The other morning, at about 8, my little family and I decided to take a walk along the Greenway. It’s so beautiful there and as we strolled, I was reminded of a post I wrote a few years ago. This may be cheating but I’m going to do it anyway since the Greenway is so wondrous and full of history. My original post was called, “History Underfoot – the Vanderbilt Motor Parkway”. I think the title says it all.

Vanderbilt Motor Parkway -

There are bits of history everywhere. Too bad we’re often too busy to notice it, or too uninformed to be aware of it – even if it’s right under our feet.

There’s a bike path in Queens near Cunningham Park – the NYC Greenway. It’s a hidden gem not just for biking but for walking, if you’re so inclined. It’s approximately 3 miles and walking/biking from one end to the other will certainly give you a workout. I know because we walked this path yesterday morning – from one end to the other and back. So peaceful there in the woods… actually, there are no woods. Just clumps of trees on either side of the path, with homes beyond them. Continue along and beyond the trees there is the highway – Northern Parkway to be precise. So here you are strolling in what feels like a surround of nature when in reality you’re smack in the heart of the city. Ah, but the woodsy scent, bird songs and rustle of leaves as chipmunks and squirrels dart here and there make you forget about what’s going on beyond the trail.

The trail was not always so quiet. In fact, it was not always a trail but a high-speed motorway designed, financed and built in 1908 by and for one of the Vanderbilts. William K., to be exact.

William K. Vanderbilt was a car racing enthusiast who built this highway with the intention of using it to hold the Vanderbilt Cup. The road was graded just so for racing, the curves meant to challenge. This private motorway was the first in the nation to use bridges and overpasses to avoid intersections.  

(photo courtesy of R. Berliner, III)

Two years of racing on this road, however, proved disappointing. Some spectators were injured and others killed during a race in 1910, and New York decided to disallow racing on anything but raceways – and that included private roads. No longer able to hold the Vanderbilt Cup, and with a need for help to pay back taxes, William K opened the road to the public - amazing that a Vanderbilt would need help paying for anything, yes? Twelve toll ‘lodges’ were built to collect a total of $2.00 in tolls. I guess you could say the road was opened to the privileged, not necessarily the public at large. These socialites traveled the road at high speed – 60mph! – in order to reach the gold-coast party circuit, then travel it back after the parties wound down. Clear sailing from Queens to Suffolk County, New York. Forty-five miles of scenic road.

Toll collectors lived in the toll lodges. Reminds me of the guards on the Great Wall of China who lived right there on the wall – their lives spent patrolling and nothing more.

(photo courtesy of H. Kroplick/R. Berliner, III)

With the birth of Prohibition in the 1920′s, the road had new purpose. Rum-running. As a private road, there were no obstacles to this process, and rum-runners certainly had the funds for tolls. Ah, but William K. didn’t approve and so brought in state police to… well… police the road and run the rum-runners out.

Eventually, the road became obsolete. The need for high speed ways to get from here to there was met by the city and state. Northern Parkway was built – a FREE highway with bends and curves more conducive to leisurely driving than racing.  Motor Parkway was eventually given to New York in exchange for back taxes still owed. Fourteen miles of the original road have been modified for today’s use, but  sadly, other areas of it have become obscured by time, weeds, neglect and ignorance.

The three mile stretch that still exists in Queens contains some of the original cement guardrails – 100 years old.

(Old and new together – Early 1900′s cement guard rails in foreground, with early 2000′s metal guard in back.)

They show age, they show neglect. They don’t come close to showing us the grandeur they once proudly guarded. And yet, they remind us to ask questions and seek answers of a past long forgotten, and truthfully, can we ask more than that?

My soon-to-be sixteen-year old is just days away from finishing her high school studies.

As a homeschooler, she’s free to decide when she’d like to do her work – mornings, weekends, evenings – as long as she puts in the required amount of hours and covers the work we’ve outlined in our correspondence with the district’s homeschool director. To my amazement, my child has chosen to continue her schoolwork long past the end of the traditional school year. She has worked steadily since last September and has managed to complete two grades in that time.

