Author: smarthu (Page 1 of 10)

I come from a family that had limited communication; didn’t hear those three little words that I had to teach myself how to say: “I love you,” “I am sorry.”

There are other non-spoken words that I trained myself by listening to others and to reading over the years. My parents came from ancestors that were taught not to talk about feelings, never to say “sorry” or admit wrong (remind you of anyone?), or be too affectionate. Once I learned to say, “I’m sorry,” it seemed I couldn’t quit saying it, so that now I say it entirely too often (as do my kids, I think). I think I’ll back off that one a bit and say “I love you” more often.

I got to thinking about the words we use today for our mental health that were not uttered when I grew up: triggered, depressed, relationship, A.D.D. (I think I have that), cancelled, stay-at-home mom or dad, and many more.

I am following on Insta dogs who are learning to talk using buttons that their owners put out for them to describe what they want. I imagine a dog of mine would push the “walk” and “cookie” buttons over and over, but some of these dogs push “sad” and “happy” and “hurt” buttons. This speaks to how emotive dogs are. Helpful, I suppose, but what do we do when our dog is sad? Cats, by the way, seem to press the Starbucks Pup Cup button almost all the time. Does that mean they don’t have feelings, or do they prefer to keep those feelings to themselves?

Maybe we need “people” buttons that allow the person to say “triggered” or “depressed.”

I am only partially being cynical. I think it’s healthy for people to express their feelings and ask for help.

Then, again, let’s toughen up just a bit.

My husband and I play a word game called, “you can write that book,” borrowed from his company’s work team (who are mostly musicians–my husband loves music and plays guitar and Ukelele). The work team’s game is “I’d play in that band,” and it uses phrases that come up every day that might make a good band name.

You Can Write that Book came about because I love, love coming up with book titles. Sometimes I don’t have an actual plot or even reason for the book, but think it might be a good title. Case in point, “A Murder of Crows.” It’s a collective noun, and there are many which could be used as mystery titles. I’ve yet to come up with a writable plot for the title, however. So, I tell my husband, “you can write that book.”

Sometimes one of us will say something we deem “title-worthy,” and the other will say, “you can write that book.”

Neither of us may or may not write any of the books for which I have titles floating around in my head. But, it makes me wonder as writers whether more writers start with titles rather than plots?

I don’t know, but if you, dear reader, want to write that book, go ahead.

Most books on editing your writing talk about “cutting your darlings,” which is like film-editing whereby loved scenes end up on the cutting-room floor.

Most writers have phrases or dialogue running through their heads that they are “dying” to put into a book, character dialogue or essay. Sometimes it’s something brilliant, but most of the time it’s brilliant in the mind of the writer. Thus, these things should be cut.

I don’t sent them to the proverbial trash bin, however, I have a file of “darlings,” sometimes for each piece I’m working on and sometimes I’m not working on anything appropriate for a darling.

One such thing that I keep trying (and failing to use), is the concept of “collective nouns”, such as “a murder of crows or a charm of hummingbirds.” I keep trying to fit it into a novel, and it never seems to work. I even have a novel in my “unfinished and unlikely to finish file,” named “A Murder of Crows.” I also think it’s been used a few times as a mystery title. It may be my most persistent “darling.”

My husband doesn’t throw out anything, so I’m trying to take a lesson from him. He is a master of reusing his writing and ideas across book. Of course, it’s easier to do that with non-fiction. I don’t like clutter, so I tend to throw out all things I deem of little use anymore. Now, I’m trying to save more ideas, words, titles. After all, clutter that is confined to a file or other electronic storage doesn’t need to take up space or bother me at all.

Speaking of editing, I love this site that deals with all types of writing “problems.” The owner of the site is related to Charles Darwin, and her last name IS Darwin. bit.ly/4d4WSeS

Can’t believe it, but my oldest grandson was married in the magical city of Vail at the Sonnenalp Hotel, which is reminiscent of a Nordic village.

I don’t often post personal pictures, but I’m making an exception. I’ve tried not to include any pictures that were not taken by me or my husband.

I am extremely lucky that I and my family are blessed with love, good health and happiness. I want to spread it around….

Many of us have thought about age this past week with President Biden withdrawing from a second run at another term. He was applauded widely for stepping down. Don’t get me wrong, I think for his health and the country’s, he needed to step down. It was time.

I watched his fateful debate with his opponent, watched him lose focus, stare blankly, cough and sputter. I turned it off and cried, somehow knowing that would be the end of his run. He has, in my opinion, been a strong and efficient leader, humble and honest and as my husband says, “is a work horse, not a show horse.”

