Living Connections

Book Trailer

2012-02-08T08:12:00.000-08:00

So, I've been a very busy little writer-person these days, trying to finish the edits on my next book while keeping up with letting everyone know about the first book. But hey, I truly love what I do, so life is good.I received a message from my publisher yesterday (and just on a side note, I really love my publisher, they are awesome and wonderful!). The message was, "We've completed your book trailer, here it is."Book trailer?!!!I had chills when I first watched the video. You've got to check this out, it's, as my brother says, "Wicked Cool"!Click here to view the video.I hope you enjoy watching this. Also, if you have any questions for me about Signs of the South or my writing, you can send them to my publisher at info@pulsepub.net. Have a wonderful week, and take care of yourselves.

To Find A Ghost

2011-12-31T10:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t really know lots about ghost hunting, and what I do know is mostly gleaned from instinct. I write about ghosts in my books, but so far it’s all been fiction. I do know that the dead often visit loved ones in their dreams, I know that the newly departed sometimes hover near those left behind, and I know that a haunting can happen for any number of reasons.If, for instance, I’d been murdered, I’d be a little upset, and would probably hover for a while, trying to set things right. Or if I didn’t know I was dead, I’d spend some time trying to get used to that particular state of being. Well, it looks like I’m going to get a big lesson in ghost hunting next week when I embark on a night of waiting for visitations. I’ll be working with R.T.L. Paranormal, a local investigation group that seems to really have their act together. Here’s a quote from their FaceBook page:The best advice I can give someone who is starting out as a paranormal investigator is this: Don't drink the Koo-Aid. Just because para-stars on TV says something, that doesn't necessarily mean that it is golden. Don't be a sheep, come up with your own thoughts, beliefs and theories. Remember, your brain and your instincts are the best tools any investigator can have. –RayOkay, so far I really love these guys. I just hope I don’t mess up their investigation by:a. Attracting every ghost in a ten mile radius to the location, causing a spirit highway back-up;b. Unknowingly setting off alarms, resulting in police presence;c. Tripping and falling, knocking the cameras down just as an entity fully materializes;d. Becoming the TSTL girl. If you don’t know what that is, email me and I’ll explain it.Stay tuned for updates on the first ghost hunt of the year for me…

Release Date!

2011-11-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to announce the release dates for Signs of the South are November 29 (electronic version) and February 21 (print version).

For more information you can visit my Facebook page http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Narielle-Living/307597632586503 or my publisher's website, www.pulsepub.net.

Our Children

2011-06-22T09:47:00.000-07:00

I felt as if an invisible fist had punched me in the stomach, knocking my breath out and bringing tears to my eyes. It was an April 29 news report, one that most people in this area would not soon forget.

Gloucester, Virginia deputies served a search warrant on Shannon Gore, only to find something very different than the stolen gold they were looking for. They found a child, a little girl, left in a cage and starving. Outside, buried under the shed, were the remains of another child.

After the horror of the situation sank in, my first reaction was pure anger. “That’s my daughter!”

Now, let me be clear about something. I know that the little girl is not my biological daughter. I understand the difference between my kids and someone else’s kids. I am not that far gone that I am about to go snatching children from their homes or dementia ridden with the belief that my children are wandering around out there.

But my initial reaction, the outrage I felt, was tied to a very strong instinct I believe most parents have, and that is the instinct to protect.

Obviously not every parent feels this way, or deputies would not have found the little girl living in those deplorable conditions. But many of us do have those feelings, that natural inclination to nurture and care for the kids we know.

Consider this: if everyone felt that each child, whether they are biologically yours or not, was “their child”, things might be a little bit different.

Maybe as a society we would direct more attention to the needs of our children, instead of allowing them to waste away in a foster system that clearly does not work. Maybe we would address the fact that there are more than 115,000 children in this country available for adoption, children who are older or have serious medical needs, children who may very well never find a “forever home”. In the state of Virginia there were more than 106,000 cases of reported abuse in 2010, and children all over the United States die from neglect and abuse every day, regardless of race or income level.

Maybe we would reach out and help the children that desperately need our help instead of not facing the reality of what is happening in our neighborhoods.

Neighbors who lived next to Shannon and Brian Gore were outraged. They had no idea that a little girl was living there, much less that she was being starved. There is no doubt that someone would have stepped in to help.

The little girl (dubbed “Sunshine” by a special online group committed to helping victims) is doing much better. She is still hospitalized but shows signs of significant weight gain (she was believed to be six years old at the time of her discovery and weighed 15 pounds) and has been reported to be doing as well as could be expected.

Just because these monsters have been caught doesn’t mean there aren’t more abusers out there, or that we can look the other way when we see child neglect, or that we can ever forget how a child should be treated.

As a community we can make a difference in the lives of so many kids. After all, they really are “our children.”

Signs of the South

2011-06-20T06:03:00.000-07:00

A new job, a new home, and a ghost that won’t let her sleep until she solves a murder.

This is not what Ella Giancetti has in mind when she accepts a college teaching position and relocates. Moving from Connecticut to Virginia, Ella quickly learns of the many cultural differences separating the North from the South, from her first taste of sweet tea to the true meaning of ‘bless your heart’. Adjusting to all this while dealing with incessant phone calls from her sister Lisa and trying to figure out why someone is spray painting spiteful messages on her new house is a little overwhelming. At least there’s a handsome police officer hanging around.

When Ella wakes to find a ghost in her house she decides enough is enough. She’s going to need to find out how the ghost became a ghost if she ever wants to have a peaceful night in her new home. Unfortunately, finding out why is going to take more than a few Internet searches. Unearthing the mystery of this ghost means delving into a town’s long ago past where racial lines were sharply drawn and injustices were a way of life.

What I Will Do On My Summer Vacation

2011-06-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

This summer, I will be...

...working on the final edits from the publisher for my debut novel, Signs of the South.

IT'S OFFICIAL!!!

The contract has been signed and we are ready to move forward. As all my friends in the writing world know, getting your first (or second, third or fifteenth) novel published is no easy feat. But I've managed to find a great publisher that I am very excited to work with that really loves what I've written.

Pulse Publishing is the traditional publishing division of Urban Echoes Entertainment, a multimedia company. The CEO, Marcus Harris, is friendly, approachable, and best summed up by the line in his bio that reads, "Marcus has become highly respected for his ability to relate universal truths that span the boundaries of race, color, creed, and gender and address the everyday lives interwoven throughout the global community." How could I not work with someone like that?

This summer we will be working on final edits, cover design, and an exciting contest that involves all of you.

More information regarding the contest and release dates will be posted as they become available.

The Reason for the Story

2011-05-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

I believe that we are intimately connected to each other through our stories. Isn’t it in our nature to tell each other the details of our lives? Do we not reach for the phone when something happens so we can share this ‘thing’, good or bad?

If you think about it, we spend much of our lives telling our story to others. Even if it’s just an end-of-the-day review to our partner or friend, we are driven to communicate what happened.

This is what nourishes us, the stories we tell each other or read become the fuel for our souls. When I think about the books I’ve read in my lifetime I know that it was not just about my need to jump into someone else’s world, it was my need to know someone else’s story. It was about my need to know I wasn’t alone.

Reading books is how I learned about so much of the world.

Stories provide a mirror for us to look into and assess and let us know we share a connection. Stories illustrate that we are not alone in our experiences and reactions in life.

Most importantly, stories heighten our understanding of being human.

The Published Life: Writer's Workshops

2011-05-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

I am so excited about the upcoming workshops that we have scheduled! I'm working with the committee that is putting this series together, and I have to say I think it will be great for local writers. I am especially excited that we have three wonderful authors and speakers to present for us, including Greg Lilly, Karen Jones and Brad Parks. Here's a preview via the press release I wrote (stay tuned for more updates!):

Chesapeake Bay Writers and the Yorktown Public Library are pleased to announce an upcoming series of free workshops entitled The Published Life: Workshops for Writers. This series will take place at the Yorktown Public Library, 8500 George Washington Blvd, Yorktown VA. The goal of these workshops is to help writers successfully navigate the complex and sometimes confusing world of publishing, both before and after your book is released. The Published Life will address publishing components such as query letters, proposals, publishing myths and marketing.

