Teddy's Law Tuesday

http://teddyslaw.org/our-mission/http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2013/02/for-teddys.html   http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2013/02/more-on-teddy.html 
A repost:
I had wanted to write a fun piece on my memories of Patriots Day in New England, when I lived in cold New Hampshire thirty years ago. That drawn out spring as they celebrated the 18th of April for the "shot heard around the world." Spring that dragged, but those hearty New Englanders had the Boston Marathon, taking a holiday.
You know what happened yesterday at the Boston Marathon. It is all over the place. A tragedy marring a wonderful celebration of freedom. Children killed. A coward bombing a public event.
Amidst all the posts for Boston, I noticed one about the mother of Teddy Foltz and her boyfriend. The attorneys are petitioning for separate trials. I'm sad for Boston, but every time I see Teddy's name or face, tears well up in my eyes. As I wrote before, the system failed this little boy. Two school districts and several times he went to the hospital for various maladies, like frostbite on his feet, no one further investigated these incidences.
The terror and abuse have no more revelations when I read about the pending trial. It shocks and sickens me. I cry. We lose children every day to abuse and killing. If they are not physically killed like Teddy, they are murdered in their souls. If they grow up, they are likely to be monsters to children in their lives. No statistics here, so site me on that.
The children lost at Sandy Hook and in Boston, yesterday, are tragic losses, indeed. I am in no way downplaying their deaths. I think, though, they had happy lives with parents who loved them. If you saw them, you would no more feel sorry for them or fear for their lives the day before the tragedy than any other child from stable homes.
We have to look beyond and see the Teddy's and his twin brothers. We have to look beyond the smiles that children seem to have naturally, even when the life they have behind close doors is horrible. Children are forgiving. They love their abusers or the enablers to the abusers, because they have no other compass. Children love their families.
Just as now, we have to be on the alert of suspicious characters in public events, we need to have radar up for the every day abusers. Pray for teachers, public health workers, other adults and yourself, that diligence in getting to the bottom of  the evidence of abuse, neglect and stories of cover up. We need to pray for noses for the facts, not letting go, like a dog with a bone.
 

Another Quiet Story of Triumph

A repeat from three years ago:

Yes, I'm stealing again. Quiet is from Joe Zentis,http://sharonherald.com/archive/x1448059323http://sharonherald.com/archive/x1448059323 who writes Lives of Quiet Inspiration for the Sharon Herald and has published a book with these local stories of people who have overcome obstacles.
I love meeting people, but I love more getting to know them. This man lives in middle class neighborhood, classically dressed and talks of his son owning a steel mill company, near where I live. He worked there after retiring. At first glance, peace, comfort and privilege rule in his home. I find he nursed his wife from C.O.P.D. (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) until she died four years ago, a largeness of  loss in his voice. He possesses  pride of his two children and the grandchildren, successful in  their lives, one has recorded a CD already at age nineteen.
A few days later we talk again. I discover more. His father drank and ran around. Probably one of those men with another family or two somewhere.  The man was beaten as child and witnessed a lot of violence. When he was four, he and his mother had to move South for safety and security, leaving the other children in the North. Even at such a young age, he felt uprooted.
He made a vow as a young man that when he married, he would not be that kind of husband or father. He and his wife kept a quiet home, with regular meals, praying and going to church, getting their two children through college. He didn't succumb to the injustice of his life. He determined to make life better for his children.
How often we think that back in the last century the times were easier, people were better and abuse didn't happen. But as always, I think we have those rose colored glasses that color our perception. My mom felt the belt. A teacher ripped the shirt of my uncle trying to discipline him in school. Their mother left the family in 1936.
My friend Ginny's father and aunt were abandoned by their father when just very small children. Their stories could overwhelm us, death a constant companion, mothers and fathers dying young, infant siblings buried in far away cemeteries. Hunger gnawing at many.
The ones I know overcame these obstacles.  Sometimes demons followed them, but they fought them. Others gave in to the demons, I'm sure, just like today. Paul in the New Testament states we are over-comers, more than conquerors in Jesus. Let us be inspired, first by Jesus and then by the triumph of the human spirit that comes from above.
 

