. I am happy and sad at time. There is something comforting in their presence. Only time will tell if I am moving on in this journey through grief that I have been on, or if this is simply a short detour taking me on one big U-turn.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It is Thanksgiving Eve and I am cooking tomorrow. I have just figured out how long I need to cook my nearly 10-pound turkey breast based on my recipe for a 6-pound turkey breast. (I’d ordered what was advertised as a 4- to 6-pound turkey breast; what was put in my arms as a 9.75-pound one. Panic has been slowly building.) Algebra was never my forte, so I hope my calculations are correct. For that matter, I hope algebra is the type of math I needed to use to figure this out. It has been decades, after all, since I sat in a math class.

 

While God did not bless me with a mathematical mind, He has blessed me in many other ways. Despite my many losses over the past two years, I am thankful for countless other blessings this Thanksgiving.

 

I may have lost Bailey earlier this year, but I still have Brillo and Chaucer to entertain and keep me company. I think Brillo is channeling her brother these past few months. Things fall on the floor a lot more often when her paws are nearby then they used to. That is eerily reminiscent of Bailey and his paws of destruction. She has become quite the lap kitty since my lap is no longer full of Bailey. I can’t help but think with some of her antics that Bailey is still with us. And for that I am grateful.

 

I am grateful for the memories of Thanksgivings spent with Bate, Dad, Bob, Mom, Lisa, and Mark. I remember the smell of the turkey cooking on the wood stove in Westport, waking Bob, Lisa, Mark, and me up with growling tummies. I remember Dad making a beeline to the sideboard to see what desserts I’d baked that year, almost as if to gage how much turkey and trimmings he could eat and still have room for apple crisp or pumpkin pie. In later years, I remember waiting for him at the Shenandoah Valley Regional Airport for his annual trip to Virginia. I remember Bate’s smoked turkey from three years ago that we shared with Bonnie, Lanny, and Lanny’s family. Bate was so excited about his smoked turkey. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t like it that much (the year before it was way too smoky for my taste) and now I am glad I didn’t say a word, just pulled up my big girl panties and smiled. It was our last Thanksgiving together and the smoked turkey was perfect. Everyone loved it.

 

These are Thanksgivings that will never come again, but they will live on in my memories and I am grateful for that.

 

I am grateful for the new memories being made this year. Susan is down from Massachusetts for the week, and I am cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in years. I’m a little nervous about that turkey, but there will be plenty of other food for Susan, Bonnie, Lanny, and me to eat, albeit vegetarian fare. I’ve seasoned the beast … eh, I mean breast … and wrangled it into Bonnie’s crock pot. It was too big for mine and barely fits in hers, but I have decided that barely is like “almost.” It counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and turkey wrangling. All that is left now is to set my alarm for 1:30 am so I can put the bird in the crock pot and pray that God will correct any of my mathematical miscalculations.

 

But what I am most thankful for this year, as in the past two years, are my friends and family, without whom I would not have gotten through it all. Thank you, for being there, for understanding, for just being you. You are my blessings. I can never say it enough or thank you enough, so I will just say, Happy Thanksgiving.

Sunday Saunterings

It is going to be a busy week here on Kensington Drive, and I couldn't be happier.

Tomorrow, my friend Susan arrives to spend the week. It's her first vacation in years and I haven't seen her in two, since my Dad's funeral. The weather forecast is calling for rain and snow, so I am not sure how much sight-seeing we will be able to do, but it is going to be just so much fun to see her.

And, I am cooking on the big day. I've finalized the menu, ordered the turkey, and today I went grocery shopping to get the rest of the stuff I need. (The most important itemon the list was the cat food, of course. If I didn't get that, Susan and I would have a miserable week...two furbabies would ensure that!) I purposely chose to go to Martin's on Sunday morning figuring it would be quiet. I was wrong. It was crowded. Crowded with clueless husbands chewing on their fingers or staring blankly at a shopping list like it was written in Greek. I have said this before, but I will say it again here: Ladies, if your husbands cannot tell a fork from a spoon, please do not send them to the grocery store on their own. Just like they don't ask for directions when they are lost, they don't ask grocery clerks where an item is located when they can't find it. Instead, they wander aimlessly up and down the aisles - usually in the middle of the aisle. I felt sorry for these poor men, who were so obviously out of their league. I also feel sorry for their wives or mothers or daughters or significant others who will have to go back to the store later this week and try to explain to the store manager why they need to exchang the cream of chicken soup for the turkey gravy.

Bonnie and Lanny are coming over for dinner too, so it should be a wonderful afternoon of good food (I hope) and good company (I know). After some games or maybe a movie, Bonnie, Susan, and I will rest up for our Black Friday excursion. We'll shop, of course, and scoring that perfect gift at a great bargain is one of the payoffs. But for us, the real payoff is breakfast afterward, when we will rehash our purchases, lament the bargain that got away, and all the crazy people out in the wee hours of the morning doing their Christmas shopping. Really, haven't these people heard of Cyber Monday, when you can shop in your PJs?