Workshops will be held on June 25, July 23 and September 10 from 10:30 to 12:30. Each session will be taught by local professional, published writers.

The first class is to be held on June 25, Snagging a Publisher with the Perfect Query Letter. During this time students will explore query letter, pitch and synopsis techniques to use when submitting your novel to agents and publishers. Greg Lilly, publisher and novelist, will use discussion and worksheets to lead you through the development of these all-important selling tools.

Register now for this free event by visiting the Chesapeake Bay Writers website, http://www.chesapeakebaywriters.org/reservcheck/Event_view.php. For questions contact the Yorktown Library reference desk, 890-5207.

A Caged Life

2011-05-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there are no words for the unspeakable horrors that happen in our world. We read about it, we see it on television, but when the worst of the worst happens in our backyard we cannot describe the despair we might feel.
Especially when it happens to children.

Honestly, I’ve spent the past week and a half walking around my house muttering “Those (insert expletive) people…”

If there’s one thing I abhor it’s people who hurt children. I don’t need to explain, I’m sure most readers can understand and identify with that sentiment.

In Gloucester, Virginia, Brian Gore and Shannon Gore have been charged with first degree murder, attempted capital murder and felony abuse and neglect. It seems they were keeping a little girl locked in a makeshift cage in their trailer and had buried another child under the shed in the backyard.

This is one of those terrible, terrible stories. And it keeps getting worse. From the fact that none of the neighbors even knew of the existence of this little girl to the fact that the alleged parents never properly fed or cared for this child, it is abuse at its most horrific.

And now, added to that, is the fact that there are laptops and a camera that Brian and Shannon tried to hide.

Matt Sabo, reporter for the Daily Press, has provided amazing coverage of this story. For complete details check out http://www.dailypress.com/news/gloucester-county/dp-nws-gloucester-abuse-charges-20110502,0,2474271.story and read everything from what led deputies to this gruesome discovery to what the search warrants read.

Her future is uncertain, but definitely brighter than it was on April 28. At that point, doctors are quoted as saying she would have died within a week living in those deplorable conditions.

We’re glad she was saved. But, here’s the important part: how many others are out there, locked in cages or abused through neglect? How many children live in conditions so horrific we cannot begin to image that life?

If you know or see a child being abused or neglected don’t be afraid to speak up. Call social services and be sure to follow up on the case. Make sure something is done. After all, you may be the only voice there is for that child.

Win A Free Edit Contest

2011-03-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

Contests are a wonderful way to connect with agents, editors and publishers. Some contests are easier to enter than others, but some are just plain fun.

Editor Cassandra Marshall is having her Spring Edit Contest. Enter for a chance to win a free substantial book edit (up to 100,000 words) by midnight, March 21. Simply go to her blog, www.editorcassandra.com and fill out the form.

Good luck!

The Talking Board

2011-03-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

Candlelight could not reach the corner shadows. The sound of breathing was loud in our ears. Soda pop coursed through our veins.

And then it moved.

Slightly, but it was enough.

“Did you do that…,” we squealed. Our answers were always denial.

“I’m not moving it, I swear!”

For many teenagers, playing with Ouija boards is a rite of passage, sort of like levitating your friends with your fingers. If you’ve never done these activities, you haven’t missed anything.

Except lots of squealing and a certain level of anxiety about the Universe.

I’ve noticed something curious. When I was a kid, I was told not to play with Ouija boards. It was dangerous. We might let something in. Never mind what that something would be, you could be certain it would be bad. Very bad.

The best way to get me to do something is to tell me not to do it, especially at the particularly rebellious stage of teenagerdom.

Here’s the thing. Everyone knows that malevolent spirits disguised themselves as kids who died too early. They would talk to us through the Ouija board, claiming to be the wandering spirit of a sixteen year old who drowned or died in a car crash or something horrendous, and we would be awed by everything the spirit had to say.

But we knew that talking to these spirits led to trouble. After all, look at my friend Aly*, who spent too much time talking to the spirits and ended up in the psyche hospital. Or look at my friend Dory* who flunked her exam because she stayed up too late talking to the board and didn’t study.

The thing I’ve always wondered is this: did these spirits follow Aly and Dory through the rest of their lives, interfering and being a general nuisance by knocking on the floorboards and such? Or did they fade away, lured by the call of other young people looking for a thrill with the board?

I lost touch with these friends long ago, so I’ll never know. I guess if I want the answer, I could always ask the board to give me a ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But I think I’ll pass, for now.
Do people still use the Ouija? Do you get an answer? I’d love to know…

*Obviously the names Aly and Dory are not real names. And before you even ask, no, I’m not going to tell you their real names. Not for all the tarot cards in the deck. Because hey, I don’t want to attract the attention of those spirits that were bugging them, do I?

Why We Write

2011-01-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine remarked to me last week that she could not imagine why anyone in their right mind would write a novel since there was no immediate compensation. She was puzzled by my career choice. “At the end of the week I know I’ve earned X amount of dollars. But you’ve written a novel and you’re not getting anything until you find a publisher.” That’s true, I admitted. But there are some very legitimate reasons why I write, I explained. Then, of course, I had to come up with those reasons. Here’s my list of reasons why writers write:

Boatloads of Money
James Patterson, Stephen King, Nora Roberts… they’re all pulling in cash, making boatloads of money, right? Isn’t that what happens when a writer lands a contract? Fame and fortune must surely be around the corner.

Okay, so the reality of the situation is that earning a living as a writer means that there will be weeks when you only have enough money to use ketchup to make tomato soup. At the time, this might seem like a rational thing to do. But the writer persists, knowing that Stephen King started in much the same way.

Prefer to Work in my Pajamas
This is a no brainer. Who doesn’t prefer to start the work day at home, dressed in cozy pajamas with a mug of steaming flavored coffee? Maybe the flavored coffee part is just me, maybe you prefer tea, but you get my point. This is definitely a point in favor of the writing life.

I Have Something to Say
Everyone has something to say. Unfortunately we are constantly surrounded by things people have to say, whether it’s on the internet or the old fashioned radio and TV. With all that unnecessary verbiage floating around, the writer focuses on whittling away and presenting only the essential for introspection, hoping to give humanity insight, wisdom and maybe even humor. Yes, I have something to say, but my ultimate hope is that it refocuses your world view or maybe in some small way makes you feel less alone.

The Writing on the Wall
My brother said this best when I was barely a teenager. He told me, “You’d better be a writer when you grow up. If you don’t write your stories down, you’re going to start seeing them written on the walls.”

Since I have no intention of losing myself to insanity, I have done what he suggested. Surprisingly, I think he was correct.

A Connecticut Yankee in the Virginia Sheriff's Department

2010-10-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

Monday night marked my third class with the York Poquoson Sheriff’s Department, and ultimately one of the most engaging to date.

I had no idea what to expect, beyond the obvious, as the class was titled “Uniform Patrol 1”. It was not just about uniform patrol, though. There was much, much more.

The first speaker was Captain J. Culler, a decades long veteran of the sheriff’s department. Captain Culler has a sort of police presence about him, the type of man that causes others to sit up straight and respond with a ‘yes, sir!’. There is also a touch of cynicism to this man, an air of having seen perhaps a nasty side of our fellow humans and wearily come to terms with it all.

“People can be just plain rude,” he told us.

I really did know better, but I just couldn’t help myself. “But, you’re the guy with the gun, why would they be rude to you?”

Captain Culler was incredulous. “What, do you have unicorns painted on the walls of your room?”

No, but I did just get back from a vacation at Disney. Maybe that would explain my ‘everything is magical’ world view.

Seriously, I can’t imagine being rude to a police officer (or deputy, as the case may be). These are the people that are just doing their jobs, which by the way includes saving your ass if it comes down to it.

After Captain Culler finished, our next section involved talking with the Emergency Response Team (ERT). These are the people that get the fun toys for their job, like entry tools, body armor and some very fine weaponry. Deputy West told us a little about surveillance, rescues and recoveries, as well as what one might expect with a job like this. In addition, a display of weapons and gadgetry was set up at the front of the room so we could see for ourselves what was needed for those nasty situations such as abductions, hostage takings, suicidal subjects or barricaded gunmen.