I say this because I’m extremely proud of her. I also say this because, while we’ve been homeschooling for five years now, I’m still awed by the freedom, choices and possibilities associated with the process.

This is not for everyone and I would never say homeschooling is the BETTER option for everyone. I will, however, say it has been not only a better option, but the BEST for my daughter and my family.

Her traditional elementary school was wonderful. It was hard to let our little girl go there each day without us. Harder to know she was experiencing new and wonderful things, and we weren’t there to see the light in her eyes as she ‘got it’. But, it gave her a sense of confidence and independence that we admired. Add to that the warm, nurturing environment that was her elementary school, and it was – and still is – hard for me to see how homeschooling could be better or give her more.

In middle school, everything changed. The hours upon hours of homework after a full school day did nothing to help her ‘learn’ the subjects, but rather made her want to just “get it done”. Her friends were as overloaded with homework and projects as she was and so they barely saw each other. Homework was worse on weekends, as if the school had a policy declaring children should not be permitted any free time, ever.

The teachers were no longer nurturing. They were like drill sergeants. I get that tweens can be unruly and you have to maintain order. But I truly believe they’ll grow and learn better when treated with respect rather than contempt. I think of the bees-to-honey scenario.

It was the exhausted broken spirit I saw in my child that prompted me to, finally, make the move I’d considered when she was just three years old. Homeschooling.

It has worked for us in ways I could explain page after page. I will sum all of that up by saying my daughter had choices. She chose to work and to work hard. There are no ‘grades’, there is no competition, there is no principal’s office or hall monitor. There is only one child, one teen, doing her personal best because that is what she wants to do.

She’s fortunate to have had the best of both. I’m fortunate to have had the ability to provide that for her.

Have you made life or life-style choices for your children that could have gone either way? What were they? Given the same circumstances, would you make the same choice again?

More than a decade ago, an entire generation was introduced to the magical, wondrous world of Harry Potter. 

It was a world full of friendships, hard lessons and evil.

Harry’s innocence, though it fought valiantly to hang on, was lost very early. The tragic attack on his world, his family and others, left him scarred – physically and emotionally.

A decade ago, another scar, a real scar in the real world, was left on American soil and in the hearts of many around the world. 9/11 changed the perception of adults. It changed our sense of security. The collective sense of insecurity became pervasive, and could not be hidden from our children.

Years ago – a generation ago – adults worked to absorb and hide concern and fear so children wouldn’t have to know about danger in the world. Children could be children – innocent, naïve, oblivious. Happy and free from worry, free from the burdens of adulthood, of evil.

But, 9/11 brought that evil into focus. There was no hiding it. Our children felt every breath of it. And while they could not ignore it, many of them were too young to process it, to understand it.

With Harry Potter books and movies running along the same time as al Qaeda gained steam, the children were able to give fear a home. They saw Voldemort as evil while we saw bin Laden as evil. They watched this fictitious evil grow stronger, be fought, grow stronger yet again. And they watched Harry, and all the other ‘good’ people, as they struggled to counter the terrorist acts of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It was much the same as the West struggled to beat back, contain and defeat bin Laden and al Qaeda. While this real-life process will take a lot more than a wave of a wand or a spoken “Latin” phrase, the connection is clear.

Now, a decade later, Bin laden is dead. Voldemort has been obliterated. And while the destruction, pain and devastation remain, so does hope. Our children have grown. They’re no longer wide-eyed and innocent. They are now street smart and educated. They’re young adults coming into their own, recognizing good and evil. Understanding where each rests in society, and feeling confident that they can overcome it. They can fight back. They witnessed the most horrific act of terrorism in US history. They witnessed the destruction of the fictitious world they love. And they witnessed, “19 Years Later” as it says in the book, how even through horror, even through death and destruction, life goes on.

There is no line between winning and losing. That area is blurred and wide. Winning is measured by love, friendship and integrity, while loss occurs when there is no hope.