As if all of this is not enough, Saturday wraps up Susan's visit as well as Picture Book Idea Month. I am thrilled that I already have my 30 ideas -- and them some. I put my groceries away and settled down -- a cat on either side of me -- with my PiBoIdMo journal, my lap desk, and the "Who, What, Where" game that a fellow PiBoIdMo participant raved about and went to town. I shuffled the cards and "dealt" 15 who, what, and where scenarios that tickled my creative funny bone. Some are just the ideas, others are more fleshed out, with a summary of what might happen or a list of things that could. For the rest of the week, I will go back to those ideas and bubble them -- developing the characters, the setting, and the problems my zany group of characters might face. And they are zany --there's a camel doing karate, a music loving alligator, and a dolphin who thinks he's invented the next big game, involving an ice rink, balls, and clubs. I can't wait to see where these guys take this writer! One thing is for sure -- it'll give Black Friday shopping a run for its money!

Of clothes, memories, moving on

Susan will be here in just two weeks, which means I have to get going and get the guest room into a habitable condition. I've been putting it off, cleaning the kitchen, the dining room, the breakfast nook, the family room instead. Doing anything to avoid the biggest task of all: bagging up Bate's clothes and taking them down to EAUS. I should have done this months ago -- in the midst of this slow economic recovery, there are people who could be getting the benefits of his shirts and jeans instead of leaving them scattered on the guest room bed.

You see, I started this task months ago, going through his closet, selecting a handful of shirts and the suit he wore when we married to keep, and then sorting the remaining shirts and ties and jackets into piles. And that is as far as I got. Every time I walked into the guest room, armed with plastic bags, I froze. Giving away Bate's clothes, even to a good cause, seemed like such a final step, that once his clothes weren't there, he wouldn't be there either.

Which, of course, is stupid. Bate will always be in my heart, my memories, with me in the way he influenced my life. I will never be able to pick up a book by Henning Mankell and not think of Bate. I will never be able to eat Chinese food or listen to an Eva Cassidy or Van Morrison CD and not think of Bate. The truth is, I really don't notice the clothes on the bed, it's not the clothes themselves; it's the thought of no longer having them there, comforting in one way and a huge painful, burden in another. They are not just clothes, just something else I have to let go of, like Bate, like the dreams we shared that we will never realize, and all the little day-to-day things that no longer happen.

And that is the hard part -- letting go. I have resolved to bag up the clothes this afternoon and take them down to EAUS. It is time, time to move forward with my life, buoyed up with happy memories of Bate, and not burdened by the sight of clothes that will never be filled out with Bate's warmth and bulk. It is time to let these clothes to move on with their lives, too, to be filled with the warmth and bulk of a man that someone loves just as much as I will alway love Bate.

Sunday Saunterings

Fall is definitely here. The temperature has dipped into the 50s and the air is so crisp and clear it makes the sky seem bluer and the foliage brighter.

The foliage season seemed late in coming this year. Here it is November and the trees, at least to these eyes, have just donned their new fall clothes. The colors don't appear as brilliant to this, but deeper, more saturated. The yellows aren't sunshine-dazzly but burnished gold instead, and the reds aren't flame but rich burgundy. It isn't any less beautiful, just different this year. I like it.

*****

 

It hit me this weekend that in just three weeks, my friend Susan will be here for Thanksgiving. I have decided to cook, and Bonnie and Lanny will be joining us. I haven't planned out the entire menu, but I am going to order a turkey breast from the Friendly City Food Co-op. The turkeys are all locally raised, grass fed and all that good stuff. I've never roasted a whole turkey before, so I decided the breast will be a safer choice!

 

Of course, company means I have to get the house in order too. I spent today cleaning up --- read that as clearing out the stuff (yeah, there is more accurate four letter word for it, but I will leave that to your imagination) that has piled up. How can one single woman accumulate so many little pieces of paper? Cleaning off the breakfast nook table, the kitchen counter, the living room coffee table (both of them) scared me a bit. Could I be a hoarder in training? I found scribbled recipes, deposit receipts, old grocery lists, and magazine articles I'd clipped and never looked at again -- and some I can't figure out why I saved. They are all in the recycle bin now, so I guess there is hope for me. I hope -- I have yet to get to the office....:(

 

*****

 

I am three days in to Picture Book Idea Month (PiBoIdMo, as it is fondly called) and let me tell you, this is tough! I have three ideas, two more solid than the third, or at least it seems that way right now. Two, not surprisingly, feature cats as the main characters and the third a child whose wish on a star Uncle Jack's Cats and Jamie and the Corn Thief and getting the members of the Stinky Socks and Smelly Sneakers Good Acts Club out of the haunted house they are in. But I love the concept of having all of these ideas waiting in the wings for their turn at bat. I have only been moderately successful at the 12 X 12 Picture Book Challenge this year because my brain froze at the prospect of coming up with 12 new manuscripts.

comes true --immediately. All three need a lot more fleshing out, but I am purposefully leaving them bare bones ideas, ideas to fuel my creativity when I come back to them. I have enough to handle revising

 

And I am still having some trouble with that. Which is why this is hard. I guess I want my ideas to be perfect ideas, ones that will transform into a picture book. Of course, thinking that 30 ideas will all be just perfect and turn into a delightful story for kids is pretty pie in the sky. I know that, but I have a harder time convincing that little man who lives in my head and loves to say "that's a dumb idea. You can do better." I wish I knew how to silence him. I've battled him my entire writing life, and try as I might, I can only drown him out for so long. 

It's almost Picture Book Idea Month!

