Meanderings of Melanie Sherman

Say Cheese Before You Die

2012-01-25T21:11:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking about writing a murder mystery, called "Say Cheese Before You Die." It is about a young woman, a photographer, who discovers--too late--the man she married is abusive and violent. She wants to leave him but he threatens to hunt her down and kill her if she does. He has money and the means to track her. She's trapped, tortured, terrified.

She decides to kill him. Slowly. Little by little. Every day she takes another step toward murder, toward freedom. She attends cooking classes and learns to make cheese cake, macaroni and cheese, cheese sauce, cheese balls, cheese enchiladas, cheese fondue. She tosses feta over salads, melts cheddar into quiche, and grates Parmesan onto vegetables. Occasionally, for a change, she feeds him Fettuccine Alfredo, with garlic cheese bread, and serves a cheese crepe for dessert. All the while she claims she is vegan, eating only beans, rice, fruits and vegetables.

He never suspects anything while he dominates and exerts his power over her, but then one day he clutches his chest, gasps for breath, falls to the soft cream carpet, his eyes wide and vacant, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed as if he is reaching for one final cheese doodle.

She leans over and tucks a small photo album under him, containing pictures of him eating a cheese dog at the ball park, nachos at the Cinco de Mayo festival, cheese and crackers at the Art and Wine celebration. She strolls into the kitchen, scrubs the cheese grater clean, deletes all the cheese recipes from her hard drive, takes her packed suitcase from the closet in the extra bedroom, and shuffles out the back door to his Lexus.

At a sunny resort in Belize, she meets a lactose-intolerant retired detective who becomes suspicious when he learns her husband has just died and she is showing no signs of grief.

Anyone think this is a good book idea?

Better your life with Amazon deals

2012-01-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

My email inbox is littered with "deals". Google deals, Living Social deals, Best Buy deals. But the one that caught my eye today was this one from Amazon:

Half Off Facial - Portland Eastside / Vancouver

I should get this one. It would be so great to have the bottom half of my face removed. It might prevent me from putting my foot in my mouth in future.

Isn't it pretty? Can we eat it?

2012-01-23T21:10:00.000-08:00

The cats are curious, and hungry and they have no respect for nature.

A couple of years ago I had a sick 100 ft Douglas fir. I hired a guy to hack it down before it fell on my house, but asked him to leave 20 feet standing for wildlife. The guy left 40 feet. I guess I shouldn't complain, after all it is housing an entire ecosystem for even the tiniest wildlife. When the cats led me to the back window yesterday to point out our newest neighbor, I thought they were sweet. A beautiful Pileated Woodpecker was making his mark on the dead tree, and the three of us watched for a couple of minutes. But then I heard the cats doing the little clicking sound cats make when they want to pounce on their prey and eat it.

Good thing the window was closed.

Fiery Sky in Morning

2012-01-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

What good would life be if one could not pull over on a busy road during the morning rush hour, and take a picture of the sunrise while being buffeted by the squall of passing log trucks? This was the rise over Mt. Hood, taken from Vancouver a few days ago.

Thanks to the following authors

2012-01-09T21:25:00.000-08:00

Thanks

It is important to acknowledge people who have made a difference in our lives. It is also important to acknowledge people who have made a difference to our blogs. I’d like to thank the following people.

1. Lilith Saintcrow

Lilith is the New York Times Best-Selling author of a number of urban fantasy and young adult books and is a fabulous, caring person. I don’t have to tell you she is a fabulous writer, because you don’t get on the NYT best-selling list if you can’t string two sentences together to make a reader laugh, cry, or fidget on the edge of their seats. When she talks, people listen. And when she tells people they should read a blog, they do. Immediately. She is the reason “Confessions of a Seven-Year-Old” and "It may seem as though I don't like Christmas" are on my ten most popular blogs list.

Check out her books here.

2. Bill Cameron

Bill is a clever murder mystery writer, who tortures his protagonist with great cunning, while incorporating fabulous bits of Portland into the book. He wrote a guest-blog on here, A Dream to Some, A Nightmare to Others, which remains on my top ten blog list. He is one of the sweetest men I know. On twitter he told of his ukulele lessons, and I asked him to post a video of it, which he did. It was endearingly pitiful. Reminded me of when I took piano lessons in second grade. Oh, no, he was much better than that, come to think of it. Throughout the video, I smiled.

Check out his books here.

3. Linda Collision

I found Linda Collision when I was researching The Pirates’ Reckoning. She writes nautical fiction with a female protagonist and does a ship-shape job of it. Although I’ve never met her, she has been very helpful and encouraging, even agreeing to write a guest-post, Tension and Conflict on the High Seas, which also remains on my top ten blog list. If you liked Master and Commander, or the Horatio Hornblower books, you’ll enjoy her books. Word of warning, however, is to refrain from reading about the surgeon's mate’s shipboard surgery while eating your lunch. It’s enough to make you queasy.

Check out her books here.

4. Carolyn J. Rose

I want to thank Carolyn J. Rose for the awesome guest posts she did for me, Coping with Rejection and Self-torture Techniques for Writers. Besides being a good friend, Carolyn has taught me how to not be a bad writer. Now all I have to do is put into practice all she has taught to become a good writer. Carolyn writes great novels, well worth the read, from love stories set in the 1960s to murder mysteries involving the entire bizarre population of a fictional coastal town in Oregon. Both of Carolyn's guest blogs are in my top ten blog posts, but you'll notice the self-torture one is #1. Why? Because people from all over the world enter "self-torture techniques" into their search engine. Who knew?

Check out her books here.

Cat or Rats?

2012-01-01T13:11:00.000-08:00

The government is like a cat. Sure it can be silky and cuddly and its purr can lull you into a feeling of contentment, but, like a cat, it can purr one moment, and draw blood the next.

The New Year is here, and I imagine the government is going to want us to pay taxes all over again. What did they do with this year’s taxes? Did they play with the dollars until the life drained out of them, or did they buy every cat toy on eBay, for double the price, and have them sent FedEx Overnight? I’ll bet the government is going to start whining about taxes, just like it did last year. And, like a cat, they’ll keep meowing, and meowing until you give them what they want. If you don’t, you’re likely to feel the sting of claws raking down your legs.

You may think it is worth it, that they appreciate you, and want to use the money to make your life better, but my cat just let me know I’m chopped liver. He got a new cat tower, and he no longer wants to snuggle into the bed I have for him in whatever room I’m in. He wants to sleep on the top level of the tower and to heck with which room I’m in. It is the same with the government. They’re in the top level of their towers and do they care if you are living in your car, or a cardboard box? Well, they might care about the cardboard box—cats love cardboard boxes—but they don’t care about you. All they care about is the food bin or your wallet.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the government actually worked for the money, but they spend their entire day, eating, sleeping, bickering and spitting at each other, playing with toys, making a mess, and expecting you to clean it up. They overindulge, eat forbidden things, hawk it up, and expect you to continue on as if you don’t know they’ll do it again the moment your back is turned. Local government is just as bad as the feds. Rest assured they will want you to pay your property taxes, sales tax, and local income tax all over again, even though you paid them last year. Have they never heard of recycling?

And don’t think that a gray cat is better than an orange cat, a tabby is better than a calico, or a Siamese is better than a Persian. In the long run, they all want the same thing. They want you to support them in the style they’ve decided they deserve. You can try to limit their intake, but the moment you leave the room they are up on that counter, pilfering from your dinner platter.

So why do we put up with it, with them? The rats. R-A-T-S. They have us convinced rats carry various plagues and without government/cats, all of mankind would succumb. Nations would collapse. We’d all be reduced to pirating passing ships.

Admittedly, they eat the occasional spider, and protect us by shooting down incoming birds. Once in a while they refund a stimulus shrew, or give us a gopher. There is no denying they provide that sense of well-being only the vibrating purr can offer. And on that rare occasion, their antics even provide a laugh.

Might as well dust off those 1040 forms.

Happy New Year.

Miracles at Christmas

2011-12-27T20:59:00.000-08:00

Christmas.

A time for miracles.

They don’t have to be big, like the parting of the sea, or water changing into alcoholic beverages. They can be itty-bitty and still be miracles, right?

My mother found a pretty, airy red scarf, with white and green Santas, accenting her red coat, and the red and green hat she wore to church on Christmas eve. After church my parents and I drove over to my sister’s house, where they were serving savory dinner crepes, sweet dessert crepes, cold champagne and warm memories. At the table, my mother threw her scarf over her shoulder and it landed on the Christmas tea candles behind her on the buffet. Luckily, my daughter, whom I've always thought of as a heroine, leaped up, dashed around the table and smothered the flame before the rest of us even knew of the problem. No damage, except to the offending scarf. A miracle.

The next day, after dropping my parents off at their apartment, I waited at the light to return to my sister’s house. There is ongoing construction at the freeway on-ramp/off-ramp, which is confusing enough for frequent visitors, so I cannot imagine being there, just for the day. Some poor soul turned up the freeway off-ramp and started to climb toward the freeway. Because of the construction, there is no shoulder, no room to maneuver to avoid collision. I gripped the steering wheel and scrunched my head into my shoulders, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard the horns, the screech of tires, and the wild racing of my heart. But not the gnash of metal on metal. No screams. I opened one eye and saw the cars exiting the freeway had come to a stop a few feet from the front end of the disoriented vehicle. Another miracle.

Then, on my way home, as I crossed the Columbia River separating Oregon from Washington, I sped by Government Island and on a tree right next to the bridge, a bald eagle shimmered in the sunlight. Sunlight. In winter. In Washington.

Miracle.

How about you? Did you experience any Christmas miracles?

Christmas Carols and Apricot Brandy

2011-12-22T21:06:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas

This morning it was 22 degrees. It warmed up to 32, and I was called upon to shiver outside on crunchy, white grass, still covered in frozen fog.

It reminded me of Christmas caroling with my family, years ago. We used to snuggle into ski jackets, hats, scarves, and brave the winter cold in the Bay Area in California, caroling around whichever neighborhood had not yet called the police on us. Sometimes we’d enlist the help of friends, telling them people loved to hear us sing. This was not true. We were the only ones who loved to hear us sing. Everyone else threw the dead-bolt, pulled their curtains and turned up their televisions.

One particular year, the temperatures dipped below 50 and our breaths blew white puffs in the glow of streetlights and blinking green and gold bulbs. We had made up books with the words to carols we could sing in harmony, and we strolled along the quiet neighborhood, blasting out our Christmas cheer, ignored by all humanity. Our heads were covered with the usual assortment of Santa hats, reindeer hats, moose hats and polar bear hats and my mother’s hand-knit mittens covered our hands, but the cold seeped through our jackets and reddened our noses. We began to wonder if it was all worth it.

My mother slid a hand inside her parka and extracted a flask of apricot brandy. My mother, the woman who warned against the dangers of alcohol, and only broke out the wine at special occasions. A little brandy mixed with a cup of eggnog once a year was the extent of my brandy knowledge. “Well, look what I have here,” she said.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my mouth dropping as wide as my frozen jaw allowed.

“It was a gift,” she smirked. “I think this is just the time to open it.” And she did, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with red, green, yellow, and blue Christmas house lights reflecting on the brown glass. She tipped her head back and took a swallow, like a hoodlum from West Side Story. My mother! She plucked a white, embroidered hanky from her sleeve and wiped the rim, holding up the bottle. “Who’s next?”

I was probably twenty-one, and possibly still in college, and contrary to the stereotype college student, I rarely drank, and only if there was a designated driver.

But we were walking.

My hand extended toward the bottle. “Lemme have a swig,” I said, in my best gangster drawl. Surprisingly, apricot brandy was yummy out of the bottle. The hanky wiped away any deadly germs and I passed the bottle to the next person. It was like being part of the cast of “A Pocket Full of Miracles.” We sang, we sipped, we strolled, we snickered and we sang some more. What is more, we no longer cared when someone drew their drapes and doused the lights. We harmonized, giggled, crooned and guzzled, until we’d circled the block.

As I shivered outside today, listening to the lecture, and noticed the other people huddled in jackets and coats, teeth chattering and feet stamping to keep the blood circulating, I thought about that apricot brandy. It was not the place to sing Christmas carols, or tipple a toddy, but I smiled when I thought of that evening of Christmas caroling with my family and friends, and I felt the warm flush of memories.

May your Christmas be filled with warmth, and music, and family and friends. And perhaps a nice, hot, buttered rum.

It may seem as though I don't like Christmas

2011-12-17T10:00:00.000-08:00

Really, I do like Christmas. Honest I do. I wanted to write a nice, Christmas story to warm the reader's heart, but Bruce Murdock, from Portland's K103 radio station made me veer off the road with a story from Richland, Washington, yesterday. During a living nativity scene in front of the Cathedral of Joy, one of the shepherds burst into flame. They think his robes got too near the campfire and set him alight. While he tumbled down a hill, the three Wiseman tackled him, beating out the flames with their frankincense and myrrh. He was rushed to the local medical center with first and second degree burns to his hands and face.

After a short delay, the show went on.

Bruce Murdock went on to tell about his own Christmas experience back in about 1977. Like me, his house backed up to the woods and he was used to seeing the usual Pacific Northwest wildlife in his yard; raccoons, possums, etc., but as he stood at the kitchen sink, he glanced out of the window and spotted a sheep.

I've never spotted a sheep in my yard. I've had possum, raccoons, rabbits, deer, coyotes, snakes, bobcats and bears, but never have I had a sheep. Apparently he hadn't either.

He noticed it had a collar around its fluffy neck and scooped up his dog's leash, carefully approaching the animal, and slipping the hook onto the ring. He led the walking fleece into the front yard and tied it to the porch railing. Then he dialed 9-1-1.

"Oh, are you near the church?" the police asked.

They had been doing a living nativity at their neighborhood church when something frightened the sheep, causing a stampede out of the manger.

It was probably the flame from the shepherd’s robe.

A coworker told me nativity scenes are really dangerous, even the non-living ones. As a child, in Denmark, his father set up a small scene on his mother's sewing table. His dad had paper colored like stone, with a rough texture, that he'd drape across the table. He then placed Mary and Joseph and the baby, Jesus, into a little manager area made up of moss and rocks, surrounded by sheep and cattle, finally adding the shepherds and Wisemen on the outskirts.