Harry Potter will forever be a force in the minds of an entire generation. It thrilled. It frightened. It stirred. I will miss hearing about the newest book coming out and the newest film being released. I will miss the excitement in my daughter’s young eyes as she discussed the symbolism she saw in the stories. I will miss the years of toy wands, wizard-cape costumes and witch’s brooms. A lifetime – my child’s lifetime – was shared with Harry Potter. I watched her grow and mature along with the characters. The actors.

I am sad to see it end, but I am happy we had it at the time we did. Besides giving children a fantasy to explore, it gave them books to read and ideas to debate and exchange. In the dark shadow of 9/11, Harry Potter offered hope, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Thank you Harry, Hermione, Ron and all the others. Most especially, thank you J.K. Rowling.

I shouldn’t be blogging right now – I should be working on my story. However, I figured, I’ve given myself a goal and, as I’m known to do, wanted to put it out here for all to see. It’s a way of holding myself accountable when life gets in the way… or when I LET life get in the way.

So here’s the goal – finish my work-in-progress by June. Why? Because June is when I will be attending my first Romance Writers of America’s National Conference (more about that in a future post). I want to have something to pitch to the agents and editors who will be there eagerly seeking new stories.

So… according to my math, I have to write about 1-1/2 chapters per week from now until then. That’s not so bad (unless you’re a slow writer like me).  It’s only six pages per day, single space, and I know I can do it. I’ve reviewed my Book-in-a-Week workshop notes and and am ready to go.

I’ll see you here at the end of this week with an update.

Onward!  

=======

So, you know what comes after edits and revisions of a manuscript? Edits and revisions of the synopsis and query.

I’ve been told, several times, that the synopsis should be written before the story. If you can do that, I highly suggest it. However, since I’m not a plotter, but a pantser, writing the synopsis ahead of time would be like plotting the abduction of my muse. The fun part of writing, the creative part – for me at least – is in the discovery. When  I start to write, I have an idea of where I’m going. Blips of scenes flicker in my mind, in flip-book form. From there, I develop the meat of the story.

Months later, when the story is complete – and polished – I try to write a two-paragraph query and both a short and long synopsis but find myself overwhelmed by all of the intricate plot twists, emotional discoveries and settings. The query and the synopsis are supposed to ‘tell’ (not “show”) your story in a compelling yet succinct way. A way that clearly showcases your voice and your story’s tone. You can think of the query and synopsis as relaying an event to a friend. You’d hit the high points, string out the suspense of it, keep them interested without bogging them down with details. That’s what you want in your query and in your synopsis. You want to hook an agent or editor with the high points, showing them the entire work without showing them the ENTIRE work.

What’s your story about?

It seems like such a simple question to answer. And no doubt you can. But can you do it in twenty seconds or less? I couldn’t. I found even my own eyes glazed over when I tried to tell my story.

We must be creative artists when we write the story but marking pros when we sell it. It’s hard to switch hats like that.

I approached my first – hundred or so – attempts at this backwards. I had just finished revisions and figured I’d never know the story better and so writing the 1-page query and short-ish  (2-3 page synopsis) should be easy. Or should I say, ‘easier’?

I started at the beginning and wrote. Soon, I was caught in the story’s rhythm. Writing the query and synopsis in glorious detail, only to remember that wasn’t the place for it. My poor muse slumped. She’d been giddy. Guiding me through, reminding me of ‘moments’ so compelling, to me, that they just had to be included in this selling tool.

I resorted to bribery and promised my muse a new story. I tossed a thought out there and she ran off with it, trying to figure out how to work that idea into 300 pages of colorful language and gripping scenes.

I also did the dishes, the laundry, the vacuuming and grocery shopping. And then I sat down to write. My goal? One sentence. From the “Snowflake Method” to “Pitch University“, I’ve always heard about breaking the story down to one sentence. I could not imagine how to do it then found help in the form of examples from Nathan Bransford‘s fantastic site.

Using his examples as a guide, I went through several drafts of my ‘one-line’ pitch until, finally, hours later, I had it. If you can break your story down to it’s raw form – which, for me ,turned out to be the idea that prompted the story in the first place – you can find your one-sentence pitch. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not. Maybe, though, it’ll get easier with time and practice.

