A special Music Monday

Bryn at CRF, photo courtesy of
Lisa Margolis.

Our Bryndled Beastie, CGC    

"Bryn"

2013-06-16 - 2025-02-21

She started working at the Carolina Renaissance Festival the Sunday after Anne and I picked her up. "How old is she?" patrons would ask. I would say 5 months. "Oh, how long have you had her?" I would look at my arm like I was wearing a watch and say, "About 36 hours."

She was the queen of the Georgia Renaissance Festival, stealing sandwiches from under patron's noses and barking like crazy during the joust.

She even put up with me when we dressed up as Vikings at the Enchanted Chalice Faire.

She loved her brother from another mother, Bo, as much as her real brother Barley. But she was also madly in love with Barley's roommate, Charley, according to her Aunt Tamara.

She fell in love with Kathleen E. Lazenby  and  Robin Willoughby's Duke, so she laid on top of him to keep an eye on him. He wasn't a fan...

She got to pretend to be a Beezer at Auntie Shannon and Uncle Justin's house, but that didn't last long. They had far more energy.

Her first best friend was Anne and Damian's Boston, Millie. I bet when she got to the Bridge, Millie grabbed onto Bryn's underside (true story) and they went for a run.

She was a fairy dog ​​who far outlived her usual lifespan, beating pneumonia when she was 9. And I hope she found our Daisy Mei Mei, who she loved more than anyone, Ciaragh, the epitome of enemies becoming best friends, my dad who probably laughed that deep laugh and clapped his hands, and Miss Heather, who helped me discover a wider world of Bryn's family, including her big sister, the Other Kiera as we called her here and her other Auntie Stacie.

Brynka Boo, being your Mama has been the honor of my life, as they say. Don't rush, but don't wait too long before sending us another breeze block noggin to love, eh?

Go maire tú chomh fada agus is mian leat, agus gan aon ní a bheith uait mar a mhaireann tú. Is breá liom tú, mo chailín lúide.  Go raibh maith agat as a bheith linn. 

The Rattlin Bog, as performed by the Craic - Bryn and I listened to this on the way to Faire and she'd wag her tail IN TIME to the music, no matter how fast it got. My rattlin (splendid) Irish Fae Girl...
Rattling Bog - The Craic
Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real Bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Well in the bog there was a hole,A rare hole and a rattlin' hole,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real Bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Well in that hole there was a tree,A rare tree and a rattlin' tree,And the tree in the hole,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real Bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.on that tree there was a branch,A rare branch and a rattlin' branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the hole,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.on that branch there was a limb,A rare limb and a rattlin' limb,And the limb on the branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the hole,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Well on that limb there was a nest,A rare nest and a rattlin' nest,And the nest on the limb,And the limb on the branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the hole,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Now in that nest there was a bird,A rare bird and a rattlin' bird,And the bird in the nest,And the nest on the limb,And the limb on the branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the hole,And the hole in the bog,down in the valley-o.Ho, ho, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.In that bird there was an egg,A rare egg and a rattlin' egg,And the egg on the bird,And the bird in the nest,And the nest on the limb,And the limb on the branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the bog,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.In that egg there was a bird,A rare bird and a rattlin' bird,And the bird on the egg,And the egg on the bird,And the bird in the nest,And the nest on the limb,And the limb on the branch,And the branch on the tree,And the tree in the bog,And the hole in the bog,And the bog down in the valley-o.Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.Real bog, the rattlin' bog,The bog down in the valley-o.

Music Monday: We may never pass this way again

Today's post is late, but that's because it became something else this morning on my way back from an interpreting gig. The song I was going to post isn't as meaningful right now...so here we are.

Seals and Croft's We May Never Pass this Way Again is important to me as it was in the soundtrack to a play I was in at uni - one of my favs, The Shadowbox. But today, a dear friend of mine lost her mom, and it just came all the way back to me. The play is about three families living in hospice, and at the time I couldn't really understand my character. But now, having lost both of my parents, I do..and I hope I can be a light in this awful dark for my sweet friend as she navigates her new normal.

(Lyrics in the video.)

