The problem with that is I had very mixed emotions about the quality of my work and the strength of core story.  I felt it could be better if I…  Is there ever a good ending to that sentence?  No, and so the novel has sat in one computer file or another waiting.  Well I’m going to dust it off, change the ending (or rather add one) and try again.  Whish me luck.

There was a time that I got to spend the night with them by myself.  That night Grandpa tried to make me a pizza.  I say tried because he’d never eaten one before and only had the basic understanding of what pizza was.  Before we go any farther you need to know that Grandpa didn’t spend a lot of money on restaurants, fast food, or take out of any kind.  There was no need to waste that kind of money when there was food in the kitchen.  I’m not sure what he used for a crust, it was probably just flour and water, but it was so hard it hurt my teeth.  The sauce was just a basic tomato sauce with no seasonings.  Then he put all of my favorite foods on top.  Let me just say that hot dogs  and pickles have no place on a pizza.  It was inedible. 

I think that is the only thing he ever made I didn’t like.  Grandpa was a great cook.  He loved to try new recipes and could can anything.  Granny was no slouch in the kitchen herself, but Grandpa made a production of it.  He enjoyed making favorites for each of the grandkids, chocolate pie, chicken and dumplings, giblet gravy the list is endless.

One of the best things about being at Granny and Grandpa’s house was the sweets.  There was always homemade fudge, chocolate, hard candy, and don’t forget the honey buns!!  My love affair with honey buns continues today.  I always thought they kept these on hand for us kids, but on this trip I found out the truth.  Grandpa had a killer sweet tooth.  At every stop he’d get back in the RV with a candy bar, brownie, or a fruit pie.  I think it was the first time in my life I got tired of sweets.   

I don’t remember who was playing at this festival but that didn’t matter I loved the music almost as much as they did.  We sat up the lawn chairs under a shade tree and with the light breeze it was a wonderful place to be.  When Granny would get tired of sitting we would take a walk around the camp ground.  I don’t think there was anything we didn’t talk about, of course I was somewhere between 10-12 so how complicated could my life have been.  I do remember her having a discussion with me about how I was dressed.  At this point I really didn’t put too much thought into what I wore.  Basically I was worried about if it was comfortable and,short – shorts and a half top were as comfortable as I could get.  For those of you that don’t know, I’m not a thin person and never have been.  Looking back on pictures of me from that time I wonder why mama let me out of the house.  Anyway, Granny told me, very gently, that this was a Christian venue and maybe while we were on our walk I should go back to the RV and put on some more appropriate clothes.  Honestly I never thought about how I looked to others, but from that day on I did.  Now I’m careful to always consider my surroundings when I dress. 

I don’t remember a time that Grandpa didn’t get up before the sun and he was usually in bed before dark.  But at these festivals he would send us to bed, roll out the crank windows, and sit outside in the cool night air.  In no time at all the musicians would drift over to their RV.  I’d go to sleep listening I’m On My Way To Canaan’s Land, Cripple Creek, Jesus Take a Hold, or Foggy Mountain Breakdown.  Bluegrass still fills me with peace and I don’t think I can listen to it without remembering them.

I use to love going to Ben Franklin’s to shop with her.  They had the best craft stuff, not to mention a first class candy selection.  I’m not sure when they went out of business, but she was never short on googly eyes, wire aetna, or SoBo glue.  Sometime in the early 1980′s we (I’m not sure who “we” were but…) decided to make some crocheted “book worm” book marks.  We did most of them at home, but I remember Granny teaching us how to make them and it is the only pattern I can still do from memory today.  She could make anything from nothing.  With Pepsi cans and thread she’d make a hat.  With plastic bottle rings and thread she’d make pot holders.  With scraps of material she’d make a quilt.  With a lot a patience she’d make the afternoon fun. 

Granny was crafty in another way.  She was a working mother at a time when that was not common.  God and her family always came first, but Grandpa owned a tv and radio repair shop, Granny was his bookkeeper/office manager.  I definitely learned a lot of my feminist views from her.  She told me numerous times that I was as smart as any man and not to let them fool me into thinking otherwise.  She also told me that I could do anything I set my mind to. Mama says that a lot too, wonder where she got it.  It took Granny time to learned it was okay to speak her mind.  I guess she didn’t want me to take as long to figure it out too.   

On another note I asked her one time why she was called “Pete?”  She answered “Do you want to be called Beulah?”  As I said the woman was crafty.