Two days to go, and Picture Book Idea Month, aka PiBoIdMo, is off and running. And I am scared. 30 picture book ideas in 30 days? It sounds so simple...and so not simple.

But after this summer's black hole of a writer's block, I know that I need a stable of ideas to play around with when I'm screaming to myself, "I have no ideas to write about!" So come Friday, I will be off and running too. Please cheer me on!

Remembering Bailey, Part Two

It’s been a couple of days since I lost Bailey as I write this. Even though Brillo and Chaucer are here, my house seems bigger and emptier then usual. Bailey had this big, goofy kitty personality that filled up a room. 

Bailey with the catnip shrimp Santa
brought him this past Christmas (2012)

From the time I brought him and Brillo home from the Fox homestead, in July of 2007, Bailey claimed the house as his own. There wasn’t a surface, nook, or cranny he didn’t explore. I tried lemon juice, aluminum foil, all the old wives’ tales for keeping kitties off kitchen counters. Failure, each and every time. If Bailey wanted something on the counter, Bailey got on the counter. 

Bailey had a knack for getting into trouble. I called his paws “paws of destruction.” He would tap on something with his paw – a glass, a mug, a dish, a book – to see what would happen. If nothing did, he’d tap a little harder, then a little harder. I lost several dishes and glasses that fell off a counter or table with a little help from those paws of destruction.

He also tended not to listen to me. “No” did not seem to be in his kitty vocabulary. As a result, he ended up with four names: Bailey Benjamin Bartholomew Brown-Hamilton. That was quite a mouthful for a little 10-pound kitty – and for his Mama too. Usually by the time I got it all out, he was on to his next bout of mischief. He had a couple of nicknames, too: Bailey Bones when he was being good and Bailey Monster when he wasn’t.  



Brillo and Bailey birdwatching

Bailey also loved to sit on things, like my stereo, magazines I was trying to read, my black pants. The stereo is one of those all in one units with a touch on button on the top. It sits on my sideboard, and both Bailey and Brillo like to sit on top of it. They often turn it on, which can be a tad unnerving at 2:30 in the morning or coming home from work. Just this past Sunday, Bailey jumped up on the sideboard and plopped down on top of the stereo. My guided stretching CD started to play. Now it’s great when you’re exercising, not so great for background music. I was at the dining room table, writing, and the two kitties were bird-watching. I glanced up at one point, and Bailey had his head turned to look at me, with this look in his eyes that said “Are you going to turn that off?” I had to laugh. “Don’t look at me,” I told him. “You turned it on.”  

Like any kitty worth his catnip, Bailey loved being up high. Problem is, I think he was like his Mama – afraid of heights. He had no problem getting up on top of the kitchen cabinets, but getting down was another thing. More times than I care to remember, I had to climb up on the kitchen stool and pluck him off his perch.  

Unlike any kitty worth its kibble, Bailey wasn’t fond of fish. Vegetables, especially green vegetables, were his food of choice. I found this out quite by accident one summer, when I was puzzled by zucchini in my vegetable bowl that seemed to go bad faster than it should have. The rotting all started at one end that had gouges in it. The other squash was fine, so I just shrugged it off, cut off the rotten section, and sautéed up the rest. The next day the other squash was similarly distressed. I couldn’t figure it out, until one afternoon I came in from the patio and Bailey was contentedly gnawing away on the zucchini. He was so content he didn’t even see me snap a picture of the guilty party in action. 

Bailey had some other strange habits, too. He would drive Bate nuts, sitting on the washing machine and meowing plaintively at a Norman Rockwell print I have hanging in the laundry room. He’d stand on his hind legs and reach his front paws out over the picture, almost as if he was hugging it. He didn’t do this with any other picture in the house and to this day I have no idea of what it was about that print that elicited that reaction. He eventually outgrew the habit, much to Bate’s relief, but every once in awhile, he’d go back and hold this secret conversation with the man and the woman at City Hall applying for a marriage license. Recalling it now, maybe Bailey was a frustrated artist, maybe I should have given him some paper and paints, and I could have been the owner of the rich and famous kitty Picasso.

Bailey was pretty much content to be a house kitty, but every once and awhile, usually at his sister Brillo’s urging, he would try to make a break for it. He figured out how to open the screen slider (and taught his sister), so now I have to go out the breakfast nook door to get to the deck. I can’t leave the slider unlatched.  One day he got out when I was coming back in from getting the mail. I didn’t know he’d snuck out, until I looked out the dining room window and saw him, trotting oh so casually down the driveway. He hung a left onto Kensington and was almost down to Somersby before I caught up with him. I was furious – and scared – at the time. Remembering the incident, it strikes me that Bailey looked like a cat on a mission as he trotted down the street. It seemed like he knew just where he wanted to go. Hmmm….



Is there anything in there for me?

Bailey never met a bag he didn’t like. It didn’t matter if it was plastic or paper, large or small, if there was a bag available, he was in it, or at least trying to get into it. Bailey didn’t give up easily, so he would continue to try to squeeze into bags half his size. He fell off the bed more than once, as head in bag he kept trying to get ALL the way in. Of course, all he accomplished was moving the bag, and before too long, he and the bag were head over heels and on the floor. Bailey didn’t want to snooze in the bag, like Brillo, he wanted to check it out and see if there was anything in there for him. The bags were always empty, but Bailey never gave up hope that this time there’d be a catnip mouse or a kitty treat in there just for him. 