Again, in an emergency situation, ERT and patrol definitely have our backs.

Our field trip that night consisted of going outside and learning how a flash bang is used. All I can say is that it is very, very loud and very, very bright. And maybe just a little bit scary.

On Wednesday of this coming week I will get to go on what is known as a ‘ride along’, which will be an evening of me riding in a patrol car with an assigned officer. According to Captain Culler, if a high speed pursuit should occur, I cannot be in the police car. I’m supposed to exit the vehicle and wait.

If you see me on the side of the road this week, honk and wave. And maybe you could even come back with a cup of coffee or something.

Adventures in the Sheriff's Department

2010-09-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

I think that many of us have a certain fascination with forensic science and police procedure. If this were not the case, shows like Law & Order and CSI would never get watched. We love to see television detectives nail the bad guys in a neatly timed hour, or read about medical examiners that can crack a case wide open with their amazing techniques and intellect, or try to figure out who the perp is from a novel’s carefully doled out crime scene details. The business of crime as entertainment is big, and it is no wonder that some of us want to know more.

I recently received an email from a friend I met eighteen years ago. We used to work together in an office in Stamford, CT, and the reason we became friends was mostly based on our mutual irreverent and obscure senses of humor. In her note to me she asked, Do you remember when you wanted to be a forensic photographer? Your only issue was you didn't like looking at gross stuff. Big obstacle. Thankfully you found your true calling! Although I would have loved to see a crime scene through your eyes :)

Well, it looks like my friend is about to get her wish. Brace yourself, Yorktown. Yours truly has enrolled herself in the York Poquoson Sheriff’s office citizen’s academy. Obviously, I am much better suited at writing about crime scenes than I am as an active participant in solving them. As I write about crimes scenes, I have complete control over the gross stuff. Plus, I have the added bonus of knowing who to call to get those pesky details correct.

Last year I was stuck. One of my book characters, Ella, was faced with a dilemma early in the book and needed to call 911. Later, a dead body surfaces. Not knowing proper police procedure, I drove myself straight to the sheriff’s department. Captain Richardson, the community relations guy that has to deal with people like me, was unfailingly polite and fully answered all my questions. To his great credit, he didn’t even twitch when I asked, “So, if I buried a body out in Poquoson, do you think the neighbors would smell it?”

“Nope, not if you use lime.”

An easy answer to an easy question. Next question. “Should I wrap it in plastic?”

Captain Richardson nods. “Of course. That would help stop the smell, too.”

So far my experience with our local police has been that they are unfailingly polite and helpful.

It will be interesting to go through this class and learn all about proper procedure. Hopefully this will also mean I won't have to ask Captain Richardson a gazillion questions about crime scenes.

I have convinced my friend and neighbor, Cindy, to take this class with me. During the next ten weeks we will learn all about 911 Communications, Hiring, Training, Policies and Procedures, Criminal Investigations, Criminal Law, DWI Investigations, Family Violence, Narcotics Enforcement, Tactical Operations, Hostage Negotiations, Jail Operations and Firearms/Weapons use.

I have yet to convince Cindy that we will be the next Cagney and Lacey. Perhaps she’s right, and we’ll be lucky just to meet a few nice people and go for a fun ride in a patrol car.
Or maybe, between the two of us, we can use these new techniques combined with our amazing intellect and crack a cold case wide open.

Somehow, I don’t think any criminals are going to lose much sleep over the new crime fighting duo in Yorktown.

Remembering Natalie

2010-08-20T08:46:00.000-07:00

The summer before my senior year in high school Madonna was on the radio, a new drivers’ license was in my purse, and I had the breath-stealing, tantalizing awareness of being on the precipice to freedom. I had plans. They might have been vague and ill-defined, but they were my plans, born of a vision I had for the woman I wanted to become. Besides, vague and ill-defined suited me. Life specifics are overwhelming and scary for a seventeen year old.

Looking back, I think of the summer of ’85 as the time when my instant of innocence vanished. Consumed as I was by my teenage social life (which was, admittedly, shaky at best) and senior year anxieties (the ‘didn’t study for the test’ nightmares were a regular occurrence, especially since I very often didn’t) it never occurred to me that my perception of reality was not exactly reality.

I think lots of kids have those kinds of feelings at that age. The future is poised to unfurl before us, yet we still cannot see the road clearly. What I did not realize, what nobody realizes in their instant of innocence, is how completely the world might shift. And once it shifts, it stays that way.

I was in between jobs that July, having just finished a stint as a waitress at the local Friendly’s restaurant and waiting to start my new cashier’s job at the grocery store. Mostly I spent my time at home, talking on the phone, swimming in the pool and being a general nuisance to my parents (from an evolutionary perspective, I was right on target for them to happily kick me out of the nest).

We had already finished dinner and cleaned up the kitchen that warm summer night when I heard the sirens. I didn’t think much of it, it was just background noise. Until the phone rang. My father answered and talked to a friend of his, and when he hung up I could tell he was upset. Standing in the kitchen, replacing the receiver on the wall phone, he turned to me.

“That was Chet,” he said slowly.

“What did he want?” my mother asked.

I knew from the look on his face something had happened. Chet had a police scanner and would sometimes call us with updates on crime in our little town. It was a small town without a lot of crime so most of the time he just called to talk. That particular night was different, though. That night something had happened.

I felt a moment of fear before my father spoke.

“He said someone’s been hurt. A young person.”

“Car accident?”

“Stabbing.”

“Who?” I asked, my mind numb. Someone I knew?

Impossible. That did not happen in my world. It did not. Not.

“They’re chasing the guy who did it right now.”

There was a frozen hesitation when, looking at my parents I saw the worry in their eyes. Worry and something else, something that I have come to believe was part fear and part relief. Fear about what was happening, relief that I was home safe with them.

This is where my memory gets foggy. At some point soon after the phone rang again. The details of what had happened were relayed, and by the end of the night most kids from the Watertown High School class of 1986 knew.

Natalie Guay had been murdered.

Her killer, a jilted boyfriend, had tried to escape but was later caught by police.
The attack was brutal. It is trite to say that many peoples’ lives were torn apart that night, but that is exactly what happened.

Twenty five years ago, yet that summer has been replaying in my mind recently. This is a loss that has echoed through the decades, one that should not be forgotten.

And so we remember. Remember that girl from that small town taken too early, remember that people are not what they seem, and remember that some choices are not ours to make.

How could this have happened?

In school, Natalie was a quiet girl with a shy smile. I have no idea what kind of student she was, but I have sense of what kind of person she was. Natalie was nice. I don’t mean ‘nice’ in that way that sometimes says ‘boring’, I mean ‘nice’ in the kind of way that she was sweet, always said hello, would never deliberately hurt anyone, and had an ability to deal with her school tormentors with grace (one particular boy comes to mind, an equal opportunity bully that the producers of after school specials like to document. I wish I had had the courage to stand up to him, but unfortunately, I didn’t. Nobody did.).

I cannot remember if I spoke to Natalie’s family the night of her wake. If I didn’t, it was because I was uncertain of what to say. The unimaginable had happened, and I felt like there was nothing I could do to ever make it better.

It occurs to me now, all these years later, that the night we graduated high school must have been hell for the Guay family. I can only suppose it was an evening of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

But I can say this: the class of 1986 did not forget. Natalie, we were angry that you had to die, especially the way it happened. You should be with us in the world today, raising a family of your own and pursuing your dreams. But know that what we are left with, the memory of your quiet smile, has stayed with us.

Natalie was among the first of our class to be lost, but certainly not the last. In remembering that summer, her life and her death are spread in front of us as a part of the tableau of 1985. For most of us from that era of Watertown’s history, Natalie is a part of who we became. She reminded us, in life and in death, of the importance of kindness. She showed us to be better than the bullies. She taught us to be careful who we trust. And today she is a poignant reminder of our deep connections to those around us and the profound effect we have upon each other’s lives.

Natalie, you are remembered.

North of Here

2010-03-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

This story is dedicated to the friends and family that make up the history of all I am. We are all connected. And yes, I do believe that there is magic north of here.