There was a certain mystery that surrounded the shop.  There were lots of drawers, cubbyholes, boxes filled with who knew what.  Again I was told not to touch, but my mind wonder about the many hidden treasures in those dark depths.  There was also a mystery to Grandpa.  How could he make broken things work?  Last year I asked him how he got started and with a sly smile he told me.  He was suppose to be in one of those CCC work training camps in the 1930′s, but didn’t like it so he skipped out and went to town.  At the local drug store there was a display for an electrical wiring kit.  Grandpa started “messing” around with it and the shop owner offered him a job repairing radios.  He worked on them as much as he could but it was the Great Depression and times were tight.  He held a number of other jobs, but would always come back to radio repair.  I’m not sure how he settled on it full time, hopefully someone in the family will comment to this post and we’ll find out together. 

I was also very afraid of the shop.  The shop was built on a slope and in the back was a garage in which he stored all kinds of things.  I’m sure I was told not to go in there because of snakes, spider, etc.  However my over active imagination translated that into “monsters live in there.”  I’m also sure my cousins and sisters helped to foster that image.  One day I screwed up enough courage, made sure no one was around, and opened the door.  It was dark, cool, and breathing!  Okay that was probably the wind.  At the time I knew there was some warty, green, googly eyed, drooling beast with claws ready to rip me to shreds.  I never got up the courage again!

That is not true.  Not in marriage or in life.  Simple things like a “God Loves You” bumper sticker or briefly escorting an elderly (in some cases not so elderly) person to their destination can make a big difference in their lives.  Doing the right thing, no matter how inconvenient, also makes a big difference.  Even in on the little things.

I have set out to change a minor thing (I don’t want to get into specifics until it is over) and I find I’m having to defend my actions to some of the most unlikely people.  Instead of getting a rousing “You Go Girl!!”  I’m being questioned as to why it matters.  “It’s un-enforceable and illegal so what does it matter, just do it anyway.”  Although he is correct, shouldn’t we still work to right this wrong?  If this “little thing” is allowed to continue what is to stop it from growing into something more?  I simply don’t understand.

While it is true I am placing a giant bulls-eye on my backside, believe me there is plenty of room, isn’t it still the right thing to do?  To make an even more extreme argument Hitler didn’t lock the Jews away his first day in office.  He slowly removed the “little things” until people woke up one day and said WTF?!  I don’t want to have a WTF moment or have to go through a lengthy, not to mention expensive, court battle when it could all be avoided by asking a few questions and asserting my right to not have my rights taken away.

My husband is another MAJOR time suck.  Unlike a number of people I like my husband and enjoy talking to him.  He is very intelligent and insightful.  We’ll discuss anything from politics and books to sex and people.  I’m forced to admit he thinks more analytical and as a result is more accurate with his assessments.  But the point to this is I want to give him my full attention outside the bedroom as much as I do in.  Dividing my time between him and the little princess only difficult when she insist on running me to another room.

As an employee…there isn’t much I can do about that for now.  We do have to pay bills and keep food on the table, etc.  My goal is to one day quit my day job and write full time.

Those are the reasons I don’t write as much as I should.  Writing is my third earthly passion.  There is nothing better than climbing into another persons head and taking their life for a spin.  Readers do it every day and it is no less fun for a writer.  It stops being fun when you have to deal with the business end.  The endless edits, re-writes, submissions, rejections, contracts, and marketing can drive you straight out of the business.  But when someone comes up to you and tells you how much they enjoyed your story it somehow makes it all worth while.

The excuses start here.  This is Thor, my little thunder god, he has a purr you can hear across the room.  When his 15lbs. of solid muscle is focused on getting your attention, you must obey.  Currently we have four of these furry little monsters and they can be worse than a two year old.

Technology can be another excuse.  I love getting lost on the internet.  It can be a great adventure.  All of those different off ramps on the information highway lead to new and wonderful, as well as scary, places that can tie up a whole day.  Two days ago, after putting the princess to bed, I logged on to check my e-mail and knowing that I had to be in up at 3am I ended up surfing the net until midnight.  No one at work was happy with my grumpy self the next day.

Add to the technology TiVo.  Now I can watch all of the shows I want because I can have them when I want.  The problem comes with the when.  Most things on tv these days are not suitable for a two year old, at least my two year old.  Which again means choosing between writing and movies and sleep.  Making the right decision here is not always my strong suit.