Music Monday: One Big Wolfhound Love

Ciaragh is still on my mind - last night I went to shut the basement door after Bryn and Willow came inside and I swear, I could feel her out there on the patio, lying on the cool tiles and looking up at me like, "five more minutes, please?" I don't regret the decision we made, but I do so miss her - our Ciaragh had one big love for all of her humans and pack mates. So this is for her...and for me. Lest I forget...

One Big Love

by Patty Griffin

Let's take a ride to the seaside

We can go out swimming in the high tide

Just wear your shorts and your long hair

Don't forget the lawn chair

Everybody's gone to the movies

Everybody's gone and its groovy

They went to the one about the big war

I didn't, I'd seen it before

I guess I'm taking my chances

Giving up the ring throwing in the gloves

I guess I'm taking my chances

Trading in my things

A couple wings on a little white dove

And one big love, one big love

Everybody do like a Monkey

If you want to go on and be funky

No need to talk like a hero

Talk a walk count down to zero

No sense defending your honor

Just go on and kiss him if you wanna

Everything before is gone or is going somewhere

I guess I'm taking my chances

Giving up the ring throwing in the gloves

I guess I'm taking my chances

Trading in my things for a couple wings on a

Little white dove

And one big love one big love

I don't know where we are

And I don't care

And now we're out of gas

And riding on air

And one big love, one big love

Stages of Love

I'm going to talk about grief today, and not just because we just lost that gorgeous face there yesterday afternoon to a very aggressive lymphoma. 

It's been a wild ride, these past few years. We lost my father in 2018, my mother in 2019, the world from 2020 to 2022, and now I've lost my youngest wolfhound, my Ciaragh. So much loss. So much hurt. How do we keep going?

Grief is funny. Not funny ha-ha or funny hmmm, but funny insidious and cantankerous and never, ever satisfied. I've heard all the little adages about grief being love you have that you can't give anymore because the object has passed...love that builds up to where it spills out your eyes and down your cheeks... And while those are valid, they don't strike home as much as grief being the flip side of gratitude or maybe even just a level of gratitude.

If I wasn't grateful that I was Hoyt and Martha's daughter, I wouldn't have noticed that they passed out of my mortal life. They wouldn't still be a part of near daily conversation. I wouldn't have thought of them when I saw a cardinal in a tree looking at me as we arrived back home without our Ciaragh.

If I wasn't grateful for the friends I have, the life I had before, the interactions and bus rides to campus and all the thousands of little things that made my life my own prior to 2020, I wouldn't have grieved the loss of the same for going on three years now. I'm an introvert and the pandemic lockdowns and social distancing should have been my time to shine -- and it was, to some extent -- but it was also painfully lonely in other ways. 

If I wasn't grateful that my dear friend Heather rang us to see if we could foster a 14-month-old Irish Wolfhound who needed re-homing through no fault of her own, I wouldn't be missing the wide-eyed, fuzzy head in that photo.

I've said a few times over the past 24 hours that this is just part of having a dog in your life, and it is even more so when the dog is a giant breed with a short life span. But it's more than that. It's learning to open your heart again and again, even though it is only cobbled together from past hurts. As another friend said, it is learning to "hold them with open hands" because you know what is coming.

It is tempting to close off to everything -- friends, experiences, love, laughter -- but that isn't the right choice. If you don't love, you don't grieve. It's the love and the gratitude that makes the pain worth it.

If you are in that dark place with all the grief, I am with you. When you can, turn some of the pain to gratitude. It will help, I promise.

Three Years That Feel Like Three Minutes

Martha Ann McDonald
9 Aug 1932-21 July 2019

The first year was a blur. She had been declining for a little over a month, so when my sister called me to tell me that she had passed there was a feeling of relief. she wasn't suffering. She was with Daddy, finally, which I think is what she wanted most from the moment he left us in 2018.

Then there was the pandemic. It was easy to not let the grief take over in 2020 because I was so focused on this Big Bad Scary Thing that was taking over the news cycle and driving us into our homes, separated and safe. I often said during that year that while I missed her desperately I was glad, in a way, that she didn't have to experience this time. And while that was very true, there were many times when I felt desperately alone and just needed to hear her say "Hey, Nancy," on the other end of the phone.

I was ready for the pain in 2021, but the pandemic held on a little longer, so I could put a pin in all that awful for a little longer. But this year, 2022, it has hit me and now it's almost like it is happening all over again. 