After several years of this, they came home from the midnight service on Christmas Eve and lit the tiny candles to reflect on the coming of the Lord before going to bed. A little spark from the wick drifted down and set the three-year-old-moss on fire and the entire scene when up with a whoosh.

Might be how the shepherd's robes caught fire up in Richland.

Editor's note: Melanie Sherman does not know if it was the three Wiseman who beat out the flames of the shepherd.

Be careful what you say

2011-12-12T20:33:00.000-08:00

In the last post I mentioned I sometimes have conversations I don't remember later, even when I was young. It is what people who are running for president should remember. Anything you've ever said or done can be used against you later.

It is amazing how something you say can have a lasting effect on someone else. Something that was so unimportant that you don't even remember it, can color a person's entire perception of you for years to come. What brought this to mind was a co-worker's story not long ago, when I was training a new person. Someone I'd worked with for years said to the new employee, "Oh, Melanie is a good person to have train you. She knows how to make you feel at home."

I stared at her, puzzled. I couldn't remember ever making an effort to make someone "feel at home."

"Don't you remember?" she asked. "You trained me."

I shrugged, vaguely remembering the training ten years before. "I guess."

She turned to the new worker. "It was my first day, and Melanie was showing me how to do the invoicing. I was very nervous, and at some point I opened my mouth and my gum fell out."

You'd think I'd remember that.

"What did I do?" I asked, sure I would have laughed, pointed and maybe handed her a bottle of glue to stick the gum back in her mouth. Or maybe I whipped out a pad of paper and pen and jotted it down, saying she would be in my next book.

"You looked down at the gum," she said, "then back at me, nodded and said, 'Oh, yeah, you are really going to fit in with the rest of us. We made the right choice.'"

I don't remember that at all, but it apparently made her like me from that moment forward. I didn't have the heart to tell her I probably wasn't being kind, but suspect I was merely stating a fact. She did fit in. It was just good fortune she took it as kindness.

But ever since then I wonder how many times it went the other way. How many times did I say something that made someone uncomfortable, or unhappy. I apologize to anyone I've insulted, demeaned, ignored or belittled, including that boy I called a pig-headed freak that time on the bus, riding home from middle school. And no, I'm not running for president, but Santa is certainly checking on his naughty and nice list.

Oh, and I'm really thinking of putting the gum incident into my next book.

I didn't forget, I deleted it

2011-12-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, I used to have entire conversations I didn't remember later. There was a time a co-worker and I were discussing reporters, paparazzi, and journalists. We had been talking about how awful it must have been for Jackie Onassis, having tabloid reporters snapping pictures from near and far, with no regard for her at all. I mentioned that sometimes people who work for the tabloid media can be pretty obnoxious. My co-worker said, "Yeah, like that time that reporter was interviewing Abe Lincoln's widow?"

I turned, narrowing my gaze, wondering if this was something she had learned in school. "What reporter interviewed her?"

My co-worker smiled. "You know. When he said, 'Well, besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?'"

I laughed. "Yeah, that is the type of thing I'm talking about. How did you come up with that?"

She stared at me while the clock ticked, and steam rose from her coffee. "You told me that joke a month ago," she said, scratching her nose and tilting her head to check me for obvious signs of blunt trauma.

I chuckled. "Oh, yeah," I said.

But I didn't remember it at all.

It isn't that I forgot. It is just that I had to delete that joke from my memory because my RAM was full and I needed to remember something else. We only have so much ram, you know. Our minds are like computers. It is my theory that people with kids use up their RAM faster than childless people, because you have to remember your own things, plus the things your children are supposed to remember, but don't. So, when your RAM gets full, and you need to learn something new--like a new computer program at work, or your doctor's appointment--then you must delete something you don't feel you need any longer. In this case, it was the Mrs. Lincoln joke.

This makes life so much easier. Using my theory, you don't ever have to forget anything again. If you come home and your husband says, "Did you remember to pick up my shirts at the cleaners?" and you hadn't, it is because you had to delete it in order to learn something else. Certainly there are times we end up deleting something we probably should have maintained. These are unfortunate computer glitches. Occasionally they can be retrieved, but not without a lot of effort.

My motto is, "It isn't that I forgot, it is just that I had to delete that."

I'm running toward the sunset years, and I worry about it. I'll be deleting more and more as time goes on, and I don't know how to run my brain's defragmentation program.

Black Friday is not for the dogs

2011-11-30T20:32:00.000-08:00

My cats were really happy to see me go back to work on Monday, after I'd had four days off with them. Apparently, I annoyed them. I wouldn't let them fight, or saunter across the counters, or snuggle on my black, velour jacket. The worst part of it, though, was while I was sleeping through the madness of the middle-of-the-night-Black-Friday-frenzy, one of them knocked over my purse and took my credit card. Later, just in time, I found him at my computer. He was on the Petsmart website, trying to buy cat treats. He already had 700 dollars worth of cat toys in the shopping cart.

Wilson Afonso from Sydney, Australia

Sometimes orders are useless

2011-11-27T18:06:00.000-08:00

End of Thanksgiving Weekend

I drove down to Oregon to visit my parents today. It was a high-speed windshield wiper drive, both going down and coming back. The kind where traffic is traveling under the speed limit, and passing a truck is like crawling through a car wash.

So, by the time I got near my parents and saw this Peet's Coffee and Tea truck, and read the "Follow me to the grocery store!" on the back of the truck, I was ready to obey the order.

It took a half hour for me to realize the truck was parked.

Thankful for Vancouver

2011-11-20T17:05:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Week

Every year, around this time, I try to notice all the wonderful things worthy of heartfelt thanks, because I'm thankful, yes, but also in case someone gets the bright idea--around the Thanksgiving table--to make everyone mention why we are thankful. During those times I gaze at the ceiling, and can think of nothing. I'm hoping by posting this, that I'll remember enough to blather out some of the below, instead of having to say the usual, "Um...I'm just thankful...ah," and all the family gathered round the table stare, with eyebrows lifted in encouragement and some of them even nod their heads as if that will help me think of something, "for...um...my family. Yes. And, um, for this meal. And for dessert. There is something for dessert, right?"

How lame is that?

So without further ado, let me take you on a tour of things to be thankful for in Vancouver, Washington. Because it really is a beautiful place, a nice photo opportunity.

Photo of photographer, photographing a family on Officer's Row

Ester Short Park

Ester Short Park is located in downtown Vancouver and is the oldest public square in the state of Washington. It was given to the city by Ester Short back in 1853. If you look all the way across the park, you'll see a silver vehicle which is parked in front of the Ester Short Starbucks. This is important information in case you are planning to visit our city.

Army Air Corps

Pearson Field

Pearson Field is a lovely, small airport, located just behind/beside Fort Vancouver and houses the lovely Pearson Air Museum. If you look in the background you'll see our own Mt. Hood.

Mt. Hood

Okay, I took a close-up of Mt. Hood. Technically, it isn't Vancouver's mountain, since it is actually located in Oregon, and we don't pay any taxes on it. Which makes it all the more endearing to us.

Columbia River, taken from Fort Vancouver Park with PDX in the background

Technically, the part of the Columbia River from the east side of Vancouver, to the west side, belongs to Vancouver. It is what separates the "Normal Vancouver" Washington from the "Weird Portland" Oregon. However, we let Oregon share in the taxes, and even allowed them to place the airport along its banks.

Fort Vancouver is also the home of the Fort Vancouver Fireworks on the 4th of July every year. It is one of the best shows in the nation.

Fort Vancouver Promenade

One of the loveliest spots in Vancouver is the above promenade. It runs along the river and provides ample opportunity for runners, power walkers, dog walkers, strollers, skaters, bicyclists, joggers, and people on scooters to breath in the fresh air while watching sailing vessels and barges floating along the Columbia.

Vancouver Library, 2011

Vancouver has new condos, hotels, parks and libraries, but it also has old, historic sites. This picture shows the old and the new. Above, you see young trees outside of the library, but in the reflection of the library building, you see old, tall Douglas firs.

Fort Vancouver, Tower

Vancouver is fortunate to have its own fort, located along the Columbia River. It was built in the 19th century.

Hudson's Bay Company

Fort Vancouver was not a military fort, but was a fur trading post for the Hudson's Bay Company.

Fort Vancouver

It is now a National Historic Site and is part of the U.S. National Park Service. You may stroll behind the gates of the fort to experience life in the mid 1800's at this facility. They make hard-tack and have trading beads, and Hudson's Bay blankets, and lots of people who appear to be straight out of history.

Marshall House, Officer's Row

The Marshall House is on Officer's Row, and is available to the public to rent for weddings, parties and my birthday.

Lantern Tours

Schedule today. You won't be sorry. Unless you are afraid of ghosts.

Officer's Row

I've read that most of the houses on Officer's Row have ghosts. I've not seen one, but others claim to have spotted them.

Vancouver is a beautiful city and I'm thankful to live here.

Anything you say can be used against you

2011-11-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have privacy in a cubical jungle? No, but let's not admit it to anyone.

Today, my co-worker in the next cubical, told me she'd invited another co-worker, Cory, for Thanksgiving.

"Her kids are going over to their dad's house, so she would have been alone. All her family is in another state," Ronnie said.

"So is she going?" I asked.

"Yes, she accepted." Ronnie confirmed.

"I'm glad," I said. "She is so sweet."

From across the room, Lynn's soft voice floated over the tops of the cubicals. "Who's sweet?"

"We don't want to say," I chirped, teasing Lynn. "We don't want to spread rumors."

"But I want to know. Who's sweet? Who are you talking about."

I snorted. "We don't want to say. What if we're wrong?"

A moment followed when only the click of keyboards could be heard. "I still want to know who you were talking about," Lynn said from across the room.

I grinned. "We were talking about you, Lynn. You are sweet."

Silence followed for a couple of computer beeps. "Huhn," Lynn said. "And I thought you were talking about Cory."

Good thing we hadn't been discussing government secrets. They have cubicals there, too, don't they?

Note: Names changed to protect the guilty.

Success Story

2011-11-13T20:58:00.000-08:00

I went to my friend, Susan's wedding reception on Friday, 11/11/11. She was married at 11 am, and although I wasn't there for the wedding itself, apparently my name was mentioned in the wedding ceremony. Years ago, Susan wanted to place an advertisement on some dating website. The horror of these websites is that you must post a picture of yourself. I discovered quite by accident that if you are leaning over something, like a counter, or desk, that all of the double chins disappear, making you look way younger. But how do you make that look natural?

Susan said, "I know just the place. We'll go take pictures of each other this weekend, and we'll each post an ad on Sunday evening. We can compare the responses we get, and weed out the ones who aren't serious."

I wasn't enthusiastic. I didn't think posting an ad was the best way to find the perfect man, but agreed just to be supportive. That weekend, we went to downtown Vancouver where Susan had found a post we could lean over, and in the background were the Columbia River and the I-5 bridge connecting Washington to Oregon. I brightened. With an interesting background, the men looking at the website would be less inclined to study the person, and more likely to check out the background. Perfect.

I posted my ad on Sunday, and Susan posted hers. Very quickly, she received some lovely responses, met with some nice gentlemen and finally settled on Stuart. He sent her roses, and chocolate, took her to the ballet, the symphony, antique shows, and eventually took her to Seattle to meet her daughter and son-in-law.

She removed her ad. She didn't need it anymore.

And now, years later, after a very long courtship, they are married. And, in the ceremony, they said they owe it all to me. He still has that picture she posted on his desk.

How sweet. I love a good success story. And theirs makes me smile.

I don't have her picture, but above is the one of me. Look at that nice background. And notice you can hardly see any of my chins? How did my ad go? Well, my first response was from a rodeo clown.

No, really.

The second response, I met the man for coffee. He tried to sell me some weight-loss program and, after an hour of trying to be polite, I finally picked up the check for the two coffees and said, "I'll pay for the coffee if you leave the tip."

He left a quarter.

I removed my ad too.

Good vs. Evil

2011-11-09T20:44:00.000-08:00

I suppose you all think this is a blog about writing heros and villains, about the struggle for good to triumph over evil, fairies against warlocks, or the living vs. the undead. And in a way, it is. Sometimes the protagonist/hero we write is not a sword-swinging, swashbuckling, caped crusader, cutting a pink "Z" into the blue fabric of sunset. Sometimes our hero is a quiet, well-mannered, gentleman, whose good deeds go unrecognized by the heroine, until the very end.

Somewhere out there, in Vancouver, is a quiet, unsung hero. No one will ever thank her/him for the good deed. She/he won't be asked to join a talk-show host, or have a reality television show, or make the "good deeds" minute on the local news. But I like to think the cosmic universe will extend a benevolent hand to that person, just the same.

Honor.

It is such a simple thing, and yet so powerful. It matters. It mattered in 1805, during the time- frame I write. It matters now. I hope it will continue to matter in the future.

A co-worker lost her wallet in Vancouver. She inquired at a grocery store, remembering she'd had it there two days earlier. It had been turned in. We all speculated. Would everything be in it when she got it back? We asked her to let us know, not because of idle curiosity, but because we all wanted our faith in humanity to be validated.

After lunch, she returned to our cubical city, clutching her wallet and beaming. "It's all there," she said. "Everything. There was even $80 in it. I didn't even remember having $80."

Several of us let out a gush of relief and smiled. There are still good people out there. Honorable people. I wonder if our hero added the $80? Maybe she/he opened it and thought, "Wow, this woman is poor," and slipped in a couple of extra twenties. Or maybe I just think of someone with honor as being the kind of person who'd so such a thing. Just like a good super hero.

Autumn in Oregon City

2011-11-06T18:24:00.001-08:00

Oregon City

The end of the Oregon Trail

Today, just above the Willamette Falls on the Willamette River in Oregon City, the sun lights the autumn trees with fiery colors. It is a peaceful scene, but if you listen carefully you can hear the distant roar of the falls and the clickety-clack of the rails as a train approaches on the far side.

Union Pacific engine 7607 is in the lead, matching the color of the trees around it. Very clever of a railroad to paint their engines the same colors as the foliage.

While you are floating down the river, pay attention to that buoy in the top picture because this is what awaits you just a little bit downstream. Pull up your kayaks unless you think you can navigate the 40 foot drop of Willamette Falls.