Meanwhile, that one sentence grew into one paragraph. That paragraph being the way I’d tell friends and strangers about my story. Just enough detail to cover the main plot and leave them wanting more.  From there, came two-paragraphs, with more emotion, more mood and a touch more detail. Those paragraphs are for the query.

It took hours to write those lines. You’d think after hours of work you’d have more to show than that, yes? But if it took months, maybe a year or more, to write the story, shouldn’t it take a decent amount of time to market it properly? I rushed through my original query, thinking I just had to give a basic idea of what my story was about. Now, I realize it’s not simply what it’s about, but specifically and succinctly what happens, why and what’s at stake for your characters.

I’ll repeat – it wasn’t easy. I’m sure I’ll be banging my head on the keyboard next go-round. But now that I’ve invested the time the query needs and deserves, the process finally makes sense.

What’s next now that the query is finished? The synopsis. Let the head-banging begin.

========

I always use my laptop to plot and write my stories. It just makes sense to do so since I type faster than I write by hand. Also, the words never flow quite right on the first run and revising via computer is a whole lot easier – highlight/delete – than revising with pen and paper.

Still, there’s an attraction to a new blank journal that I cannot ignore. Something  about the crackle of a new journal’s spine as you open it and smooth the pages flat. Something about the flourishes, the blank space, the actual feel of it in your hands as you re-read what you’ve written there.

I still have journals from years ago – from my teens and before. I often look at them, read them, and reconnect with the girl I was. I remember her well. Though I’m glad to know a big part of her has been left in the past. Now, when I journal, it’s live and public – and often 140 characters or less – and not quite as soul-searching or revealing as it had been. That’s okay because I’m not sure I want to reveal myself the way I used to. I’m not sure I even remember how to be so open. Even to myself.

However, while journal-ing may not be a favorite pastime of mine, writing still is. Though it’s more than a pastime, for sure. And so, I bought a new journal, with a cover meant to inspire even the most stubborn muse. And I have a new perfume oil to compliment the image on the journal. Add to all that, the right music, and my muse will sing like she’s never sung before. I feel it. I want it. I’m ready for it.

Yes, music and scent. They create a mood. An atmosphere. A sense of being somewhere new, secret, mysterious. Where the muse is safe and free to create. Sure, I could sit at the computer and ‘think’ myself into another place but it’s not the same as being as immersed in it as possible.

The music is always the hardest part for me to select. I want something I enjoy, of course, but also something that fits the story I hope to write. That will enhance the mood, yet fade into the background. Something to help add dimension to the words, in ink, on the page.

The scent I’m using for this story is named perfectly, in my opinion. It’s from a company called, The Poison Apple Apothecary and they call it, Parlor.  I can’t get enough of the scent. I put a few drops on a cotton puff and place it in a glass bowl that sits beside me as I write. Lovely.

Poison Apple describes the fragrance this way: The heady scent of sweet pipe tobacco wafting through a large parlor with dark oak floors and imperial furnishings.

I wish I could dab a bit of it onto the screen so you could smell it for yourself.

As for my inspiring journal, it’s from Peter Pauper Press and it is simply gorgeous. Just look at this cover -

Isn’t it beautiful?

And now to the music. For this current story, I chose something seductive, something meant to lull me into the moment where a sultry summer night breeze carries these soulful and soothing strains…

I’d have you listen to it – in fact, I posted this sexy saxophone piece originally – but since then, the artist sent me a rather abrupt and threatening message demanding I remove the link to his music. So, rather than further distract or upset an artist with my tiny online presence, I’ve obliged. And I’ve chosen new music as a backdrop for my work since I need and enjoy a more positive vibe than this piece would, from here on, provide.

You know, being a writer can be a truly wonderful thing.

Sometimes.

Today “would have been” my grandmother’s 96^th birthday and I can’t help but again think of dozens of woulda’s coulda’s and shoulda’s. If she were here, I would have made chocolate chip cookies to celebrate. I should have done that last year but went for store-bought cake and ice cream instead. I could have put the extra energy into her 95^th and made it something we’d all remember for our lifetime.