I remember with visceral clarity how small her hand felt in mine as I sat by her bed at Emory. I remember thinking that my sister was a superhero because she had now walked alongside both of our parents through this last stage of life while I just flew in and out like a hummingbird, never landing long enough to let any of the pain seep into my soul.

My mother was a force of nature kept in check by a very strict southern American upbringing. She told us that the girls in her family (of which there were three) took care of things inside the home and her brothers (also three, and all older than their sisters) took care of things outside the home. My mother didn't know how to change a tire and was very uncomfortable writing a check. She was a product of the Great Depression that came of age in the 1950s. She "didn't get the whole hippie thing" during the 1960s and suddenly found her purpose, I think, in the 1970s when her daughters were born. I honestly think that in 1971 they stopped being Hoyt and Martha and became Nancy's mom and dad...and then in 1976, that purpose was cemented when they became Susan's mom and dad.

She had bachelor's and master's degrees from the University of Georgia in English, with a concentration in Elizabethan Literature. She knew a bit of French from having to fill in for a French teacher at one of the high schools that didn't have one. She was a teacher down to her very bones, and to be honest I'm not sure which age group was her favorite. I do know that she enjoyed teaching preschool at the churches where Daddy served.

She was always my biggest fan, and truth be told I was hers even though I didn't show it. Her relationship with my father was the best example of faithfulness and love I could have had growing up, and I know that I was luckier than most.

And now it has been three years, and I am still picking up the phone to call her when I have a good report selling books or a challenging interpreting assignment. I have been adrift for three years now, and that part doesn't feel like three minutes any more than it feels like it will get better.

For all of you that have lost someone either before or during the pandemic, I see you. I hold space for you. This is hard stuff, the hardest thing I have ever had to go through. I remember sitting with my sister that Sunday afternoon when she died and asking her if we were orphans now.

I still don't know the answer to that, but I will never stop missing my mom.

 

Music Monday: Better Days

June is hard, y'all. My dad's birthday and my parent's wedding anniversary are both in June, and I'm still not far enough out that I can be certain that I WON'T burst into tears at the thought of either. On the good side, though, my Bryn turns 8 the day before my dad's birthday which is also Hubs's Welcome to the Thunderdome Day ie he officially began Life as a Permanent Resident in the US. I remember how pleased my dad was to "get a son-in-law" for his birthday...we'd been married for 2.5 years already, but the fact that Hubs now lived in the US was so important to both my parents. I really think they liked him better than they did me...or they were just glad that I wouldn't be whining about how much I missed him anymore. One or the other.
This song isn't from that era of my life, but it does speak to me about this very tumultuous month - as well as to my July Camp Nanowrimo project which sees two of my characters fight to find their way back to each other when they don't even know that together is where they were. Yep, vague, I know. 
They keep fighting the good fight as they always have but something is different. All they know is that maybe one day that weird awkwardness between them will fade, that strange longing for someone that they can't quite place will ease, and those all too familiar moments will finally make sense. Just a chance that maybe they'll find better days...


Better Daysby Goo Goo Dolls
And you asked me what I want this yearAnd I try to make this kind and clearJust a chance that maybe we'll find better days'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in stringsAnd designer love and empty thingsJust a chance that maybe we'll find better days
So take these words and sing out loud'Cause everyone is forgiven now'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again
I need some place simple where we could liveAnd something only you can giveAnd that's faith and trust and peace while we're aliveAnd the one poor child who saved this worldAnd there's ten million more who probably couldIf we all just stopped and said a prayer for them
So take these words and sing out loud'Cause everyone is forgiven now'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again
I wish everyone was loved tonightAnd somehow stop this endless fightJust a chance that maybe we'll find better days
So take these words and sing out loud'Cause everyone is forgiven now'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again

Music Monday: Well, here we are...

This is going to be a rather personal Music Monday, mainly because I can...but I just needed to talk about this for a second. My uncle died this morning. He had an incredibly long life - he was 93 - and it was full of grace and faithfulness that is sadly lacking in our world today. He was my mom's older brother, and the last of her siblings to die. That's a weird thought in and of itself - I've felt a bit unmoored (thanks to my friend Katy for that term, it is spot on) since 2018 when we lost Dad and this cycle of death, as it has seemed, began. It is worse now because we can't be with loved ones when their time comes. We can't gather afterward to share memories and be sad together. So while I'm sure I've posted this song before, I'm doing it again because I heard it before my uncle passed and thought of him - his strength and his resolve. Hug those you can and talk to those you can't. Life is short.

