Not Desperate

I read an interesting e-mail about not being too desperate with an agent. I thought, boy, I know those feelings. I don't have an agent, I haven't been to a full writer's conference, yet. The writing has to flow, be polished, done more.
There are days, I could just feel success of writing. It burns within me. My muscles are aching to do this full time. I'm desperate for it. I do want to leave my job, tell my boss off, and at least make money to research and write more. I guess I could deal with being famous, but that isn't my goal. I just want to tell the story of David and Mary Thompson some day.
Today is not one of those days. Fighting insurance companies, defending my actions to state inspectors, feeling like the system doesn't work as well as it should, somehow energized me. Maybe it was the late afternoon sunshine. I'm answering phone calls from doctor's offices, making referrals for help, checking the authorizations on visits, flying down the highway. I feel a rush from helping people.
Even with the families that have abandoned their ill, elderly relatives, I'm mad, but wonder what is the underlying problem. It seems this week, it has been a fight, a blow-up with not just one family, but a few, leaving the patients alone with  no help. And help is not immediate, even if the social worker at the hospital makes it sound that way or the patients and families hear it that way.
As much as I love writing, want to take care of my home, walk my dog sometime during a sunny afternoon, I feel what I'm doing this week is making a difference. I relaxed about making a second career with my writing, as I lean into what I'm to do today, I think the doors will open for writing in the right time.
Maybe again, it is the lengthening of sunlight that is giving me optimism this week. It could be I'm working a shorter week. Some 'atta girl's at work didn't hurt either.
Still if a patron out there would want to send me to Mt. Hermon Writer's Conference in California over Palm Sunday, I couldn't turn it down. I'm still dreaming, but I'm not desperate.

Pouring Growth

Flashing cursor leave me alone. I'll think of something!
Last night I got to pour a little into a blooming writer and if she reads this, I hope she gets the joke. She wrote about people being the flowers in the garden of life. Sometimes I feel I could run with that theme. Then, I also thought of the Alice in Wonderland, song about learning a lot of things from the flowers. I love analogies.
Mary Ellen is taking her dramatic flair and pouring into the younger girls for Fine Arts. This Saturday, she will give up a free morning to  travel in the cold, usually, to Erie First for a day of talent. She wrote the script and is coaching the girls. I'm looking forward to seeing the preview tomorrow at Youth.
Pouring in is the best way to learn and grow.

Winter Fun Day

That's me in the green hat looking at the map of events

As much as I hate winter and freezing, I must admit it can have some fun. Yesterday was one of those days. Buhl Park had Winter Fun Days, a community gathering that warmed my heart. Katie felt like she was in an episode of The Gilmore Girls. She entered the chili cook-off with 9 other entries. I savored all of them and must confessed I liked hers the best, although Chicarrino's placed a very close second in my book. That wasn't the book read, though.
We stood by the fire toasting marshmallows over the wild fire, especially when the wind blew up, fanning those hot flames. I saw more black marshmallows than at a Girl Scout camp out. Katie roasted me a darkly browned one that was perfect. I know I didn't want the fire to burn down to coals.
We opted out of the Clydesdale horse drawn wagon ride. I took pleasure in seeing the huge horses, but the thought of just sitting on a wagon, well, I'll try that in the fall with a blanket. People seemed to be enjoying the ride.
I loved the huskies and their enthusiasm to work. In the howling and whining of the loud dogs, I could almost hear, "Pick me! Pick me!" They were chained from youngest to the oldest. The pups started at seven months old, tan and white, to the older dogs colored black and white. Hauntingly blue eyes appeared to look into my soul. Some dogs were friendly, others shy, skittish, but no mean ones. They also created quite a stir when any dog strolled by. We laughed that they voiced concerned over a fat dachshund, black and tan. Once four were hitched to the sled, they took off like a bullet, as the saying goes. Before you knew it, they were back from their round.
Lori and the kids joined us. The kids were dressed colorfully. Gracie in pink, Jacob in lime green pulling each other on his blue sled. Then they pleaded with Katie to be their sled dog. She also took a few spins down the ever popular sledding hill, even with the new trees edging out the down hill. Cars park along Hazen all along the hill, so the passengers could just jump in the sledding fun.
We spent three hours in the cold with wind whipping through us. Today, the sun shone so brightly, but yesterday, we had brightness of community and I imagine this new holiday will grow and grow, like Buhl Day on Labor Day.