The Fence

I finished reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil a few days ago. I also watched the movie, just before I finished the book. I am slow in getting to popular items at times. But this is also the twentieth anniversary of the novel, so in a way, I was trending again. I had watched a little bit of the movie in Presby hospital when my mother was there many years ago. I had wanted to read the book because Mom said at the time it was good. I don't know if I would have appreciated it, then.
The book reads like a novel, although, John Berendt wrote nonfiction about the city of Savannah, Georgia and the people he met. Most of it is true. He changed some of it. I watched an interview of him. He wrote it so he could see if he could write a book. Up till then he only penned magazine articles.
The movie showed it more than the book, but people tell a writer stories. And they asked about the book he would write. They knew it would become a movie and they all wanted to be in it. Some were. The defense lawyer played the judge. Jerry, the hair dresser, played a small part as himself. Emma Kelly played the piano. And the Lady Chablis, who made the story, delighted. 
As happens when people discover a writer, along with telling their own stories, they pitch ideas for books.  I wish I had a dollar for every time I hear at work, "You should write about this place." Uh, HIPPA. But this is a shout out to all my supporters at work. The brother who faithfully visits his baby brother three to four times a week, asking about my progress, encouraging me not to quit. The ladies who have read my novels and love them, reminding me of my mother, always loving what I do. The co-workers I could ghost write their stories as they say, "If I wrote a book." The daughter at the dining room shouting, "Hey, Jessica, how's it going?" Jessica as in Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote, is her reference.
I stand in awe at the well wishes of those I meet. I have published two novels. I feel humble more than proud. I walk that fence of wanting to be read but not being recognized. I still love roaming the book store with my books on the shelf, but seeking bargains. The customers don't know I'm an author. I stroll through the mall, observing people for fiction ideas.
I am content in this part of the journey. I sit at home, lap top to type

in my stories, cats on both sides of me, sometimes inching their way to the keyboard, the window opened for outside noise and air, and the dog laying on the porch, observing the world, waiting for that walk. To make this a job, I should probably go somewhere to write, but I love my couch with my animals. Maybe if I did do this only, I would need to go somewhere to write. But I go to my fan club almost every day, where I hear, "My nurse writes novels."

Wordless Wednesday

From my walks this week at Buhl Farm Park

Teddy's Law Tuesday

http://teddyslaw.org/our-mission/http://www.vindy.com/news/2013/jun/20/teddys-abuser-admits-his-guilt/
http://sharonherald.com/local/x437172957/Death-spurs-woman-into-action 
From a post at the beginning of my campaign to help the Teddy's of the world, the children abused next door:
With heavy heart I post today. I review the Teddy case, although, I hardly forget it. I see his brown smiling eyes and wonder at the pain he must have felt. The verbal abuse escalating to physical and sexual abuse till he was murdered. The shame he may have felt at keeping quiet by maybe trying to be a better man in front of his younger twin brothers. The indifferent mother allowed such terror to happen to her sons.
She shed tears from the moment she entered the court room. Where were they before she was caught? Her ex-boyfriend, instead, showed no emotion. Did he think that made him seem manly?
The sentencing is next week. The debate as to what he should get, fifteen years to life to forty one years to life, played in the comments.The worldly part of me says, "Fry him." I look at that reaction with a horror, too. Why do I think I'm better? We all have a dark side to us. I'm reminded in my spirit- All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.
I want to do something. I have felt guilty as well. Do I miss seeing abuse? I'm not in situations where I see many children. I wonder in a case like this so close to home, what can I do?
A young woman, closer to the situation than I, was interviewed in the Sharon Herald. She stated she would start a fund, a charity. I e-mailed her that I would help in any way I could and linked her to my articles I had written about Teddy. I never heard back from her.
I will use this blog and whatever platform given to me to raise awareness. But like my rant about raising cancer awareness, is that enough? Can I just post little sayings on Facebook or write here and make a difference? Again, I look at my life. Where do I see children to sound an alarm? Should I volunteer in the school? What do I do personally to help?
The system failed Teddy. He left two school districts because the abuse became noticeable. Neighbors did call and children services couldn't find anything to stick. The police were only called once. His death brought police back on the case, where evidence hidden soon rose to the surface with Zaryl Bush's DNA mixed in with Teddy's blood.
Praying is never a waste of time. I pray for abused children. I pray God will show me how I can make a dent. If only like cancer awareness, my words can get my readers to observe with a greater intensity the children in their life, maybe that is a step. God didn't put this heavy on my heart to feel badly in my cozy little world. Doors will open. I will see the Teddy's and help. I'm not sure how right now. I can't keep quiet.
The second link has a web site to read about signs/symptoms of child abuse.