Little Hercules

Craig Carothers

So you cannot lift a spirit that has turned to lead
Or shine a light in shadow when the batteries are dead
Or fly like a bird over all the works of man
Or always think of the perfect words
But you do the best you can

Nothing seems as easy as it did when you were young
Myths may be invincible, but we are only strong
Strong like a memory, strong like a willow in the wind
Strong as you'll ever be, you will always need to bend

And if you feel the weight of the world
Put your mind at ease
Little Hercules

There are times when being a grown-up gets to be too much
And your sense of humor seems to vanish in the crush
Of the daily 9 to 9 that keeps your family alive
You're just putting in your time
Does anyone really go home at 5?

You've made a life where no one ever tells you what to do
Now the only tyrant that you're working for is you
It's never easy to keep all the promises you make
But no one's gonna get you fired
If you'd just give yourself a brake

And if you feel the weight of the world
Put your mind at ease
Little Hercules
'Cause there's so much on your shoulders
But you know it's a breeze
Little Hercules
Little Hercules

Notes from Exile: End of a Weird Nano/Semester/Year/etc.

Well, that's that.

Well, that happened.

It happened a week ago, and I don't really have anything to say about it other than I am clearly NOT a horror writer and should stick to what I know, which is character-driven, has paranormal elements, and possibly includes some romance. 

I don't know what Legacy is going to become, but I haven't completely thrown it in the dumpster fire that has been 2020.

So here we are, in the last month of one of the weirdest years on record. I'm sure that the survivors of the Spanish Flu felt a similar sense of relief/trauma/fear mixed with a healthy dose of What the Hell was THAT? I'm also battling a lot of apathy, if I'm honest, about everything in my life, and I know I'm not alone in that.

My semester at the DayJob™ ended this past Friday and the students are in exam week now. They all went home at Thanksgiving and everything was online afterward, a decision that I think was very well reasoned. I mean, until we have a vaccine for this thing for a few months, I think that online everything is the way to go, but no one asked me. 

The end of the semester also signals the end of the calendar year, and as it always seems now that I work in academia, suddenly there is a flurry of things to do for Christmas/New Year. Only there isn't. I had so hoped that we would be going to the UK for Christmas this year. We were supposed to go in August for my father-in-law's 80th birthday but that didn't happen either.

Christmas hasn't been the same, if I'm honest, since we lost my father in April of 2018. Thanksgiving is hard now, without my mother, but Christmas was always my dad's holiday. The man was not cheap in his decoration of their house - garlands hung from every low hanging light fixture and there were wreaths with big red bows on every window. They had stockings on the mantel with a tangle of garland and plastic reindeer/Santa above it. Candles were in the windows that burned all night every night. Once he was no longer able to do these things, some of the sparkle went out of Christmas for me. 

I haven't found it since. Being unable to travel, unable to even go out for a long, loud, boozy meal with my friends here has made me just want to get this season over with and move on to 2021. I mean, I tried - I put up our tree and got hives from "Artificial Christmas Tree Syndrome." 

And this time next week I will be on Winter Break from Clemson - maybe then I can find my mojo. Or maybe I can get some editing done, or at least write a better, more uplifting blog post. Thanks for spending this year in exile with me. I hope you're well, and that your holiday season is as magical and bright as you can make it this year.

On saying hello, knowing you have to say goodbye.

 

IWAMS members in the St. Patrick's Day Parade, Charlotte, NC. March 2018.

The Irish Wolfhound community lost one of its fiercest warriors, defenders, and supporters yesterday with the death of Heather Burns, a member of the Irish Wolfhound Association of the Mid South. Heather worked tirelessly to find placements for IWs that needed rescue/rehoming. She possessed a wealth of knowledge of the breed: history, temperament, health concerns, etc. I've put this picture up even though you can't see Heather and Mark in this shot, it is representative of who she was and why those of us lucky enough to have known her are grieving today.