Taken by Cacophony on September 18, 2004

Beckon the Pelican

2011-10-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

In sunlight's solace

Crashing waves give the hope of

better tomorrows

Gorgeous day at Boiler Bay

Oregon

Brown Pelicans

He thought I was more important than watching the water

He was wrong

And he's learned his lesson

Is the pelican on the right going to yawn?

Yes

Makes me want to yawn, too

Sunlit pelicans

Rest on the warm rocks beckons

Waves crash, awakens

Pacific Northwest Wildlife

2011-10-25T19:43:00.000-07:00

I'm still in awe of what I saw on the way to work today.

Regular readers of this blog know I have a dubious relationship with animals, wildlife in particular, which is too bad, since I seem to have regular encounters with them. My commute to, or from work is littered with animals. There are cows and sheep, horses and pigs (although I can't see the pigs from the road). There are goats, chickens, dogs and cats. Nearly every day I must slam on my brakes for black-tailed deer, or a black bear, a bobcat or raccoons. Possums occasionally saunter across the road, and there used to be lots of tree frogs, hopping in the headlight beams.

I've recently heard the mountain lion population has grown considerably in the area, and they are opening hunting to include the big cats.

But never, in my wildest imagination, did I ever expect to see a zebra on my morning commute.

Bridging the Gap on the Oregon Coast

2011-10-19T20:31:00.000-07:00

Yaquina Bay Bridge, Newport, Oregon

Designed and built by Conde McCullough

Completed in 1936

Photo by Melanie Sherman

Conde McCullough (1887–1946) was a professor at Oregon State in Corvallis from 1916 to 1919. In 1919, he accepted an offer to become Oregon's bridge engineer in the Bridge Division of the Oregon Department of Transportation. He immediately hired four of the five graduating class members of the civil engineering department at Oregon State (the fifth declined). From 1919 to 1925, he and his staff designed and built nearly 600 bridges in Oregon.

I like to think about the types of vehicles travelling across the bridges during those times. Already old cars like this 1909 Pope Hartford, racing across in a blur of maroon and brass.

1909 Pope Hartford

Photo by Melanie Sherman

Or newer cars like this 1913 Case, rolling across on the huge, thin white walls and sporting beautiful wood spoke wheels and upgraded leather upholstery, filled with driver, spouse and four children out for a week's vacation at the coast.

1913 Case

Photo by Melanie Sherman

Or a brand new, spiffy Dodge with the row of oval rear windows and the fancy hood ornaments, and the family bundled in under wool, Hudson's Bay blankets.

1919 Dodge

Photo by Don O'Brien

But the depression arrived in 1929 and what did the Bridge Division of the Oregon Department of Transportation do? Did they collapse and go on unemployment? Well, they certainly slowed their pace, but they continued to build bridges throughout Oregon. Imagine the cement, lumber, gravel and sand industries thriving during this time period because of these bridge constructions. Not to mention the workers that built them. Twelve bridges, designed by Mr. McCullough, were completed between 1930 and 1936, most of them along Oregon Coast Highway 101 on the Oregon Coast.

Did he ever suspect the bridges would carry a set of doubles, or an RV bigger than many homes at that time? Did they have meetings to brainstorm what the future would hold, or what the bridges would hold in 2011? And yet they do hold. He designed them to last. And he made them pretty.

Yaquina Bay Bridge

Photo by Melanie Sherman

Waves and Cats

2011-10-11T20:24:00.000-07:00

Every afternoon, when I roll into my driveway, Schooner waves to me before jumping down to run to the door. If you can ignore the unsteady video, I've finally learned how to post a movie into my blog.

Boredom is not an option

2011-10-08T22:30:00.000-07:00

I'm rarely bored. I think it is because I find the simplest things vastly amusing, and I'm quite good at thinking up the simplest things.

It is a good quality to have. Right?

For instance, I used to walk every day at lunch, three times around the same .7 mile loop, listening to the same Caribbean beat CD. Was I bored? No. I'd think up interesting ways to amuse myself, such as plotting out stories or betting that I'd reach the third tree before a car went by, or deciding I'd reach the crosswalk before the particular song on the CD ended.

I've caught myself doing that recently when I return home at night. I keep track of how far I go before I have to dim my headlights. The Pacific Northwest is not as heavily populated as some parts of the country, so sometimes I can leave my brights on for two or three miles without encountering another car. One Saturday night, around 11pm, I drove nearly six miles with my brights on; with no cars in front, behind or oncoming.

As amusing as I found this, I'm worried it is time for me to get a life.

Portland Spirit

2011-10-08T09:14:00.000-07:00

I've had a couple of people email me and ask what the Portland Spirit is, and how could I have not seen it until it was nearly on top of us.

I've included a picture below, but the reason I didn't see it is because I was watching the firemen on the fire boat. Need I explain more?

If you plan a trip to Portland, the Portland Spirit provides an excellent brunch cruise, as well as lunch and dinner cruises. I've done the lunch and brunch several times. Perhaps if you come to visit, I'll allow you to treat me to a dinner cruise. Who wouldn't jump at that chance, huh?

Showers, Sheets and Sailing through Portland

2011-10-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

Sailing through Portland, Oregon

For my birthday, my sister, Nina, gave me a sailing trip. Not just any sailing trip, but sailing on the Willamette River right through the heart of Portland. The kind of trip you see others taking on a hot, summer afternoon, when they glide past, sprawled on deck in bathing suits, jaunty little sun hats poised atop stylishly windblown hair, and sipping piña coladas with festive little umbrellas peeking over the rims. They are always smiling, without a care in the world.

That kind of trip.

We met for a Sunday brunch at the floating Newport Bay Restaurant, wedged between a boat-filled jetty at River Place and the I-5 bridge. My sister had brought Gore-Tex pants, jacket, hat and water boots. I glanced out the window. Something was amiss. Was that rain, coming down in sheets and spilling off the gutters of the restaurant?

I patted my pack. It contained a light jacket, and a wide-brimmed summer hat.

After the meal, we pressed against the glass doors and stared out at the dock. The rain eased until it was a fine mist, then stopped. We ambled outside and watched a 26 foot Hunter sailboat approach, its sails furled and the passengers huddled under tarps and jackets, their stringy, wet hair stuck to their heads under sagging hats.

After they disembarked, we boarded and sat on wet seat cushions in the cockpit. Within minutes, we shoved off, motoring out under the I-5's Marquam Bridge.

"Are we going to sail?" I asked Captain Shane St. Clair.

He glanced at the clouds breaking up overhead, and at the little ribbons hanging from the rigging.

"Well, I guess so," he smiled. "We'll set the jib, first, and see how that goes."

It was at that point he pressed Cort into the crew, assigning him the task of taking the helm, while he jumped up and unfurled the mainsail and checked the lines and sheets. Cort seemed perfectly happy to become a first-mate, however, and steered clear of any misfortune.

The sun came out and steam rose from the deck, and the squishy seat cushions. We raised the mains'l. Nina had arranged for a band to stand under the Burnside Bridge and play for us as we sailed past. She is so organized.

Burnside Bridge (with the little Bavarian Village tower)

The Burnside Bridge was designed by Joseph Strauss and built in 1926. His next bridge was the Lewis and Clark Bridge. After that, he designed a little bridge called the Golden Gate.

The Portland fire boat came out to greet us. I think Nina arranged this, too. They waved to us, and probably thought we were visiting celebrities.

Portland Fire boat

I was so busy doing the celebrity hand wave that I almost didn't see the Portland Spirit until it was on top of us.

Portland Spirit and Portland Fire

In the below picture you can see the Steel Bridge in the foreground. It may not be the most beautiful bridge, but it is one of the busiest. Across its spans run cars, buses, pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, railroad trains and light rail trains. Just beyond the Steel Bridge is the Hawthorn Bridge, and beyond that you can see the graceful arch of the Fremont bridge, the highest of the Portland bridges.

Steel Bridge, Hawthorn Bridge, Fremont Bridge

When we arrived back at the dock, and furled the sails, the sun was just about to be swallowed up by clouds. I expected to see newspaper reporters, longing to interview us, but they were curiously absent.

By the time we got back to our cars, it began to rain.

Black vs. Black Black

2011-09-21T20:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, at work, I'm presented with dilemmas which require a great deal of perspicacity. In fact, it isn't unusual for a group of us to skip our break and gather around a desk and brainstorm. It is hard work, but someone has to do it.

Yesterday I placed an order for some black material. You'd think that would be simple.

It wasn't.

This morning, the supplier wanted to know if I wanted black, or black/black.

"What is the difference?" I asked.

"Well, there is black, but the black/black is darker than the black," she explained.

"What could be darker than black?" I asked.

"Black/black is darker than black."

"Black/black isn't even a color," I accused. "Black/black is someone just saying black twice."

I could hear a pen tapping on the other end.

"I mean," I said, "you don't say blue/blue is darker than blue. You say navy blue is darker than sky blue, or periwinkle blue, or robin's egg blue. You don't just say there is blue, and there is blue/blue."

I heard a sigh. "Black/black is very black, darker than regular black."

"So what is the name of this black? It has to have a name. Is it end-of-the-world black? Or black-hole black?"

"Hmmm." I could hear her shuffling papers, as if she were looking at the data sheet. "It doesn't have a name other than black/black."

"Well, I think we want the black. But I'll check with the project manager, just in case we want the black/black."

I checked with both project managers and the document control person. This required some brainstorming and research, but it turned out we wanted the black, mostly because it was less expensive than the black/black, and more readily available.

But, it still concerned me that the manufacturer had not given the black/black a name. I mean, really. Would anyone say, "I'd like of can of gray/gray" in the Home Depot paint section?

Naturally, when I sent our supplier our answer, I also passed along this list to give to the manufacturer, as possible names for the black/black.

1. Zombie Black

2. Deep Space Black

3. New Moon on a Cloudy Night Black

4. Black Widow Black

5. Void Black

6. Absence-of-Light Black

7. Witch Hat Black (offered by Tami)

8. Doomsday Black (offered by Angela)

And what if we wanted a color darker than black/black? I offered this possibility:

1. Blackity Black Black

By the way, the above picture was taken by James Gathany and downloaded from Wikimedia commons with this note attached: This image is a work of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, part of the United States Department of Health and Human Services, taken or made during the course of an employee's official duties. As a work of the U.S. federal government, the image is in the public domain.

Glad they are watching out for us. Looks like their job is as difficult as mine.

******

Editor's Note: The supplier has become used to dealing with Melanie Sherman, and no one was hurt during the course of the above conversation.

This is your brain

2011-09-14T21:12:00.001-07:00

What will happen when you get older? Will you have trouble remembering things? Do you already have trouble? Are you stressed about it?

Stressing out about it isn't going to do any good. Literally. I read an article today that said stress releases a hormone called cortisol, which kills brain cells in the hippocampus (I think that was the campus where I lived during my college years--it was totally hip). This is the area of your brain where your "episodic memory" is stored.

So prolonged or frequent stress can lead to memory loss.

But here is the thing. It is said we only use 10% of our brain. I like to think of that 10% as a thriving metropolis, like New York City (and I'm the mayor). But as in NYC, there are brain cell murders going on, and drive-by shootings by the "Stress Gang." So if I started getting low on virtual memory, why wouldn't I get on Amazon.com and order some new cells from the suburbs of my brain (the 90%) that aren't being used, to be delivered into my memory center in the heart of my city? I mean, really, what are those brain cells in my suburbs doing, anyway?

Nothing.

So I did a little research and found out the brain cells I'm not currently using are all part of a National Park System in my brain, and they cannot be used for any other purpose. My brain is made up of 10% city, and 90% National Park.

Just my luck.

What are your brain suburbs doing?

Editor's Note: Melanie Sherman is aware that the 10% of the Brain myth is an urban legend. It is just that she has trouble remembering that.

When research makes you shiver in your sleep

2011-09-02T23:08:00.000-07:00

I've been researching books written in first person with multiple viewpoints and Mel, the owner of Cover to Cover Books, has been on the lookout for me. The book she recommended was love story Shiver (Wolves of Mercy Falls) by Maggie Stiefvater.

I shall never forgive her.

"It is a YA book about werewolves," she said.

I cringed. I am not into werewolves, zombies or vampires. I never have been. Even as a teenager, if that had been the only types of books being cranked out, I would have stopped reading. It isn't that I have anything against them, it is just that they scare the beejeebers out of me. I prefer to be entertained rather than terrorized. I can read the newspaper if I want to be frightened.

So, I was prepared to despise the novel. It annoys me to say this, but I was swept up in the book and secretly even enjoyed it, though I'll never admit it to anyone. I could have stopped after several chapters, satisfied with my research, but I had to continue reading it. Oh there was a little too much teenage angst for me in a couple of places, but as a young adult I wouldn't have thought so. This isn't meant to be a book review, however. It is meant to tell you not to ever read the book if you are a yellow-belly, wimp, like me. The same horrible thing could to happen to you.

The night before I finished the book, I fell asleep trying not to think of the snowy, cold, werewolf haven in Mercy Falls, and I succeeded. Instead, in my dream, a friend had to go to work and asked me to watch her son. (Which might even be worse than werewolves, I admit)

"He's been complaining his head itches. Would you mind checking it?"

"Sure," I told my friend (who was somewhere off camera)

After she left, I began searching for signs of lice in the boy's hair. I started at the base of the skull and worked my way up to the crown, and was relieved to see no signs. But then I saw a patch of skin that had been torn nearly away but lay flat against the scalp. You know, when you rip a whole in your skin and you can lift a patch up, but it is still being held by one side? Yes, that kind. Those are the worst, because dirt can get trapped under them. Apparently I am a lot braver in my dreams than in real life. I decided to lift up that patch of skin to see if there was dirt under it. This was curled up under it.

It was about the size of a worm and curled under that flap, burrowed down so there wasn't even a lump on the head.

I screamed.

And woke up.

When my breathing returned to normal, I thought of purple and yellow pansies and a brown box filled with kittens until I fell back to sleep.

Now I was on the phone with the advise nurse, who was telling me I could flush out the worm myself. I just needed to mix Tourkenque (I don't know what she said...but it sounded something like tourkenque) and saline and lift the flap--

"I can't do that! It is a snake. A snake!" I said.

