Thank you to each supporter and encourager as Agnes Hopper's story journeys toward publication. The good Lord has a plan and a purpose and a timetable. My job is to trust Him as we work on re-visions, to see the entire book with fresh eyes. With a grateful and humble heart, I appreciate Eddie Jones’ insight and suggestions to help make this book the best it can be. My editor, Andrea Merrell, and I are working hard, but my book will not be ready for the October 2014 launch. The date is now January 22, 2015. What a joy it is to work with the talented team of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. They are helping me grow as a writer. I have learned much and yet I have much to learn. That is a large part of the fun of writing, always stretching beyond what I had envisioned I could do. Re-vision—to see again with new eyes.
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Even though I can barely carry a tune in a bucket, music has had an impact on my life. In our small mountain church we sang the old Baptist hymns from hymnals, no less, which are a rarity in today’s churches. If we were fortunate, someone—usually the preacher’s wife—knew how to pound out the same tune on the piano. Some of the standard songs were Only Trust Him, Bringing in the Sheaves, and The Old Rugged Cross. I acquired a tattered, probably soon to be discarded, songbook as my own and would often go off into the woods singing and making up the tune, if it wasn’t a familiar one. I couldn’t read music, but that didn’t stop me. In the summertime, the week before Bible school rolled around, the children from our church piled into the back of a pickup. I don’t remember who drove us, but we traveled to the neighboring coal mining camps to advertise the upcoming event. We held handmade posters and sang This Little Light of Mine, The B-I-B-L-E, and Jesus Loves Me. At home we listened to the radio or played photographs. I can still hear Fat’s Domino singing On Blueberry Hill. When we finally bought a television we were faithful fans of Laurence Welk and Name That Tune. Now I love many of the songs from Broadway plays such as Les Miserable or Joseph and His Technicolored Dream Coat and I also enjoy listening to nearly any kind of string instrument, including Bluegrass and Yo Yo Mia. I still sing in church, sometimes the old songs of long ago, but more often new ones and usually from words shown on a screen, but if I walked around in my neighborhood carrying an old hymnal—if one could be found—and belted out those old-time songs, I just might be committed. Music is also important to several characters in my forthcoming book. Agnes Hopper listens to Going ‘Round the Mountain on her radio. Her friend, William, plays Elvis records on his photograph while a mutual friend, Francesca, loves classical piano music. What kind of music touches your heart? Do you have a particular song that brings back a fond memory? I want things to happen on my timetable, and today would be nice, if not sooner. We are an impatient people. No one likes to wait. What do you do when a stoplight seems to take forever to change? Do you fuss and fume and maybe say words you shouldn’t? And then you’re late for an appointment and the car in front of you is driving the speed limit for heaven’s sake. What about the time you seem to have chosen the slowest grocery line and you’re sure your ice cream is melting? These are some of the tiny irritations of everyday life. Sometimes we wait because of more serious reasons. Perhaps you have waited for weeks for results from critical medical tests. Or you are waiting for a loved one to return home from military service, or for your husband to find a job. And then there is the young couple waiting to adopt an infant after two previous adoptions—they had also hoped for—didn’t become a reality. These times of waiting can cause sleepless nights and perhaps bring us to our knees. Waiting is never easy. But, if you or I never had any struggles, would we turn to the Lord for help or would we think we could handle things on our own? Someone has said that we, you and I, have to reach the end of ourselves before we will release our control—that we think we have—and give it all up to God. He’s the one who can handle anything that is thrown our way. Anything. I read somewhere that Joseph waited 13 years before he was reunited with his family. Abraham waited 25 years before his wife Sarah gave him a son. God worked out the details on his own timetable. What is causing you to wait? I heard a story recently that touched my heart. When an elderly woman, who happened to have dementia, entered a church sanctuary and spotted the word “GRACE” on a banner behind the pulpit, she shouted to her brother, “Look! He knows my name!” Yes indeed, I thought. Only because of His amazing grace does He know my name. What does GRACE mean anyway? We hear the word often, especially in Christian circles, but do we truly understand? Or is the word so broad & vague that we can’t grasp its application to our lives? Some things to think about: If God chose me as His child because of what I said or did or what I didn’t say or do—His grace would no longer be grace. Romans 11:6 When I first realized God loved me unconditionally I was in my thirties. I was totally flabbergasted that I didn’t have to prove my worth, or at least become a better person than I was as the time. I could never be good enough or worthy enough to deserve this gift. That was it. I could never deserve His grace. Grace is undeserved. Grace is God’s free gift. Only through God’s grace did Jesus taste death for me. (from Hebrews 2:9) Grace: Amazing love. If I accept His gift I am Forgiven Healed of a broken, bitter heart Promised eternity in heaven Called His child forever "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us." Anne Lamott What does grace mean to you?
