I know that I’ve said this before…that writing is a form of therapy. But I question tonight what therapy can truly be. How can you explain to your fourteen year old son, the reasons behind suicide? Two of his friends have taken their lives in less than six months. One…just last night.
I look at my children and pray that I can be the best parent to them. God gave them to me as gifts, right? Owen is my “angel sent from heaven” when I never thought I’d have children. Eli is my “Miracle Baby” the second child that I prayed for each night and took so long to have. For so long, I’ve walked on egg shells, just hoping to be a good mom. But tonight, I struggle. I have no words to console them. How can this be? I am supposed to be a writer. God has given me the gift of bull-shit, and trust me…I’ve used this gift to my fullest advantage. But tonight….I have no words. I only have tears.
I think about my friend who lost her son months ago…and lives with the agony every day; while the world around her moves on. Now, I think about my son’s dear friend whose sister is now gone. We will spend the next several weeks, mourning their loss. But with even the worst pain, we’ll move on. While the family will remain in deep sorrow.
For the second time in six months, my husband and I sat our two young children, age 14 and 10, down to discuss the loss of a young life. A life that was taken needlessly. They sat in our living room and we tried to explain to them about choices, expressing their feelings, the gift of life that only God provides. We explained that God placed them on this earth for a reason…and that we need to sometimes dig deep into our soul to determine what that purpose is supposed to be.
So what is the answer? How do you explain these tragedies to your children? I just don’t know. But, I’ll guarantee that there will be a long car ride with the fourteen year old tomorrow. It seems the only place where he truly opens up to speak his feelings. For the ten year old, we’ve already spent hours talking and hugging.
Talk to your kids…even when they don’t speak back to you. Hug them...hold them...every day!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Venice
Guest writer continues....Jon Grayson
We left Rome and off to Venice
**************************************************
The Ryan Airlines waiting area was pretty nondescript, evidence of the dirt cheap fares. We were touched by a son who accompanied his elderly parents to the gate, and waited until they were safely through security before he left (we hope both our boys are as loyal). We decided to adopt them and stood by them when we rushed into the long line to board another bus that would take us to the plane (we wondered just what else low overhead might mean in the way of safety or pilot inexperience). The crowds of Italians are not polite in any fashion, even toward elderly people with canes, and I caught my adopted mom as she was nearly pushed out of the bus.
Arriving in the tiny airport in Treviso, we walked all the way past security and the baggage claim, and had to sneak back in just to get our luggage.
The bus ride to Venice was relaxing, but I was nervous that nightfall would mean a tougher maze to the hotel (but still determined to take public transportation). The vaporetto (water taxi) ticket salesman was another big grump, and then I asked about our stop, thought he flipped me the Italian bird (the big #1), but I called the hotel and they did confirm it was indeed stop #1. Still, the dark night was confounded by a misty fog, which I remember in Shakespeare’s description of many nights in both Othello and The Merchant of Venice. Not to mention, it was eerily quiet and few had departed at stop #1. There are few lighted signs in Venice and it was too dark to decipher any of the other signage, which was minimal. We found a hotel near the stop, and thank goodness, the smiling clerk looked Scandinavian and gave us some easy directions to the Foscari Palace. I have never been more relieved, and wondered if our hotel was any better. And boy were we surprised. It blew me away, and I welcomed they bell boy to carry my bags and appreciated the orientation to our room (with two balconies, no less, and a full fruit basket compliments of the manager—hotel snobbery does have its privileges). The next evening, we were invited to the wine/cheese party, which included a harpist.
There were so many wonderful things about Venice and our hotel, but the best was a nearly quiet street with just the bump of a gondola, but no blaring police cars. The morning was a great awakening to everything we imagined, and more. The only complaint I can think of is that so many people smoke, but it is not allowed inside stores/restaurants.
