From the first time it was said to the present, I am truly humbled and appreciative. There is no greater feeling than releasing what lives in your mind and heart to the outside world, and having people identify, relate and enjoy it. Even if it’s not feel-good reading material – perhaps especially then: when the subject matter is dark and from deep within, yet people absorb, reflect and are sometimes without words – stunned, overwhelmed. It is a risky venture to share one’s work. It can be met with unfavorable comments. There is a level of vulnerability that one must accept as a writer. In the beginning it was very difficult to be vulnerable, to risk being not enough, and to accept criticism as well as praise. I appreciate everyone who reads my words, regardless of their opinion of them. But for the ones who do enjoy reading my words, and for those who do identify with them, it buoys my soul. There is no greater compliment.
Thanks, everyone. I appreciate you all.
* featured photo is of me holding the author’s proof of the first version of my book. I made many changes and from those changes became what the novel is now. But, boy was I so proud to have that book in my hands.*
Me specifically *not* watching Feliciano López play tennis, Cincinnati 2006.
Apart from me rapping Eminem lyrics in my head right now, this feels like a rehash of a former prompt. I’m answering it, but barely.
I like to watch tennis. I can always get engrossed in a good match (see photo above). And no, I do not have anything personal against Feli. He is quite nice. I don’t know why I wasn’t watching he and Rafa play doubles, but I do know someone from Getty Images (?) caught me (not) doing it.
I like to write. Time seems to slip by when I’m in the writing zone. I think most of us here can relate to that.
Have a great day, everyone.
My book LOVE MATCH waiting with good company for an online review, circa 2005.
Outlander is a romance/fantasy series on the Starz cable network and app with a huge dose of history, war, nursing, medicine, herbology, intense relationships, family drama – the list goes on. It’s not strictly fantasy, and it’s not strictly chick flick material – it’s packed with substance, great acting, intricately woven storylines, and an overall captivating experience.
I read the novels in college and waited 142 years for the rights to be optioned. Starz began production in 2013. I was elated. But I was also a little apprehensive, because I had read all of the books to date, and I was worried that the actors chosen for the roles would not match up with the characters I had envisioned in my mind. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about, as the casting has been superb in the series.
Claire, our heroine, portrayed by the super-talented Catriona Balfe, an Irish actress.
If you haven’t read the novels, I would recommend doing the hard work first: read the books before watching the TV series. Everything is more in the novels. Each book is close to 1,000 pages long. There’s much more substance in the books and a great deal more character development. The reason for that is the material has to be truncated to fit into an approximately 47 minute episode each week. And the seasons are short – it varies, but right now we’re in Droughtlander, waiting for the second half of Season Seven to resume. And when I say waiting, I mean waiting for up to a year and a half. But enough about Droughtlander. It’s a sore subject.
I feel sorry for people who only know that the TV series exists and who don’t – or won’t – read the books.
Jamie, our leading male, portrayed by the wonderful Scottish actor, Sam Heughan. He’s either just said, or is about to say, “Je Suis Prest” – Clan Fraser’s motto. I know this because this is one of my favorite scenes.
Sidebar: for anyone who adores costume history as much as I do (and believe me, I do, it was my minor in college), the costumes in this are exquisite. The costumes in Season Two are especially jaw-droppingly beautiful, as the show takes place mostly in France. Please don’t get me started on French fashion. I will blabber on for hours.
My rec: start with the novels, then watch the series. I’ve watched (and read) Outlander *way* more than five times. And they’re worth it.
I heard you turned 100. Happy Birthday! I hope there wasn’t a fire when they lit the candles on the cake. Couldn’t resist sarcasm, but you know that about us. Anyway, I just want to say thanks for everything. I’m sorry about the neck. I tried to tell teenage Amy about this, but she didn’t really listen. She carried that heavy bookbag on her right shoulder for 12 years… I was trying to make her see reason, but she wouldn’t have any of that. You know teenagers. I should apologize for the neck as well. I spent hours with my head down, looking at my phone, using poor posture in front of the laptop, and generally not taking the advice that I gave to teenage Amy. I guess I never learned. I hope that you are a “good” 100. By that I mean I hope you’re still active and enjoying things. I hope you are of sound mind. It would dishearten me to learn otherwise. Please tell me you’re still wearing fedoras and dressing like you want. I hope you have a really cool scooter and that it goes 60 mph. I hope you start foodfights in the cafeteria of the assisted living home. I hope they have really good chocolate milk there. I hope there are no weird men. Ha, who am I kidding?