This was the day before she drove our Ciaragh all the way from her home in NC (almost VA) down to us here in Greenville. Hubs came with me to the parade this time to watch from the sidelines and brought Willow-Pickle along for the ride so she wouldn't have to stay home alone. If you look right in the middle of the picture you will see her, straining to get out in front of all those long-legged wolfhounds because she was the security for the IW contingent. Simon happened to run into Heather along the parade route (I had already taken Bryn to the line-up point) and, being the force of nature she was, she managed to convince my 6'4" Yorkshireman and our snappy little terrier mix to come with her and join the parade. "Willow can be a Wolfhound today," she told him - which is exactly what Willow believed in her heart already. 

You see, that was Heather. In a world of kennel clubs and rare breeds that could foster a sense of elitism and snobbery, Heather was there to make sure that everyone felt welcome at the table - at HER table, the Irish Wolfhound table. I was already familiar with her because she not only saved my bacon and my sanity plenty of times as we were raising Bryn, but she found members of Bryn's extended family that we didn't know about, like her litter brother, Barley, and his family, Tamara and Marc. Or Bryn's older sister Keira and her mom Stacie. Heather knew everyone and everything, and if she didn't know something you'd better believe she would find out for you.

What I knew from the time that I met her was that she had cancer and that it was terminal. She told me with a smile on her face and in her heart that her plan was to outlive the IWs she had (at the time I think there were three) so that when she passed, her husband wouldn't have that to deal with on top of everything else. Heather NEVER thought of herself first. So I knew that as I was saying hello to her, I was also getting ready to say goodbye. She was one of those warrior women that you just thought would live forever.

Go raibh cead míle maith agat, one hundred thousand thank yous, to Heather, for taking me under her massive wing and teaching me how to be a good mom to Bryn and Ciaragh - and for your example of strength, compassion, and love. I hope that your first stop was at a clear pond where your hounds were waiting.

Please visit my album in the Beach Bound Hounds Vendor Virtual Showcase, currently happening through 14th September 2020, to purchase your copies of the Clobberpaws books - 100% of the total sales of Clobberpaws and Clobberpaws, Too! paperbacks will go to the Irish Wolfhound Rescue of the MidSouth's Heather Burns Memorial Fund for Veteran Hounds, created to support foster homes and adopters of hounds that due to age/illness are difficult to place.

Notes from Exile: Week Eight

Mary Louise McDonald,
September 11, 1929 ~ April 15, 2020

So we are into the eighth week of whatever this is - lockdown is incorrect if you compare it to what other countries are doing. Quarantine is incorrect unless you are sick and forced to isolate to prevent infecting others. Shelter in place doesn't even seem right because to me, that response is more apt for an ACTIVE threat like a tornado or a shooter. We are staying at home and working from home, but it will not necessarily injure us if we walk outside our doors. We are staying at home because we care about others in our neighborhoods, our towns, cities, states - our country.

This kind of selflessness does not come easily to a great number of Americans. We are taught from birth to depend on ourselves. Work hard and you will be rewarded. Sharing is good, but saving is better. There isn't an adage about helping your neighbor pull up his bootstraps. The American Way often feels like The Everyman For Themselves Way. So this self-isolation is hard on us. We are a people who value hard work but also are interested in instant gratification. After six weeks of mixed messages from all levels of government, a distrust of the media that comes from the highest levels, and a frankly terrifying resistance to trusting proven science in favor of unproven talking points, we the people began to become restless. There were armed protests at statehouses and armed, inflammatory discourse on social media. We had overshot the mark for caution and were treading on civil liberties.

Everyone seemed quick to forget that, thanks to those very overblown measures, they were still alive to make their irrational and selfish arguments. Anyway.

Why have I attached a picture of my aunt, my mother's older sister who died last month, to this rant about the overbearing vocal majority intent on disbelief until they actually are infected? That sweet woman, Mary Louise McDonald, died after an intraparenchymal hemorrhage. She was 90 years old. Her birthday was Sept. 11, 1929 - and she was a typical McDonald, just like my mother and all of her siblings. We joked that Mom would apologize for breathing too much air if someone else was in the room - and she clearly came by that honestly because Aunt Mary was the same way.

I hope that this is where I learned how to survive the isolation, the restlessness, the loneliness that this Exile has brought. Their example taught me to value the lives and health of others as highly - and sometimes more highly - than my own. Their example taught me that there are things we do that we do because it is the right thing to do. Their example taught me that doing for others shows your love for them.