Winter Church Attire

As I listened to the scraping of the plows last night, I thought of how we dressed in years past for church. Rarely, did you see pants on women or girls. I wore snow pants under my dress or skirt. We donned our boots, while carrying our shoes in a paper bag. Sometimes the ladies had a clear heavy plastic boot they wore over their high heels. The men wore galoshes over their dress shoes.
The coat room had four folding chairs back to back by two. Everyone took their turn to sit on these chairs to change their foot wear. Gloves and scarves were stuffed in sleeves of coats as they hung on hangers. Hats settled on the shelf above the rack. The coat room became a place to visit and catch up, because it took us so long to change outer wear to church wear.
If the snow was wet or we had rain, rain bonnets dried on separate hangers. Women had their hair styled the day before or Friday for the weekend. My mother-in-law still has hers done on Thursday. If a woman didn't go to a hair dresser, she did her own, by setting it either all day on Saturday or slept in the curlers all night. She used Dip-pity-Doo, sometimes sitting under a bonnet hair dryer for an hour. And lots and lots of hair spray.That work and style had to last a week. My neighbor used blue spray on her gray hair. I remember seeing the can, especially for hair.
As we barely make it to church on time now a days, I'm glad to wear my silk long underwear, sweater and pants with boots that I don't exchange for high heels. David will probably never be asked to be a pall bearer again. At his grandmother's funeral in the early 70's, he said all those dress shoes on a snowy hill made carrying that casket rather dicey, as he and his cousins slipped and slid gripping grandma.
Sometimes, I wrestle with how styles have evolved to almost too casual. Still, I'm thinking in the winter, it's warm to stay dressed. Maybe safer for pall bearers, too.

A Quick Aside

I didn't get a call from the social editor of the Youngstown Vindicator- you can link to Vindy.com and look under Valentine's contest for the winners and runners-up. This was my entry:

Subject: The Accidental Encounter

Oh no, it's Megan, Beth's kid sister, Tim gasped. Her long silken hair draped the steering wheel.

“Hurry, get the jaws out,” Tim shouted as he neared the car.

“Megan, it's Tim. Are you with me, girl?”

“Uh,” the eighteen girl moaned, “Tim, I stole Beth's car. I was so mad at her for sulking about you working.”

“Sh, honey, it's OK. Don't get excited,” he calmly checked her hands, “Hurry up will ya?”

Soon, they were getting her out of the compact car, stabilizing her on the gurney. Tim automatically carried out the motions for this emergency. His mind mulled over what Megan said. Beth sulking?

In the ambulance, Megan stared at Tim, “Beth wouldn't go to the party. She said it wouldn't be right without you. She was steamed that you have this job and had to work on New Year's Eve. I screamed at her to not let some dumb guy mess up her evening. I was mad that she wouldn't go with me, so I stomped out and stole her car, Tim. Now, you're here taking care of me.”

“It's OK, are you having any pain?”

“No, Tim. Should I?”

Tim felt the sweat pour down his back, despite the cool air around them. He quickly grabbed a drug to put in the IV he had started in her thin thready vein.

“Tim, what's that? Are you going to make me sleep?”

“No, it's not a sedative. It will help reduce any swelling.”

Quickly the ambulance entered the bay at the ER. The report had been called in. The staff geared up at the door ready for action. Tim shouted the newest vitals, the drugs he had given, and Megan's level of consciousness. He nodded grimly when questioned about the feeling in her legs. Megan screamed at Tim, “What are you saying? Oh, Tim”

“Be calm, Megan. It could be temporary. Try not to be upset,” he stroked her shoulder while they wheeled her into a room.