Thank you for all the years, and I hope that all of the versions of us have made you proud. We’ve done the best we could, haven’t we? We protected little girl Amy with all that we had. We did some bad, we did some good, we loved hard, we laughed hard, we worked hard, sometimes we cried hard, and most of all we lived. We really lived.
I see that lady from Room 3A eyeing the pink wheels on your scooter. You’d better get over there. It looks like she’s messing with your music selection. You let her know that no one changes the song but you.
Love,
Amy
100-year-old Amy gets on her scooter and turns up the volume. She tells the lady from 3A to move, she’s got stuff to do. She peels out, heading off to parts unknown, her speakers blaring “I’m Bad” by LL Cool J.
Poeminspired by one of my favorite songs, and certainly my favorite song by Alanis Morissette (official video below the lyrics):
Uninvited
by Alanis Morissette
Like anyone would be I am flattered by your fascination with me Like any hot-blooded woman I have simply wanted an object to crave But you, you’re not allowed You’re uninvited An unfortunate slight
Must be strangely exciting To watch the stoic squirm Must be somewhat heartening To watch shepherd need shepherd But you you’re not allowed You’re uninvited An unfortunate slight
Like any uncharted territory I must seem greatly intriguing You speak of my love like You have experienced love like mine before But this is not allowed You’re uninvited An unfortunate slight
I don’t think you unworthy I need a moment to deliberate
I’m not sure why, other than the name of the song, but when I was composing this poem, and looking at this photo of my wooden cross, I thought of the song Take Me To Church by Hozier. The title is a metaphor, which you can probably glean from the lyrics. This is a great song. The official video is worth a watch, but I’m not posting it here, as it tells a story within itself. I posted below a video that displays the lyrics.
Take Me to Church
Song by Hozier
My lover’s got humor She’s the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody’s disapproval I should’ve worshiped her sooner If the Heavens ever did speak She’s the last true mouthpiece Every Sunday’s getting more bleak A fresh poison each week “We were born sick”, you heard them say it My church offers no absolutes She tells me, “Worship in the bedroom” The only Heaven I’ll be sent to Is when I’m alone with you I was born sick, but I love it Command me to be well A-, Amen, Amen, Amen
Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death Good God, let me give you my life Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death Good God, let me give you my life
If I’m a pagan of the good times My lover’s the sunlight To keep the Goddess on my side She demands a sacrifice Drain the whole sea Get something shiny Something meaty for the main course That’s a fine looking high horse What you got in the stable? We’ve a lot of starving faithful That looks tasty That looks plenty This is hungry work
Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife Offer me my deathless death Good God, let me give you my life Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife Offer me my deathless death Good God, let me give you my life
No masters or kings when the ritual begins There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene Only then I am human Only then I am clean Oh, oh, Amen, Amen, Amen
Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death Good God, let me give you my life Take me to church I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death Good God, let me give you my life
The first one is, “Why aren’t you married?” My standard answer is, “I’ve never met anyone who could convince me that it’s a good idea.” That shuts them up really quickly.
The second question I hate is, “Why don’t you have children?” Again, I reply with, “I’ve never met anyone who could convince me that it’s a good idea.” Again, silence.
It’s my standard answer. It’s flippant and sarcastic and intentional. Come at me with questions that are none of your business, and I’m going to come at you with something you have no response to.
We know nothing of lost opportunities, missed chances, wrong time, wrong place, right person, wrong time, wrong person, right time. we know nothing of desire – or lack of desire – for marriage or children. And there’s a reason why we don’t know anything: because these are personal issues.
Last week, one of the cashiers in the grocery store told me I looked really fashionable. She said she always loves to see what outfit I’m wearing. This particular trip I had on my plaid black and white fedora, with my houndstooth belted coat and matching houndstooth gloves. Finished off with tall black boots. She asked, “You’re not married are you?” Immediately, my defenses went up, but I asked with a smile, “Why do you say that?” And she said, “Because you look so put together and cute. You’re a cutie pie and you take time with your outfits and always look adorable.” I thanked her and put my defenses down. (I’m not sure what that had to do with being married or unmarried, but it was said, from a place of kindness.)
I like those kinds of people. Not because she complimented me, but because she didn’t ask me a personal question to be nosy or critical. She had no ulterior motive.
We don’t know what people go through, what battles they are waging on the inside. We should always strive to be kind and never assume anything.
And never assume a void means lack of hopes, dreams or wishes.