There is a magical place, just north of here. In the winter snow crystals leave an imprint on the trees and grasses before evaporating into blueness. The air is luminous and diffused with a golden clarity. In the midst of chaos there is a quiet stillness here, a sense that everything is in balance, just right.

Alice did not live in this place anymore. Several years ago she and her family relocated for a better job. It was a move they did not regret, yet there were times, once in a while, that she felt weary. In the mornings, after her husband left for work and the children were at school, it took her a long time to move from the kitchen table where she sat drinking her coffee. In the late afternoon she sat in the dining room to watch the play of light as it danced through her front window. Throughout the day she was tired, constantly tired. This was not the sort of tired that would go away after a long night’s sleep, this was deeper. She was tired in her skin and often dreamed of floating away.

“Come home,” her aunts begged her, phoning every week to catch up on the happenings in the family. Alice was careful to sound cheerful, to outline the achievements of the children and the success of her husband at work. “It is a wonderful neighborhood”, she told them, “we have everything we could possibly want here.”

“Come home,” they said again. “You need to rest. Bring the children, we’ll look after them. Let someone care for you.”

It was difficult for Alice to hear anyone tell her that she needed rest. If anything, she felt as if she could never rest again. Motion was comfortable for her, preferable to the accusing sound of silence. Making her life a conveyor belt of backpacks, nutritious meals and housework was comfortable, sitting in silent introspection was not. And yet she felt her balance had slipped, leaving her to sit immobile and silent.

There is always a starting point for these things. How does a confident, capable woman lose her way so easily? Like so many, her life became eclipsed by larger circumstances. It started with the illness of her mother. An unexpected moment, a phone call that said, “Honey, can you come help me? I think I’m getting a little sick again,” would change things forever. Alice’s mother Jenny had never told anyone exactly how sick she had been, but after that night her mother never went home again.

She tried to talk to her father about it. “Dad, I have to tell you something. I spoke with the doctors today, and…” Alice tried to take a deep breath. She did not want to do this, she did not want to be the one responsible for this, yet here she was with no real choice in the matter at all. “Dad, they don’t think mom is going to make it.” Alice started to cry, unable to hold herself back.

After a moment she looked up at her father. He was still, standing in front of her, looking at her with uncertainty. “Dad, do you know what I’m trying to say? They told me that mom is going to die.”

She tried to give her father a hug, whether for her reassurance or his she didn’t know, and she felt him absently patting her on the back. “Are you okay?” she asked him, pulling away to look at him.

“Oh yeah, sure, I’m okay honey. Are you ready to go now?”

Alice stared at him for a moment, telling herself he was fine. Everybody processes things differently, and she thought that maybe her father needed some time alone to think about everything.

Six weeks later Jenny quietly left this world and crossed into the next.

Alice expected her father, James, to be devastated. She thought he simply would not be able to function without his wife. Instead, her father simply allowed himself to be absorbed into his own illness.

James had been diagnosed by a neurologist Alice had chosen for him. She found it difficult to believe that anything was wrong with her father, after all, he had always been so big, larger than life, and so capable. He was the kind of man who existed in a room long after he left.

The day of the appointment was cold. The previous week there had been a terrible ice storm and the counties were just starting to crawl out from under the frozen mess. As the doctor sat at his desk, continually pushing his round black glasses up the bridge of his nose and fiddling with the papers on his desk, Alice spent a few moments gazing out the window behind him, watching the play of light on ice.

“Lewy Body Dementia.”

The weight of the words produced a moment’s pause, followed by Alice asking, “What? What is that?”

“A degenerative dementia, characterized by increasing hallucinations, tremors and bodily disturbances. It won’t get better from here,” the doctor answered.

“Typical, arrogant doctor,” Alice told her husband later that day. “He thinks he can sit behind his desk and make these pronouncements. He didn’t even run any tests or take blood or anything!”

In the months after the diagnosis there was no noticeable change in James. He was still full of life and laughter. Once in a while he did seem a bit confused, but Alice wondered if she was projecting her own fears onto the situation, a situation she felt entirely unequipped to handle.

“He’ll get better,” Alice thought. “He has to…”

There is no getting better from Lewy Body Dementia, as Alice soon discovered. There is the task of dispensing medications, completing household chores, preparing meals and locking doors. There is the task of childproofing the house for an adult. There is weariness and tears, not in that order.

After reading all the information she could find about this disease Alice was scared. But the only thing for her to do continue with the job of caregiving. Really, what choice did she have?

When her husband received an offer for a better job in another state they could not refuse. It is more expensive to live north of here and the winters are very long. Being practical, they moved her father, James, with them. James would live in the same house and Alice would take care of him.

Alice proceeded to pack two houses, hers and her father’s. They purchased a new house with an in-law apartment, they enrolled the children in their new school, and they began their new life in a different state, away from the family and friends they had known for a lifetime. James moved with them and their lives moved forward.

Shortly after, during a phone conversation her aunt Lily told her, “They don’t call you the ‘sandwich generation’ for nothing, you know.”

“I’ve never heard that,” Alice answered, “What does it mean?”

“Well, you’re sandwiched in between everyone. You’ve got children to take care of, the younger generation, that is. And you’ve got a parent to take care of, the older generation. You’re in the middle, you’re the meat of the sandwich. You’re the one doing all the work, aren’t you?”

“Well, no, actually my husband Adam is amazing. I don’t know how I could have done this without him.” It was true. Her husband had been extremely supportive, helping her to dress, bathe and move her father when necessary. The doctor had been correct on that cold day, it was not getting any better.

“We’ve had to put him in diapers”, Alice quietly told aunt Lily. “It’s just- there were so many times…”

“I know, I know. You are going to do what you have to do, honey, and none of us can tell you anything different or help you through this. You’ll be fine, we support you all the way.”

“I just didn’t think it would be so quick,” Alice whispered.

“Listen, kiddo, this is just the beginning. Have you started looking at nursing homes yet?” aunt Lily asked.

“No, I don’t think it’s time. I mean, he still recognizes me, and while he still recognizes me and the kids I don’t want to put him somewhere that will make him worse. I’ve got a routine with him, I can handle him for now. I just cannot bear the thought of putting my father away.”

Aunt Lily’s voice was gentle. “I know you can’t, honey. But there will come a time when you have to do what you have to do. Like I said, we support you. You’re the one doing all the work. Do what you have to do, and if that means putting your father in a home that is okay with all of us.”

But it was not okay with Alice. The days rolled by and still she could not bear the thought of placing her father in a home.

James knew that his memories were dripping away and that the world that appeared to him was not the world that others saw. On a mild Friday, the week before Thanksgiving, he took his daughters hand. “I can’t hold on much longer,” he told her. “It’s just getting so hard… I can’t do it anymore. I love you.”

It would be four long months before James actually died. In many ways, however, he was gone to his family. He no longer recognized anyone and usually did not make sense when he did speak. He could not feed himself and sometimes could not walk. Alice, with her husband and a home health aid, tended to her father’s needs.

When Alice looked at her father she could hear her heart shatter. When her children asked why grandpa was crazy all she could remember was a young man swinging his toddler daughter high in the air. “He can’t help it,” she told the children quietly. The youngest, Jeremy, solemnly nodded his head, telling her, “We know. He’s got the forgetting disease.”

Still, she could not bear to place him in a nursing home. Doctors, nurses and hospice helped as Alice stood by, unable to alter the outcome in any way.

In the final ten days of his life James did not eat or drink. At night, Alice slept on the couch next to his bed, not wanting her father to die alone. She held his hand as he took his final breath.

Nobody told her how guilty she would feel. Everyone said that what she and her husband did was a wonderful thing, and her aunts and uncles were so proud of them. But there was an overriding sense of guilt, a feeling that she had failed.

“I’m so sorry,” she told her uncle, calling him to inform him of James’ death. “I tried, you know, I really did…”

“What are you talking about? We knew this was going to happen. There’s nothing you could have done about any of this,” he told her.

Yet there was a strange belief within her, a sense that all her caring and love should have been able to hold back this disease, that her will alone should have been enough to save her father. She felt as if her love had somehow failed her family.

“Come home,” her aunts urged her, beckoning with the warmth and love a family can provide. “We’re all older, now, it’s the way it is. Come visit, you’ll feel better.”