Aunt Mary was encouraging. She was loving and gentle and quiet - to us. My uncles said that she was bossy and could be stubborn and sassy. I witnessed the passive-aggressive way that she and my mother would argue over kitchen duties at Thanksgiving and the way she always knew the exact gift to give you at the exact time you needed it. She and Hubs bonded over her fudge which was a staple at family gatherings. The last time I spoke to her on the phone was so quiet, only the sound of the ventilator on the other end in response to my weepy promises to look after Hubs and my sister and to learn to make her fudge for all of us.

So when we were under a mandatory stay at home order in South Carolina and we lost Aunt Mary, and the funeral home and my sister and brother in law prepared for a quiet burial, socially distanced and only attended by family - I thought about what she would have done for me, and Hubs and I went to Georgia. We drove by and saw the house in Pendergrass where my Aunt Mary lived with my grandfather until his death, and I thought about her life and how much she sacrificed because it was the right thing to do - and I hope that she forgave me my hesitation and that she was proud of who her niece has become.

And I hope that I can learn to make that fudge - goodness knows I have the time now.

Notes from Exile: What day is this?

Skylar Austin and Jane Levy in "Zoey's Extraordinary Father"

So, it's week six, and today is Tuesday. My rational mind knows that. But my emotional mind has gone off the rails today. TL: DR - I watched the season one finale of "Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist" and had a visceral reaction consisting of ugly sobbing because I have not let myself feel things that were unpleasant or painful for about five years. 

Lucky you, you get to come along as I not only sort this out but offer some advice so that NO ONE has to do this. Seriously, y'all, the long-suffering heroine who manages to hold it all together in the face of all sorts of awful is a trope that needs to be banished from literature, television, and movies. GONE. So many of my MCs have this either as a personality trait or a goal to work towards and it ends now. In my new series opener, RIFT, launching at the end of this month I created an MC that I didn't really connect with as much as I did with Gin from The Nature Walker Trilogy. Madelyne is honest about what she feels when she feels it. Gin (and I) worry too much about how what we are feeling will affect other people.

My father died in 2018 from complications related to Alzheimer's disease and vascular dementia. My mother died last summer after a major neurological event and about a month in hospice. During both of these events, I tried my best to be a grown-up about it. My sister is amazing - she may have had the same need to become completely unglued but you would never know it, and that is what I thought I needed to be. 

I did my best to be okay, I'm okay, everything is fine. This is sad but for the best. They are finally together again. Those were the words coming out of my mouth. But what I should have done was be honest with myself about how much all of that devastated me - and I wasn't.

I watched that episode of this amazing show (seriously, if you haven't seen it GO DO THAT NOW, I will wait) knowing that it would be difficult. But it was more than that - it was painful and real, and absolutely beautiful. I cried, but more importantly, I FELT. So this blog post is more than just an ad for this show (have you watched it yet? No? WHY?), but it is an encouragement to let yourself feel what you need to feel. Go through stuff. Experience things. 

The past six weeks of almost total isolation have gone by so fast and so slowly, in a way, because I'm not letting myself think about why I'm doing this. It's easy to just think about what's happening in the world, far away from my little house on my little street. What is not easy to think about is how this is affecting my relationships with people - how I'm pulling away from people that would normally be my support because I don't want to look as out of control as I feel. The first two weeks I cried every day because I was afraid. But I managed to think about it more as being safe than being stuck, and now I can't believe it's been six weeks.

You will never know how strong you can be until you are. The fact that I am still here and relatively sane is a testament to the fact that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be. The fact that, overall, I let my sister do most of the heavy lifting related to the end of both our parents' lives means that I still have work to do. But I know, with new clarity, that I can do it. I'm thankful, I'm hopeful, and I'm completely congested and horrible to look at - and I don't care.

Well, maybe I care...just a little.

The Anxiety of Grief, and Other Rabbit Holes

As found in the Great China Cabinet Clearout...

Before I go any further, let me address something in this post: SCORCH did not launch at the end of January. There was just too much going on to get that done. Please see this post and this one as well for more information on the too much going on in question. My wonderful final beta reader and I are meeting this week to look at final edits, and then it should go up for pre-order next week.