Bailey also never met a person he didn’t like. My Dad never got to meet Bailey, but I am pretty certain he would have become a cat lover if he had. It didn’t matter who came into the house, Bailey would go over, sniff them, then roll over on his back for a belly rub. Then the purring would start. I have never had a cat who purred so loudly. Dr. Cardoza at VETSS told me she had a window of about two seconds to listen to his heart; then the purring started and there was no chance of hearing anything else. She wasn’t the only veterinarian who treated him who said that. 

Bailey was a once in a lifetime cat. Brillo and Chaucer are wonderful, and I love them dearly, but Bailey was, well, he was something else. Anyone who met him would agree. There is a void in my life now, and it is going to take some time to learn to live with that.

I miss you, Bailey Bones, and I will never forget you.

Remembering Bailey, Part 1

Things were just a little off this morning. Brillo echoed the alarm clock by meowing in my ear at 5:30 am. Chaucer’s strident meow from the doorway announced he was starving. 

It was a morning like any other morning. Except Bailey wasn’t there to smack me on the head with his paw if I didn’t respond immediately. He wasn’t there to echo the meows of his sister and brother. He wasn’t there to lead me to the cabinet where the cat food is kept as I stumbled into the kitchen and tried not to trip over him, something I was not always successful at.  

My baby kitty Bailey

Bailey is in heaven, rolling in a field of catnip and, if I know my baby kitty, looking for the chance to get into some mischief. (God, if you’re listening, don’t leave your laptop unattended.  Keys have a way of disappearing when You’re not looking and Bailey is around.)  

I made the toughest decision of my life last night – I told Dr. Salmon at VETTS in Charlottesville it was time to end Bailey’s suffering. He had been diagnosed with HCM at the beginning of December and while initially the medicines he was on worked well, he quickly went downhill. Since Christmas Eve, he has been in and out of the emergency vet clinic and Woodworth Animal Hospital. It has been a steady downward spiral and when I came home last night and found him struggling to breathe, I knew this was it. 

Dr. Salmon, Vivian, and Molly at VETTS were wonderful. They were waiting for us when we arrived and Vivian whisked Bailey off to an oxygen crate. She got some additional information from me, then Dr. Salmon came into talk with me. She told me what she thought was happening and what we could do. We could intervene, she said, and it would buy Bailey a “few days.”

No, I said, I couldn’t do that to myself. More importantly, I couldn’t do that to Bailey. “It’s time,” I told her. She nodded. “Just because it is the right thing to do, it is never the easy thing to do,” she said. 

After I signed the paperwork consenting to the euthanasia, Vivian brought Bailey into me. I had decided I wanted to be with him when he slipped from my arms to God’s. “Take as long as you want,” she told me, after giving me a hug.  

Bailey and I spent our last 20 minutes together, snuggling and cuddling. I told him how much I loved him, shared memories of all the silly things he’d done in the past five and a half year, and told him again how much I loved him.

And then it was time. Dr. Salmon had me stand at his head while Vivian held him still. It was over in less than a minute. Bailey slipped away from me, with his head on my hand, the way it often was when I was on the computer and he was snoozing next to me.  

Bailey will be cremated and I will get the ashes back. I am going to plant a tree this spring in his memory and bury the ashes there. Bailey will live in my heart and my memory, but a tree will be that visual reminder of the kitty with the goofy cat personality. Bailey could always make me smile with his antics, even this morning, in the middle of my grief. 

Mama loves you, baby kitty, and she always will. Rest in peace.

Were they really the good old days?

The past year has been incredibly difficult as I recover from losing Bate and my Dad within three weeks of each other. The losses have kept coming, but over the past couple of months, those losses are from my childhood not from my life.

Davy Jones was my first teenage crush. I was glued to the TV every Monday night to watch “The Monkees.” I was enthralled. My father doggedly read the newspaper. My mother kept herself busy somewhere else in the house. They did buy me every Monkees album I asked for on my birthday or Christmas. I would race down to the basement, put the album – yes, a VINYL album—on my portable record player and dance the night away. The basement could only marginally be called a rec room -- Dad had painted the floor and walls, put up siding to separate “my space” from his, and Mom donated the old living room furniture to the cause. It didn’t occur to me at the time to question why Mom and Dad thought an extra space in the basement for me to hang out with my friends would be nice at the exact same time I started to become a music aficionado, just not for their music. But now, looking back, I do have to wonder at the coincidence. But none of that mattered to me at the time. It was my space and I could pretend to Davy Jones was signing just to me or that I was dancing on American Bandstand.

The loss of childhood icons keeps coming – Dick Clark, Jonathan Frid of Dark Shadows fame, and George Lindsay from The Andy Griffith Show – and each one brings me back to childhood. I danced around the den when American Bandstand was on, begged my mother to let me watch Dark Shadows, and laughed over the exploits of the residents of Mayberry. Yesterday I read in the Fall River Herald News that the last vestige of Lincoln Park, the small amusement park in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, will be demolished. The property owners have received a permit to tear down the park’s wooden rollercoaster. I never rode on it, mind you, in all the times I went there. I was afraid of rollercoasters then and I am petrified of rollercoasters today. Still though, that wooded structure has stood strong for years after the park closed and years after a fire destroyed the rest of it. Whenever I was up visiting my Dad and would head to Dartmouth to have dinner with my BFF Susan, I’d drive by “the old Lincoln Park” and see the rollercoaster still standing. In an odd way, it was comforting, a reminder of a time when life seemed so simple and I had not a care in the world except for what dress my Barbie doll would wear to her prom.