It got me thinking about how we are treated differently as we age. We are no longer expected to be productive, but most of us want and need to be productive. Our mistakes and oopsies are more likely to be noticed and pointed out. Is it dementia? Is she failing? Even doctors treat you differently as you age. You are no longer going to die an early death, so many tests are bypassed. My late mother-in-law was told by one specialist that her symptoms couldn’t be Colon cancer because people over eighty don’t get it. The one who diagnosed her with Colon cancer told her that everyone over eighty gets it. Both were wrong. I trust Google. Just sayin’.

Every day, I am grateful that I’m older. Every day, every year is a blessing and is not guaranteed. Every day with husband, kids and grandkids is a blessing.

I didn’t start feeling old until I turned fifty, but now I realize how young fifty really is. My husband often quotes Groucho Marx – A man’s only as old as the woman he feels. I tell him that he should be starting to feel old (DH is six months younger that I). Luckily, as we age, our eyesight sometimes goes too.

I’ve also heard that “you are only as old as the secrets you carry.” I don’t suppose I have secrets anymore–at least not any of consequence. I guess the current book(s) I’m working on writing are secrets, as I am a closeted writer at times.

I hope we, as Americans can be more like Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, who revere their aged. I hope young and old can come together and not blame or resent generations older than them and not blame or resent generations younger than them.

I’m expert at waiting, and not so good at using my “spare time.” I figure I’ve wasted hours/days upon days, waiting; i’ve waited for the right job (maybe I found it), waiting for the right man (I did find him & am married to him), waiting to retire, waiting for Social Security. Those are just the “big waits.” Smaller waits, such as doctor’s waiting rooms, bus rides, car rides, waiting for children to get home, waiting for morning to come–could all have been utilized better.

Here’s a fav poem about waiting

THE WAITING PLACE 

by Dr. Seuss

Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come,
or a plane to go or the mail to come,
or the rain to go or the phone to ring,
or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

During COVID (wow, did that really happen?), my husband and I decided to go on two road trips: One to the Grand Canyon (we live in Colorado) and one to Yellowstone.

The two “Covid” road-trips were uneventful. We drove on blissfully empty highways and visited blissfully uncrowded restaurants (except lots of rest stops were closed), and saw an abundance of wildlife who were reveling in their new-found open spaces. We breezed through Colorado and New Mexico. We “stood on the corner in Winslow Arizona” and stayed at a charming renovated railroad station hotel.

Yellowstone was another successful trip free of obstacles and hoards of people. The animals were again plentiful and seemingly grateful to move about freely. We drove quickly through a very windy Wyoming and visited Jackson Hole for the first time.

We dubbed the COVID trip as the second “Hole in the Ground” trip, the first one being a trip across Route 66 where we visited the Grand Canyon for the first time (for me), stopped at all the scenic stops along the old Route 66, saw the famed crater made by a large meteor and found in someone’s field, and saw other “holes” along the way. During that first trip, we decided to buy a condo in Hawaii, something my husband had been rooting for and I had been resisting. I think we were hoping for some epiphany during the second trip, but the only thing we came up with was that we’re happy for our health and our children’s and grandchildren’s health and happiness.

I told the above story to tell this story (to borrow from a phrase used by a famous comedian): We recently went on our “rock tour,” which is to say we visited places in South Dakota and nearby which have rocks. We saw Mount Rushmore (recommended), Crazy Horse (highly recommended), Devil’s Tower (fantastic), and many more “rocks.” Love seeing the buffalo, learning the history of the area, riding an 1880’s train, eating lots of home-style foods, staying in some fantastic places, and generally having a good time. On the way home, we visited the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado. That is another story for another time.

Alas, we didn’t decide to buy anything and I didn’t come up with any brilliant writing ideas, but I have new appreciation for our United States, respect for our Native Americans (and sorrow for what we did to them), and I hope our democracy continues (sorry to get political) and that our country continues to improve and remember its history.

I frequently think about names, specifically, people’s names. I never liked mine–Shirley–always sounds harsh and old-fashioned, and from the time I was a child, I didn’t like it and wished for another.

My observant husband pointed out that my parent-given name is sort of confusing, schizoid if you will: Shirley Mae Watt. (Surly May What?). He pointed out that, “no wonder you have trouble being decisive sometimes.”

It wasn’t until my daughter, at age 16, wanted to modify her name to make it more formal, that I realized that I could change it or modify it. We legally changed her name. I could have, for instance, used my middle name, “Mae,” which was also my grandmother’s middle name.

When I became an author, using a different name, or a Nom de plume became more acceptable. Still, I balked. I used my initials for my currently published books, although I am playing with different names for future use.

The reason I balked at changing was because every name I came up with sounded either vain, presumptuous or just plain silly. I played with “Morgan,” a name my husband preferred. As a child, I wanted a name that was popular, like “Rhonda,” or even “Mary Jane.” These are two names I wouldn’t want right now.