US Open, 2005. I was on a mission to deliver a US Open Bear to Rafa Nadal. Just a small token of appreciation for hours of tennis entertainment. Though I had followed Rafa’s career up to this point, I had never met him. Read on for my observations and probably some hijinks, because…me.
Tuesday, August 29:
Hmm…today feels different. It’s a curly hair day. I’m gonna wear my pink cowgirl hat today with my multicolored belt, Hello Kitty hot pink flip flops and my new hot pink tank top. I load up my Hello Kitty tote bag: sunblock, water, food, bear.
We board the bus and head off. Feli* is first on Court 16 or something, and luckily traffic out of the city is better this morning. We arrive and the line to get on the grounds is short. The girl inspecting my bag is nice – “Oh, cute bear!” she coos, as if she hasn’t seen them all over the grounds before.
“Yeah,” I say, “I hope today is the day I send him on his way.” She laughs and I laugh. As soon as I say that, I know today is the day.
We check the practice courts: nobody good. Wait. That sounds really bad. What I mean is nobody that we are interested in watching. We wait for Feli outside of the side entrance. He will come through these doors with his opponent and a couple of security guards. My friend L. is chain-smoking. I’m lounging on a bench, relaxing. She is pacing. I am looking around at all the people who are here at 10:30. A little after 11, I announce I am going “over here” to another spot on the grounds, and I hear, “OhmyGodAmythereheis!” I turn, and yeah, it’s Feli. He’s cute, sure, but I’m still calm. L. is in a full run, following Feli to court. We get there and sit down in the first row, behind the player chairs. He glances at my fabulous hat a few times, and L. is smiling like a loon, clicking photo after photo, and the match hasn’t begun yet.
Did I mention she washed her shirt that reads, “Where’s Feli?” last night so today is also “Where’s Feli?” day? Yes. So the match has begun and she, L., is planted there like a tree. (Fyi, she eventually had that shirt signed by the man himself.)
At 12 o’clock, I feel the need to get up and check the practice courts again. I wander over through the maze of tall bushes and finally come out to the screened off practice courts by Ashe**. There are a lot of people there, so I take a peek all the way down. No, no, no…Wait. Who is that on the last court. Ah, ha.
It was Rafa, wearing tan shorts and a backwards white hat. I walk the blacktop sidewalk down to the very end. There are bushes and privacy screening up so the public can’t watch. At the end, though, there is a gate with some gaps, and that allows a view to where Rafa is practicing.
Rafa Nadal, US Open practice courts, 2005
There are ten people there, and nowhere for me to stand and watch. I see that there is a kid in the bushes, leaning against the fence. I don’t think twice. “Hi,” I say to the kid as I enter the bush space next to him and kneel in the very dry dirt, taking off my hat and putting it over my bag that now lies on the ground. I know the pink of the hat is very visible from court. Feña***is two feet from us at times, and so is Almagro****. Rafa is on the far side, but I can still see through the grommet holes, and Rafa is instantly recognizable.
“You like Nadal?” he asks me sincerely.
“Yeah,” I say pleasantly.
“See, I have this poster of him.”
“That’s a good poster,” I say. A few seconds pass and Feña is in front of us picking up balls. The kid speaks Spanish to him, but Feña ignores the talking bushes.
“You speak Spanish?” the kid asks me.
“A little,” I whisper.
“You know Nicolás Lapentti?” he asks me in his cute accent.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to watch Rafa and listen to this kid at the same time.
“I am the best friend of his brother,” he says proudly. I smile and nod. What can I say? I don’t really want to talk too much, especially with Feña and Almagro right there. And my knees are hurting from kneeling and my jeans are getting dirty and damn, it is hot. Toni*****is there, I see, but sitting in a chair. There is some guy patrolling the court perimeter, but he hasn’t spotted us yet, or maybe he doesn’t care that we are in the bushes. Suddenly, from nowhere, the kid whistles a catcall, making it seem as if I, the girl in the bushes, whistled at them!
“Hey! They think I did that!” I chide. He laughs, thinking that is pretty funny. Soon after, an errant ball directly off of Rafa’s racquet rolls and stops in front of me. I dangle my finger through the bottom of the fence and give it a little nudge so that it goes a foot or so. Kid next to me thinks that is worth a chuckle. I laugh too, wondering if anyone else caught it. Shortly after, kid leaves the bushes in a mad dash. I stay for a while until my knees hurt so badly I must get up. By now, Rafa is tidying up the court. Practice is over. I press the side of my face against the open portion and watch Rafa tidy. He is sweating profusely and he looks as he always does in photos.