New spring leaves were beginning to appear when Alice, Adam and the kids traveled north to visit the aunts. She took two boxes with her, boxes containing ashes and small bits of bone. Two lives, so largely lived, reduced to small rectangular boxes.

Thoughts raced through her mind while they traveled. “It will be nice to see everyone. I can’t sleep, why can’t I sleep? Did I leave the heat turned up? I hope they don’t search my luggage.”

There was no evidence of spring in the north. The ground was frozen, the trees bare. Through the cold, however, Alice could feel the approaching season. There was a teasing scent in the air, a hint of the warmth to come mingled with the smell of fresh earth. Soon, she thought, everything will become unfrozen.

The aunts welcomed Alice and her family with love and food. There were hugs and tears, laughter and stories that lasted well into the late night. Later, the aunts told Alice “You should go to the cemetery. Then you can see the headstone that has been engraved for your parents. Then you will know the spot they are in, you’ll have the picture in your mind. It’s important to know these things.”

Alice agreed. She should visit the cemetery to see her parents’ headstone before she gave the ashes over for burial.

It was a bright, sunny day when Alice went to the cemetery. She braced herself before getting out of the car, uncertain what she would feel once she saw her parents’ names engraved in stone. She walked slowly through the rows of markers, counting. “It’s supposed to be row seven...” she thought, then abruptly stopped.

Slowly, she looked up and down all the rows she could see. The names, all those names. She read them in silence. DeGuerra, LaPorta, Kropp, DeRosa, LePine, Moffa, Guay, Levitt… these were names she knew. For as far as she could see, there were names that were familiar to her. These were families that she had grown up with, people whose stories she knew. And there, right in the midst of those names, were her parents. In an instant she saw her history as part of something else, something bigger. Her history was, in fact, rooted in a place and time. But more importantly, her history was rooted with those she loved.

Shaking her head slightly, it occurred to her that the names of the dead were also the names of the living.

Turning, she walked back to her car, climbed in, and drove back to the aunt’s house. The sun continued to shine as she sat at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. Aunt Lila sat next to her, waiting.

“I’m afraid,” Alice told her.

Her aunt nodded. “I know.”

“I did the best I could, yet it wasn’t enough. How can it not have been enough? What will I do if this happens to someone else in our family? What if it happens to Adam? What if I let someone else die?”

“You had to let your father die, honey. It was the only way he could be healed.”

There was silence as Alice processed that thought. Her aunt asked “How was the cemetery?”

Alice gave an apologetic half laugh, looked at her and said, “Powerful. It was powerful seeing all those names, all those families. All those people I have a connection to…” her voice trailed off as she gazed inward, seeing rows of headstones.

Aunt Lila nodded. “It’s important to see that and know your connections. Once you know where you come from you can go anywhere.”

It was true, Alice realized. Even though she would soon leave, she would always carry a connection to home within her. For the first time in over a year, Alice felt just a little bit lighter.

Traveling south, Alice and her family took a non-stop flight home. She had time to think on the plane while Adam and the kids slept, time to think about who she was and where she came from. For the first time since she had moved she thought about all the places magic and love exist. She thought about home and she thought about what she knew to be true, that we are made of all the things we came from, that we are part of the places we have been, and that sometimes we can choose to hold all of that magic within ourselves.

Dreaming The Dead

2010-03-22T14:16:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all my friends that offered up words of remembrance regarding their own dreams of the dead. Happy reading!

http://self-awareness.suite101.com/article.cfm/dreaming-the-dead

Meditation: Where to Begin

2010-02-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

A friend asked me about meditation last night. She said that it was recommended to her that she try it, but she wasn't certain how to meditate or even where to start finding the information. "Don't worry," I told her, "I'll write out a few things for you and you can try what you think would be best."

I did not write an extremely detailed list of meditation how-to's, since that would result in a book. What I did write, however, was a simple list of various types of meditation techniques that people have used throughout the ages. Hopefully this helps. Feel free to email me your questions.

http://meditation-techniques.suite101.com/article.cfm/meditation-techniques-for-awareness-and-health

Depression and Medication: A New Way of Life

2010-02-09T14:46:00.000-08:00

Recent news suggests that medical researchers have found anti depressants have little to no efficacy in treating mild to moderate depression. This subject fascinated me, so, as usual, I wrote an article about it!

http://mindbodyfitness.suite101.com/article.cfm/depression-and-anti-depressants

I know there may be people out there who will argue the researchers findings, but remember, it's all about the bottom line. Especially for the pharmaceutical industry.

Yorktown, Virginia

2010-02-05T12:19:00.000-08:00

As some of you may have guessed, I truly enjoy living here in Yorktown. So much, in fact, that I just wrote an article about it for Suite 101. Here's the link, enjoy!

http://colonial-america.suite101.com/article.cfm/historic-yorktown-virginia

Removing Ghosts From a Home

2010-01-18T10:44:00.000-08:00

It happens sometimes... you think that your house might actually be haunted. What to do next?

This article will give you a few tips to start the removal process.

http://ghosts-hauntings.suite101.com/article.cfm/how_to_remove_a_ghost_from_your_home

Remember, don't do anything dangerous or hurtful. When in doubt, contact an expert.

Good luck!

Dune Road Book Review

2010-01-11T09:42:00.000-08:00

Dune Road by Jane Green
Fiction, 2009
ISBN 978-0-670-02086-7

SPOILER ALERT: While I do not give away the specifics of the end of the book, I do address the manner in which this book ends. I will place the “spoiler alert” phrase prior to the actual spoiler incident, so you may read as far as you like.

So far, I have enjoyed all of Jane Green’s books tremendously. The author is originally from London but now lives in Fairfield County, Connecticut, both places I am familiar with and love.

Dune Road is set in the fictional town of Highfield, recognizable to anyone who has lived on the Gold Coast as an amalgamation of all that is Westport/Fairfield/Darien. The main character, Kit Hargrove, has recently undergone a divorce from an extremely suitable yet never present Wall Street worker. Kit is finding her way through life as her own person instead of as a wife or mother, and her friends and new neighbors are there for support and comradeship in this new phase of life. Kit’s story is interwoven with that of her friends, including the neighbor, Edie, who provides nurturing and grandmotherly advice; friend Charlie, whose life is being torn apart by the recent financial crisis; writer Robert McClore with a mysterious past and friend Tracy with an even more mysterious past. Also thrown into the mix are Kit’s children, mother and a mysterious stranger from her mother’s past.

Jane Green’s strength is in creating characters that we like and believe, characters that we would like to someday meet for a cup of coffee. She doesn’t shy away from presenting the ridiculousness of certain lifestyles, the ‘mommy competitions’ and inherent snobbery of a particular social strata. She also does not spend too much time dwelling on these particular snobberies, they simply become a part of the story as her characters try to avoid these pitfalls.

SPOILER ALERT – Okay, here’s the truth. The thing I loved most about this novel was the way it ended. Everything tied neatly at the conclusion with a very happy ending. The good guys earned their rewards and the bad guys were all chased away. Mysteries were solved, friendships remained intact. Far from sappy, as I read this I thought it was the right way to end. We all need a break from the world of terrorism, torture, killing and mayhem, and Dune Road is the perfect book for an escape.

Grief Interrupted

2010-01-07T19:11:00.000-08:00

I was the luckiest little girl in the world. From a very early age, my parents told me the story of how they came to get me. They said that they wanted a little girl very badly, so they went to the baby store, walked down aisles and aisles of babies until they found the perfect one: me. It was a wonderful story to tell a child who was adopted how very much she was loved and wanted. I grew up in a family with a mother and father who gave everything they could, and then some.

But what of the birth parents, the people who gave me away? I met my birth parents, Susan and Pat, when I was twenty years old and found two people who were loving, caring and accepting of a young girl seeking the answers to all life’s questions. Susan was young when she gave birth to me, and realized that I might have a different and possibly better life with another set of parents. It seems to me the ultimate in parental love, the giving away of your child so they may have a finer existence.

My mother and father, the people who raised me, have both passed away. My mother died in February of 2006 and my father died in April of 2009. My birth parents are much younger than the parents that raised me. I had expected to have plenty of time with Sue and Pat, and had even looked forward to the possibility of them moving south for retirement.