"I thought you said it was the size of a worm," the nurse said over the phone, sounding accusatory.

"It is the size of a worm, but it has fangs and its forked tongue keeps darting out."

"Well, you can still flush it out yourself, by..."

I woke up. This time I thought about raindrops on roses and warm woolen mittens. I reprimanded myself for continuing the dream, and gave myself a sharp warning not to do it again. I drifted off to sleep.

This time, I was at the emergency room with the miscreant boy with the snake in his head. I pleaded with someone (off camera) to get it out and they were insisting I should do it myself. "I can't do it myself," I whined. "It is a snake. And it has this huge depression in the skull where it has been skulking."

The nurse glared, like I was a bad mother for not wanting to remove my own son's snake-in-the-head. At this point, if he had been my own son, I would have disowned him, claiming I'd never seen him before, but since it was only a dream, I crooked my finger at the nurse. She sidled over, her eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips.

"What?" she snapped.

"You don't understand. If you try to make me get that snake out, you'll not only end up having to do it yourself, but you'll have to stitch up my head because I will have split it open when I fainted and crashed to the floor," I explained.

She gave me a look that said, "Paleease. Just do it."

I woke up.

This went on several more dream sessions. I woke up in the morning a mass of nerves and feeling slightly queasy.

I blame this on the werewolves of Mercy Falls and I'll ask Mel, at the bookstore, to start looking for children's picture books for me from now on. Picture books about puppies.

Falling for a Smile

2011-08-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

It is a flaw in writers that we like to eavesdrop. Jocelyn Lindsay can attest to this, since she is the one I tried desperately to ignore, but couldn't help overhearing at the Willamette Writers Conference, with scintillating results. It is now one of my most popular blog posts.

In listening to other's conversations, we can study human behavior, glimpse real-time dialog, log nuances in speech. It is research.

But today something else happened. I fell in love. With a smile.

I'd like to knock some sense into the young girl who is doing her best to ignore him. Her long, dark hair is touching the top of her short, short denim cutoffs, from which her long, tanned legs run into sockless hightops. A computer sits in front of her, silently maintaining an impregnable force field between them.

He's across from her, trying to talk her into joining him in some sort of fund-raising walk/run for charity. He tells her about it, his hands folded under his chin as he sends her a disarming smile over the top of her computer screen. She mumbles something and he leans forward, until his chin is nearly resting on the top of the computer. "Except, I wouldn't outrun you. I'd stop any time you needed to stop." His voice is smooth, like a polished mahogany table top. His dark eyes crinkle, focused on her, and the smile widens.

She runs her fingers over her mousepad, bringing up a set of images on her computer screen. She studies them. "I don't know," she maintains.

He is bewitched, his smile encouraging, indulgent. He shifts in the chair, shuffling his sneakered feet, careful not to cross over to hers, his legs covered in khaki trousers much the same color as the coffee he ignores. His gaze never falters. "You'd be fine. Give yourself a chance."

She mumbles something else, shrugging a shoulder, her fingers punching keys. He is undeterred, his wide smile showing a glimpse of sparkling teeth. "But it isn't a competition. I'd stay with you, beside you," he says.

A blender whirs and the smell of brewing coffee fills the air. She watches her screen and misses his gaze roam over her features, memorizing each one; misses the yearning; misses the delight in glint of his eyes, and the bright smile. There is no pleading in his voice, only a soft, gentle confidence in his straight back, his polite adherence to her undrawn line of demarcation.

She mumbles something else. He tips his head to the side. "You aren't giving yourself a chance. You could do this. No one would make fun of you. I'd be there with you."

She brings up another website, not even glancing up. She clicks the mouse pointer and a photo of football players appears. She shakes her head, hunches a shoulder. People get up from the table behind them, and clatter over the tiled floor to the door.

His gaze remains on her downcast eyes, and, although he still smiles, a sadness plays across his face. He gets up, straightens his navy blue polo shirt, runs a hand through his short brown hair and waits. She stands and he dips his chin. "Call me if you change your mind." She moves her body toward him, stiffly offering herself for a hug without lifting her arms from her sides. He reaches out and his arms surround her in a quick, gentlemanly hug. His eyes darken and he takes a long breath and lets it out slowly.

"Think about it. I'd be glad if you changed your mind."

He turns and ambles out.

I want to follow.

He may be in my next book.

Know your Genre

2011-08-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

One of the things I learned at the Willamette Writers Conference is that agents are not kidding when they want to know the genre of your book, both when you pitch to them in person, and when you query.

They want to know on what shelf it will be in Barnes & Noble.

One of the reasons, I suspect, is because if you've written a erotic thriller and they only represent children's picture books, they won't have to waste much time. So, you may think, maybe I should do a broad spectrum of genres, so I might hit on one or two they represent.

Not a good thing. First, if you are serious about querying agents, you need to do your homework and find out if the agent represents your genre. There are plenty of websites that have already done this for you, but when you put the estamp on the email and send it on its e-way, you'd better have double checked the agent's website.

Second, if you say, "Well, it is kind of an action/adventure, sci-fi, multicultural, romantic thriller, western, detective book," the agent may think, "Is there one section at Barnes & Noble for all that?" Why give the agent a reason to reject your query just for that? They get hundreds of queries. Don't give them a reason to discard your hopes before reading a sample of your writing.

You wouldn't go up to the Jack-in-the-Box and say, "I'd like a bacon sandwich, a lettuce sandwich, with a slab of ground beef, and some tomatoes, and I'd like to have some onions, and dill pickles would be good, and I'd also like some cheese with mayo and toss in some mushrooms with catsup," would you? If you did, you'd better hope Jack is open 24 hours, because it will be a while before he knows what you really want.

If you say, "I'd like a cheeseburger, with bacon and mushrooms," Jack immediately knows what you want.

Have you written a book like the ones you like to read? Go to your local bookstore and ask what section those books are in. That's your genre.

Give the agent the same respect you'd give Jack.

There can be drawbacks to that. I went to B&N once when I was thinking of writing a book similar to the type of writing Janet Evanovich does. I asked what section I could find the newest Janet Evanovich book.

The clerk pointed to the front of the store. "On the best-seller table."

Oh yeah, my genre is Best Seller.

Editor's Note: Melanie Sherman is not suggesting you treat an agent like they are a fast-food, drive-up window.

Cats are people, too

2011-08-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

Family is important, including pets. But my cats have ripped the numbers off my keyboard, eaten a door stop, knocked down shelves and broken glassware. They've worn out their welcome at more than one family member's homes.

But I don't feel so alone after this weekend.

Yesterday, my niece, Kim, flew in from Texas with Sean, her significant other. I picked up my parents and we all met at my sister, Nina's, house to celebrate Kim's visit. We sat in the warm shade of Nina's backyard and listened to the gurgling fountain and the cascading waterfall of the fish pond. A bee buzzed by on its way to a fragrant patch of yellow and blue pansies, and birds chirped in the trees.

"This is so lovely and tranquil," I said.

"There are babies in the fishpond," Nina said. "The carp have produced at least three babies. If you stare at the water long enough, you'll see them darting around." She sounded like a proud grandparent.

"Well, it is nice to hear the water and the birds," my mother said.

"Not this morning." Nina grimaced. "One of the cats keeps bringing birds into the house and this morning there was a dead one on my bathroom floor."

We all frowned and I was glad my cats don't go outside.

Laurent, my brother-in-law, went in to make drinks and Nina followed to check on dinner. Kim and Sean settled into the soft cushions of the patio furniture and my father leaned his head back and snored softly.

The screen door banged open and Laurent barreled out, racing across the deck to the side yard. "We need help in the living room," he called behind him.

"Bird, bird," Nina yelled from inside.

Kim and I scrambled up and ran through the open doorway, through the kitchen to the closed door leading into the living room. We hesitated just long enough for Laurent to dash back in, clutching a pool skimming net. He stopped, one hand on the handle, listened to the desperate wails through the door, and threw it open. Kim and I rushed in after him, closing off the escape route into the kitchen. All the doors to the bedrooms were shut, as was the door at the top of the stairs, and Nina waved and gyrated on the stairwell, breathing in short gasps. The front door was flung wide.

“Stand between the living room and hallway and wave your arms,” she begged.

Laurent launched into the hallway with the net, and Kim and I blocked the way into the living room. And there it came, a frightened, flapping hummingbird, down the stairwell, into the hall, up against the front door frame, past our outstretched fingers, and into the living room, Laurent pounding after it, swinging the net. The bird staggered against one wall, up to the ceiling, across the room to another wall, back out into the hall, and down toward the closed kitchen door. A determined Laurent trounced after it, swishing the net.

“Is it bleeding? It is bleeding, isn’t it,” Nina wailed.

It didn't stay still long enough for us to check, as it propelled itself toward the living room. This time Kim and I jumped up and down, flailing our arms, fingers stretched high. The bird veered back along the ceiling and thwacked straight into the net, froze, and slid down the screening as Laurent bounded for the open front door. Just as he reached it, the bird hurled itself out into the safety of the wide open sky.

Outside, on the cool cement of the front porch, sat their black and white cat, watching proudly.

Perhaps my cats aren't so bad after all.

Protagonist's Goal and Conflict

2011-08-12T22:43:00.000-07:00

This flower, at my lunchtime hideaway, waved in the warm summer breeze, cheering me, reviving me, until the buzz of the brown and gold creature grew nearer. The bee settled into its snowy surface. The flower drew in a quick breath and held it, stilled its movement, its white pedals brave under the tromping legs. The bee remained until it took what it wanted, then lifted, setting the flower in motion again, to sway on a relieved sigh.

It reminded me of my protagonist, and how she must deal with the conflict around her. Perhaps if she had held her breath and remained motionless, she wouldn't have fallen into worse circumstances.

Grunting at the Willamette Writers Conference

2011-08-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

Before words, there was just a series of grunting.

C. C. Humphreys

This year's Sunday lunchtime guest speaker at the Willamette Writers Conference was C. C. Humphreys, actor and author of historical fiction and young adult books. He spoke about not just words, but words. Words that can move, incite, comfort. Words sharper than swords, softer than velvet. He mentioned that he was disappointed at how he read the lines when he played Hamlet,

years ago, at the part when Polonius asks the prince what he is reading, and he replies, "Words. Words. Words." Like, what do you expect I'm reading? But he feels he should have delivered the lines differently, like 1.) I'm reading words. 2.) Words, which are so amazing they evoke scenes in our heads. 3.)Words that may not have completely described an allusive feeling.

I thought of it today when I turned onto the gravel road leading up to my house and had to stop for a great blue heron in the middle of the road.

But that is not how I should write it.

Perhaps it would be:

A Great Blue Heron, his long neck stretched high, and the enormous gray wings spread, blocked the gravel road, forcing me to crunch to a stop. Until then I'd been anxious to get home, but now I smiled and watched as he flapped enough air under his wings to lift, gliding down the bank to the shady creek bubbling twenty feet below.

So, I can see C. C. Humphrey's point. Words...conveying meanings. Words...conveying a picture. Words...which fail to completely capture the joy.

Curing Love at the Willamette Writers Conference

2011-08-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

Day Two of the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland, OR

Robert Dugoni

New York Times Best-Selling Author

Today I took a workshop given by Robert Dugoni, in which he explained the crucial concept of the implicit promise. What I think he was saying is that if you are writing a murder mystery, there is an implicit expectation that the murder will be solved.

"In a thriller novel, there is the promise that the bad guy will be stopped. And in a romance novel, that the yearning of the woman will be...what is the word I want...cured...something like cured." He snapped his fingers a couple of times and glanced around the room helplessly.

"Fulfilled?" someone offered.

"Yes, that is it, fulfilled," he said on a sigh of relief.

"Cured," I snorted, "tsk tsk"

Unfortunately I sat in the very front of the room and Mr. Dugoni heard me. Being the best selling author that he is, he didn't take it as heckling. No, he took it as a writing prompt.

His mouth curved into a heart-stopping smile. "Yes, love is a disease," he quipped. "It is sick. You romance writers are writing about sickness. Sickness, I tell you, that must be cured by the end of the book."

The workshop was excellent, I learned a lot, and Robert Dugoni managed to hold us all spellbound for an hour and a half. And perhaps he is right. Perhaps love is a disease. But is there a cure? Or can we only treat the symptoms?

Willamette Writers Conference and Computer Sex

2011-08-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland, Oregon

Group Consult Room

This morning I cursed my alarm at 5:45am, groped my way into the shower, pulled on the clothes I'd picked out the night before, and shuffled out to the car. The 6:45 traffic was light and I arrived at the Airport Convention Center in no time. I clumped down the hall to the PDX room and checked out my "Staff" vest, searched for a stop-watch, and signed in at the volunteer desk, all before that morning cup of Starbucks.

It was fun meeting agents when I didn't have to pitch to them. I was stationed in the Group Consult area and all I had to do is smile and use my outside voice to say, "Attention: five minute warning, five minutes," and "Time is up, time is up." It amazed me that all the people who came in to give their pitch to the agents looked calm. No one clutched their chests and crumpled to the floor (although we had been trained on the procedure to follow, should that happen. My feeling was it was more likely to happen in the one-on-one consult area.)

Author Hallie Ephron gives advice to attendee

In the afternoon, I attended two workshops, both given by Hallie Ephron, author of Come and Find Me and Never Tell a Lie. She is a fabulous speaker. Between sessions, I opened my notebook and attempted to jot down some notes before I forgot them. It was not my intention to overhear Sara Mikulic and Jocelyn Lindsay. It just happened. I didn't know the subject because I'd actually been trying to tune them out, but there are times a word or two will jump out at you. In this case, I heard Jocelyn say several words, as though she were making a list, and one of the items was "computer sex."

I thought she was deliberating on possible plot points for her book. My pen dropped and I glanced over at them. "Computer sex? Is that in your current work-in-progress?"

They both stared at me.

"I heard you say computer sex."

They eyed each other before swinging their gazes back to me. Several seconds ticked by.

Heat traveled up my neck. "Sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted," I said. "I just couldn't help but hear you say it."

I picked up my pen just as Jocelyn said, "Computer science. Science."

"Computer science?'"

She nodded and they both burst out in fits of chuckles.

Hummm.