Agassi******comes in and they shake hands. I don my sunglasses, my cowgirl hat, and calmly walk the tree-lined path to the front where I know he will soon sign autographs.
I check on the bear. He’s on top, easy access and today is the day – I just know it.
I reach the front and see swarms of kids with big tennis balls waiting for Rafa to sign. I’m calm, the swarms are not. “Back it up, people!” I hear a woman say as I continue to press forward to where he will come out. It’s not that I don’t hear her, it’s that I am ignoring her. There are a few kids in front of me, but no adults anywhere. I am the tallest one, and I’m wearing a pink cowgirl hat. He walks over to where I am and is maybe three feet from me — it would have been closer if not for the kids in between. I study his face, taking in as much detail as I can in such a short amount of time. It’s not every day that a person can get this close to a professional athlete, so taking mental notes is important for memory reflection later. He’s dripping wet with sweat (NYC in the summer – oof!), he is not as darkly tanned as he looks on TV or in photos, his nose is a bit wider than on TV and in photos, and his lips are large (not that there is anything wrong with that – I’m taking mental notes). His face is large, too, but he is not overly tall. He seems much taller on television. I would study his hands but I can’t see them. He looks down immediately and signs one, then two items, because he is, of course, well-rehearsed in the task of signing his name. It is when I say “Rafa” over the noise of the kids that he looks up and then at me, mildly surprised. I reach in to get the bear and I lift it above the kids’ heads. I hear a man’s voice behind me repeating, “I’ll take it. Give it to me. I’ll take it for him.” I ignore the man’s voice behind me because I want to. I will be delivering this bear. Rafa looks at me. “For you,” I say quietly as I hand the bear to him. And his eyes have already begun smiling. “Thank you,” he says sweetly and takes the bear from me gently. I nod and give him a small smile, but my attention is entirely on his eyes. His mouth is not smiling, his eyes are, and they are so kind. I hope my eyes smiled back, and didn’t do any weird twitching, blinking, winking thing.
And then the moment was over. Bear was delivered. He looked down to sign more and I turned, held my head high and walked back to Feli’s match where L. was still was seated. I had a content smile on my face the whole walk over. Mission: Accomplished.
I found out later, quite by accident, that only kids 12 and under are allowed to stand where I was standing. Sometimes lady luck is on your side, but it doesn’t hurt to be a bit of a rebel.
*Feliciano López, Spanish tennis player
**Arthur Ashe Stadium, USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center
***Fernando González, Chilean male tennis player
****Nicolás Almagro, Spanish male tennis player
*****Uncle Toni – Rafa’s uncle and coach (at the time – I mean, he is still his uncle, he’s just not his coach anymore)
******IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHO ANDRE AGASSI IS, I CAN’T HELP YOU
What experiences in life helped you grow the most?
I helped my neighbor out yesterday by clearing out trash and debris in her front yard. and by disposing of a dirty, vacant cardboard box that once housed a neighborhood cat, possibly a stray, but I doubt it.
My neighbor was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis early last year. I took care of taking out and returning her trash cans each week and getting her mail every day until she recovered enough to be able to do these things. She had a benchmark birthday in August and was looking forward to this upcoming year. I am claircognizant, and so when she said this, there was a twinge inside of me and I kept quiet. She was finally got her strength back from being hospitalized for the RA. I surely wasn’t going to ruin that.
In November I started noticing a lot of cars at her house. One day around Christmas I saw her relative outside. I asked the woman if my neighbor was OK. She told me my neighbor had been diagnosed with leukemia and was in the hospital, and that she would likely be there for quite a while. In January, I asked again how my neighbor was, and was told that she caught Covid while in the hospital. There was someone staying at her house, and it became a bit untidy. Trust me when I tell you that “untidy” is an understatement..
I found out a month ago that my neighbor was cured of leukemia and survived Covid. She went to a nursing rehabilitation facility to gain strength. She returned home earlier this week. She is very weak and has to build strength to be able to get back to walking. She told me that Covid almost killed her. I have no reason to doubt it. I consider it a miracle that she is alive. And I am so thankful that she is.
I woke this morning with a bad headache, probably a migraine type, with my usual dizziness. But I am awake, I am alive. My neighbor is alive. I will once again take up my duty as trashcan coordinator and mail distributor. And I will do it gladly, for as long as it takes. I’m sure my neighbor will recover and be able to take her dog for walks again. Maybe as spring turns to summer, and the days are a little warmer, I’ll see her out there being walked by her dog. Yes, I’m sure of it.
“It's Amy,” I said. 