I have found myself, often, over the past few months longing to be 10 or 11 or 12 again, when I didn’t have too much to worry about and concerns were few and far between. Then, the other day, I heard one of those quick and to the point radio segments that Bill O’Reilly does these days, and it got me to thinking. Mr. O’Reilly was commenting on a Beach Boys concert he’d attended, along with many other baby boomers (I won’ t say aging since I am right there with them!) and he attributed the band’s success over 50 years to the fact that their music harkens us back to a simpler time in American history. But were they really the “good old days” or are we just wearing our rose-colored glasses when we look back? Even as a kid, I must have had things that worried me: a math test I thought I’d fail, would my friends make fun of the dress my mother made me wear, would I ever get asked to a dance. I don’t recall worrying about those things or anything else, except maybe the math test, but surely there were things that kept me up at night? And what about my parents? Did they worry about making ends meet? Keeping a roof over my head? Making sure I had enough to eat? That I’d get hit by a car? I recall the turmoil of the ‘60s as well, the Vietnam War and its casualties, the related war protests, drug use among young people making national headlines, the threat of the Cold War, Charles Manson. Certainly the “good old days” weren’t all good.

Maybe the “good old days” are like that Lincoln Park rollercoaster or the Beach Boys, a comfort to latch onto, a safety zone if you will, for us to retreat to when life as an adult rears the ugly part of its head. Was Barbra Streisand right when she sang in “The Way We Were,” that we choose to forget what’s too painful to remember? I hope so, because too many of my memories of these past nine months are too painful to remember now. I’d like to think that there will come a time when I choose to forget those horrible weeks of last August and all of the wonderful times I shared with Bate and my Dad will be my new Lincoln Park rollercoaster.

Life isn't what it is supposed to be.

Life is the way it is.


I found that quote somewhere the other day, wrote it down on a sticky note, and posted it on my desk. My life certainly hasn't been what it was supposed to be these past couple of months. My husband Bate died on August 3rd after battling lung cancer for several months. The end happened much faster than his doctors had thought and much sooner than I wanted it to. I wasn't ready to lose him. But then, when would I ever be ready for that?

While I was planning Bate's funeral, the assisted living facilty where my father lived called. Dad had pneumonia, dangerously low blood pressure and oxygen levels. they were taking him to the hospital. The day after Bate's military funeral, my dear friend Diane drove me up to Massachusetts. Dad was not good and a final evaluation determined that he would have to be moved to skilled care. Arrangements were made, I visited a lot with Dad, and, with Diane's help, I cleaned out his apartment. I said goodbye to Dad and Diane and I drove home. The next morning the nursing home called. Dad had passed away.

And that is why I have been away from Kensington Contemplations for so long. Bate was in and out of the hospital throughout the spring and summer, and August passed in a blur. It was the worst month of my life and for the first time in my life, I found no comfort in putting pen to paper.

But I am finally writing again, scribbling story ideas on scraps of paper, venting in my journal, and even making a little progress on my next book. My broken heart still has not pieced itself back together and there are still many days when I am, as I say, very wobbly. Grief sucks, but how we handle it is what makes the difference. I couldn't have made it without the love and support of my family, friends, and coworkers, who rallied around me, hugged me when I needed hugs, let me cry when I needed to cry, and said "It's OK," in so many little ways.

I do want to end this blog post on a lighter note. Even when days are just as dark as they can get, life comes around and hits you in the face with its equivalent of a cream pie. I was on the phone planning Dad's funeral. I was quite proud of myself for being as calm as I was. And then my house start to shake. I calmly said that something was happening, my house was shaking. The windows started to rattle and I not so calmly shrieked into the phone, "My house is falling down!" and dashed out the door. I'm not even sure I hung up. I realized when I saw all my neighbors out on the street that my house wasn't falling down and neigher were theirs. After a confab in the street we all agreed it had to be an earthquake. But an earthquake in Virginia? Sure enough, a 5.8 quake rattled its way through the state and up the East Coast. The epicenter was only about 50 miles from my house. Fortunatley, there was no damage to my house, just some shaken nerves and three angry cats -- I ran out of the house without a thought for them. And by the time I called the funeral home back to apologize, they'd already survived their own rock and roll.

Life is life

My co-worker’s memorial service was yesterday. It was wonderful and horrible, happy and sorrowful.

I didn’t know Meghan that well. She had only worked with us for about a year when she left for maternity leave. Three months after her son’s birth, she was diagnosed with stage four ademocarcinoma. For all intent and purpose, that’s a death sentence. Sure, for some people, radiation and chemotherapy melt the cancer away and for that person, their cancer is held at bay and they live for two, three, four, or even more years. But the average life expectancy is 6 to 12 months with treatment.

I don’t know all of this because of Meghan’s diagnosis but because of the research and doctor’s visits after my husband’s diagnosis three days after Christmas. As I followed Meghan’s journey on The Caring Bridge, a site where family and friends, or even the patient, can post blog-like entries and keep other family and friends, near and far up-to-date, I was living in my mind the journey my husband and I would be taking. He has accepted it and is fighting the good fight with treatments, with the eye on a few good months to spend with me, his daughter and her family, and friends. I am praying for a miracle.