I wish I could add reading to this list of time sucks but I don’t because I only read at work during my lunch break.  So I guard that time jealously.  I’ve skipped free meals at work because I don’t want to waste my reading time by talking to other people.  I just want to go into a corner and slip into another world.  I’ve also learned to read while walking to and from the car and the cafeteria.

I’ve listed some of my major reasons why I don’t write like I should.  Now that the confession has been made maybe I can be forgiven for not producing as much as I should.  I do have something in the works for the August edition of SNM Horror Magazine (if he’ll accept it) as well as still working on the Seven Deadly Sins anthology, and changing the ending on one novel and completing another one.  Yeah there are a lot of stories rattling around in my head.  That is why it is important that I write instead of updating my blog…

Okay let me explain about the whole pink issue.  We took a knife fighting class on our honeymoon.  Believe me when I say learning how to separate a man from his favorite organ can change the way a married couple resolves conflict.  Sorry, I’m getting off topic.  At this class Michael DeBethencourt explained how a brightly colored knife would be perceived as being non-threatening and therefore could help in not escalating an already tense situation.  So, we’ve put that into practice and have knives in every color imaginable.  Later on when I got pregnant and we found out she was a “she” he bought me a pink knife.  He bought a matching one for her.  Sometime later Benchmade put out a Griptilian knife in pink, I got that one too.  It has now become my favorite and I use it daily.

The second reason I wanted a pink gun is Patricia Briggs.  In her Mercy Thompson series the main character, conveniently named Mercy Thompson, mother carries a pink Glock.  I thought that was hysterical and have been on the look out for real weapons that come in pink.  By the way, on the internet, I did find a Hello Kitty assault rifle and that is going too far.

Academy didn’t have any Px4 Storms in stock, but right there on the top shelf was a 9mm Taurus.  On a whim my husband asked the clerk if I could look at it.  It was love at first grip.  It was well balanced, sized just right for my hand, and the right shade of pink.  After leaving that night my husband did a little research and asked around.  I will admit to having second thoughts about the pink thing but in the end I decided it wouldn’t matter if people took me seriously or not.  It would do the same job as a black or stainless gun and I liked it. 

You can guess what happened next.  I went back a bought it.

That night we went to the range.  I grew up around guns and at one time I was a fairly decent shot, but I haven’t fired anything in close to nineteen years.  The simple reason for this is the one and only gun I owned was a cheap six shot Bryco .22.  To say it was a piece of (insert your favorite four letter word here) would be an understatement.  It is now locked away where it will never hurt anyone.

When I brought home the Taurus Matthew showed me how to load the clip and how this particular gun worked.  I felt like a kid at Christmas. (Husband edit: She was actually jumping up and down–M) It was both exciting and scary.  I couldn’t wait to shoot it.  So off we went.

I hung the target and, after a few last minute instructions, unloaded the first clip into the paper man hanging five yards away.  I was very satisfied with small, if not neat, grouping.  For the second clip I aimed at another area of the target and the results were similar.  At this point I turned to look at my husband.  He looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.  I told him I was a decent shot.  After 150 rounds downrange I was too tired to be good and was happy with just hitting the target.

Matthew also took his Smith & Wesson .38 Special for me to try and NO THANKS!  He put a light load in the cylinder and when I pulled the trigger I seriously thought I broke my wrist.  I know understand the metaphor “kicks like a mule.”  Can you believe there are some stupid men that think this is a ladies’ gun?

gun cleaning

Later, after we put the little princess to bed, I broke it down and cleaned it like daddy taught me all those years ago.  It looks showroom new or like daddy is found of saying “it shines like a diamond in a goat’s hiney.”

The only after effect from our wild shoot out at the range is swollen hands and a cheshire cat like smile.  They say there is nothing better than sex, drugs & rock-n-roll.  I say nothing beats sex, guns, & knives.



I don’t want to tell you too much about it because it’s embarrassing.  But I know God must have been laughing at some of my prayers back then.  That might explain why he doesn’t get mad enough to wipe us all off the face of the planet.

EDIT: Okay I had a short-short story here that I thought was witty and interesting.  It was about telepathic aliens that judges our race too chaotic to live because the thoughts in our head didn’t match our words or actions.  When I re-read it tonight I didn’t like it at all and deleted it.