Tim walked out to the hall. Beth stood a distance away with her parents. She didn't see him. He brushed his hand through his hair. Oh, boy, what am I going to say. Hold on, Timmy Boy. Let the doctor do the talking.

The ER doctor, in a few minutes, emerged from the room, patted Tim on the shoulder, “You made the right calls. I think the swelling is going down. I think your calm decisions may keep this young lady from paralysis.”

Beth stood there, tears running down her face. The doctor walked over to her parents, leaving her alone with Tim.

“I didn't realize how important this career is. The doctor had high praise for you, didn't he? Tim, you were there for my sister. How can I say I'm sorry and thank you at the same time?”

Tim embraced his fiancée, “Honey, I'm just glad Megan's going to be all right. You should see your car wrapped around the tree. I thought it was you, my stomach flipped flopped. I felt so bad we fought. I wanted you to understand. Oh, how I wanted you to understand.”

Sobs flowed out of Beth, the messy, snotty kind, but Tim thought she never was more beautiful. He squeezed her tighter than he had, as a deep emotion surfaced, a mixture of relief, gratitude and love.

Twelve months later, on New Year's Eve, Megan strolled down the aisle as maid of honor for her sister. Beth elegantly entered the sanctuary on her father's arm, tears of joy trickling quietly over her cheeks as she embraced life with the hero of the family, Tim Hunter.

No one ever complained about Tim missing a holiday again, especially Beth. They learned that accidents don't take holidays, so neither can paramedics.

Mental Health Awareness

The post yesterday written under distress of no time to devote to this topic. I wanted to bring attention to Mental Health. Maybe that spoke more than volumes of words. Katie thought it read like the world's shortest sad story.
Depression has long roots in my family. Is it the Scot, Irish or German? The Irish are noted for depression. Great Grandpa Seth Thompson suffered from melancholia. His daughter possessed a sad streak at times with bitterness about life sneaking out. My mom could spend days in bed. I believe they all were untreated most of the time. In later life, Mom took antidepressants that lifted her mood, giving a contentment in her later years that she struggled to have in earlier years.
We visited my cousin at the mental hospital while I was in high school. She underwent shock treatments. What always amazed me, how when major events happened, she rallied with no signs of depression. As the Bible says, it's the little foxes that ruin the vine.
I have raged against the reputation of depression and other mental illnesses. It is truly a physical ailment, but doesn't have the badge of respectability of say, kidney failure or cancer. If you mention that someone has a sickness that just comes on one without a cause, it is acceptable. But stigma accompanies mental illness. A  response often is that person is not strong, or just needs to "get over it."
Family of ill ones sense the pointing fingers of guilt at times. Relatives suffer with the affected one. A shroud of shame tries to suffocate all involved. It has improved, but a full acceptance remains lagging.
More and more open up about this disease. I wonder, though, how many hold back from treatment, thinking somehow this is something to get over. It is hard to mention this at the organ recital at prayer meetings, maybe because to see improvement is uneasily measured. No MRI or CT-scan show a healing. Treatments vary as with most maladies. As each person is an individual, so may treatment and his response have different paths.
We need more awareness and I gladly embrace this. Mental health issues are as life threatening as cancer at times. The worst thing, you may not look ill. Yet, I have seen the hollowness of depression in eyes of the afflicted.  I can't look away, even if that is my first reaction. I hope you, too, can delve into encouragement to those who need it. Being a listening ear, suggesting treatment and loving a person are methods to respond. Be aware of those around you, withhold judgment and pray.

Blah

I really want to write something, but I don't know what to write. The end of a hard week, but the snow held off till this evening. I sat here thinking and thinking, with no flashes of inspiration. So this will be just a lousy entry about nothing. The girls will be hungry. Mary Ellen has been at musical practice. I'm pondering whether to wake my husband to go out. I hear car doors slamming. The girls are home.