All of this of course has put a damper on the publication of Snow Day. It is hard to give too much attention to an inanimate object when all I can think of is the limited time available to give my attention to the very animate object who needs it so much. It is difficult to be happy about seeing my book in print when my heart is breaking. I hold Snow Day in my hand and my heart swells with pride and seconds later it collapses in on itself as I think of future books and who won’t be there to share that success with me.

But life is life, it is what it is. We can’t change that, we can only move ahead, one step at a time, one day at a time and handle it all with as much grace as we can muster.That’s what Meghan’s memorial reminded me of. She handled her cancer with hope, determination, and grace. Several people spoke at her memorial, recalling encounters with Meghan and how she had affected their lives. For me, I will remember how she handled it all, with no outward signs of bitterness or anger.

Her friend Amy read a poem by Mother Theresa called “Life is.” It struck a chord with me, so much so that I did a Google search for it as soon as I got back to the office. I printed it out and put it on our refrigerator, so Bate and I can see it every day. I want to embrace every day, I want Bate to embrace every day, just as Meghan did. Hopefully this will serve as a reminder to do just that. I want to share it with all of you now, to remind anyone who reads my blog today that “life is life, fight for it.”

Life is…


"Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it."
— Mother Teresa

Happy Spring!

Spring has come to the Shenandoah Valley. That's what the calendar tells me and that's what my garden tells me too -- my crocuses are fading and my daffodils are blooming. Even my Charlie Brown forsythia bush is in bloom.

Let me rephrase that. It has some blooms. Of course, I should be glad that it has blooms at all, suffering from plant identity confusion as it is. I bought it at a garden group's plant sale, and this little, barely there "stick" with leaves was labeled as a redbud. Imagine my surprise last spring when, instead of the bright pink flowers I was expecting, I saw those bright yellow harbingers of spring, forsythia blossoms. If I was confused, consider what that little stick with leaves was feeling? If someone with gardening expertise doesn't know what it is, how can the stick with leaves have any way of self-identifying?

It's been a brave little stick with leaves, though. During its first winter, we had over 50 inches of snow. It bloomed anyway. This year, winter couldn't make up its mind -- was it winter or summer posing as winter? Our temperatures flipped flopped from one extreme to another. And it's blooming anyway.

My little forsythia bush has given me inspiration. It has fought against the odds and so can I. The arrival of spring means a hiatus in marketing Snow Day. Who wants to think about ski jackets and snow boots in July, after all? Come September, it will be time to re-establish my marketing plan, schedule book signings,and once again focus on getting the word out about my first book.

In the meantime though, I'm gearing up for spring and summer in my garden and in my writing. I walkd around the yard this morning and made a list of spring gardening clean-up chores. My mind is racing with ideas for new gardens in the backyard -- and with ideas for new books. Following on the theme of Snow Day -- enjoying the great outdoors instead computers I am fleshing out a book that gets kids out into their own backyard to do a series of entertaining and educational science projects. And to satisfy the mystery lover in my soul, I'm developing the plot for what I hope will be the first in a series of middle grade books about a group of kids who decide to spend their summer vacation doing good deeds and instead find a summer's worth of adventure.

I definitely have a busy spring and summer ahead of me! How about you?

--

To celebrate spring, I'm introducing a new blog feature -- The KC Quiz. No prizes, just what I hope will be a fun exchange. So, tell all the KC followers and readers: what's your favorite sign of spring?

Sophomore Slump?

Could I be suffering from that college affliction known as "sophomore slump?" Do writers even suffer from sophomore slump? Since this is my first time as a sophomore writer, I have no idea.

But I sure recognize the feelings.

My freshman year at Connecticut College was a mixed bag, as I suspect it is for many students. I spent the first semester adjusting to college and then fell into my groove in the second semester. By the time August rolled around, I couldn't wait to get back to college and start my second year.

Then I got back to campus and started my sophomore year. I wasn't excited any more. My classes didn't inspire me. I couldn't get used to my dorm. I was always tired. I moved through my days unmotivated and in a fog.

My Spanish professor, Dr. Argyle Pryor Rice, told me not to worry. I was suffering what was known as sophomore slump. I was no longer a pampered freshman -- no more early registration or special events planned just for me and my fellow classmates of the class of 1977. And no prestige of being an upperclassman, either. Dr. Rice asusred me that this too would pass.

I am feeling some of that same fog now as I try to move on to my next book.I know what I want to write. I have it plotted out in my head, and the words flow and it sounds fantastic. But when I put the words on paper (or, more accurately, on the computer screen), they don't sound nearly as good or flow as smoothly. It is at this point, my little editor -- that nagging, whiny, mean-spirited little beast in my mind who's favorite word is stupid -- wakes up from naptime. MLE points out all that is wrong with my plot, my characters, and my dialogue.

The delete key has seen a lot of action lately.

This is the total opposite of Snow Day which practically wrote itself one snowy December morning. I should be flying high. I have finally realized my dream of writing a children's book and having it published, and I should be charging ahead into my next book. Instead I'm idling, feeling uninspired, lost in a fog. I have tried various techniques to get break through this, but I am still in the same spot: staring a bunch of words on a page that don't give me a shove to write the next words. If I can't get past the first paragraph, how could a reader ever get past it?