I don't know. I'll bet Jocelyn is, right now, mapping out a book about a computer science instructor falling in love with his computer.

Um, it was very nice to meet you, Sara and Jocelyn.

Bumper Sticker Friday

2011-08-04T22:59:00.000-07:00

One of my critique group members saw the following bumper sticker, and thought she might have to delete her manuscript.

"No, your life would not make a good book."

This may have been taken from the Fran Lebowitz quote

"Your life story would not make a good book. Don`t even try."

Probably good advice.

Verbal Fiction

2011-08-02T20:47:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, my mother told me never to lie; that it would bring misfortune. To this day, I try to avoid lying at all costs. However, there are times I engage in verbal fiction.

Below is a conversation I had with a customer service representative at one of our suppliers in which I tried out a few seconds of verbal fiction. It was about 4:45pm, twilight, and dark gray clouds hung over the entire West Coast.

Acme: "Thank you for calling the Acme Company. How may I help you?"

(The man's desolate monotone sounded like he'd just lost six of his siblings in a volcanic eruption. My empathy glans kicked in immediately.)

Me: (sunny voice) "Hi. I need to place a purchase order."

Acme: (Brief sigh indicating his dog had also run away during the same lava spewing event) "Do you have your account number?"

Me: "Sure, it is P387112"

Acme: (another sigh) "Are you still at 383 West Elm?"

Me: "Yes."

Acme: "What is your PO number?"

Me: "3XT107"

Acme: (extremely pitiful sigh) "And what would you like to order?"

(Believe me when I tell you I hadn't planned this. It just happened as a result of listening to the voice of someone in the last stages of lockjaw.)

Me: "I'd like 44 zebras, and 17 giraffes."

(long pause)

Acme: "What?"

Me: "We could use some elephants, too, but I'm waiting for an elephant sale."

(Another long pause)

Me: "Oh, wait. No, I just want 44 pounds of purge material."

(Another long pause with some choking sounds)

Acme: "Who would place an order like that? I mean, who would call and order zebras and giraffes?

(This is where verbal fiction can be dangerous. Every once in a while, someone thinks you are spouting off non-fiction)

Me: "Well, not me. I'd have to have my general manager sign off on the purchase requisition. So, really, all I want is 44 pounds of--"

Acme: "Who would even be able to sign off on a purchase requisition like that? And who would you place the order with?"

Me: (glancing at clock ticking nearer 5PM) "Well, I don't know. I just wanted to cheer you up. So all I need is 44 pounds--"

Acme: "Monkeys. How are you doing on monkeys?"

(pause)

Me: "Um...we have plenty of monkeys." (holds phone away for a moment and stares at it) "I just need 44 pounds of purge."

Acme: "'Hello, God? Yeah, I need 44 zebras, 17 giraffes, and...um...better toss in about a dozen monkeys.'"

(Geeez)

Me: "No monkeys. We don't need monkeys. Just purge."

Acme: "I wonder if there'd be a back order on the Giant Anteater."

(I trained my voice to sound as though my dog had run away in a sea of molten magma.)

Me: "Um...I just want 44 pounds of purge."

Later, I realized my mother was right. She should have also included verbal fiction in with the warning. For three days, until the purge arrived, I expected a big, flatbed truck to pull up with a cage of screaming monkeys and several very tall crates.

Perhaps an emailed purchase order would have taken less time.

Writing has ruined me

2011-08-01T18:50:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, I was coerced into taking the buyer's position at my company. Now this may seem like a dream-come-true to some people, but I hate shopping. Even when it isn't my money, it feels like my money and it is difficult to spend it, especially if forced to buy more than we need.

Besides not being a "shopper," the job requires a lot of emails. It isn't uncommon to find 5o to 100 emails glaring at me from my inbox in the morning.

Sometimes I think old fashioned mail would be faster, but then again, a simple telephone call would be faster still. Sure I realize it is 19th century technology, but it is so much faster than email. Here is an example:

Acme: "Acme Company."

Me: "Hi, I need to place a purchase order for 250 of those tiny little screws with the Phillips head."

Acme: "Are you talking about the X19PA47838?"

Me: "Yes."

Acme: "You have to buy 5,000 of those at a time."

Me: "But I only need 250.

Acme: "But 5,000 is the minimum order."

Me: Exaggerated sigh. "Okay. How much?"

Acme: "Three cents each."

Me: "Okay. When can we have them?"

Acme: "They'll go out today and you should have them on Thursday."

Me: "Okay. Awesome. Use purchase order number 73P81

Acme: "Thank you. Bye."

Now if you read that out loud, even spending extra time on the sigh, it is only about a minute.

But if I use email, all those questions and answers--over a series of emails--will take several hours. This is because I'm a writer, which has totally destroyed my ability to write. First I write the email, then I begin the first edit, taking out as many words as possible. I must open the thesaurus to look up alternate words for "awesome" (which is just plain silly to say in an email), and decide on a different word for the second "okay." Then I do a spell-check. Next I run it past my email critique group, and make any necessary revisions. The next step is to submit it to my email beta readers. After meeting with them over coffee, I make more revisions. Next comes another session with the critique group, a final revision, and I'm finally ready to hit the "send" button. And that is just the first email. I must repeat it for the second and third.

Does anyone else find that emails drain the life out of your day?

Vancouver Library on Sunday

2011-07-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

It is Sunday. The sun is shining and it is a scorching 75 degrees. Yesterday morning I went to the orientation for the Willamette Writers members who will be volunteering at next weekend's writer's conference. I'm very excited about it. I'm volunteering all three days, which I hadn't planned to do, having only signed up for two days, but Carol Doane's and Don Weston's silver tongues had me scratching out my name on that last spot on Sunday before I knew what was happening.

Right now I'm at the new Vancouver Library with my computer whirring on a table in the corner. It is quiet and peaceful and I have a view of downtown Vancouver. I deliberately chose a table on the side of the library without the river view, hoping I'd buckle down and do some writing.

I'll let you know how that goes.

Vancouver Library Opens

2011-07-17T15:51:00.000-07:00

The new downtown Vancouver Library opened today. Months ago the people in charge set the opening for July 17^th, thinking we were sure to have lovely weather. They arranged for a few awnings to be erected, just in case the awesome heat we are known to have (about three days a year) were to happen on that day.

Opening of Vancouver, Washington downtown Library

Instead people who showed up for the opening ceremonies huddled under massive amounts of umbrellas and dumped water off the chairs under the awnings and sat on the dampness. The rain didn’t stop me. I clapped after all the speeches, cheered the ribbon cutting, listened to an fabulous children’s drum and chime band, and rushed into the line to be among the first hundred people to visit the five-story, window lined, Wi-Fi connected, coffee-shopped public library. I thumped past the community room, the check out stands and jumped on the elevator, whirring past the second floor administration area, the third floor children’s books, the fourth floor non-fiction section and strolled off on the fifth floor, housing fiction and an outside deck with a view of downtown Vancouver, the Columbia River, and Portland, Oregon in the distance.

I found the tables I’ll go to on the fifth floor; the one with the outlets and the view, and the one with no view for those days I don’t want distraction. When I meet a member of my critique group, there are little glass enclosed circles on the fourth floor where we can read out loud our troublesome passages. I checked out the coffee shop, and located the washrooms. It is all scoped out.

I’m ready. I voted it in, and I wrote out the checks for the extra tax dollars for the last five years. I declare it a smashing success. Money well spent. And it is mine.

Bravo, Vancouver.

Fifth Floor Deck with trees, overlooking the Columbia River

Tension and conflict on the high seas

2011-07-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

Guest Blog by Author Linda Collison

HM Bark Endeavour replica.

Photo taken by John Hill

I’m packing my duffel to go sailing and feeling so conflicted about being at sea again.

Topaz is our sailboat, a 36-foot sloop moored at the Ala Wai Small Boat Harbor in Hawaii. Bob and I have sailed her many thousands of blue water miles around the Hawaiian Islands; we’ve sailed to Bora-Bora and back. Oh, that sounds so romantic, I know. But as Samuel Johnson once said, “Being on a boat is like being in prison – with the chance of drowning” Or words to that effect.

I have a love/hate relationship with Topaz. With water. I am both attracted to the ocean and repelled by it, I find voyaging sometimes thrilling, sometimes tedious, and sometimes scary as hell. At sea I struggle with both claustrophobia and agoraphobia. To tell you the truth, I have an abiding fear of deep water and it is this fear, this underlying tension that fuels my writing.

Star-Crossed, my first published novel, was conceived in the middle of the North Pacific Ocean aboard HM Bark Endeavour, an Australian built replica of Captain James Cook’s famed vessel. The Endeavour was a floating time machine that transported me to the mid-18^th century during the three weeks I served as ordinary seaman, along with 54 other time travelers sailing from Vancouver to Hawaii. For three weeks we stood our watches, patched sails, braided reef points, scrubbed the deck and the dishes, climbed aloft and out on the footropes of the yards to make and furl sail, took our tricks at the helm. We lived by the striking of the ship’s bell, by the orders of our superior officers, and in the camaraderie of our mates.

Bob and I signed on together and, although we are married, we slept separately in hammocks strung from the deckhead 18’ apart, as per 18^th century British Navy regulation. And because my last name begins with a “C” and his begins with an “R” we weren’t even swinging in tandem, but were half a boat length apart. My billet was next to Joe, a former dentist from Southern California. We bumped elbows as we swung in our canvas hammocks, listening to the creaking and groaning of the living ship and the voices of those on watch above us..

At first going aloft was terrifying, but terror soon gave way to exhaustion. Then gradually we started to actually enjoy the process and by the time we reached Hawaii we were scampering gleefully, almost agilely, up the ratlines and we were familiar with the maze of hempen lines that were Endeavour’s rigging.

It was aboard ship on a night watch in the middle of the North Pacific, when the character Patricia showed herself to me and insisted I write her to life. When I got off the ship in Kona, Hawaii, Patricia came with me. For the next six years I researched the Georgian Navy and mid-18^th century British history, while writing Patricia’s story. Finding an agent was like finding a needle in a haystack, if you’ll excuse the cliché. It took nearly a year.

In 2006 Star-Crossed was published by Knopf! Now I was sailing with a bone in my teeth, baby! And the reviews were awesome. But Knopf didn’t want to continue the series, though I had written a bomb of a sequel. My agent didn’t think any other publisher would be interested in publishing the sequel to a book Knopf held the rights to. She lost interest, we parted ways. I took a break, published an article in Cruising World, started a new novel, set at sea.

But Patricia would not be forgotten. Nearly five years after the publication of Star-Crossed, I found a publisher. Or should I say my publisher found me – on Facebook – and Surgeon’s Mate; book two of the Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventure Series was published by Fireship Press!

I’m writing the first draft of book three now; Patricia just won’t let me go. It’s never easy, writing down someone else’s life, reliving their fears and desires. She keeps pushing me to deeper water where there’s no land in sight. I’m still afraid of capsizing, of drowning, but that’s what drives me to write my way home.

Follow @lindacollison on twitter or click here to see her website.

Nautical Fiction at its Best

2011-07-08T21:32:00.000-07:00

I've been working hard to talk Linda Collison into doing a guest blog, and she had graciously agreed. I discovered Ms. Collison when I was doing research for my own manuscript. She is the author of two fabulous nautical fiction books taking place back in the age of fighting sail. On the rolling deck of a Royal Navy vessel, what sets her protagonist apart from Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey, or C. S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower, is that her protagonist is female.

And she isn't supposed to be there.

Her newest book, Surgeon's Mate, has recently been published. Join me tomorrow for "Tension and Conflict on the High Seas," to get a glimpse of where Ms. Collison was when she got the idea for the first book, Star-Crossed, and what it took to write it.

Independence and Revisions

2011-07-03T21:14:00.000-07:00

NaJuWriMo

The First Critique Group

All month long, in the June heat, Thomas sat at his desk, scratching out the first draft. It was National June Writing Month, and he had to finish the entire manuscript by the 30th. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, jumping up to pace across the room. He jerked to a stop and stared beyond the growing pile of crumpled papers before he moved his gaze to the opened window, aware of the sounds of traffic below, but too immersed in his manuscript to consider it an interruption. "I've got it," he said. Excitement shivered through him. "I've got the end."

He rushed to his desk and wrote long into the night, finishing just as the clock struck five on June 28. He wrote out a text message and it was delivered to two of his critique partners, John and Benjamin. "I've finished my manuscript and I need to do a pre-read right away. Can you meet me?"

Benjamin and John agreed to meet him at the local Starbucks and listened as Tom read the pages aloud.

"Wow, Tom, that is fabulous." Benjamin said, "Absolutely fabulous. Except, I really don't think that second paragraph does it for me. Do you think you could change that?"

Thomas' shoulders sank. Of course, he'd wanted them to love it. He'd wanted them to say it was perfect. He'd wanted them to say, "Tom, it is ready for publication." But, the moment Benjamin pointed out that second paragraph, Thomas knew Benjamin was right. He'd have to change it.

"I agree with Ben,"John said, "Except you also lost me on that fourth paragraph where you start doing an information dump. And you repeated the word "freedom" about six times. You'll need to think of a few different ways of saying that."

Thomas gathered up his manuscript, nodding and sighing, and thanked his critique friends. Except for one or two things that he truly believed were just right the way they were, the rest he would change. He shuffled back home and up to his study. He opened the ink and began his revisions.

He worked on them for the next two days, writing and rewriting until perfection stared back at him. He smiled. They are going to love it, he thought.

The next morning, July 1, he headed off to work, his manuscript in the trunk, and let his mind drift to the regular meeting of his entire critique group. This would be a terrific night. It would be the night they said, "Tom, start trying to find an agent."

He whistled as he walked into the meeting, and sank onto the hard wooden chair, arranging his manuscript in a neat pile.

"Let's let Tom read first everyone," Benjamin announced. "I really think he has something there and I think you'll think so too."

Thomas read to the silent room, and when he finished, the entire critique group burst into applause. Never had Thomas felt such a thrill. Then Samuel said, "That is a great first draft, Tom. Excellent."

Thomas sighed.

"Now, in that fourth paragraph, I'd like to see you take out some of that wording. It sounds like a lot of information dump. And are you aware you repeated the word "freedom" three times?"

