Coffee or Tea, Anyone?

It’s been a rough week.

The weather has been hot and humid, not a good combination for those with living with Multiple Sclerosis. I’ve kept a low profile, trying to beat the heat. Pain is not something one usually associates with MS, and I admit most of my pain is arthritic in nature, but the combo this week has laid me low.

So, I’ve read a few books, and watched a lot of television. And I’ve noticed a continuing theme with these fictional characters. Coffee and tea.

I love crime shows and am particularly fond of NCIS. Gibbs is the grey haired leader of a team of federal agents. He is frequently seen holding a cup of coffee, or sending someone out for coffee. As I’ve watched many of these shows in syndication I can remember the ongoing joke about Gibbs drinking his coffee black, and his disgust at the other team members’ choice of fancy lattes.

It’s an ongoing theme, and gives the viewer a sense of familiarity with this taciturn character.

I also read the latest in JD Robb’s ‘In Death’ series. These are a favourite and I’ve read and reread them all. Eve Dallas is a cop in the year 2058. In the first book, “Naked in Death’, Eve meets her future husband, the billionaire, Roarke.

He tries to win her over, not with diamonds and gems, but with coffee. In the future, coffee made from real coffee beans, is a luxury of the rich. Eve is a typical cop, addicted to coffee, but has only tasted the soy based imitation, never the real thing until she meets Roarke.

There is another ongoing theme in this book series. It seems food is, for the most part, man made. The real thing is too expensive or just not available. Eve and her team of cops sometimes meet in her home office where Roarke provides the nourishment. One young cop tasted real bacon for the first time and asked, “Is this real meat, like from a pig?”

In the off shoot to NCIS you have NCIS Los Angeles. They aren’t big coffee drinkers on the West Coast, seems tea is their beverage of choice. Hetty is a tea connassoir, determined to teach her agents the way to brew the perfect cup of tea, from tea leaves, of course. She scoffs at Callen, with his dip-the-tea-bag-in-hot-water method of making tea. “Can’t you taste the paper?” she asks.

On the show The Mentalist, Patrick Jane is a consultant to the CBI, the California Bureau of Investigation. He is constantly seen with a cup of tea, (see, it is a West Coast thing), and often asks if he can make a cup of tea while the police are interviewing witnesses or suspects. And of course, while making that tea, he snoops around and finds important information needed to solve the crime.

I have another favourite series, the Maggie O’Dell books by Alex Kava. Maggie is a profiler with the FBI. She drinks neither coffee nor tea, but is addicted, in the same fashion as coffee drinkers are addicted to their brew, to Diet Pepsi.

It’s an ongoing theme again, where others keep a supply, or get one for her instead of the usual hot, caffeinated beverages more frequently supplied.

I like these ongoing themes. They offer insight into the characters, give the characters an opportunity for more personal interaction, and often, add a touch of humour in a story line that is serious and deadly.

Personal touches can make a character more memorable, after all, look what the martini, shaken not stirred, did for James Bond.

 

Have a good week everyone.

My Car is Making a Strange Noise

My car is making a strange noise.

It’s old, like me, so I understand its need to whine and groan at times, but this sound makes me think there’s a construction crew in the engine running a buzz saw and, well, that’s new and a little disconcerting.

I have a great fear that one of these times the car is going to let me down but good, and I’ll be without transportation, or paying a repair bill that will end up costing me more than the car is worth.

I don’t want my car to have any more problems. I had planned for the car to run as long as I was still driving, and that we would end our driving relationship together. And damn it, I’m not ready yet to give up my independence.

I’ve heard this car noise before, in my friend’s car, and they’re both older than me and mine. She told me it was dampness, moisture that collects because we live by the lake and we don’t drive every day. It only happens in reverse, and only the first time I back out of my parking spot. And circumstances being what they are, I’m driving even less than before.

I was told once that my kind of driving is really hard on a vehicle, especially in winter. Because I usually drive locally, just running errands, with a lot of stops-starts, the engine never gets a chance to really warm up.

I was told to take it for the occasional drive on the highway, where we would be out longer and get up to a greater speed. So now I’m thinking, these monthly lunches I do out of town, once with my friend and then with my brother, are therapeutic, for me and the car.

Which leads me to another issue, modern rock music. When I’m listening to music in the car and some song comes on with that repetitive sound in the background, that mechanical, techo-rock sound, I think it’s the car.

I turn the radio down and listen, and no noise, thank goodness, so it’s just the music. I have done this so many times now that if the car could talk it would chastise me for having so little faith.