So, I have decided to try a whole new tactic. Not write, at least not that story. I'll focus on marketing efforts for Snow Day. This afternoon, I will get together with my friend Bonnie for scrapbooking, an entirely different kind of creative endeavor. I'll file away all of those scraps of paper with writing ideas on them. Who knows, maybe a photo or another idea will be the impetus I need to get through this sophomore slump.

I just have to remember what Dr. Rice told me all those years ago: this too shall pass.

No snow day for me

I think I may have read Snow Day a few too many times.

For the past few days, the weather forecasters talked up the next snowstorm. It was going to hit overnight, and while the total accumulation being predicted was only a couple of inches, I started doing my snow dance – in my head at least – as soon as I heard the words “the next storm.” I wanted a snow day. I needed a snow day. What difference did it make that it already was only a four-day work week.

When I woke up this morning, I was crushed, overwhelmingly crushed. The ground was bare. Stark naked. Not only was there not a dusting of snow, but there also wasn’t even a snowflake in sight. I cursed the weather forecasters for being wrong, again, and I cursed myself for allowing myself to believe them, again.

I lumbered around the kitchen making breakfast, dragged myself into the shower, all the while lamenting to the cats about all the things I wouldn’t be able to do since we weren’t getting a snow day. I’d planned it all out – I’d clean the kitchen, straighten up the family room, read a little, write a little, even play with the cats. (When Bailey heard that, he meowed which I interpreted to mean “those awful weathermen. How could they get our hopes up like this.” Bailey is a very sympathetic cat.)

Of course, all of the things I planned for my snow day that didn’t happen aren’t nearly as much fun as Tessa, Jake, and Molly did on their snow day. But then again, they’re kids and I’m an adult. Sort of.

Find out more about Tessa, Jake, and Molly’s wintery adventures on their Snow Day at www.outskirtspress.com/pamelaghamilton.

The books are here

My author's copies of Snow Day arrived in the mail today. I was expecting them, since Heather, my PR Publicist from Outskirts, had told me they were on their way and should arrive today.

I didn't open the box right away. To tell the truth, I was afraid. Sure, I'd loved the cover when I'd first seen it -- I knew right away it was just what I had imagined. The interior illustrations were bright and fun and captured the essence of my words. I'd approved all, knowing the book would look just like I wanted it to.

Then the books arrived, and along with them, the trepidation. If you're a writer, you know just what I mean. That little internal editor puts in his two cents: "You're going to find a big fat mistake." "The illustrations are going to look different."

So, I put the box on the table, and tried to pretend that it wasn't there. I fed the cats, changed clothes, sorted the rest of the mai, wandered around the house and turned on lights in the living room. All the while, I could almost hear it saying "Open me, open me."

My resolve to ignore that box evaporated in 30 minutes, lasting about as long as it does for my annual New Year's diet. I ripped the box open and took out the top book.

My internal editor was right. Snow Day in the flesh -- in the paper? -- looked very different from the PDF files I had worked with during the production process. The cover is shiny and bright. The colors glisten. I can hear the kids laughing as they slide down the hill in the cover illustration, feel the cold air on my nose. It feels slick and smooth in my hands, just like books by other authors tht I've picked up in the bookstores.

And then I see my name at the bottom. Pamela Greenhalgh Hamilton. My book, not another person's book, but my book. I can't stop thumbing through the pages, seeing the illustrations as if it was the first time I've seen them.

I'm thrilled beyond words, probably not a good thing for a writer to confess to. I can't wait to see what happens next!

It's a book!

Thursday, January 13, 2011, was a red letter day for me. Snow Day was published. I have yet to actually hold my book in my hand, but my author's copies should be here in about a week.

I've been on pins and needles ever since I began this journey. Knowing that my book was going to be on bookstore shelves was exciting and daunting at the same time. But once I was immersed in the production process, I really didn't have time to be too excited or too daunted.

The experience was not what I expecte, although I am not sure what I expected either. I guess part of it is that I thought I'd get these huge envelopes in the mail with my book proofs. I guess it's time for me to move into the 21st century! Everything between me, the illustrator, book designer, and cover designer was done by email.I'm still old-fashioned enough to want to put my hands in it, like the good old days of cutting and pasting at The Chronicle. It took me awhile to get used to Outskirts Press's way of doing things. But, since I had no choice, I did.

The biggest challenge for me was the illustrations. I had to describe, in detail, what I wanted each illustration. The illustrator, Bobbi Spitzer, took my words, added her own spin, and turned them into a bright colorful picture. God bless her...it was like she not only read my words but my mind also.

That's not to say there weren't some anxious moments along the way. As soon as I hit "send" to get my descriptions on their way, the panic set in. Was I detailed enough? Is that the way I want that page to be illustrated? Did I put page breaks in the right place?

When I'd open my email and see an email from Outskirts, letting me know my illustrations were ready, my heart would start pounding. Some elicited an immediate "Yes!" from me. It was just as I had envisioned it. Others took three or four review, while others required three or four tweaks. In the end though, when I looked at that final proof, my only thought was, "Just like I imagined."

It has been a fascinating journey so far, and it is far from over. Now comes the rocky terrain -- marketing Snow Day.