Life Changes Quickly When You're Twenty

Sun relentless, dry heat, swamp coolers and air conditioners the only relief met me my second visit to California, to Ridgecrest, the desert two over from Death. The normal ways of cooling in western Pennsylvania or the East with humidity, thirty degrees cooler than the 120 in the desert, provided nothing. Swimming in ninety four degree water, conjured taking a bath under a sun lamp left on too long. Driving at night with the windows down with a slightly less hot breeze for ice cream didn't live up to the image of Twin Kiss in my earlier days.
Yet, I loved it. I was with my sister, Diane and newborn Gabrielle, playing with three year old Michelle. It still was summer and we did go to cooler places, like the ocean, on the weekend. I played house, especially the few days Gabrielle recovered from a staph infection in the hospital.
One of those evenings after a long lazy summer day of playing hard before nine am and reading, watching morning shows, napping and preparing supper, a phone call broke into my vacation. Dad, soft spoken, really hard to hear, repeated those dreaded words, "Mom has cancer. They aren't sure where, yet. Surgery to remove a tumor on her side tomorrow."
Crash. I left Mom in bed a few weeks earlier. As she lifted a pot of baked beans from the oven on the Fourth of July, she couldn't stand back up. Dad helped her to bed and she wouldn't go to the doctor, because she had an appointment in two weeks. So we waited on her, mostly Dad. She spent two weeks after my arrival in California at the Farrell Hospital until the tests showed some kind of cancer. Off to the Youngstown Osteopathic Hospital for better surgeons. The phone call.
Diane and I woke early to call about the surgery. Dad's voice, barely a whisper, we strained on the extensions to listen and try to make out what he said. Something about her rump, he mumbled. I realize now, my soft-spoken dad imagined the love of his life would die, as we all did when we heard the word Cancer. I never comprehended how much my dad loved, depended on my mom's love and worried about a life without her, until much later in life. We all depended on him, never realizing he needed to get his strength from someone, too.
Dad, our rock and pillar of the family, encouraged me to remain in California. He only was sitting around the hospital after work. A week later, as soon as the biopsy from the left chest wall tumor reported the source was her thyroid, she had that organ removed. The surgeon cried on Mom's chest , when she spoke after the surgery. I guess he was close to her vocal cords. That act endeared him to her.
I continued my stay with Diane. My flight home bumped to first class because of the air traffic controllers strike, as white wine flowed freely and I partook. The tipsiness vanished as soon as my dad greeted me with his arm around me, telling me about Mom. The fancy of a twenty year old, newly engaged, entering her senior year of nursing school, fled as life became hospitals, caring for a sick mom, and my first real bout with depression. Mom talked of death often, one time wondering if my brother had any guns.
"I'm ready to die, Mollie," she plainly informed me.
"I'm not ready for you to die," I cried back.
One night after a particularly long day, we returned late from the hospital. A few minutes later, at ten thirty, a nurse called. Dad only said, "Yeah." Then to me, "I have to go back to the hospital. You go to bed."
I didn't hear anything all night. I continued my routine of going to school the next morning. After class I pulled my instructors aside and told them what I was going through. They advised me to take the year off.
"Oh, I couldn't do that. My mom would think I was giving up and she would, too. No, I will get through this year and get married as planned, because that will give her hope."
I did, too. Twenty, my life changed so much. Then at twenty one, it changed as I had planned. My mother, did recover and walk again after two years. Ten years ago, as she struggled again with health issues, I told her, "Mom, you're a cancer survivor of twenty three years," she wore that like a badge.
Life is full of changes, but at twenty they seem so quick. Like Mike and Morgan in Last Free Exit, half their life, their dad is gone. At eighteen, that is a long time, as long as double that when you are older. We must realize this for our young people we know.