But then… I do remember the store-bought cake and ice cream. I remember the meal, and her sitting at the head of the table. I remember her acceptance of our gift – and ‘acceptance’ was about as good as it got. I remember her asking me to make her a cup of tea so she could see how much better the new microwave was than the one she’d had before. So, I guess it was a good day.

She’d started to say all her days were the same. That’s never a good thing, and though she wanted to be part of our day, and share our experiences, she just didn’t have the drive to do so any more. She wanted to want to spend time with us outside of the house but no longer had the energy. She was tired and I have to accept that, though it’s hard when I consider all the escapades of my youth and her younger years.

There are too many to detail. Some make me cry as they make me laugh. She drove. Got her license when she was in her 50’s. She had a green Pontiac and once, when I wanted to photograph the sunrise on the beach, she said she’d go with me. And she did. We planned it out – two secret agents on a mission. She lived downstairs from us and was ready with her keys in her hand when I met her in her kitchen at 4am. By 4:30, we were on the beach, squealing at the sight of a beach rat, huddling close, giggling like kids and running along the dock to get away from it down there on the sand. And then we sat on a bench. And waited for the sun to rise. I still have the pictures I took that morning and when I look at them I see the whole thing – not the sun coming up but the fun. The moments. So simple. So special. And fleeting.

And so today, I will celebrate a life that made mine so much more colorful than it would have been otherwise. In her honor, I made something I should have made for her at some point. It’s a treat that, until recently, she made very year for the holidays. Struffoli or “honeyballs”. While she made bowls and bowls of them, I’ve only made one. And in making that one I was reminded of the staying power of that woman. The chutzpah. The energy. I’d never be able to make as many perfect little dough nuggets as she – each browned identically to the others, perfectly matched in size and shape. So when I look at my one bowl I see her, standing at her kitchen counter, rolling the dough into shoestrings, cutting them – thousands of them – frying them, piling them into bowl upon bowl. I see her with brown hair, slightly darker brown hair, grayish hair. White. Changing but always constant.

My one bowl looks somewhat like hers yet something is different. Something is missing. I suppose it will always be that way. We’ll have them tonight to celebrate the life she shared with us and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get up at 4 tomorrow to watch the sunrise. Though I know something will be different, and something will be missing from that moment too.

A professor stood before his philosophy  class and  had some items in front of him.

When the class began, wordlessly, he  picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and started to fill it with  golf balls.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and  poured it into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls.

H e then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous  ‘yes.’

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the  table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand.

The students laughed.

‘Now,’ said the  professor, as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things -  family, children, health, friends, and favorite passions things  that if everything else was lost and  only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the things that matter like your job, house, and car.

The sand is everything else –
The small stuff.

‘If you put the sand into the jar  first,’ he continued, ‘there is no room for the pebbles or the golf  balls.

The same goes for life.

If you spend all your time and energy  on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that  are important to you.

So…

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness.
Play with your children.
Take time to get medical checkups.
Take your partner out to dinner.

There will always be time to clean the house and fix the dripping tap.

‘Take care of the golf balls first –
The things that really  matter.
Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.’

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.

The  professor smiled.

‘I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that  no matter how full your life may seem,  there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.’

===

For my friend, Patricia Windsor. If only we’d made room for at least one cup.

So… I was starting to feel kinda lonely here on my blog since no one had posted a comment in quite some time.  However, I just learned that my “comment” option was not working properly.  Instead of posting comments, it was taking people to a blank page. Well, I am not tech-savvy so I cried and moaned to everyone I know who is. No one was able to fix my problem – not even WordPress.

Finally, I contacted the host of my website and blog. I know.  Duh. What can I say? I’m a slow learner. Anyway, they acknowledged technical difficulties and have now repaired the glitch in my blog.

Now… I don’t know if anything is going change or if people are going to flock here to read and comment, but at least the comment option is functional again.

Sunny day.  Birds singing. Great music on the radio (Tom Petty, in case you’re wondering). AND a blog that is now fully functional. What more could a girl want?   That is… at this particular moment… 

Grandma was a rice ball. The real Italian kind. Small. Round. Hearty. A crisped-to-perfection edge with a surprisingly luscious inner blend – saucy meat (with emphasis on saucy. And meaty), sweet gooey cheese, and just a smattering of those annoying little peas.