This is what I did not know: lung cancer can be asymptomatic. By the time Pat discovered he had lung cancer it had progressed to his bones and various parts of his body. It was around Thanksgiving when the doctors told him he had cancer and it was already in stage IV. Pat Green died Christmas eve, December 24, 2009.

I went to Connecticut to visit Pat in December to say goodbye and see Susan. As he sat on his couch, racked with a pain so brutal he could hardly breathe, he turned to me and said, “You know, I’m a pretty lucky guy. I’ve got all this, a house, a family, people who care. There’s lots of people out there that have it much worse than me.”
In the midst of suffering, Pat saw optimism. He was that kind of guy. He was perhaps the kindest person I have ever known and had an ability to make everyone feel special. I loved him, and I know he loved me.

My husband, son and I went to Pat’s funeral in Connecticut this week. Worried about my six year old son, I asked him how he was feeling on the day of the wake. He looked out the window at the snow and said, “It’s good, bad and sad. I got to go sledding, but Poppa Pat is dead.”

Good, bad and sad. My son got it exactly right. In the midst of our grief we are interrupted by life.

Goodbye, Poppa Pat.

Railing At Trains

2009-12-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

I took a train to Connecticut this week to visit with family. It has been a while since I’ve traveled by train but the experience was educational, to say the least. While I recommend the interesting ride, there are definitely things that you need to know before succumbing to the romance of rail travel.

1. The train schedule is not really a schedule, it is more like a list of suggestions. Amtrak will get you there, but it’s anybody’s guess as to when that will happen.
2. Trains travel at 90mph on elevated rails with sharp corners. Trains travel at 10mph going through the woods. Maybe the driver is afraid of the deer, or gets train driving confused with roller coaster driving.
3. There is an underbelly to America that can only be seen from the train. We all need to look carefully at this view and remember to be grateful for everything we have, which includes not living in a tent on the side of the tracks.
4. Amtrak has no security. There are gangster kids and people speaking Arabic. And yes, that’s right, no one has checked to see what’s in their luggage. It’s better if you don’t think about it.
5. People walk for miles to dump things on the side of the tracks. I saw one sink in Maryland, one boat in Delaware and a 1940-something car in Connecticut. Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to the dump?
6. Yes, there is a dining car. The cost for one can of soda and one small bag of potato chips is $3.75. You would at least expect to get a ball game or something for those prices.

If you are a patient person, this can be a fun way to travel. And best of all, it can be very affordable. But remember, review the above list before boarding so that you will know what to expect. Happy travels!

Conversations With The Dead, Part I

2009-11-30T18:58:00.000-08:00

Grief counselors suggest many exercises to help ease the pain of losing a loved one. Unfortunately, I have found that some of these activities do not always help. For example, a grief counselor told me it would ease my pain if I wrote a note, tied it to a balloon and released the balloon into the air. It’s supposed to be a sort of symbolic gesture, an imagining that the dead person reaches out with ghostly hands to grasp your words of love (or something like that). I can’t do it, though. All I can think of is that some bird is going to end up dead because they ate my balloon, then they will fall through the sky, get sucked into an airplane engine and cause a plane crash. Too much imagination can be very self defeating.

Instead, I tried to just write the note. I started with a letter to my mother because that seemed like the easiest thing to do. I wasn’t entirely sure what to say to her, but maybe that doesn’t matter too much. I believe that there are spirits in the wires, so I think that sending this out into the internet is a much more effective (and safer) means of communication. I just hope she checks her inbox.

Dear Mom,

As you probably know, I think of you every day. I think you know this because I talk to you and I swear there are times I can hear your answer (even when it’s not what I want to hear). Lately, however, your voice has been getting fainter. I have a feeling that’s because Dad is keeping you busy out there.

There is a woman who lives in a retirement home in Newport News that looks like you. She probably thinks I’m crazy, because as soon as I look at her I can’t stop staring and then my eyes tear up and then I look like an idiot. Hopefully she’s used to crazy people and doesn’t report me for excessive displays of emotion or anything (remember, we’re in the South now, and excessive displays of emotion are not well tolerated here. I suppose they would be more tolerated if one carried the label of ‘eccentric’, but let’s be honest, I just don’t have enough money for that. My income bracket falls squarely in the ‘just plain crazy’ category.). I have learned to avoid her, and not look directly at her. I think this works best for both of us.

Your grandson is getting bigger and still talks about you. I do everything I can to keep your memory alive for him, and he remembers the good times he got to share with you. Thank you for visiting him after you died, I know it was a great source of comfort to him, even though he still won’t tell me what you said because you told him not to tell me. That, of course, is how I knew you truly did visit him.

Your son is doing okay. He’s still not married, and I have recently explained to him the wisdom of finding a woman who already has children. At this point, it would be so much easier to just call and let me know I am an aunt to a ten year old. It would also be good for him to avoid the whole middle-of-the-night-feeding-thing, you know how grumpy he gets when he’s tired. I fear this may be a lost cause, however, so I may have to start answering personal ads for him.

Your friends are lost without you and miss you terribly. I think everyone still has a sense of bewilderment that you left as we continue to sort through our emotions. We had no idea you were going to die, and you never once let on that it was imminent. I’m still not sure how I feel about that, I suppose it was your choice and I have to respect it. I think you may have heard lots more interesting things if you had let us all in on the secret, though. Just imagine what people would have told you if they knew you were on your way out. It also would have made your last instructions much easier. I got most of what you were trying to tell me on the night you died, but there was that one little thing I could not understand… something about taking a pillow, or maybe swallowing a pill, or maybe cutting a willow… whatever it was, it never got done. I just hope it wasn’t too important.

Well, I don’t think I need to go into any details about what’s going on here, I have a feeling you already know most of that. We appreciate you looking in on us and appearing in our dreams now and then. I hope things are well on the other side for you, and you are enjoying your new form.

We love you and miss you,
Your daughter,
Narielle

You Gotta Test The Kool Aid

2009-10-10T20:08:00.000-07:00

Most of my life has been spent seeking answers to life’s greater questions: who are we, where are we going, how will we get there? The eternal truths have always seemed to be embedded within various religions, and I have spent much time learning from the teachings of Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus and Jews. I even picked up a thing or two from various pagan friends, voodoo witch doctors and Native Americans.

I have chanted, meditated, prayed and sweat in sweat lodges. I have even traveled to far off destinations to engage in some of these activities.

In the midst of all this seeking, I learned something very quickly: before you throw yourself into the pool of sacrifice hoping for an answer, send the Kool Aid off to the lab for testing.

Here are a few ways to tell if the juice you’re drinking isn’t good for you.

1. How much money did you have to pay for this? Anything beyond helping share expenses for the rent or bringing a plate of food is unconscionable. Charging three digits is outrageous, and anything in the thousands is downright criminal. Spirit is free, no matter what cloak it wears.

2. If someone tells you that they know a secret they will share with you they are lying. The sad fact is that there may be guidelines for living right (don’t kill each other, be nice, we know them all by now) but there is no ultimate secret that will provide the keys to the kingdom. Each person has been given the task to unlock their own secret within. Yes, sorry to tell you, this is not a one size fits all sort of thing. Dig down deep and figure out your own secret.

3. As soon as a teacher says you must do something in order to grow, ask why. Because frankly, you do not have to do anything you do not want to do. Yes, there are all sorts of things we must do in order to facilitate our spiritual growth, but we usually know what these things are and they do not involve potential physical harm. I remember being in a workshop once where a teacher told us we all had to sob in order to release toxins or whatever was holding us back in life. We were not allowed to simply cry, that was not enough of a release. Well, I was never very good at following directions, so I guess those toxins are still floating around my system somewhere. Maybe I’ll dig them up, dust them off and ship them right out to the spiritual leaders who are poisoning people.

And finally, here is the most important thing I have to share with you. Because really, this is what it is all about.