Good-Bye to Jacob, the Schemer

I have to relax. I feel time slips covertly and if I don't accomplish tasks, I lose the moment. The battle will be over and I have lost. Yet, so many times, the choices I make benefit the ideas I'm working. This is more than time management.
I have so many ideas, thoughts and demands. Years ago, the thought dominated my life that Christian girls had to be nice, in other words, religious. I suppose boys got the same idea in church. Be good, follow rules and always think of others above self took precedence over what Jesus really wants. As I study the Gospels more and more, I see Jesus with His face set like flint to go to Jerusalem.
We can't gloss over the cross. Jesus couldn't and didn't. His focus from His birth was always the sacrifice. The sin had to be forgiven for relationship with creation, us, me. He could have stayed in one place, healing, teaching, sending. Jesus had to follow the plan set before time for all time.
In this writing journey, I focus on the goal. I want to sustain myself to be able to have more time to write and research. I also am learning to lean into God and trust His plan and timing. I continually work at writing, but I left the scheming. Or at least I try.
I identify with Jacob of the Old Testament patriarchs probably the most. He started out a deceiver, grabbing the brother's heel at birth. How much of our personalities are developed by our birth stories? I know as youngest, I was considered cute. Yet, being with teenagers, I didn't have all my whims met. I had to get my face washed before going out for ice cream. So I learned, good things come, but there is always a price to pay. I can't get by on cuteness and tears.
With my writing at times, I scheme and plan on what can happen so I can meet my goal. Changing jobs to provide more time to write was one plan. Every so often, I think of changing jobs, but I come back to the plan. I set my face like flint, to write. I want to write. I need to write. I feel I am in God's plan. I should not let anything distract me from the goal of being a writer.
Yet, I relax, too, at what happens each day. A slight change of plan for the day, can lead to some information needed for a story. I often felt that with home health, too. I'd find myself delayed for the time set for a visit and discover, the patient had that call from a long lost relative when I should have arrived. I learned to relax.
This attitude creates a life on a tight rope of sorts. I do need plans. Yet, flexibility and being open to opportunities fit into this life. I need to keep my eyes on the goal of writing. I won't give up, but I hope to not spend hours scheming. It always comes back to seat time of writing.

Wordless Wednesday

Another lion in the neighborhood

Teddy's Law Tuesday

The Teddy's Law Foundation is having some structural problems. The heart of this Tuesday always is to raise awareness of child abuse and how to do something about it. Keep our eyes open to children. As the ground work for Teddy's Law first laid crumbled under the balance of parents' rights and the cases that need intervention, so we as onlookers must always pray for wisdom. I do keep the child abuse hotline in my phone. I hope I never have to call it.
The Facebook page is down, a source of postings, here. Please look at past Teddy's Law Tuesdays. I will continue to scan for stories and ever be a voice calling to open our eyes and ears to the plight of children abused.
 

Saying Good Bye

Related links, http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2011/03/storytellers-part-5.html,
http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2013/09/four-deaths-in-1978.html
Today I attended the funeral for another cousin that passed away. A poem read referred to this as another limb of the family tree fallen. During such occasions the memories stacked up like the cards we get later, full of glimpses of times past. Gary was one of the older cousins, our dads were first cousins, sons of favorite sisters. Our families visited back and forth for many years. Sunday afternoons spent in conversations and eating cake doughnuts, that Howard felt were the best.
I looked over the old photographs in the curio and album. I think of Howard and Mary's bedroom crammed with three cribs of Terry, Gary and Kim, causing Great Uncle Dave to come to West Middlesex and our doorstep for his last fourteen years of life. My brother remarked how the surviving brother and all of them resembled Uncle Dave, the Thompson's.
I remember admiring the youngest sister Debbie, who survived a diabetic coma when she was eighteen. Gary's care-taking, mentioned over and over, during the service started with Debbie. Debbie lived for ten more years, with no more mental capacity than a four year old. But so loving, I'm sure because of the love she received from her parents and brothers. I can still hear Mary's wail when they had to close the casket in that same room I sat in this morning from 1978. Howard and Gary stood strong for Mary.
Howard, too, was laid out in this room twenty two years ago. He died a few years after my father. The family less gray then.
Six years ago in September, we said good bye to Mary. That was the first funeral after my mother died, again through the same funeral home in the same room. Mary, so kind, sending me cards at Christmas with notes about my children. She always welcomed children. This was a raw time for me, as so many my mom's generation seemed to be slipping away that summer.
Gary was as kind and generous, as his parents. I often drove down his street, but in this new day, we need telephone numbers before we barge in. I, on my job, felt rushed and never at leisure to attempt a visit. I think how he wouldn't have minded. He was never at a loss of words. He never spoke badly of anyone.
Today, we only have memories. But Gary, as well as his father, mother, and my father, lived a strong faith in Jesus.  Faith lived through love, hardships, and heartache. The kind of faith that doesn't shout, but neighbors know by seeing lives. A difference sensed more than proclaimed. A feeling of being home with someone who really loves you is how I felt with this family from before I could form words.
Mostly cousins sat in the room. We are the older generation, now, most of us grandparents. Gary never married, but the room was full. A first cousin on his mother's side became his caregiver. From what I heard, it sounded like with my dad, Gary never gave up hope he would live more days as he dealt with this last illness. I am proud of these men in my families. I am grateful to have had them in my life.