They don’t make rice balls the way they used to. They never will again. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. It’s the rice balls of today that make the memory of those we loved so dearly and can never have again, that much more precious in our very heavy hearts.

The query ride continues and spring remains just out of reach… two yearnings of mine are, as of yet, unfulfilled. Ah, but I have hope and to aid that hope toward possibility, I have researched more agents and stocked up on wild bird seed. When that request comes through, I want to fling open the windows and hear those songbirds sing! lol.

Until then, I write. I plot and I de-clutter my house.

Daylight savings screwed me out of a few days, but I have to say, I’m kinda likin’ it now. The days feel less dreary. The darker mornings are tough but the cats make sure I stumble through them regardless how early it still seems to be. I feed those insistent little creatures, then get on with the day… enjoying the extra hour of daylight when, just a week ago, I would have been feeling as sleepy as the sun settling in the night sky.

The crocuses are peeking through the hard earth, and grape hyacinth greens are standing tall in proud little groups. Soon, my garden will be filled with beautiful purple and yellow spring flowers and the windows in my house will be open to balmy breezes and warm-weather sounds.

Yes. I’m in love with Spring. It invigorates me, excites me, makes me want to get up and DO. We’ll be taking our bikes to the park for lunch and lessons again soon. We’ll be enjoying our tiny yard, fresh air and the company of friends.

Though funds are tight for us and everyone else, there’s one thing we can count on and that’s the newness,  the hope, the fresh-start feeling spring seems to bring.

I’m now in Colorado for my mom’s 2nd Chemo treatment. I’ll be here until the 6th of November which means I will not be homeon the 4th. Election Day.

Hmm. Now, that’s a bit of a dilemna, yes? What about voting?

Sure, New York is a BLUE state, and so, my BLUE vote would be voiced with or without me actually casting said vote. BUT…

This is history!!! How on earth could I not cast my vote is this historical election? Well… I couldn’t not vote so I voted early via absentee ballot. And my 13 year old daughter cheered me on as she, too, witnessed a bit of history take place in her lifetime.  

How amazing is this?

I used to play The Sims. Loved it. I loved being in the virtual world where I could create characters and control their lives… kinda like writing fiction.

I always treated my Sims fairly and never purposely caused them distress. Once, however, things went terribly wrong. My Sim character had just stepped out of the shower and dressed. Now, I don’t know about you. but I can’t dress after a shower unless I’m completely dry. Completely dry. Apparently that’s not so for The Sims. He left the bathroom and entered the living room where a lightbulb had burned out. And so, assuming he was dry, I had him change that bulb. And he was electrocuted.

Zapped! Fried! Burned and reduced to ashes! This horrible crackling sound came from his virtual living room. I sat stunned, my arms tingling with shock the same as my character tingled and trembled with an electrical current coursing through his tiny computer-generated physique. He turned from a ‘live’ being to a glowing skeleton to a pile of dust to an urn. An URN! In seconds it was over. A life I’d created instantly snuffed out by the apparent incompatibility of virtual water and virtual electricity. It was awful. His Sims wife sobbed by his urn… 

…and I sat there staring at the screen, feeling sick to my stomach and wondering why I’d chosen to play that stupid, addictive game in the first place.

I killed a Sim.

But I was never arrested for murder.

A woman in Japan, however, was not so lucky.

She, apparently, enjoyed virtual games the same as I. Her first mistake, however, was not playing privately but rather joining an online virtual community. Her second mistake was letting her virtual character in that community marry another virtual character.

It seems, at some point, her virtual DH decided he was done with her. Without warning, she went to her happy virtual home only to learn her character was no longer a married woman but a divorcee!

Furious, she used some pillow talk against her V-DH. He’d told her his secrets. Shared private and personal information with her. What did he share? Well… the virtual world’s equivalent of a social security number.

He shared his username and password!