Happy Vinyl Record Day, August 12th. Although I no longer have a way to listen to them, I could never melt one in an oven. Never. As young teens my sister and I listened to music by tuning in the furniture-size radio that sat in our living room or by loading a stack of records onto our phonograph. When one record finished playing, the arm that held the needle would move out of the way, another record would drop in place and the needle would move to just the right spot and another song would begin. For some reason we collected the 45’s that featured one song on each side, rather than the LP’s with multiple songs. Perhaps because they were cheaper. We kept them beside our comic books underneath our dressing table. Our favorites? Elvis, Fats Domino, and the Beatles. I have a friend who collects the old records. He doesn’t have a way to play them, but he insists they will be valuable one day. And then there’s a Brazilian businessman whose obsession with vinyl records is over the top. He owns over 200,000 and he can’t stop buying. One of the characters in my book, Agnes Hopper’s Bridge to Retirement, is a man who also has a record collection, mainly Elvis ones. He plays them in his room late at night and Agnes can hear him shuffling about as he dances alone to tunes such as Love Me Tender. He needs a lady friend and he does fall in love with another resident, but it isn’t Agnes. How did you listen to music when you were growing up? Through radio, the jukebox in the local drugstore, records, cassette tapes, CD’s, or perhaps holding a “boom-box” on your shoulder? And who was your favorite artist “back in the day?” You see, but you do not observe. Arthur Conan Doyle "A Scandal in Bohemia"(1891) Do you truly observe and perhaps register it as being significant or do you, as I do many times, merely see and take no notice? The following are suggestions for anyone, but especially writers who like to bring their characters to life on the page. Take a notebook & pen (or laptop) to a public place & people-watch, only don’t be too obvious or you could get arrested. A mall is an easy place to find a comfortable, out of the way place to write. Or if you have time on your hands in an airport—waiting for your next flight—put that time to good use. Observe & make notes on choice of clothing, hairstyles, jewelry, tattoos, and don’t forget the shoes. You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes. Mine may be scuffed and run-down at the heel—I have noticed from old photos that my shoes have been this way since childhood—while my husband’s shine like he just left a professional shoeshine stand. By the way, ladies, do you notice the shoes on either side of you when you visit a restroom or am I the crazy one? And then there was a visiting minister at our church whose loafers looked older than he was, but man could he preach. We overlooked his shoddy shoes and his Hawaiian shirt because he was truly a man of God. So first impressions are not always reliable. Notice how people walk. Does a young man swagger down the mall? Does an elderly woman walk with a limp? What about gestures? Is a teenaged boy always flipping his hair out of his eyes? Look for attitude. It may be evident in a scowl, a frown, or stiff shoulders. If the mall is not your cup of tea, visit any café or coffee shop. What about a Waffle House? I think it is like a crossroads of America. My husband, the particular one, loves to stop there. We don’t very often because I think everything smells and tastes like grease. Once, an older woman dressed in a long fur coat with teased blond hair and tons of jewelry sat on a Waffle House bar stool next to a tiny, young woman dressed like a lumberjack, and a very dirty one at that. She drove an eighteen-wheeler and had gotten her rig stuck in a muddy turn-around near the restaurant. A wrecker was coming, but it could be awhile. So the two women talked and talked and shared family photos and talked some more. This is plain fun, folks. Enjoy! Future Blog: Dialogue. Learning to listen. No Easy Answers for Caregivers The dementia patient is not giving you a hard time, the dementia patient is having a hard time. Quote from Agingcare.com My parents lived to be ninety-three and ninety-four. Mother lived the longest and kept her mental sharpness until a few days before she died. Daddy suffered from dementia probably for the last six months of his life. It’s hard to say how long because his dear wife of seventy-two years knew how to cover for his forgetfulness or sometimes bizarre behavior. There were times, however, when Mother became totally frustrated with the changes she saw taking place and she would accuse him of doing things on purpose just to irritate her. He loved Juicy Fruit gum, but she kept it hidden from sight and rationed it because he could chew five or six sticks in an hour and ask for another package. “I have to watch him like a hawk,” she would say. And she did, even though they lived in an assisted-living facility. He was changing, but I think her denial, at times, and anger, at other times, added to the stress and tension in their lives. He would not bathe himself and would not let any staff person help him. So Mother adjusted his shower temperature, washed his back, brought him a dry towel, and helped him dress. With her congestive heart failure and the need for oxygen full time, this chore wore her out, both physically and emotionally. Then he started getting up in the middle of the night. He would go into their bathroom, which was actually a part of their bedroom, turn on all of the lights, and shave. Mother could not convince him to return to bed until he finished. And then he would often put on a shirt or a pair of pants before finally lying down partially dressed, only to rise a couple of hours later to repeat the procedure. He nearly always forgot his oxygen tube hanging on the bedpost. I had no idea both of my parents were sleep deprived until Mother told me later that this was a common occurrence. I don’t have any answers that might have made their last months together any easier. Because they were very private people, sometimes it was hard to know what was really going on. When I stopped by to visit, Mother would chatter nonstop, as usual, and Daddy would smile a lot, like normal. I took them treats they enjoyed, like smoothies or milkshakes. Mother loved orchids and they thrived under her care so she usually received one for any special occasion, or “just because.” Daddy would often let me brush his “angel hair,” as mother named it, and I might help her fasten jewelry that had tiny clasps. All of these little things were ways to say “I love you,” but we didn’t often discuss some of the truly important issues concerning my daddy’s declining health. I tried to respect their privacy and treat them with the dignity they deserved. I think they both tried to protect me. I guess that’s what parents do. Happy National Lollipop Day! July 20th