And so it went, more changes, more revisions, more re-writes. He groaned.

"Geeeeez, Tom, if you don't like our suggestions, that's okay, it is just that it is hard to get something published in today's market," Benjamin said.

"Yes, I know," Tom agreed, a decided lack of enthusiasm coloring his voice.

"He could always try self-publishing," George said.

"I'll do the revisions," Tom said. "And maybe I will self-publish." He took the work-in-progress home and over the next couple of days, carefully revised, read, revised, read and revised. He brought it back to the group on July 4, 1776. His fingers shook and his voice cracked as he read it aloud. When he was finished, the members of his critique group nodded.

"I think you are ready for publication, Thomas," they all said, slapping him on the back and breaking out a bottle of champagne. "Let's all sign this copy and go down to Kinkos."

And that is the story of how our Declaration of Independence came to be. I'm not exactly sure about Starbucks or Kinkos. But I know exactly how Thomas Jefferson felt every time he thought he had it finished, only to be told by his critique group to get back to revisions.

Thanks to all the critique groups out there that help an author succeed. A special thanks to the Dead Bunny Club, my own critique group.

Happy Independence Day

Listen to the Silence

2011-06-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we are surrounded by beauty and don't see it.

I'm in a weeds phase. Don't ask. I don't know. Maybe it is because the field where I sit and eat my lunch is filled with such a variety. The sound of the grasses rustling in the breeze float along the top of the sun's heat on my skin. The insects buzz from flower to flower, and a Stellar's Jay screeches in the distance.

I admire the beauty of the feathery design, bask in the genius it took to make just this one plant. Look at it.

I mean, look at it as if it will never appear in your yard. Isn't it beautiful?

It looks like a mid-summer's snowflake. A thing of exquisite,

delicate beauty.

And then there are the colors. Those white flowers on top, I would have sworn were white and green. But below, close up, the colors are amazing. How many colors would I need if I were to get out an easel and canvas?

How lucky I am to be surrounded by such lovely perfection.

Perhaps I should be working on revisions.

Gimme Some Weeds

2011-06-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

My lunch-time hangout

Summertime, and the weeds are high. Lots of weeds. An entire acre of weeds. And I'm tired of dealing with them. And speaking of weed, this weekend I went to "One Night With Janis Joplin" at Portland Center Stage's Main Stage in the Gerding Theater at the Armory, in Portland. It is a musical about the influences of blues and show-tunes in Janis Joplin's life which shaped her career. As I sat in the 4th row, trying to decide whether to use the little earplugs they handed out, I noticed most of the heads bopping to Try (Just a Little Bit Harder) and, Me and Bobby McGee, were gray. I studied the audience and realized almost everyone was in their fifties and sixties. Instead of the sweet, pungent odor one would normally associate with a Janis Joplin concert, there was the distinct aroma of BenGay and Halls Mentho-Lyptus.

When did I become old?

What's worse, I've been humming "Summertime" and I'm not sure if it is Joplin's version or the one from Porgy and Bess. How old am I?

And then at lunch time today, at my favorite spot where the Canada Geese hang out during early spring and late fall, a bee buzzed around some beautiful weeds. These weeds were so beautiful, it was all I could do not to jump out and pick one. Why don't I ever have beautiful weeds? Gimme weeds like this and I'd be okay with them. But all I get are thistle, ragwort, and blackberries, mixed in with grass and dandelions.

Why are the weeds in someone else's yard more beautiful?

So, when I came home today, I looked at my own weeds. Ugly. What is up with that? I'm hiring a man with a tractor and a brush hog, as soon as I can get him here. Mow everything to the ground, I'll say.

And then where will Bambi hide?

And maybe, while the tractor is putt-putting along, I'll stand in my yard and sing Fantasia Barrino's version of "Summertime."

Are they talking to me?

2011-06-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

This week was the semi-annual donation drive for Portland's listener-supported classical music station. Now, I have to admit, I don't listen to the station all the time. Sometimes I listen to an "easy rock" station, and sometimes to NPR, and other times to the jazz station. Most of the time, I listen to my own CDs. So, when I picked my way through traffic and heard the person on the radio say "we need your donation," I didn't really pay that much attention. I just put on my blinker and eased into the other lane.

"We need your donation. Yours. I'm talking to you."

I pulled into the center divide lane, to make a left turn, and thought, "Yeah, sure. You mean me. Of all the people in the Portland Metro area, you mean me. Right. Uh huh."

"Pick up the phone and call us. Yes, you in the Subaru."

Huh?

My eyes widened and I glanced in my rear view mirror before making a sweep of all the cars around me. None of them said "Classical Music Station" on them, but they were obviously watching me, pointing at me, demanding I call. They knew I hadn't done so yet.

It was eerie.

Did I call? Um...no. They didn't say sky blue Subaru, right? Maybe in six months if they point me out again, maybe. Maybe. If you'd like to make a donation on my behalf, however, that would be a very nice thing to do. Go to allclassical.org. I appreciate it.

In the meantime, I've got to get all the weeds cut down and I need all my money to buy more string for my weed-eater. It is still a jungle in my yard.

Concentrating on Writing

2011-06-06T22:49:00.000-07:00

Some days I find it difficult to focus on my writing.

Hobiecat, purring

Second-time rain, second time revisions, and one big slug

2011-05-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

This morning, when I got up, it was sunny. I'd taken the day off work to make revisions and headed to Starbucks, plunking away on the keyboard and sipping bold coffee in a "for here" cup. Things were going pretty well until I got the email from my BFF, to whom I'd submitted three revised chapters.

She didn't like them. She wants Mr. Darcy and I gave her Mr. Rogers.

I made an emergency tweet to Carol, in my critique group, who has Fridays off, and we met for lunch 20 minutes later. "Okay, yes," she said, "I thought it was good, but what she said is better."

I stared out of the dark gray clouds rolling in. Yeah, I know what she said is better, but I wanted sympathy. And commiseration. And maybe encouragement. Carol was wise enough to give me that, and still be on time to pick up her daughter, forty-five minutes later.

I couldn't do any more revisions. I have to wait and let it settle in, then the ideas will start and I'll begin again. I left and went to the grocery store. By the time I came out, it was second-time rain; that is the kind of rain that comes down so hard, it bounces back up so it can rain down a second time. I sloshed to my car, my hair plastered to my head, and tossed in the soggy grocery bag. I was wet and it was only 46 degrees outside, so cranked the heater dial up to the "Belize" setting, pressed my foot down to "Ignite Afterburner," and flipped the wipers to "Warp Eight."

To top matters off, there is an eight inch long slug sliming along the outside of my sliding glass door and the cats are taking turns leaping up to claw it off. Boooying Booooying Boooying.

Not an ideal start to a three day weekend, but better than a tornado.

Confessions of a Seven-Year-Old

2011-05-23T21:47:00.000-07:00

My very close relative, who prefers to remain nameless, admitted her seven-year-old grandson will probably not become a priest. After what she told me about her grandchild’s first confession/first communion, I think most priests might even rethink their choice. It seems the lad, Indiana Jones (not his real name), was nervous before they piled into the car to go to the church for his first confession.

“I don’t know what to say,” he moaned. “I don’t know what to confess.” He paced around the living room.

His mother hoisted an eyebrow. “Well,” she suggested, “you could mention all the times you’ve smashed your brother, or the times you’ve said ‘no’ to me.”

He looked hopeful, but then his shoulders sagged. “No, that won’t work, because you can only confess to things that you are sorry about.”

When it was time, they filed out to the car and drove to the church. Indiana made his way in like a sacrificial lamb. The priest entered the center of the confessional and each child took a turn in the cubbyholes on either side. But something was amiss. A steady stream of children came and went on the priest’s right, but on the left, Indiana disappeared behind the curtain and did not return.

His father sat in the church, at first the proud papa, but as the minutes ticked by, his shoulders tensed and his breathing became shallow. His eyes on the lush curtain, he saw Indiana’s head poke out and the lad crooked his finger, beckoning his father to come to the confessional. His father slowly shook his head, glancing up for the bolt of lightning. Indiana vanished. The click of seven-year-old girl’s shoes, the creaking of wooden pews, and hushed whispers filled the next few minutes until Indiana inched out of the confessional, tears streaming down his cheeks. His father ran to his aid, but Indiana was so distraught, he couldn’t talk, couldn’t move.

It took a while to coax him to a bench and more time for him to tell, in hiccupped sobs, that the priest had told him to think of his own penance.

This was not what they had practiced. He didn’t know what to do. Little Indy kneeled in the confessional, trying to think of what penance he might give himself and waiting for the priest to okay it. The priest did not explain that he could leave, so Indy waited, and thought, and waited and thought until he could stand it no longer. When he asked for help, and his father abandoned him, it was more than he could bear.

Indiana’s father took him home and comforted him. When he asked his son if he had thought of any “sins” to confess, Indiana said, “Yes, I told the priest about six hundred things.”

Glory be and the saints be praised. No wonder the priest had him think up his own penance.

But that wasn’t the end of it. The next day they went to church for his first communion and Indiana realized he had no money to give when they passed the basket around. Not wanting to have to confess that the next time, he begged his mother to give him some coins. She dug in her wallet and handed him some cash which he carefully slipped into the envelope and sealed. But the collection basket had already passed him by. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The mass continued, but the little envelope burned in his hand. By the time mass was over and the priest turned and told everyone to “go in peace”, Indiana knew he had only one shot at redemption. Desperate, he vaulted from his seat, hurtled up to the front of the church and jabbed the envelope into the priest’s hand. When he turned around, the entire congregation stared at him.

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if poor Indiana became a protestant.

Good News, Bad News, Good News

2011-05-18T19:59:00.001-07:00

Good news is that spring is here in the Northwest. That means rain with sun breaks.

The bad news is that the grass is growing really, really fast and if you don't stay on top of it, you have to ride the mower through a jungle of green. I've been working very hard on revisions and, I admit, my grass got pretty long. Then I couldn't get my mower started and it got longer. A friend came over and got it going, but then I couldn't get it into gear. The grass got longer. But today, I managed to get it started and get it into gear and off I went, mowing nearly a half acre of hidden obstacles in tall ground cover. If I wasn't running into a concealed fir branch, I was plowing through a mole hill. That is bad enough, but at the last moment, as I rode along the edge--the mower deck whirling and the engine booming--I saw the snake. I screamed, but it was too late.

Now I have about 30 pieces of snake all over the yard. It makes me almost hope there are crows around.

But the good news is that on my commute, I pulled into the driveway of this baby and learned she is two and a half weeks old, her name is Feather, she takes after her dad, and she is already learning to walk on a halter lead. Later I felt kind of bad because I never even asked the man his name. Just grilled him about the little, baby girl, took the picture and left. Am I lame, or what?

More good news is that the revisions are actually going pretty well. My critique group likes the results and I'm beginning to enjoy this round of revision.

Bad news is I'm not going to be posting much.

Toppling off the edge of the world

2011-04-30T20:53:00.000-07:00

Back to Revisions

Writing a historical fiction novel has been quite a journey. Just to figure out how to begin the book took two months of research. To begin writing it in earnest took two years of research. At about 150 pages, it needed so much work, I rewrote the entire thing from 3rd person to 1st person POV.

At about 250 pages, when I was just about to give up, declaring it a worthless piece of garbage, I won second prize in the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association's literary contest. That gave me hope, which came at the time it was most needed.

Like magic.

I finished the manuscript, but then I bought the book, "Manuscript Makeover" and spent three months editing it. Then another month of stressing out about the query letter, writing and revising it until I wanted to toss my computer into a funeral pyre.

To send out the first query letter took two hours of hovering over the "send" button, and two fingers of brandy.

Luckily, I got some very good feedback and rewrote the book again, changing the ending, changing some of the personalities of the characters, adding in a "ticking clock." A few months later, the revision was done and I found some Beta Readers. That led to a few more revisions and then back to the query process.

Again, some very helpful feedback, which means another entire revision. At first I thought, "Oh wow, that should actually be pretty easy."

Maybe it is just me, but is any revision easy? I've struggled for two days and have only written two scenes, which have each become their own chapters. Today, I forced my poor mother into sitting with me for two and a half hours, while I revised the first new 799 word scene.

Good thing she still has to love me.

Wish me luck. It is another major revision. If I squint, I can almost see the other side. I hope I'm not just going to fall off the edge of the world.

Stocking up on Livestock

2011-04-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

Today I saw something that made me question everything. It is true, I used to be a city girl, but really, I think in the last ten years I've gained a lot of knowledge about living in the hills. I've taken Wildlife Steward classes, and watched a few documentaries about farms animals. I've learned that eggs don't grow on trees, and the milk you see in the store does not come from the Milkyway.

My commute to and from work is filled with wonder, especially in the spring when babies animals dot the countryside. Little lambs frolic amid the flock, adorable foals graze in fields, a red calf trots along the fence-line, and fawns quiver in the woods, waiting for their mothers to call them into the meadow. It is something I don't take for granted. Every morning and evening is filled with breathless anticipation and expectation as I zoom out into the wilderness of the Northwest.

But when I rolled to a stop in the double left turn lanes that take me out of town and into the country this afternoon, this is what I saw.

Do you suppose everything I see on my commute is no more than plastic or mechanical animals? Is the Pacific Northwest really a huge theme park? Am I paying for a season pass disguised as property taxes? Am I a featured attraction in a heavily-visited amusement land?

Am I Goofy?

Suffering Through Spring Fever

2011-04-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

I know this would never happen, but let's just say someone left their sunroof open on a hot, sunny, Oregon day in spring.

And let's just say they spent the night with family and when they woke in the morning, this was pouring rain.

And let's just say everyone in the family listens to Car Talk on NPR and knows that mildew is the worst enemy in a situation like that.

Here is what I would recommend:

1. Close sunroof and towel dry inside of car

2. Gather some quarters and use the vacuum at a car wash (with their permission) to see if that can vacuum up any moisture

3. Fill your tank with petrol

4. Start engine

5. Leave one rear window cracked open

6. Let engine run with heater going for five hours

Not that I know this for sure, since this is all hypothetical, but when you return to the car after five hours, everything will feel as dry as the Atacama Desert, including the carpeting and seats.

Will this prevent it from suffering mildew?

I'll let you know.