Never Forget

A somber day, gray overcast, flags half mast, I see driving. Quiet. I hardly heard the school buses. The expectation at thirteen years something can happen again and we're not awake. Do we slumber? No, our president spoke last night. We haven't given up the fight.
The day feels too quiet. The season is changing quicker than I like. Gray, somber is all I can see.

Shanksville, PA from my June trip

Cool, but not cold, yet.
That is what I remember most about a day I couldn't absorb. The quiet blue skies with no air traffic. The rush to get home to my babies, then. My husband with them, but I needed to hug them all. The next days of watching the news over and over. The worry attacks would continue. Stay away from the malls.
Do we slumber the days we don't remember? Life lulls us into sleep. We can't keep up with constant worry. Some do, though, our watchmen on the walls, whether military or pray warriors, they watch, ever vigilant. I am thankful for that and thankful, some days I can rest. I prayed more as foreboding crept around the last few days. The storms last night, the power outage this morning, the quiet today prompt my prayers. I don't worry as I reflect. I have left worry on the doorstep.
We must never forget. Yet, some days, we must rest from thoughts. Today, rest in God's sovereignty.

Wordless Wednesday

Teddy's Law Tuesday

Taking Stock

September feels like New Year's to me. That harkens back to the school year starting a new chapter in lives. This year I have a transfer student away at college. Life swirls with changes and I reflect on myself.
Something came in the mail the other day that only at the beginning of the summer would have set my acerbic fingers to the keyboard. Not even a month ago, I got serious about Jesus producing a change in me that I hope others will see. With this item in the mail, I could laugh and maybe not excuse the sender like I would have a long time ago. I didn't burn with anger.
My discipline with writing is also improving. I focus. Summer, I found myself tired and unable to feel accomplished. I chuckle because we are having the hot humid weather now, but it still feels different than in July. The daylight is shorter, for one thing and the sun shines at a new angle, as the equinox fast approaches.
August thirty first imitates December thirty first. September first this year was a holiday and I didn't work. I rested to finish off this year's resolutions. I write every day. I see a harvest in September, a gathering of people to Jesus. I am energized like the New Year, only instead of bitter cold keeping me in the house and sapping my strength, I have the promise of ninety degree weather waking me early to walk before humidity overtakes the day. Waking early always jump starts ambition.

Happy New Year!

A Picture for a Memory

I saw this picture tonight. The weather again very similar to a wonderful night thirty two years ago in the shadow of the monument here. A memory that never leaves. David, recently back from his first cruise on the Archer Fish, and I exploring our new area on a calm early September Friday night. I don't even think I had started yet at Lawrence and Memorial Hospital.
The summer had been hot, August the hottest after a cool start in June. David assigned to the sub the end of July; the first of August he flew out of New London Airport to meet his crew in Rome, a Med run, they called it. We stayed awake all night before the flight, talking in the still of the dark, about almost every thing. I knew I could sleep after he boarded the long international flight; slumber that night wasn't important. We got to the airport to find the flight had been postponed twelve hours. The rush drained and dragged us home to sleep all day in the sunny heat hidden by venetian blinds. The actual good bye wilted by the earlier one.
A month later, I rode on the captain's boat out the Thames to the Long Island Sound, with other wives, to escort the huge black boat boasting the lei we made for the coning tower. I had been in an accident in that month, unharmed, but totaled our car. I spent so many lonely nights, even though in my typical fashion I threw myself into wives club, church, spending time with new friends. A friend visited. I drove us home, when the accident happened in the Poconos. David adjusted to cranking, working in the kitchen that all new crew members had to do for the first three months. His fingers showed deep fissures from washing all the pots and pans and peeling potatoes. 
I had a job, but the orientation started mid September, almost like school. I was free when David came home to our apartment in Uncasville. He, too, had off time since the sub finished a five month Med run.
This night, we wandered around Fort Griswold. The fort perched on a hill overlooking the Thames. We sat on a 'ha-ha' wall, one of those stone walls built into the hill with dirt behind it. The low sun reflected off the river behind David's head as we faced each other. Separation lived in our relationship as a sailor and the waiting woman. David's eyes with his words dove into the depth of his love for me. That memory stayed me through many of the hardships marriages encounter. Magical gazes a girl of twenty one or fifty three treasures forever .