Perfectly bringing ‘life’ to the expression hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, she logged in as him, took control of his character – her ex – and killed him.  Killed. Him.

The gory details were not made public, but suffice it to say, HE was stunned when he logged on and discovered his character was dead.

The woman was arrested and held without bond.

In fairness, I have to say she wasn’t arrested for murder, she was arrested for identity theft. Still, I’m willing to bet neither of them will take another virtual mate any time soon.

What a strange, strange world we live in.

It’s 8AM. Do you know where your virtual identities are?

Well… I’m not exactly “hunting” as I’ve been typing since Mrs. Peters’ class in 7th grade. However, I am “pecking”.

I spent the weekend working on my deck. Yes, hubby powerwashed it all by his lonesome, but it still needed to be water-proofed and stained. We made it a family affair… and I have the sore and tingly wrists to prove it.

Actually, it’s one wrist – the right. Considering I’m a lefty, a weak right wrist shouldn’t matter. Ha! It’s amazing how much more I use my right hand than my left – mainly for anything that needs strength. While the left is more for control. And so, I used the right to lift and push furniture off the deck, to stir the stain and to stain the flower beds and edging with a brush. The repetitive motion and the strain did me in. My wrist is now wrapped in an Ace bandage and I’m babying it as much as I can – which makes typing take forever. Not that it matters because it’ll still ‘talk’ here.

The deck came out beautifully, in my opinion. The color is so rich – not weathered like it had been for so long. Too long. I’m so happy with it.

Oh! And check out what I found on the seat of a folding chair outside Daughter’s window…

Nope. Not cat-prints. Try… RACCOON PRINTS!!

After putting the deck back in order yesterday, Daughter and I went to the shelter. So from there, I must announce… KITTENS!

They’re precious, of course, but we still have to find homes for them. While there last night, I took some pictures of our newest additions – and some of the older kittens too.

As one of our volunteers said to me the other day, “We have to find homes for them soon because, like it or not, kittens do have a shelf life.” And it’s so true. People want the tiny ones because they look so cute and cuddly. What they don’t realize is that, once you get to know them, the older cats are just as cute and even more in need of cuddling.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/fcCY_cClCsk&hl=en]

Well… you’ll just have to wait on that while I tell you about my day today.

Today was a brilliant day. We had our homeschooling “moving-up day” picnic. It was wonderful. The weather was glorious and the park we went to was just stunning. It’s called Belmont Lake State Park. The lake is so wide and still. So still, it looked glossy.

Considering that all week we had a heat wave here – into triple digits for several days – having this day was a gift. We arrived at the park at 10 this morning, and the children – about 40 or so of them – had time for free play while us parents chatted about the accomplishments we all witnessed this school year. At noon, we had lunch, and then we really started cooking! The drama club – of which Daughter is a part – put on a play. Two plays, actually. The younger crew performed Hansel and Gretel while the older crew, the one Daughter is in, performed Perseus and Medusa. What fun this was.

The stress of the last few rehearsals was a little overwhelming. And last night, we were up until midnight in my house, running lines. BUT… all was worth it because it went off without a hitch. Well… maybe one or two but no one noticed and it was a blast. When an audience laughs where you want them to laugh, you know you’ve done it right.

I’m thrilled that the school year is over but, in a way, I’m also a little disappointed. The homeschooling group we belong to is like an extended family for us. Great families, great activities, great fun. I’ll see them all in September and we’ll have more adventures together. But this was such a great year for us that I am indeed a little sad to see it end. At least I can say in all sincerity, it ended on a super, super high.

And back to our winner… drum roll please…

The winner of this lovely little item -

… as mentioned in my previous post… was chosen by Daughter. The names of everyone who commented were written on individual pieces of paper and tossed into her Bronx Zoo cap. She closed her eyes, reached in and plucked out the one with Kathleen’s name on it!

KATHLEEN?! Come on down!!

Kathleen, just go to my website  and fill in your info. Go to the Contact page. In the ‘comments’ section, fill in your mailing address, then click ‘send’, and I will send this necklace right to you!

I hope you’ll enjoy it and wear it with pride.

Thanks everyone!