Worst Bird Picture Ever

2011-04-22T21:47:00.000-07:00

Laughingbird Caye

Being aboard a 46 foot vessel with eight others for a week lends itself to a glimpse into the personalities of each shipmate, but it wasn't until this week I discovered a mean streak in all of them. They wanted me to put the worst bird picture ever on this blog--and claim it as my own--or they'd start leaving comments about it.

That is just vicious.

I like that in a person.

And perhaps I should mention my vision isn't as good as it should be. Without glasses, anything past the hood of my car has indefinite outlines and reading street signs is impossible, even with the most careful squint.

So, as I sat on the bow of the Bonac Witch II, swinging at anchor off Laughingbird Caye, I snapped pictures of birds in the distance on full zoom, and hoped when I brought the picture up on my computer, I could crop it into a decent picture. The above picture, with the help of cropping, became the picture below.

And the below picture, with some red, running rigging in the foreground,

was cropped into the below picture.

Then I saw a terrific shot, the kind my shipmates would find impressive. A whole group of pelicans bobbed in the water, just off shore, all grouped together. My hands fumbled to get the camera up. I squinted at the screen to center the shot, making sure it was at full zoom, all the while terrified they'd fly away before I could snap the picture. But they remained where they were. The rest of the crew nodded and smiled as I shoved the little camera screen in front of them later that day.

It wasn't until I cropped it on my computer I realized it was the worst bird picture ever.

Who would have thought a group of snorkelers would disguise themselves as pelicans?

It is a mistake anyone could have made.

Right?

Wildlife is Abundant in Belize

2011-04-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

Wildlife in Belize

I'm not all that good with wildlife. Normally wildlife picks on me. In fact, I spent most of my time in Belize trying to capture birds on ~~film~~ digital, but ended up with empty sky, just water, or a blurry wing in the lower, right-hand corner. By the time we got to Laughingbird Caye, my shipmates took pleasure in showing me all the bird pictures they were getting. Sheila said, "Oh, Melanie, look. I was trying to get a picture of all the different colors of the water and this bird flew into the picture."

It was a beautiful shot.

I really don't care for birds.

But, being a loyal blogger, I sat in Starbucks today with my trusty National Geographic Field Guide to the Birds of North America and tried to pick out the types of birds in the following photos. (Yes. I know Belize is in Central America, but I don't have one of those books.) I do not pretend to be an expert and I'd welcome any corrections.

It is my guess that this is a juvenile Scissor-tailed Flycatcher

(and I liked him because he encouraged me to take his photo)

This guy loved being photographed. He is a Great-tailed Grackle and you can see he was singing.

The is the bird that first began playing cat and mouse with me. Everytime I lifted my camera, he'd disappear. I think he is a Great Kiskadee, but he could be a Bananaquit.

Two Brown Pelicans sitting in a tree on Laughingbird Caye

Sandpiper

Now this appears to be a Great Blue Heron to me, but others say it is a Sandhill Crane. Normally Sandhill Cranes have a red head, however. I snagged several people in Starbucks and asked their opinions, but no one knew.

Gray Catbird

I'm pretty sure this and the picture below are Frigatebirds and I deleted over a hundred pictures that were not as good as these, trying to shoot them.

Great Egret

Adult male brewsteri Brown Booby

Bird of Paradise

Brown Pelican

The pelican on the rock is oblivious to the one coming in

He never moved. I think he must be a stuffed bird for the tourists.

But what a pretty sight

Mountain lion seen from my hotel door

Crab (yeah, okay, I don't have a crab book)

Another crab

Frog (don't have a frog book either)

Squirrel

Cabana Boys (I threw this in to see if you were still with me)

There are lizards and iguana all over the place,

but not in troublesome places.

This guy was along the path at the hotel

I call this "Wood Toucan," kind of like a wood duck. This should have been easy to photograph, but even this one moved.

Thanks for stopping by.

Mutiny on the Conga

2011-04-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

Sailing to

South Waters Resort,

Crow's Nest Cafe, Bar & Grill,

Placencia, Belize

When we’d finished the breakfast dishes, we raised the sails and glided away from Rauguana toward Placencia. Winnie, Sandra and Sheila all took a turn at the helm. While Sheila received her lesson, Bruce pointed off the starboard beam, “Dolphins,” he cried. We searched the waves but could see nothing. Just about the time we gave up looking, Bruce pointed and yelled out again. Still no one saw them. A third time Bruce yelled out and Dennis and Sheila nodded and smiled.

I asked Sheila, later, if she had really seen the dolphins and she shook her head. “I didn’t have my glasses on. I didn’t see anything, but I was trying to be polite.”

We decided the dolphins weren’t real and that Bruce was seeing things.

We had arranged with Maria Cabral at South Waters Resort to dock long enough to take on fresh water

and then use their showers before a fabulous private party at the Crow's Nest Cafe, Bar and Grill. After filling the water tanks, we dropped anchor a short distance from shore. A jaunty wind gave some relief from the tropic heat, but the shower felt great.

The nine of us strolled down to the Crow's Nest where Maria Cabral waited with William, the bartender. She got us settled with drinks (yes, I had a Panty Ripper) and we chatted until Bruce and Ryan looked out at the boats bobbing off shore.

"Bruce, wasn't the Witch further up shore?" Ryan asked.

Bruce squinted and his eyes drifted from our catamaran to the landmarks on shore. His chair scraped against the plank flooring as he rose. "Yes. We’re dragging anchor again.”

The two of them leaped down the stairs and sprinted toward the dinghy. The rest of us sat quietly, hoping they'd be able to get the two anchors to hold in the wind.

We waited.

And waited. And then, we decided we would play a joke by staging a bunch of pictures to make it look like we were having fun without them.

The band arrived and as the first notes of music floated into the muggy, hot air, we pretended to do the Chicken Dance.

We pushed a couple bar stools together and staged a party shot. We handed our cameras to William and staged a conga line. I asked William for a limbo stick, but had to describe one, as he had never heard of the limbo.

The band kicked into a lively tune. Instead of just posing, Dennis actually did the limbo under the stick.

Not to be outdone, the rest followed. The stick lowered and the group went under again.

Before we knew it, we really were having fun, even without our captain and firstmate, especially when Nelson made the video camera do the limbo.

Maria brought out fish balls, shrimp ceviche, conch ceviche, and bean dip that were perfect in the hot evening air. We started dancing; using the lessons we’d had on the boat. A local man by the name of Dillon showed up and joined in the dancing.

Bruce and Ryan returned, wearing scowls. We handed them a drink, paraded them over to the appetizer table and then coaxed them to dance. Bruce joined in and soon regained his usual happy mood, but Ryan kept gazing out into the twilight to see if the Witch had moved. Through it all, the band played and the food disappeared, and the dancing continued.

To get Ryan involved, we formed another conga line right out of the Crow’s Nest, turning to the left to conga over to the other entrance. Unfortunately, deep sand made it impossible to conga. Even walking through it took effort. The crew started talking mutiny. When we panted up onto the firm sand pathway in front of the other doorway, we immediately broke back into the conga steps like we’d done them the whole time.

However, Ryan had watched the whole thing from inside, as well as Maria and William. He knew there’d been talk of mutiny and he rushed to join the captain at the end of the line to provide support.

Soon Maria brought out dinner consisting of grooper, chicken, coconut rice, and rice and beans, followed by a scrumptious bread pudding with Bailey’s Irish Cream drizzle. It was a fabulous meal.

But after Maria cleared away the dishes, she got us all up and taught us the Belizean Punta rock.

She explained how to move the hips to the music, but it didn’t seem to come naturally.

Faron and Sheron Evans, from Houston, TX, were in

Belize

to learn to sail a friend’s boat. It was their poor luck to wander into the Crow’s Nest. It was only right that we captured them and made them walk the dance floor plank, like any good pirates would do.

About ten o’clock, a group of us trudged back to the dinghy. Ryan pushed it out into the water a little and I splashed my way to it and threw my leg over. Unfortunately I didn’t throw it high enough and I toppled over into two inches of water. What made it worse was that when I braced my hands to get up, they sank into the loose, coarse sand and I tumbled over. I tried to brace again, and once again, floundered in the water like a beached phantom dolphin. My biggest worry was that Nelson caught it all on video, but good fortune was with me. He had remained behind for the second dinghy trip.

When we returned to the Bonac Witch, I sat out in the cockpit, gawking at the black blanket of sky filled with millions of twinkling stars, while Nelson used his iPhone star-gazing app to read off the names of each.

Snorkling in Belize

2011-03-31T21:09:00.000-07:00

Rauguana Caye in the Coral Reefs of Belize

Yesterday was lovely. We stayed moored off Rauguana Caye for another day, partly because it was a lovely spot, partly because the mooring buoy was good which allowed Bruce and Ryan to sleep at night, and partly because the tiny little island protected us from the wind.

We swam,

we snorkeled,

explored the island again,

had dance lessons,

and watched a lot of other boats come in.

I attempted to shoot more birds, but ended up deleting about one hundred pictures of just sky, or just water, or with a blurred wing. Just these three pitiful shots remained. All my shipmates began pointing out birds at the last minute just to watch me fumble with my camera and miss the shot.

We did our best to avoid Nelson and his video camera. We played Uno and took naps. Becky and Nelson did the cooking, as usual, and the rest of us took turns doing the clean-up.

I admit, I wanted to go to bed by 7:15pm. It is because I didn't take a nap, okay? And it was dark out. Really, really dark. And I was tired. I'd spent a good deal of the day dangling my feet in the water and that takes a lot out of a person. But I promised myself before the trip that I wouldn't fall asleep before 8pm, like on the last trip.

For forty-five minutes I sat in the salon, forcing my eyes open. Shipmates came and went, peering at me and asking, "How much longer?"

I'd look at my watch. "Another thirty-five minutes."

They'd nod and walk toward the door leading out to the cockpit, only to turn around. "You know, it is okay if you go now."

"No, I'm not going to bed before eight. I'm a grown-up."

A long time later, another shipmate would come in to get some ice, or a bag of chips. "How much longer?"

I'd look at my watch. "Another thirty-two minutes."

"We have discussed it and we won't tell anyone if you can't make it until eight."

"Nope," I'd shake my head. "I can do this, dang it."

At five minutes to eight, I decided it would be fine to go below and just get ready for bed. No harm in that, right? As long as I didn't get into it.

At 8:00, straight-up, I crawled into the bunk and at 8:01PM, I was asleep.

Sailing to Rauguana Caye

2011-03-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

Belize

We’ve stopped using the days of the week. Today is Pina Colada day. We don’t drink during the day. We could, if we wanted, but Captain Bruce won’t allow anyone who has been drinking to help crew. No one wants to miss out on anything having to do with sailing, so the alcohol stays in its bottle until we’re anchored for the night. But that doesn't stop us from planning the drink of the night. The blender is ready.

Today the seas are calm compared to the last two days. We haul up the main and set the genoa and head to Rauguana Caye, where we’ll be protected from more northerly winds. Black, boiling clouds line the horizon as we approach the caye.

“Prepare to get wet,” Bruce shouts. “Batten the hatches.”

The crew scatters, rushing below to check our cabin hatches and battening all the ones in the salon. The wind howls and rain pelts our decks. We furl the sails and the big diesel engine rumbles to life. Rauguana Caye is ahead and we glide into the shelter of the island and the reefs extending out on either side.

We’d heard from Moorings that most of the mooring buoys are not maintained, so we anchor near one and Bruce and Ryan jump in the dinghy and motor to the island. A short time later they return, cheerful and smiling. The mooring buoys at Rauguana are good. We raise the anchors and tie off to one, just as another boat snatches the other.

Some of the crew scrambles into the dinghy and races to the island, finding shells, a dog who digs up crabs, a cabana boy for Winnie, (who has talked about obtaining one for three months before the trip). I did not see him and I suspect he was the bartender at the little island bar, but just what makes up a cabana boy is so subjective.

Back at the catamaran, Dennis and Nelson lower themselves into the salty water for a swim. Moments later Nelson leaps from the water onto the deck, flapping like a fish. “Something touched my leg,” he pants.

I’m pretty sure it was a barracuda or a whale shark, or maybe a stingray. Nelson decides to stay on board and soon the whir of the blender signals the start of Pina Colada night.

Pelican Caye in Belize

2011-03-27T16:41:00.000-07:00

Bruce got out the maps and charts and the book on Belize. He charted out a course, altering our original itinerary. “Okay, everyone, listen. After last night, I think it would be good to change our plans and head to Pelican Caye. It will be protected from the Northerly.”

We nodded our heads with the exception of Winnie and Sheila, who still sat in a corner, nursing their seasickness. Although I hadn’t been ill, it was exhausting trying to stay still on the bed when the boat tried its hardest to toss me across the mattress.

We stowed the breakfast dishes and weighed anchor(s), motoring north, through 20 to 26 knot winds. We rode up swells and down troughs, up more swells. It was like an “E” ride at Disneyland. I sat in the bow, spreading my arms wide, enjoying the up and down motion like a carousel ride. The sun peeked out of the cloud-dotted sky. The brilliant blue of the water would change with the depth and there were times we’d see a dark spot and think it was a coral reef trying to lure us to scuttle the boat. We’d veer to starboard or port, only to realize it was a cloud shadow.

We were the first to put in to Pelican Caye. We dropped the main anchor and then sent Nelson and Ryan out in the dinghy with the secondary anchor.

While some of the crew jumped into the dinghy to go explore the island, I sat on the deck of the bow and shot birds. Well, I attempted to shoot birds. Mostly all I got were pictures of the sky, of the sparkling waters of the Caribbean, of the coconut palms, but very few birds stuck around long enough for the delayed reaction of the digital shutter. Sometimes there’d be a wing in the corner, or a head at the bottom. Sometimes there’d just be a blur. Besides the movement of the birds, the vessel continued a gentle rocking and the more I zoomed in on my targets, the more the rocking mattered.

Another catamaran glided in, flying the flapping banners of sickness in the form of bed sheets. They had even hauled up the mattress and tied it on deck. Unfortunately, a gust of wind sent if flying into the water and they had to jump in their dinghy and fish it out.

A man paddled his kayak out from a nearby caye and invited us to have drinks at his little bar. We declined. He chatted with Bruce for a while. “Where’d you spend last night during the Northerly?”