4. DO NOT PARTICIPATE IN INDIGENOUS TRADITIONS WITH A NON INDIGENOUS LEADER. It is a violation of a culture for one to learn a tradition, teach it to others and make a profit by doing so. Would you attend a Catholic church if the priest leading the mass was a non-ordained Australian Aborigine? No, you would be offended that there was no priest. Would you allow yourself to be baptized by a Rabbi? So why would anyone attend a sweat lodge run by a non-Native, egotistical, self-proclaimed teacher who charges thousands of dollars? (Refer to #1 for a refresher on the money issue).

Seeking spiritual enlightenment is a way of life for many. But do not allow your questioning nature to open the door for scam artists. Beware of anything that appeals to the ego or is coming from the ego. It takes much patience to discern truth, but in the long run you may just be able to avoid drinking the Kool Aid.

The Continuing Shame of Virginia’s Education System: Then and Now

2009-09-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

It is very difficult for many of us today to fully understand the social impact that desegregation had on school systems in the 50s and 60s. Families were divided, people moved in order to change schools for their children, friends fought vociferously, and the political scene was, as usual, a mess. Massive resistance, the movement to prevent school desegregation after the Brown vs. Board of Education Supreme Court decision, was only one example of Virginia’s inability to place the needs of the students before the needs of the political parties.

From 1959 – 1964 Prince Edward County in Virginia closed their public school system, thereby sidestepping the issue of desegregation. With no schools they had no worries. Children of prominent, white families could be educated privately. The political arguments were pervasive and ridiculous, and it was the children who ultimately paid the price for the mistakes of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Today, schools are desegregated. However, politics still plays a powerful role in our education system. This is evident in the fact that the upcoming address by President Obama to school age children on Tuesday has been banned from many public schools here in Virginia.

Many people will state that the speech has not technically been banned. However, when I visited Yorktown Elementary School this morning to discuss the matter with the principal, I was told that the schools across the county have simply chosen not to allow students to view the speech. The reason given was that nobody knew exactly what the President was going to say.

Somehow, I doubt the President is going to tell school age children they should vote democrat. I really don’t believe he’s going to push health care reform on the third graders. He probably won’t even mention Iraq or Afghanistan.

I could be wrong, but it seems to me that he might say something like, oh, I don’t know, study hard, stay in school, do your best… Dangerous words indeed.

York County is not the only school system in this state to put a stop to this inflammatory speech that will be given on Tuesday. For many of us, however, this type of idiocy is nothing more than a continuation of the arrogance of politics interfering with the necessity of education. And once again, it seems that arrogance and absurdity have won in the South.

What Comes Next?

2009-08-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

All caregivers at some point in time face the question, “what next?” The question may pertain to quality of care, medical diagnoses, the hurdles of daily living, or end of life issues. Even after we get through all those questions with our loved ones, after the doctor’s appointments, after the meal preparations, after the constant care, the question exists, perhaps stronger than ever after death. What next?

I learned that for many caregivers that question is coupled with guilt. The guilt hides in the corners of your mind, waiting for the moments at night or early morning when your thoughts wander toward your loved one. It is a guilt born of denial, a guilt that says the doctors and nurses and medical knowledge were incorrect. There must have been, should have been, a way to save our loved one. But we let them die.

Never mind the fact that as caregivers we did everything humanly possible to... well, to care. Forget the sleepless nights or lack of a social life. Did we give them enough food? Did we give them the right kind of food? Did we help them get enough exercise? Did they get too much exercise? Were we just not strong enough to sustain their lives?

I know that my father had a disease with no known cure. I know that we did everything we could for him. Yet, somehow, when it came time to phone my relatives and tell them the end was in sight, I found myself apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” I said to my Uncle Sonny. “I tried, you know, but…”

“What are you talking about?” he shouted at me. “What else could you do? You did everything you could, this is just the way it is.”

I think that most caregivers are faced with the daunting challenge of accepting what Uncle Sonny called “the way it is”. Very rarely do we work so hard and sacrifice so much to be rewarded with loss. Yet that is the lesson most caregivers learn. Our loss is our reward.

I think the important part of this lesson is in remembering that our loss is our loved ones benefit. We gave what we could, we cared as best we knew how, but sometimes, despite our illogical belief in our powers, healing occurs only with death.

Once we are able to accept this idea we can begin to pick up the pieces. We can stop blaming ourselves for an event we could not control. After that, maybe, sometime in the not so distant future, we can begin to face what comes next.

Summer

2009-08-20T14:36:00.000-07:00

It really should not come as a surprise. After all, it happens every year. Regardless of the events in our lives, regardless of the happiness and pains, the dramas and the boredom, we move forward in time. Once again, summer is almost at an end.

It is different now than when I was a child. When I was young I remember spending a lifetime on summer mornings staring at the grass in our yard, listening to the buzz of the cicadas and watching the ants move onto the sidewalk. I was waiting for it to warm up a little more so I could drop myself into the pool in the backyard and float the day away.

As an adult I have moved further south and no longer wait for the summer day to warm. By nine in the morning the temperature is well into the eighties, and some days it is actually too hot to go outside for any reason. Instead of watching grass and ants I watch my six year old play with Legos or superheroes, waiting for the inevitable cry of boredom after all toys destroy each other.

The difference, I think, between now and then, is that my childhood summers were languid. Time moved in a circuitous route and staring at the grass was just as good as riding my bike. Now, however, if I dared to stare at the grass, I feel lazy. It is my son's turn to be unhurried, to enjoy the stretch of the season. For me, it seems there is too much to get done, too many time constraints on my day. There is laundry and meals, there is grocery shopping and work, there are any number of adult necessities to pull me away from the reality of summer time.

Maybe tonight I’ll go outside and look for ants. Or enjoy the night sky. After I make dinner.

Anonymous

2009-07-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

Anonymous has much to say these days. Anonymous posts in blogs and comments on newspaper articles. He is sometimes kind, sometimes intelligent, but more often rude, vulgar and just plain mean. Sometimes anonymous leaves it up to others, those who choose screen names such as "whodat" or "wtf".

Hiding behind a screen name has become synonymous with poor manners. For some reason our culture now finds it acceptable to use technology as a shield for rudeness. I am astounded at the insensitivity I have witnessed and wonder what it says about humanity. Are we at our hearts cold, insensitive and thoughtless? No, I think we have simply forgotten something our mothers told us long ago:

"If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all."

Words to live by.

Donuts

2009-07-19T08:33:00.001-07:00

On Friday I bought a box of donuts at the grocery store. By the time I got home I was in tears. Yes, because of a box of donuts.

When my Dad was living with us I did everything I could to feed, feed, feed him. It was important to me that he gain, then later maintain, his weight. I would often buy donuts, cookies, ice cream, anything sweet to tempt him. Because, honestly, cholesterol and fat grams were not a concern.

After his passing I no longer had a need to buy that type of food. Although my son would probably dispute this in true six year old fashion, we do not need this kind of food so I do not buy it.

The process of grief is unexpected. On a startlingly calm day a memory can strike, rendering you mute. The closet door that I have stuffed emotions in for the past three years is starting to open a little at a time. This can be painful, but I know it is necessary.

And yes, the donuts are gone. My family ate them immediately. Maybe I need to buy some more.

And Justice For All...

2009-06-08T08:40:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow begins jury selection for the trial of accused murderer, Kevin Campbell. Kevin is charged in the shooting that killed Roland Lagasse, 51 years old, in Torrington, CT. Roland and Kevin were friends. On the evening in question, they argued, Kevin pulled out a gun, screamed, “You’re a dead man!” and shot Roland directly in the heart.

If that’s what friends are like, who needs them, right? Hopefully retribution will be swift and the punishment just. There is no question of whodunit in this case, there is no ambiguity. What we do have is a large number of witnesses.

Accused murderer Kevin Campbell will try to glean some sympathy for having been a Vietnam veteran, as well as having a crippled leg. Hopefully the jury will see through that and deliver a verdict of guilty. After all, there is no doubt: Kevin Campbell murdered Roland Lagasse. Let justice prevail.

A Greener Home

2009-05-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

Although my license is currently inactive, I am still fascinated by all things pertaining to real estate. The rise and fall of the market, current activity, foreclosure rates, and helping people find what they need has all held a deep interest for me. I can spend hours comparing houses within a specific area to determine what the current pricing should be, and I can spend just as much time studying month to month statistics to analyze trends.