Wordless Wednesday

Looking out dorm window- Here's to all college students starting a new year.

Teddy's Law Tuesday

http://www.wfmj.com/story/26404784/school-notified-authorities-about-malnourished-greenville-boy

I really don't like to post much about homeschooling because of differing views everyone has. And before I make my point here I would like to say that the wording of the SB248 was way off. But I want to see it illegal for parents to use homeschooling and E schooling as a cover for these vicious crimes. Enough is enough.

From Teddy's Law Facebook page.

Is It Too Late to Touch the Dome?

Saturday, August twenty third, I finished the interview with the delightful Dorothy. She needed to head back to New York and I needed to buy books for some special children. After I dropped my daughter off at work, I headed to downtown Sharon, PA, for Waterfire. Waterfire is a celebration, another chance for vendors to gather for an arts festival.
My friend, Rhonda Paglia, writes children's books. http://www.rhondapagliaauthor.com/ She had a book signing at a store on State Street with the Sharon Historical Society display. We talked publishing woes and triumphs, after gathering in the display. I bought two books.
I strolled around Sharon to see all the booths and of course, check out the food booths. The day grew hot and at close to four, I couldn't think about eating, although I staked out my favorites for later. I huffed up the hill to place my books in the van and returned to the festival.
I ambulated all the way across State Street, then I decided to turn at the Columbia Theater plaza to cross the river behind all the hustle for a gourmet grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. The door to the theater opened to guests. The darkness invited cool against the sun baked day. The musty smell slightly present. I observed Tony Butala of the Letterman posing for photos with phones of visitors. I felt shy. I talked instead to, I believed, his brother, comparing Southern California weather to Pennsylvania. Of course bringing up my daughter, whose dream is to live in LA area.
Ah, a tour was forming. Actually, a tour of historical Sharon had been going on, this was one of the stops. I heard of the history of the Columbia, built in 1921, the third for Warner Brothers, yes, those Warner Brothers, originally from New Castle or Youngstown, whichever source you want to believe.
Tony can weave stories. He had met George Burns. The old vaudeville actor's eyes twinkled when he learned Tony was from Sharon, PA. He noted he married Gracie Allen about a year after a snowy night in the new theater when the show had been cancelled.
Tony spun a belief in the theater opening again soon with a small amount of capital. He talked so well, I wonder if his birthday, too, was in March. I could see the old auditorium hosting new acts and I was caught in the spell. I climbed to the balcony, remembering seeing the old Disney movies, like Jungle Book and Monkey's Uncle up there with my sisters. Otherwise, I sat down below with my parents for so many movies. I'm not sure if the balcony had been opened when I dated David. Some of our first dates were at the Columbia. It truly was a grand place to visit.
I glanced down, seeing the floor way below. Queasiness flirted with my stomach. I didn't venture to the scaffolding to touch the dome. I saw the expanse that looked like an opening to the sky, a heaven inspired imagination. I could have touched it, but shaky legs pinned me to the top of the balcony.
I spoke with some acquaintances I met on the tour. None of us ventured to that steel scaffolding. I'm sure it was safe, but the desire fled with the glimpse of that floor so far below.
When I signed in, I wrote I nodded to the Columbia in my newly launched novel. Yet, like looking at that floor keeping me from touching that magical dome, I kept my mouth shut in front of that group. I'd stretch my legs, but not all the way.
After a dismal tour of the old Phoenix restaurant, I listened to the tour guides in the parking lot outside the two buildings. I noticed Tony behind me, listening to the local speaker. Emboldened, I informed him, my novel I just published I used the Columbia Theater for a scene. It didn't matter that the theater hadn't been built for six years, yet. It's all fiction. His eyes lit up, "You published a book? I'm trying to get one published."
"Well, you have name recognition," I laughed.
Serious, Tony countered, "You published."
The holes in the floor to keep me from touching the dome disappeared. He asked, "Do you have a card?"
I talked my craft and I had no shyness. Reaching into my purse, I pulled one out of my hot pink holder. I wrote the title and he wrote the publisher on back of the card. Soon the conversation was over and I continued on the tour, chatting with the former coworker about her nursing career. I touched the dome of dreams.