“Whipray Caye,” Bruce answered.

His eyes widened. “Well, I guess you got pretty beat-up.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re here tonight.”

The man scanned the sky. “We’re in the lull. It should be pretty good tonight and tomorrow, but the northerly should hit again the next night,” he advised.

Black clouds gathered overhead, but a rainbow cheered us. When everyone returned to the boat, the bar on board opened. It was rum and Coke night. Becky and Nelson made lasagna, warmed bread and tossed a salad.

Nelson, Bruce and Dennis jumped off the stern and swam, but the water was still a little rough and they climbed back aboard, washed their hair in the stern shower and settled in to a warm, 86 degree evening. Below, and in the salon, the air conditioner kicked in to make sleeping more like the Pacific Northwest. Even a downpour in the middle of the night felt like home, except Dennis left his hatch open and got soaked. Tsk, tsk. Honestly, these lubbers don’t know to close the hatch for those sudden, middle-of-the-night downpours?

Drinking Rum with a Pirate

2011-03-25T21:24:00.000-07:00

Whipray Caye

Belize 2011

We dumped our bags in our rooms and rushed out to sit in beach chairs, listening to the gentle lapping of water, the rustling of coconut palms and birds chirping.

Before long my cabin mate, Sandra, and I headed to the open air bar and were introduced to Panty Rippers; a drink made with pineapple juice and coconut rum. The rest of the women joined in while the men swam in the pool.

Being up about 36 hours, I struggled to stay awake through a dinner of curry shrimp, white rice and tequila lime pie. I fell into bed immediately after dinner and slept like a vampire in a coffin.

Today, I exited the room and pulled the door shut behind me. When I turned, a beautiful yellow bird the size of a robin chirped on a bush. My hand sneaked up to my camera case, but there was no case. I’d left it in the room. By the time I returned, the empty branches waved in a light shore breeze.

Some of the group headed into town to buy fresh vegetables and fruit while Bruce and Ryan walked over to Moorings to attend the captain’s meeting. The rest of the food and drink were provided by Moorings. We met back at the hotel and hauled our suitcases out to the parking lot. A driver for the Laru Beya Resort jammed them all into the back of a van and carted us over to Moorings where Bruce and Ryan were already aboard the Bonac Witch II, making a boat inspection. The Moorings staff threw the cases onto the deck of the 46 foot catamaran, and helped us board.

“Where are you heading?” one of the Moorings employees asked.

“We’re going to anchor off Whipray,” Bruce said.

The man raised an eyebrow. “There’s a northerly coming.”

Bruce glanced over the map and furrowed his brow. “Yes, I heard that, but we’ve got reservations for a private dinner with Beverly Cabral on Whipray Caye. She’s already begun baking the bread. Julian Cabral is out fishing for our dinner right now. We can’t disappoint them.”

“Hummm, I guess not.” The man leaned his head back and studied the sky. “It should make for an interesting night.”

We’d heard stories of Julian and Beverly Cabral in the short time we’d been in Belize. “A pirate,” they’d said about Julian. “A sweet woman,” they’d said about Beverly. I’d already decided Julian had captured Beverly off the decks of a ship he raided, and the colorful stories only added to that idea.

We motored out of the harbor and the waves were choppy, heading straight into 15 to 20 knot winds which kicked up small whitecaps. We pitched and dipped the eleven miles north to Whipray. Off to starboard, dark grey clouds showed jagged lines of lightning and rolling claps of thunder scattered across the Caribbean. I sat on the bow, watching for shallow water and debris and anything that might indicate we’d run aground in the shallow waters of the coral reefs. By the time we got to Whipray Caye, the wind blew hard and the cat rocked and pitched. We dropped the main anchor and then took the secondary anchor out in the dinghy, tossing it over the side a distance from the main.

Bruce and Ryan motored toward the dock in the dinghy, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Luckily we knew where the One Barrel Rum was stored. We splashed some into glasses, along with ice and a touch of Coca Cola, and ripped open a bag of pretzels. By the time Captain Bruce and First Mate Ryan came back, we were hungry and looking forward to dinner with a pirate.

We rode to shore in the dinghy in three trips and trudged up to the open air room, with a wooden floor, thatched roof and horseshoe bar. The menu consisted of scrumtious snapper, grooper, shrimp, salad, coconut rice, homemade bread, a chutney sauce to die for, followed by a chocolate cake made from scratch with a chocolate fudge frosting. I noticed Sandra kept very still, didn’t talk much and didn’t eat much of her dinner. I was afraid the eleven miles through rolling whitecaps had made her feel sick.

After dinner, we sat around the bar listening to Julian tell tails of his ancestors, the Portuguese Cabral pirates, who hid in Belize in the 1600s and filled the islands with their off spring. Bruce told him I’d written a book called The Pirates’ Reckoning and his face broke into a brigand’s smile.

“Well, then, here,” he said as he held out a shot glass with a picture of a pirate on it and the word “Belize” under the pirate. “You must have this as a gift from a pirate.”

Touched, I closed my fingers around it and tilted my head. “I’d love this, thank you.” I shot him a grin and added, “But I’d love it more if it were filled with rum.”

He laughed, snatched the glass away and returned it brimmed with One Barrel rum. I don't think I've ever had rum straight up, but, hey, I was drinking with a pirate. I held up my glass to him, then took a sip. It burned like a pirate's bonfire, causing my eyes to water. Strong stuff, that One Barrel. Julian lifted his glass and took a swig, not showing any signs of distress.

About nine o’clock we trudged over the white shell pathway and piled into the dinghy and Julian’s launch and headed back to the Bonac Witch. The winds had picked up and strong gusts rocked the cat. Lightning flashed around us and thunder rumbled over the wind. I drew in a bracing breath of clean, salt air. The pitching and rocking made it hard to keep my rum and Coke from spilling.

Sandra valiantly tried to brave the storm, but her seasickness got the better of her and she staggered below to the port, aft cabin. Deciding to check on her, I followed her below a short time later and found her sprawled on her side of the bed, a greenish cast to her skin. She groaned.

I went topside. “Sandra is sick. Does anyone have a seasickness pill?”

Winnie jumped up and tottered below, returning with a chewable pill and some saltines from the galley. Bruce held up his hands. “Okay, the worst thing you can do on a boat is to stop up the toilet. Tell her, if she has to throw up, use the wastebasket or a plastic bag.” He reached into a cupboard and pulled out a small, clear plastic bag. The thought of vomiting into it and then having to see it in the bag nearly made me retch. I almost didn’t want to give it to Sandra.

Below, I explained about the bag and the trashcan. She stared at me, her eyes glassy, took the pill and flopped back on the bed. By now it was about 10PM and the boat rocked in earnest. I slunk onto my side of the bed, ready to make a run for the wastebasket, but I felt fine. I checked the outlet to see if it worked for my CPAP. Nothing.

I climbed up the ladder and opened the door to the cockpit. “My outlet isn’t working.”

Bruce rocketed to his feet as I opened the door. His eyes cut to mine for a moment, not really seeing me, then he jogged along the side of the boat toward the bow. Nelson, scrambled along the other side, and Ryan was no where to be seen, but I suspect he was at the helm.

My gaze traveled to Winnie, Becky and Sheila and my eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, there’s all sorts of things going on,” Winnie said. “We’re dragging anchor.”

“Winds are 30 to 40 knots,” Becky added.

“We’re surrounded by coral reefs,” Sheila whispered.

I went below, hoisted myself onto the bed and pretended we weren’t in danger of running aground. Sandra didn’t need to worry about that in her condition.

Feet pounded overhead, shouts rose above the howls of the wind. Waves slapped the hulls. The Bonac Witch lifted on a roller and cracked down with a thud. Flashes of white light zigzagged on all sides, lighting up the hatch windows. I braced so I wouldn’t roll into Sandra and thought about the clear, plastic bag. When I heard Sandra’s heavy breathing, I climbed up on deck. Bruce and Ryan each held a GPS, showing the movement of the boat. They talked about anchor watches, but I knew Bruce wouldn’t sleep. I offered to take a watch and told him to come get me whenever he needed a break, but I don’t think he took it seriously.

Sheila, who had been below, came up on deck holding a wastebasket. “Um, I’m very sorry, but I got sick. I was fine until I went below and went into the head.”

Bruce leaped to his feet, dumped the contents over the side, used the deck shower to rinse it out and handed it back.

Winnie groaned. “I’m fine, but now I’m afraid to go below.” Becky stretched out on a cockpit bench and rested her head on her arm. Dennis was already below, and reports were that he was sound asleep.

I returned to my cabin and climbed into the bunk, falling into a restless, rolling sleep. A short time later the sky dumped a deluge of rain, most of which seemed to find its way into the hatch above my head. Within moments my pillow was soaked. I groped my way up to batten it down, falling to port, then starboard, nearly crushing Sandra. I heaved my way back to my side and rode out the night.

In the morning, sun peeked through the swirling gray clouds. Winnie clutched her stomach and looked pale. The storm had driven Becky and her below when the rain slammed into the deck. Once below, she made use of the wastebasket several times, bringing it topside to dump it between bouts of sickness.

Sheila groaned and wanted a dry piece of toast. Sandra felt fine. The rest of us looked bleary-eyed from weathering the rolling vessel.

It was fabulous.

I can’t wait to see what happens now.

Harrowing Flight to Belize

2011-03-23T20:06:00.001-07:00

The pristine, unstamped passport dangled from the pouch around my neck as I dragged my suitcases up to the Continental Airlines counter. A uniformed woman behind the dark counter glanced up. “You’ll have to wait a while until we open, or you can use the kiosk if you don’t need to check your bags.”

“Sure, I’ll use the kiosk,” I said. “Are there instructions on it?”

Another woman jumped out from behind the counter and said, “Oh it is easy. You just punch in your code. Do you have a code?”

I dug around and handed her the paper. She tapped the keys on the screen. “Where are you going?”

“Belize,” I said.

“Oh, then you can swipe your passport.” She held out her hand and I placed my passport in it. She pried open the pages and ran it through the machine, tapping her foot while we waited.

The Continental Airlines ticket agent behind the counter looked up and her gaze cut to mine. “She doesn’t work here, you know,” she said.

My eyes swung to the woman holding my passport and my heart tumbled. “She doesn’t?”

“Oh, no. I’m just here to catch a plane for my vacation,” the non-employee admitted. “But I do work for U.S. Air.”

Sure she did. I held out my hand, palm up, indicating I wanted her to return my passport. She ignored me, punched another button on the machine and my boarding pass popped out. “Here you are; your two boarding passes and your passport.” She started to hand them to me, and then snatched them back. “Wait, let’s just see if you signed your passport. A lot of people forget that.”

Geeeeez, like I would forget that.

“Oh, yes, see? You forgot that.”

I leaned over and narrowed my eyes at the page. The signature line was empty. I patted my pockets for a pen but the non-employee was ready with one, supervising my signature. “There, you are all set now. Gate D-1.”

For someone who didn’t work for Continental, she was a terrific.

In the security line, one small group of travelers hovered around the TSA agent, but the other line was empty. I ambled up and received an eye roll. “Am I in the right line?” I asked.

“Sure,” the TSA agent said, “if you plan to fly the plane.” He leaned over and undid the barrier ribbon into the other line.

When the group moved along, I held out my passport. “Here is my brand-new-never-been-used passport,” I beamed.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see if you signed it. A lot of people don’t.” He glanced down and smiled. “Good.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I did.” I took it back and swaggered over to the trays, stripped off my shoes and jacket, plunked my cases onto the rollers and sashayed through the X-ray machine, redressing on the other side.

One of our group flew in the day before, but eight of us flew out together for our trip to Belize.

Hole up in Houston

The flight to Houston was uneventful, but I couldn’t sleep. We had breakfast and waited for the next leg of the journey.

Biding our time in Belize City

From Houston we flew to Belize City, struggled through customs, got a fabulous stamp in our passports, and eventually boarded a tiny Tropic Air plane for Placencia. This is when the fun began.

Boarding Tropic Air

The small plane looked more like something they fly over large fields to dust crops. There were only seats for thirteen, but they managed to squeeze another into the co-pilot’s seat.

We began to taxi out to the runway and a loud squeaky, grating sound, like metal-on-metal, had me gripping my puny little seatbelt. A couple of thumps later and we turned onto the runway. The plane picked up speed, only instead of heading straight, it veered off to the right. The pilot jerked the wheel and it swerved to the left. He cranked it hard and we swiveled to the right again, all the while the screeching of the metal-on-metal mixed with the thumping of imminent engine failure. At the end of the runway, we managed to get a few feet into the air, but that didn’t prevent an alarm from blasting a warning that we’d run out of runway. We staggered up, over the vast blue waters of the Caribbean and managed to hurl ourselves into the sky, long after we’d left the comfort of the airport runway.

Welcome to Placencia, Belize

Visit tomorrow for a continuation of the trip to Belize.

Microfiction Monday #73

2011-03-06T17:03:00.000-08:00

It's Monday Microfiction time again. (Yeah, I know. It is Sunday. So? What's your point?)

Susan, over at Stony River, posts a picture each week and it is up to us to squeeze a story out of it; 140 characters or less. That includes spaces and punctuation. Think it is easy? If you're up for it, go to Stony River and sign up.

I've been reading the other entries for the past few weeks and there are some awesome writers in this crowd. Check them out by clicking on the sign-up list on Stony River blog.

Here is this week's picture and my story follows.

My dearest daughter,
I’ve kept this from you. The man in this photograph, Lord Kent Breckenridge, is your father. Go to him.

Forgive me.
(134)

Microfiction Monday #72

2011-02-27T18:43:00.000-08:00

It is time for Microfiction Monday, hosted by the lovely Susan at Stony River. Susan posts a picture and we must invent a short story to go with it. By "short," I mean 140 characters, including punctuation and spaces.

I think the picture should be telling 1000 characters, but in this twitter/texting world, one must do some serious editing.

Below is this week's picture with my story following.

The pyracantha juice nearly killed her. According to pixie legend, putting a shilling in a shoe would zap away the hangover. Please be true.

(140)

To sign up for this blogfest, or to see what other bloggers have written, go to Stony River. It is great fun to see how different (or the same) other people's minds work.