Personally, I like the names “Mom,” “Gram,” and “Nana,” by which I am frequently called. Or, “Dear,” or “Honey Bear,” as my husband calls me.

A friend changed her name from “Frances” to “Dee,” which suits her. She even added a strong last name to go with it.

Ah, if I had more courage, I could’ve been Brigette or Marilyn or Angelina (if only in name). But, how vain.

I worked with a woman once you didn’t like her name: Amy. She changed the spelling to “Amiee” (with a tilda over the last e), and pronounced that she was now to be called “Aim-ay” thinking it sounded French. She became irate when people called her by the English version of Amy. This required that people avoid calling her by name at all, lest they got a ten minute lecture on the correct pronunciation.

I have come up with a derivation which I intend to use in the future. An anagram of sorts: Esmae Watt (for historical fiction or some mystery fiction). I don’t expect anyone outside of the writing circuit to call me by that name.

I hope my children are happy with their names, and if they are not, I grant them permission to change them.

Love being a mother, especially to two beautiful and talented adult daughters.

I read an article the day before Mother’s Day, written by a “Mom Influencer” (what is an influencer, anyway?) who has deemed Mother’s Day, a day to be free of kids, her own mother, grandmother and mother-in-law. She is tired of the hustle and bustle and driving to-and-fro to appease said mothers, who no longer have to deal with small children.

I reminded me of a statement by Whitney Houston years ago (Rest her Soul), where she declared that Mother’s Day mean freedom from seeing her children at all, a day she could go to the spa alone or with other mothers escaping their children.

Neither Whitney nor the infamous influencer were received well, but I wonder if not enough mothers (working and work-at-home mothers) who are frazzled and are hoping just for some free time, agree with them.

As a single mom, I remember being frazzled almost to wits-end not only about daily tasks and work tasks and demands, but also worrying on my own about money and how I would pull it all off. I never wanted a paid-for massage, fancy gifts or waiting in a restaurant for a meal (especially that), but always appreciated a card, a phone call, and now my daughters bring me a cherished pot of flowers that will grow all summer outdoors.

They are mothers themselves and deserve to be treated and to “retreat” to the quiet of a massage, a bubble bath with wine, a movie with their kids.

I have long felt that some of the holidays that were “man-made” by chocolate companies, by greeting card companies, by restaurants to drum up business, have turned into “guilt days.” Men feel guilty and pressure about providing appropriate Valentine’s Day gifts, Mother’s Day gifts and surprises, Christmas gifts, engagement stories, and lately gender-reveal stories.

How ’bout we all relax and use these days to remember what we are grateful for. I’m grateful for everything I have (including the financial things and my home and vacations), such as the health of my children, my grandchildren’s health and happiness, my son’s in law and their health and happiness, my husband and all the joy and love he brings me. My gratitude list goes on.

And, thanks girls for the flowers as a reminder of how lucky I am to have you two and that you have chosen me to be their mother.

I was sorting out my closet and noticed the number of shoes I have that I seldom wear. I suppose almost every American / and other women have and over-abundance of shoes.

Shoes have become, like handbags, status symbols; Louboutin; Prada; Jimmy Choo; Blahnik, and on and on. I have none of these high-status shoes, yet, I have a few pair that I paid upwards of 400 dollars for (that’s my limit). These shoes were purchased for special occasions.

I recall as a child growing up on a farm, we had 1 pair of new shoes each per year, and those were purchased for school. The summer was spent barefoot for the most part. (Before you see a poor kids running around barefoot–I must say I remember my childhood fondly growing up in the country. We rode horses, but never barefoot).

I was envious of the “new girl in school,” whose family came to town because the dad had scored a CEO job of one of the only big companies in town. Not only did they have a swimming pool, but the daughter, who was my age, had ballet lessons, pretty dresses, and to top it, black patent-leather shoes. The boys, I remember, liked to look into her shoes to see if they could see reflections of her underwear. (eye-roll).

The day of her ballet recital in which the entire school was invited, I went home and tried to ruin my new school shoes in order to get a different pair (patent leather). It didn’t work, and I went to school with glued-together shoes.

So, because of these sad, sad stories, I came to covet shoes. I never went berserk, but like many women, was attracted to shoes, always looked for the perfect pair, the pretty pair. I’m glad I never got the handbag bug. A hundred grand for a handbag? No way.

Men are not off the hook. I’m told that men are sometimes judged by the shoes they wear and the watches they buy for their collection.

It all seems so superficial, but it just IS a thing. I try to think of more important things like what’s going on in the world, how one bad president could ruin our democracy, my health, my family’s safety. All those things that are more important than shoes.

Nothing like a new pair of shoes that are also comfortable.

Some people in this world have no shoes.