Lollipops range in size from the tiny ones bought by the bagful, and sometimes given away at banks or thrown from parade floats, to the enormous ones twisted into rainbow swirls. When I was growing up, my sister and I always watched for the candy man who made deliveries to the company store where mother was manager. We lived in a coal camp at the time and the store was only a stone’s throw from our front porch. We knew if ran down there to greet him, he would allow us to choose a piece of candy from his many boxes. Remember Sugar Daddies? That was usually my pick. Back then they were large and would last for hours. I also loved Tootsie Pops in cherry or grape. Though I no longer indulge, I may have to listen to my inner child and celebrate this special day. George Smith is usually credited with inventing the modern style lollipop in 1908. His idea of putting candy on a stick made it easier to eat and he named the treat after a popular racing horse at the time, Lolly Pop. In my book, Agnes Hopper's Bridge to Retirement , one my characters who lives in this small-town retirement home is nicknamed Lollipop because his shirt pocket is always filled with suckers. His sister brings him a new box every week. He also loves to watch cartoons. His real name is Elmer McKinsey and he is a dear, sweet man who happens to be mentally challenged. Lollipop doesn’t speak many words in the book, but he is delightful just the same. One of my favorite lines of his is, “Wanna be my girlfriend?” He makes me smile and he seems as real to me as a next-door neighbor or the candy man from my childhood. What was your favorite sweet growing up? Something on a stick? Anything chocolate? Or maybe ice cream. Yum. Let me know! My Daddy lived ninety-three years on this earth, his last two years spent in an assisted living facility where both of my parents had professional and compassionate caregivers. Always a gentle man, I never saw him cranky, but I’m sure Mother did as his frustrations bubbled to the surface and spilled over. For the last six months of his life, his dementia affected his usual routines. Always an avid reader, he could no longer concentrate enough to enjoy his books or even the daily newspaper. Yet when he spoke of his childhood or early married life, he could remember specific details of those days and would even laugh at some of the hard times now softened with the passage of years. The following poem touched my heart. I hope it does yours as well. Cranky Old Man By Phyllis McCormack; adapted by Dave Griffith What do you see nurses . . .What do you see? What are you thinking when you’re looking at me? A cranky old man, . . . not very wise, Uncertain of habit . . . with faraway eyes? Who dribbles his food . . . and makes no reply. When you say in a loud voice . . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’ Who seems not to notice . . . the things that you do. And forever is losing . . . A sock or a shoe? Who, resisting or not . . . lets you do as you will. With bathing and feeding . . . The long day to fill? Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see? Then open your eyes, nurse, you’re not looking at me. I’ll tell you who I am . . . As I sit here so still. As I do your bidding . . .as I eat at your will. I’m a child of Ten . . . with a father and mother, Brothers and sisters . . . who love one another. A young boy of Sixteen . . . with wings on his feet Dreaming that soon now . . . a lover he’ll meet. A groom soon at Twenty . . . my heart gives a leap. Remembering the vows . . . That I promised to keep. At Twenty-five, now . . . I have young of my own, who need me to guide them . . . And a secure happy home. A man of Thirty . . . My young now grown fast, bound to each other . . . With ties that should last. At Forty, my young sons . . . have grown and are gone, but my woman is beside Me . . . to see I don’t mourn. At Fifty, once more . . . babies play ‘round my knee. Again we know children, my loved one and me. Dark days are upon me . . . My wife is now dead. I look at the future . . . I shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing . . . young of their own. And I think of the years . . . And the love that I’ve known. I’m now an old man . . . and nature is cruel. It’s jest to make old age . . . look like a fool. The body, it crumbles . . . grace and vigor depart. There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart. But inside this old carcass, a young man still dwells. And now and again . . . my battered heart swells. I remember the joys . . . I remember the pain. And I’m loving and living . . . Life over again. I think of the years, all too few . . . gone too fast. And accept the Stark fact . . . that nothing can last. So open your eyes, people . . . open and see. Not a cranky old man. Look closer . . . see . . . ME! Remember this poem when you next meet an older person whom you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. If we live many years upon this earth, we will all, one day, be there too. |
This page is dedicated to my inspirations and those who have enriched my life along the way.
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