Women need a reliable vehicle. Being stranded somewhere, alone, is a scary thing. Let me tell you about being stranded, at least I wasn’t alone, and it wasn’t my car.

I was out on a country day trip with a friend, in her brand new car. I mean really brand new, less than fifty kilometres new. We were travelling along when we noticed a strange noise from the rear of the car, on the passenger side, and pulled over to the side of the road to investigate.

We were on a fairly well travelled country road, but it was raining and traffic was sparse. I got out of the car, seemed logical as the noise was on my side, and discovered we had a flat tire.

A flat tire! It was a brand new car. So, there we sat, on a country road, surrounded by farmland, not a house in sight. My friend turned to me. “Do you have your cell phone?”

“I don’t have a cell phone,” I told her. “Don’t you have one?”

So there we were, two middle aged women, neither who had embraced the new technology, both wondering what we were going to do next.

But, I watch television…I’d seen all those car commercials about accidents and the OnStar people responding to the emergency. And, I saw the red OnStar button above the rear view mirror.

We laughed about the whole situation, the lack of cell phones, the isolation, the rain, and decided, what the hell, and pushed the button.

Well, what do you know, it worked. A very nice woman answered our…summons, call, I don’t know what you would call it, and listened to our plight. “Where are you?” she asked.

We knew vaguely where we were, but it wasn’t exact enough for her. ”Do you see a cross road, or any signs?”

There was a side road back a ways, so I got out of the car again, and walked back along the road, in the pouring rain (woe is me, eh?) until I could read the road sign. Once we gave our new friend the information, she knew exactly where we were. Then the issue became where did she send help from, as we were at a half way point between two towns.

Long story short, we had the tire inflated by a tow truck sent to help, made it to the closest town, and spent the afternoon waiting for her car to get a new set of tires, as the one that had gone flat was shredded to pieces, a factory defect.

We never did get to our destination, which had been some unique shops in town, so all the day cost me was a soaking and lunch. It was much more expensive and troublesome for my friend.

Old and used doesn’t have to mean unreliable. Old and used just needs some regular maintenance and care. And isn’t it fortunate that we now have a mechanic in the family, so my wheels get some personal attention, and I can maintain my faith a little bit longer..

Maybe we’ll make it to the end together after all.

My Better Home and Garden

So, it’s been about three weeks since I moved into my new space and it’s definitely feeling like home.

I had coffee out on the patio at the front of my place the other morning, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun, the birds in the trees and the little chipmunk that was racing across the lawn.

It felt good. My potted planters were a colourful touch, a dash of red and green against the white brick. The garden along the wall needs some attention, but all in due time, as I’ll need some help there. Oh, but the planning.

I got onto Pinterest, and put small gardens in the search and yes, there went the morning. Amazing the number of gardens using rocks. I love a garden with the look of a dry creek bed, the layers of rock, the gentle curve that mimics a meandering brook.

I had such a garden once, complete with an arced bridge to go over it, joining the patio with the lawn. I have to laugh, as the bridge was grudgingly built, without an ounce of grace

I had a vision, something that I’d never seen done in that area, and one I had to convince my husband was going to be beautiful. The convincing was kind of sneaky on my part. I would do as much of the work as I could, and in order to get it finished, my husband had to finally give in and help, once I had the job near to completion.

Yet he didn’t see the need for the bridge, which I thought was crucial to the design. I tried to build the bridge myself, which was no easy task as I was useless with electrical tools, and was trying to hand saw and hammer the thing together.

The old boy just had to show me how it was done. He bought the wood, cut the curved side pieces and, voila, I had my arched oriental style bridge over my dry creek bed. It really was beautiful, and he had no problem taking credit when the garden was complimented.

I tried it again at another house, this time I had an arbour, with handmade stepping stones, and a small dry creek area that was more functional that decorative, as it handled the run off.

Run off seems to be a good spot to place a dry creek type garden, and tried it once more. This time I got fancy. I had a 24 inch circle of concrete, and I painted it to look like a pond, complete with a couple of Koi fish and lily pads.

I must have put a dozen coats of sealer on that thing to weather proof it. On a flat section of the garden, where the dry creek bed ran to the back of the property, I laid it down and arranged the rocks and plants around it…like a real pond.

It was a surprise, a bit of whimsy, in an otherwise normal garden. I wish I had picture to remember it.

I don’t have enough space for a dry creek bed type garden. But I noticed all those paths, in the picture gallery on Pinterest, that had the spaces between plain patio slabs filled with river rock, even glass stones for colour. My mind was racing with ideas.