My focus as a real estate agent, however, was in being what is known as an EcoBroker®. By definition, an EcoBroker® receives additional training on energy and environmental issues that relate to real estate transactions. I would discuss energy efficient housing and how that could relate to your current transaction, or I would refer interested people to the appropriate vendors for further information. Whether it was something as big as installing solar panels for your energy needs or replacing your old windows, I would work with you to obtain the most reliable information available.

The response I received was tepid, at best. Although many were open to the idea of “greening” their home, there was some confusion as to how to accomplish this without extreme expense. There was also confusion related to whether or not solar was viable for this area, and whether that was the only option. In short, there were many questions related to the practicality of energy efficiency in this area.

The main idea I taught is that energy efficiency is viable at many levels. The first way to make this happen is to change just one thing in your life, one habit. Perhaps one of your habits is to always set the thermostat at 70° in the summer and 75° in the winter. To start small, change it to 72° in the summer and 73° in the winter, and use a programmable thermostat in your house. These thermostats can be purchased relatively inexpensively, and it has been proven they will save you money in the long run.

Starting small is the key to energy efficiency. Changing one habit at a time will help you not only to make more responsible energy choices, it will also save you money.

Did You Know...

2009-05-18T06:33:00.001-07:00

...that one of the areas of highest poverty in the United States is the Pine Ridge Reservation? The average annual income is $4,000 per year. Although the American public has recently romanticized the Native American lifestyle, there are third world issues that are being overlooked. If you are interested in more information, check out the following websites:

www.friendsofpineridgereservation.org/

www.consciousalliance.org/educate.pine.ridge.htm

Yorktown, VA

2009-05-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

Yorktown, where America won the fight for independence, is crowded with ghosts. Stand quietly on any of the battlefields and they (the ghosts, that is) will speak to you. Like many places in the South, the past flows into the present, creating a culture that lives comfortably within the borders of both.

Tough Times

2009-05-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

My friends, Shelly and George (not their real names) are having some tough times right now. The three bedroom house they live in with their four children is being sold, forcing them to move. The irony in this is that the house is owned by Shelly’s father.

Apparently, twelve years ago Shelly’s father was in the throes of a deep depression caused by the death of his first wife. I can understand that, and I think anyone can understand the emotional baggage that accompanies a situation like this. Shelly’s mom died from multiple sclerosis, and since this was a while ago I have been told that without the medications that are currently available this was a very difficult and painful disease.

Shelly and George stepped in, traveling back from Washington State where they were living to move into the house her father had vacated. They took over paying the mortgage and settled quite nicely into the house that Shelly had grown up in.

About seven years ago, the furnace broke in the house. Shelly’s father told them if they wanted it fixed they would have to do it themselves. At this point, Shelly had already been diagnosed with having multiple sclerosis, just like her mom had. Shelly and George could not afford to have a new furnace installed so they settled for trying to have the old one fixed. After a good amount of money, they realized it was not fixable. They settled for space heaters and an open oven door during the winter.

Not long after that, the central air conditioning unit broke. Again, it was a matter of finances. With four children they were unable to come up with the money to put a new unit in, and Shelly’s dad refused to have the unit fixed. They have a window unit in their bedroom, since heat exacerbates the symptoms of MS.

Not too long after George’s father installed new replacement windows in the house, Shelly’s father announced he had had enough of being a landlord. He just wanted out of the whole deal. He sold the house and the closing is July 1st.

Shelly, George and the four kids are trying to find a new place to live, but times are tough. Rentals in this part of the country are not cheap, and George just got a new job after being laid off for over a month. Hopefully they will find something soon that is affordable and large enough. Although I can pretty much guarantee it will be better. At least their next home will have a working furnace.

When It's Time to Move A Parent

2009-05-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

There comes a point in time when many of us get the phone call. Sometimes it comes in the middle of the night, sometimes during the day while you are at work. In most cases, the message is the same: your parent needs help, they are sick, they cannot be left alone. If you are lucky, this is a temporary situation, perhaps a broken bone that mends easily or a cold that heals quickly. But it’s not always that simple, and sometimes we are faced with the daunting challenge: what are we going to do with our parents?

For those unfamiliar with the landscape of elder care the challenge can seem daunting. If you start your research in the area you live in, you may find a number of independent living, assisted living, and senior care facilities. Each of them is equipped to meet the unique needs of individuals and offer a variety of specific services. Perhaps the best advice I can offer is this: when it comes to relocating your parent, your best resource is yourself. Visit the facility. Don’t make an appointment, show up unexpectedly (if there’s something they’re trying to hide, they won’t have time to sweep it away before you get there). Be sure you are armed with a list of questions, and take notes. Usually these places are fairly expensive, so you want to be certain of the services, rules and regulations.

For example, if you move your parent to an independent living facility that offers cooked meals in a dining room, transportation and laundry service, you may assume that mom and dad are all set. But does the facility have a rule if your parents get sick? Will they have to leave if they need more care? Will they (or you) be able to afford a home health aide along with the cost of the facility?

Unfortunately, due to the rising number of seniors, many facilities now have a waiting list. If you visit on a Wednesday, odds are you won’t be able to move mom in on Friday. You will want to be prepared for this and have a backup plan for in-home care.

One of the most difficult challenges can be caring for our parents. Sometimes they don't want care, sometimes they don't understand that we are trying to help. Those of us in the sandwich generation are facing caregiving tasks that are sometimes thrown at us unexpectedly. With the right amount of research and a good amount of support (from family or support groups) you will be able to make a decision on what is best for your parents and your family. Remember, we can only do the best we can do, and each decision, although it may be heartbreaking, is the right one for whatever your situation may be.

Who Is Annie Smith?

2009-05-13T13:18:00.000-07:00

Born in 1853, Annie Smith lived in Virginia her entire life. She was orphaned at an early age and sent to live with her grandparents on their farm in Chesterfield, VA. How do I know Annie? I know her because I have her memoirs that she wrote when she was 70 years old in 1923.

Tucked away in my father's house in Connecticut was a scuffed old brown binder, filled with pages of writing that was poorly typed, single spaced and fading. This was the story of Annie's life.

At first, I put the binder away in a closet. I did not have time to read it and I wasn't certain what to do with it. Recently I took the binder out to look at it. I decided the best thing to do would be to transcribe the document, making it easier to read and preserving it from further deterioration.

As I typed Annie's words into my computer, I wasn't certain I even liked this woman. Initially she seemed to be writing simply as a tool for preaching her faith. But as I continued, I discovered a woman who was more than one dimensional, a woman who had a number of obstacles to overcome and portrayed the truth in a stark and sometimes uncomfortable manner.

Annie was beaten as a child, she was against slavery, she was poor, she loved her family, she talked about medicines and farming and life in the 19th century. Annie has given me a valuable insight into not just my family history, but also our nation's history.

Thanks, Annie.

Suburban Destiny

2009-05-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

If you are interested in reading one of my short stories, please visit the following website:
www.yorkcounty.gov/library/

Click on "winners" to read the entries.

"Suburban Destiny" is a suspense story that takes place in a middle class suburb in Virginia. Although we allegedly write what we know, I can honestly say that the main character is not me and the husband in this story bears no resemblance to mine.

Enjoy!

It's Been Over A Month...

2009-05-13T11:42:00.000-07:00

It has been over a month since my father died. We knew he was going to die, we simply did not know the exact moment. He had a disease called Lewy Body Dementia which is a sister to Alzheimer's. I used to explain to people that it was a cross between Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, with the best of both (yes, that was sarcasm).

I think I am extremely lucky. I had the good fortune to be able to tell my father that I loved him before he died, and he was able to say goodbye to me. His good bye actually occurred the week before Thanksgiving while we were having a new washer/dryer delivered. The deliverymen were just hauling our new appliances off the truck when my father approached me.
"I don't think I'm going to be able to hang on much longer," he said, "It's just getting harder and harder, you know? Anyway, I want you to know that I love you, okay?" With that, he leaned down and kissed me.

Knowing that you are lucky does not dispel grief. I would very much like to say that I have been able to check off "grief" on my to-do list, but that would not honor my father or my family. So I am simply trying to allow the grief to happen and quietly move forward.