Now then, on to more threatened derailment of my schedule - the Great China Cabinet Clearout in advance of the New Hutch Installation. Currently, the hutch and table that were in my mother's condo are in a storage unit, waiting to come home to my house in place of the Incredible Hulking Kitchen Set which has served a need but now needs to go. My amazing friend Laze went with me to Atlanta two weeks ago to retrieve said hutch and table, and I'm ready to make the change.

I spent most of Saturday and a great deal of yesterday cleaning out the seven years' worth of STUFF that has accumulated in the china cabinet - most of which consisted of Things the Wolfhounds Cannot Have and excess dishes and mugs. I did find a few gems, though, like my mother's recipe for her Andes Candies knockoffs (that I LIVED ON when I was a kid), and the note pictured here. That note to Simon from my parents came with a gift of some sort to commemorate his arrival in the US on Daddy's birthday...one of the best and worst days of my life.

I picked him up from the airport in my nearly dead but still fabulous Volvo wagon, named Clive, and we headed up I-85 from the ATL to meet my parents, sister, brother in law, and niece to celebrate Daddy's birthday at a Red Lobster...somewhere. I honestly don't remember because the space in my brain dedicated to such things is filled with memories of Clive ceasing to operate while we were coasting in the left lane doing about 70mph. Poor Simon had been on a transatlantic flight, was dressed for the weather in the UK and not Georgia in June, and was generally exhausted. I was mortified and embarrassed and generally unsure of how we were going to afford to fix Clive or get a new car or, most importantly, get home. To Greenville. In South Carolina.

We got the car towed and were picked up and taken to the restaurant by my family. We ate. They asked Simon about his trip. We were tired and didn't want to be there if I'm honest. I remembered that feeling as though it was still happening as I read the date on the top of this note.

But this note, written in my mother's perfect handwriting, reminded me of how pleased they were to have their foreign son in law living in the same country. I thought of how many times over the past seven years that one or both of them made a point to tell me how much they loved Simon and how happy they were that he was here and we were close. And I thought of how many times I didn't make time to ride two hours over to Cleveland to see them, or two hours down to Atlanta to see them after Daddy got sick.

That knocked me for about two yesterday - the British expression "knocked me for six/eight" refers to being unable to do anything but be vertical for six/eight hours, generally due to exhaustion, here modified for the two hours when Simon was working in the yard and I was generally moping around the house and crying. But I'm happy that I found it and happy for the reminder that I am not the only one that lost them when they died.

I'm really happy that the china cabinet is now cleaned out and ready to be photographed and listed for sale, too. That rabbit hole was deep, and even though I re-lived the anxiety of Simon's arrival and the grief of losing Mom and Dad again, I can't deny the happiness of accomplishment.

Now if I can just get SCORCH up and away...

Navigating the Post Holiday

Written on the back of this is "33 or 34" - meaning 1933 or 1934. My mom, as a toddler.

Well, I'm back at the DayJob and so far, no one has died, exploded, or been left (for too long) without the accommodations they are supposed to have in class. So far. I mean, it's been less than a week, so fingers are still crossed.

I'm getting back into the WritingJob slowly but surely. I'm in-between works in progress at the moment, so I'm back to investigating marketing, working on the Other Stuff involved in being a writer, and making sure all my ducks are actually ducks and are heading toward a row, at least. Ads on Facebook, Amazon, and elsewhere. Keeping up a daily appearance on Twitter keeps me grounded and writing at least 140 characters a day, if not more.

I would be lying if I said it was easy, though, navigating this new normal without my mom. When my dad died in 2018, that year's holiday season was tough. The last Christmas we tried to have at their house in 2014, when he caught the flu and was in bed, asking me if I knew his daughter Susan and if I could find her for him was awful. But after he died it was more tough for me because I could see how much my mom missed him. 

I didn't have the same relationship that my sister had with our parents. She was much closer to them in many ways - she and Daddy shared a profession, a passion, and a calling to ministry that I didn't and still don't understand. She was there for Mom, doing all the heavy lifting after Daddy was forced to stop doing it by his illnesses. But Mom was my confidante, my "ride or die," my go-to when I didn't know where else to go, and her absence is heavy - her silence is deafening.