At my back door is a neglected bit of space where I was going to put my bird feeders. It has proven to be too close to the window and too open for the birds I’d hoped to attract. But wouldn’t a bench be pretty there, with a big pot of flowers on one end that I could see from my window.

A nice spot to sit in an evening and watch the sun go down. Patio stones, joined with areas of rock, and maybe I could use the existing bricks for a pretty edging, yes, I can see it might work.

Not everyone can see the finished result as I can, or understands why I try to create something a little different. It’s the artist in me that wants to put my own touch to things.

After all, it’s the little touches that make a house a home.

It’s quiet now, the sun has set in a splendid show of colour, and the court is dark except for the one light post. It’s a perfect evening I’m thinking, as I sit here, with my feet up and write.

I wish everyone the same peace and contentment as I feel right now.

 

 

 

 

A Party Favour into a Book Prompt

Last September I was invited to a gathering at my neighbour’s where I. enjoyed an evening of food, drinks and conversation. The purpose of the evening was to meet her friends, visiting from California.

As I was leaving, the guest of honour inquired if I was the writer. When I replied yes, she demanded, “Why don’t you write something about how widows are treated?”

I knew she was a widow, unaware at the time that she had lost her husband only six months before, which would account for the emotion that was evident with her asking.

I didn’t know what she expected me to write, but I was curious and did some research. After reading a series of articles full of self help advice and personal experiences, I was drawn to the plight of these women as they struggled to rebuild their lives.

A prolific note taker, I had pages after page of notes and put together an article that I think touched on some of the things she was experiencing. She read the article out loud, and at times was reduced to tears as the information hit close to home.

I always felt she had wanted something more from me, though I don’t know exactly what that might have been. I just felt I was not done with the topic.

As November approached, I needed a story line for NaNo. If you’re not aware November is National Novel Writing Month, more commonly called NaNoWriMo, where the challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I decided to make my story about a woman, recently widowed, and gave her a few conflicts, just to make it more interesting.

I made the deadline, with words to spare and spent months doing the edits.

I usually write in a very organized fashion. If I’m working on a book I have my book binder with story ideas, plots, and character profiles. Any research I do on locations or interiors go into the binder, along with photos torn from magazines for a visual reference.

When I write I’m constantly going back, rereading and, I dare say, editing, as I go along. My usual first draft is not as rough as some, but presents almost as more of a first edit.

Not so with my NaNo book. In order to keep the word count going, I didn’t have time to go back and edit as I went along. It was an interesting experience, and I’ll probably do it again, but next time I’ll be more prepared.

For one thing, I’ll make sure I’m ready for Christmas. After the stress of writing for the whole month of November it was a shock to get back to the real world and realize that Christmas was only weeks away. Like I said, I’ll be better prepared next time.

At any rate, I began the editing process, gave it to friends and a fellow writer to read, and took all their suggestions into consideration when I did what I hoped was to be the final edit.

The book is titled ‘Left in Sorrow’. I recently published it in an E format on Kindle.

 

Photo and cover design by John Kerns... www.john.kerns.ca

Here’s a bit of the beginning, like I said before, I gave my girl some conflicts to deal with.

CHAPTER 1

Holly inserted the key and opened the door to the fourth floor condo. Hands shaking, the key seemed to stick in the unfamiliar lock, as if to defy her entrance. With a feeling of trepidation she entered and looked about with some caution, fully expecting that someone might appear and question her right to be there.
 

She had every right, and no right, and that was the problem.
 

Her eye was immediately drawn to the impressive view of the lake and sky framed by the glass paned French doors. As she glanced beyond the terrace, she could see the marina, the docks sitting empty, waiting for summer and another season of sailing to begin.
 

Turning back to the room she noted the done-by-a-decorator style of décor, where everything was carefully coordinated; the fabrics, the furnishings, even the art that hung on the walls. It was show room perfect but felt cold and impersonal.
 

Now it belonged to her, not that she wanted any part of it.
 

She didn’t belong in this stylish place. Holly looked down at the jeans and simple leather shoes she wore, and felt out of place. This place belonged to a lifestyle she knew nothing about. What did middle-aged housewives know about secret hideaways?
 

For the last few months her life had been nothing but one shocking and unexpected event after another, and her world had been turned upside down.
 

She’d known what it meant that night, when the two police officers had appeared at her door. “Mrs. Prentice, we regret to inform you…,” they began. The conversation was etched in her memory. On that stormy February night, when her husband of almost twenty-five years had been killed in a car accident, her comfortable life had come crashing down around her.
 