To find out more about Snow Day, go to www.outskirtspress.com/pamelaghamilton

'Tis the season

'tis the season for fighting with Christmas lights, wrapping paper, getting writer's cramp from all those "short" updates on cards, and praying you haven't forgotten anything important, like thawing the turkey. And you know what, I wouldn't trade a minute of it. Oh, sure, I complain like crazy about how tired and stressed I am, but it isn't completely true. I am a Christmas addict, plain and simple. I might order gifts online, but they are chosen with the giftee in mind. I might curse the tangled lights, but there is now way I wouldn't put them up. I may get annoyed with Brillo and Bailey who insist on offering their kitty expertise for gift wrapping, but it is all part of the fun.

The Christmas addiction of mine is one thing I can blame entirely on my mother and father. It really is true -- it's my parents fault. Some of my fondest memories of the holiday season are setting up the Christmas scene with my mother every year. She had a collection of miniature felt and wax figurines that we would arrange on the fireplace hearth every year. There was the nativity scene, with little white sheep and golden angels. It was always separated from the snowmen and Santas by flocked wire evergreens. The church always held center stage on the mirror that masqueraded as the frozen pond. Skaters endlessly skated in the same spot around the "ice."

Mom and I would carefully unwrap each treasured figure while Dad put the tree together. For years it was one of those aluminum trees which I outwardly declared my disdain for, in inwardly cherished. I could sit for hours in the darkened living room watching the multicolored play of lights on the reflective "needles."

Christmas has changed so much over the years. I still have the Christmas scene figurines but no longer put them out. They may have survived years of sun and hot and cold, but I doubt they would survive the attack of the cats. The aluminum tree has long since been replaced by faux Frasier firs. New traditions have taken their place -- a collection of stuffed mooses have replaced the Christmas scene. Bate and I open gifts on Christmas morning instead of Christmas Eve. We pass on a Christmas tree as the kitties already have enough toys.

The one thing that hasn't changed is the rush of preparation, the running around to get everything done, the haste to hang the Christmas lights before fingers freeze off.

And I still wouldn't trade a minute of it.

Riding along on a carousel

This wasn't on my 2010 Happiness Bucket List, but maybe it should have been -- ride on a carousel. It was always my favorite ride at amusement parks as a child, and as an adult, the artistry of carousel horses fascinated me. I got the chance to see some carousel horses up close and personal and relive my childhood's fond memories at Back Home on the Farm in Harrisonburg.

Bonnie and I went out last Wednesday evening to see the annual butterfly exhibit. Trying to capture these fragile, beautiful creatures in a photograph is a great test of our photographic ability. Despite the heat, we spent nearly an hour in the greenhouse, stalking and photographing butterflies. We were on our way out when Mr. Hess asked if we wanted to see the carousel.



Back Home on the Farm is a kid's -- no matter what their age -- delight. There are flowers, a John Deere "tractor" race track, a cow train, in the fall a corn maze and pumpkin patch. And the carousel. It has been carefully restored, Mr. Hess explained, with the larger horses painted to represent famous Virgiians and others from American history and the smaller horses representing Virginia's wide array of agricultural products. When he asked if we wanted to take a ride before he shut the carousel down for the night, I couldn't refuse. For several glorious minutes, around and around I went on the Thomas Jefferson horse (chosen because it was low enough for me to mount while wearing a dress and still keep my dignity). I was lost in the sensations of jhe air rushing past and the familiar sound of the carousel musics. For those few minutes, I wasn't a married, working woman with all of the joys and stresses that come with that adult life. No, for those few minutes, I was a young girl, racing across endless fields, just her and her steadfast horse entangled in some new and daring adventure.

Who needs therapy when you can ride a carousel?

(Photos of butterfly and carousel horse by Pamela Hamilton, copyright 2010; photo of Pamela on carousel by Bonnie Burt, copyright 2010)

2010 HBL Item #22 --DONE!

Today was my watercolor class, held at Shenandoah National Park. 2010 Happiness Bucket List Item #22 is now completed.

I will never be an artist -- one look at the watercolors I did today will tell you that -- but I had so much fun. For three hours, all I thought about was blending, mixing, and painting. Learning something new is intense, and I can understand why people are advised to learn new hobbies throughout their lifetimes, especially as they get older. I can't remember the last time my brain got such a workout!

Painting is not like writing at all for me, even though both are creative arts. Writing comes naturally to me. Once I get started, the words just seem to flow from my brain to the paper, or more accurately in this day and age, the keyboard. Painting today was entirely different. I couldn't get the initial sketch the way I wanted it. I couldn't seem to blend the paint the right way; it was either too dark or too light. I could see the painting I wanted clearly in my mind. What came out of my fingertips was something else entirely.

I tried not to dwell on how frustrated I was by that. I tried to banish those thoughts when they first started to emerge. I was pretty successful, until the end when I was so-oo tired. (Creating is tiring; learning something new is exhausting.) My success was as much a part of the instructor's encouragement as it was my determination. Trilbie Knapp, president of the Charlottesville-Albemarle Art Association, never said one critical thing about my work, or any of the other students' artwork either. Even when I made a disparaging comment on the color of the petal or the shape of a leaf, she ignored it and pointed out something that I had done well.

I'm not racing out to Michael's to by watercolors and paper, but that's not to say I won't pick up the brush again. Who knows, Ms. Knapp may see me in another workshop one of these days.