But these three little pictures of her as a little girl - out in her Sunday best for a photo - remind me to keep moving forward. There is always another bonnet that needs putting on - metaphorically speaking. They also remind me that I'm not really as alone as I feel right now. If you look at the picture on the right, there is the slightest image of a man in a flat cap, probably tying little Martha's shoe - I have no way of knowing, but I like to think that is my grandfather because it gives me hope. Mom was a little girl with a daddy that tied her shoes, just like I was, and she weathered so many more storms than I ever will. 

Not really a New Year's Resolution - more of a reminder. It's never as bad as it seems, and if so, it can only get better.

Thanks, Mom. 

Post Christmas Blahs

The view from here...

I saw a really appropriate meme on Facebook the other day. It had a stick figure on the left that was smiling and sporting a jaunty Santa cap, and the caption above its head said "1st - 26th December: Festive!" On the right was another stick figure, no Santa cap (jaunty or otherwise), who was holding a block of cheese and looking a bit puzzled. Its caption reads, "27th - 31st December: Confused, full of cheese, unsure of the day of the week."

Friends, I am full of Russian Tea and Honeycrisp Apple Cider instead of cheese, but that second stick figure and I are soulmates. I realized today when I left to take something to hubs at work that he had forgotten that I HAVE NOT LEFT THE HOUSE SINCE TUESDAY. And that would have been even more shocking if I was 100% certain what day today is. I think it's Saturday, judging by the programs on NPR this morning and the fact that THERE IS FOOTBALL ON TELLY TONIGHT THANK GOODNESS. I have grown so accustomed to college football on Saturdays that I don't know what to do with myself when there isn't any to be had.

But back to Christmas. This year it felt like we had summer, and then just the start of fall, and then BAM! Thanksgiving followed by a bit of winter and then it was Christmas Eve. Maybe it's because I'm an old lady now that time seems to speed up like that if I'm not keeping an eye on things, but I was not ready for Christmas at all. 

To those of you nodding your heads knowingly and tutting and clucking, yes, a large part of it is that it is my first Christmas without either of my parents still here. They loved Christmas so much - or at least Daddy did. The amount and creativity of that man's decorating skills were LEG-EN-wait for it- DARY. I don't think there was an inch of any house we lived in growing up or their retirement home in Cleveland that wasn't covered in garland and red bows. This year I managed a tree, and on Christmas Eve-Eve I got two new stockings for me and Simon (since the dogs shredded mine last year and I couldn't find his). The front door and the kitchen door have wreaths. But that's all, really, save the sewing Santa statue I put out every year and our Jesus-Less Nativity scene (we think one of the dogs made off with Our Lord and Savior two years ago).

I find myself longing for Christmas to last, for the temps to go somewhere below the 68F/20C that we are experiencing today. It isn't just that I have some time off work (though that is nice). I have had anxiety surrounding change my entire life. Mom said that when I was a girl I would cry when the credits rolled at the end of a tv program. Even now I can feel my gut clench just a bit when I think about the fact that the end of an entire year - an entire decade is coming up next week. But that isn't what is causing my need for things to slow down, already.

I think I was waiting for it to feel like Christmas. I've had my grief, the mourning has been done, now it should feel back to normal again, right? Wrong. The harder I push myself to make things feel normal again, the worse it is when they aren't. So to any of you that are struggling this season with a holiday that didn't feel quite right - a holiday that seems to have come on fast and left nothing in its wake but weirdness - I see you. You are heard and understood - and loved. I'm saving space for you here, with me in this dirty house on my worn leather sofa, looking at the fake fire in the television and listening to the same instrumental music on repeat since Tuesday night. We will get through this and next year will be a better - if not normal, not yet - winter holiday season.

Today, on Twitter...

Mom, probably high school age, 1940s

What wouldn't I give

For your voice in my ear

The stern looks as needed

A #sliver of your pound cake

With a cup of coffee

And  advice

What wouldn't I do

For a hug, a smile

Our smile

I still see it in the mirror.

I miss you, Mom. ❤

#vss365 #amwriting #vss365poetry #buspoetry

@nancy_dwrites

Beams of Heaven, As She Goes

Hoyt and Martha Allen, circa 1970.

"I’ve always loved this picture of my parents. The looks of joy and happiness on their faces is what I imagine today. Gentle souls who enjoyed all that life had to offer together. Always together. Beams of heaven, for sure." -Susan Allen Grady

I miss you, Mom. Give Daddy a hug from me.