She had been numb at first, thankful for the tasks that kept her busy. Friends and family had hovered, and then everyone went back to their lives, as if she were healed, like she’d just had her gallbladder cut out, instead of her heart. Her friends were married, they still had their husbands, and their lives had not changed.
 

When the letter came, from a bank they had never dealt with, addressed to the Executor, she’d taken it to Bob Watson, her husband’s friend and law partner for an explanation.
 

“I contacted the bank, Holly,” he later told her. “It looks like Richard had an account there and in the safety deposit box I found ownership papers for a condominium on the waterfront.”
 

The news about the condo struck her hard, at a time when she was already feeling unsure and unsteady. Why did he have a secret place? What was he hiding?
 

Bob tried to talk her out of it, but she had wanted, no needed, to see the place for herself. Reluctantly, he had handed over the keys.

* * *
 

Pauline, when you read the book I hope you feel I captured Holly’s feelings, and touched on some of the issues faced by women who have lost their life partner or spouse.

Thank you for the inspiration.

In my Next Life

WRITTEN IN THE WINTER OF 2010

            I have had an awakening, an epiphany, if you like. And so, with a sudden need to believe that this life can't be the only life I'll ever live, I embrace reincarnation as my end of life view.

            I need to believe that I will have an opportunity to experience the life that I missed out on, this time around. I have felt a restlessness these last few days that I attributed, at first, to the grey skies and constant threat of a storm after a winter of basically sunny, blue skies and an absence of snow. But today I can admit that my blue mood has been the result of my approaching birthday, a birthday that marks the passing of another decade. Reflecting back on my life, I find it lacking…and unfulfilled, and am distressed with the realization that the future years are now more limited.

            In a 1928 interview with the San Francisco Examiner, Henry Ford stated his belief in reincarnation. Why would you not, he asked, for “...if there was a chance” wouldn't you embrace that “...time was no longer limited.”

            Reincarnation comes from Hindu-Buddhist philosophy that believes that one's soul moves from body to body in an ongoing birth-death-birth cycle. They believe that the status of each successive body is the direct result of the quality of life that soul led in the previous body. So if a soul lived a 'good' life it would move on to a higher quality form, and if it lived a 'bad' life it moved on to a lower form. This can really get interesting, as they believe that not all souls move on to another human form but may move on as an animal. That should make some people very leery of where they might spend their next life, after all, what goes around, comes around.

            Such is the Law of Karma, the central foundation of Hinduism and other eastern based philosophies. Karma teaches that good deeds are rewarded and bad deeds punished. The ultimate goal is to progress to the highest level of existence, to become one with the universe and...you have unlimited chances to get it right.

            Reincarnation is not in line with the dominant doctrine of Christian faiths, Catholic or Protestant but I feel the concept of reincarnation is as substantial as the concept that you'll 'get your reward in heaven'. I don't want to sound as if I have no faith, for my Protestant upbringing has stayed with me even if my regular church going has not. Living a good life so one can get into heaven, or living a good life so one can move on to a better life, not much difference in my opinion. Both require a faith in something, some form of afterlife.

            Even New Age philosophies, such as the Wiccans believe in a form of reincarnation. Their belief is that the soul is moved to a place called Summerland, to rest and prepare for the next incarnation. Once reincarnated, they believe that you continues to do so, until you've experienced all that there is to experience and move to a higher plane of existence.

            The thing is, none of this can be proven, there is no evidence that reincarnation actually happens. It's a leap of faith, and faith, in whatever form, is what gets you through the day.

            Too many years have passed, not all of them kindly, and I am left with the regrets that I didn't live enough, didn't love enough, didn't risk enough. It is too easy to get weighed down with regret, with missed opportunities and with lost dreams.

            I am reminded of the poem “Warning” by Jenny Joseph, when I am an old woman, I shall wear purple. Having felt trapped by convention, by responsibility, for most of my life I look back and see all the wasted years and regret that it is only now, in my senior moments, that I am brave enough to wear purple.

            I hope when I move on from this earth that my soul will have it better. May it find a new life full of fun, may it not be so serious and may it not be lonely. That is what I wish for my soul, for us, and that is why I want to believe in reincarnation.

PS I searched the internet and found bits and pieces of information when I wrote this. Today as I was posting, I remembered that I have readers from many parts of the world. I apologize if this information is inaccurate. The intent at the time...by writing about my thoughts and feelings I got all those negative thoughts out of my head, there was no offense intended..