Leaving Venice was a bit easier, but I wanted to take a different route and we had time to kill. So we took the train, despite Kristy’s grumbling (I told her to cheer up, that the Italian scowl was growing on her). I should have listened, as the conductor chewed me out for not validating the ticket on the time machine. Now I was glad we were leaving Italy. The only restaurant open in Treviso was McDonald’s and that suited us well. The town was shut down as most towns are on Sunday, so we went to the airport and read our books. It was another long, pushy line into the waiting area, followed by another pushy line into the bus which took us out to the plane. But we survived.
We left Rome and off to Venice
**************************************************
The Ryan Airlines waiting area was pretty nondescript, evidence of the dirt cheap fares. We were touched by a son who accompanied his elderly parents to the gate, and waited until they were safely through security before he left (we hope both our boys are as loyal). We decided to adopt them and stood by them when we rushed into the long line to board another bus that would take us to the plane (we wondered just what else low overhead might mean in the way of safety or pilot inexperience). The crowds of Italians are not polite in any fashion, even toward elderly people with canes, and I caught my adopted mom as she was nearly pushed out of the bus.
Arriving in the tiny airport in Treviso, we walked all the way past security and the baggage claim, and had to sneak back in just to get our luggage.
The bus ride to Venice was relaxing, but I was nervous that nightfall would mean a tougher maze to the hotel (but still determined to take public transportation). The vaporetto (water taxi) ticket salesman was another big grump, and then I asked about our stop, thought he flipped me the Italian bird (the big #1), but I called the hotel and they did confirm it was indeed stop #1. Still, the dark night was confounded by a misty fog, which I remember in Shakespeare’s description of many nights in both Othello and The Merchant of Venice. Not to mention, it was eerily quiet and few had departed at stop #1. There are few lighted signs in Venice and it was too dark to decipher any of the other signage, which was minimal. We found a hotel near the stop, and thank goodness, the smiling clerk looked Scandinavian and gave us some easy directions to the Foscari Palace. I have never been more relieved, and wondered if our hotel was any better. And boy were we surprised. It blew me away, and I welcomed they bell boy to carry my bags and appreciated the orientation to our room (with two balconies, no less, and a full fruit basket compliments of the manager—hotel snobbery does have its privileges). The next evening, we were invited to the wine/cheese party, which included a harpist.
There were so many wonderful things about Venice and our hotel, but the best was a nearly quiet street with just the bump of a gondola, but no blaring police cars. The morning was a great awakening to everything we imagined, and more. The only complaint I can think of is that so many people smoke, but it is not allowed inside stores/restaurants.
Leaving Venice was a bit easier, but I wanted to take a different route and we had time to kill. So we took the train, despite Kristy’s grumbling (I told her to cheer up, that the Italian scowl was growing on her). I should have listened, as the conductor chewed me out for not validating the ticket on the time machine. Now I was glad we were leaving Italy. The only restaurant open in Treviso was McDonald’s and that suited us well. The town was shut down as most towns are on Sunday, so we went to the airport and read our books. It was another long, pushy line into the waiting area, followed by another pushy line into the bus which took us out to the plane. But we survived.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Novel is Complete
I have some great news to share. Tonight, I’ve FINALLY finished my novel. Each one of you has touched my life in a special way. Whether you are aware or not, you’ve been an inspiration to me. Thank you!
For those of you that have painstakingly endured this long journey with me, I give you great thanks. As you know, my life during the past eighteen months has had a series of ups and downs that cannot be explained. My writing was therapy; and you’ve touched my soul.
For those of you that I’ve inadvertently hurt with my words on paper, please forgive me. Even though in so many ways you’ve influenced my writing, my words are fiction…a complete figment of my imagination. And trust me….sometimes my imagination has pushed me close to the edge, often slipping into character. I’ve heard this is a sign of a good writer…but none the less, it’s very scary.
All that said, I’ll be editing for awhile. Then searching for a good agent.
I love you all!
For those of you that have painstakingly endured this long journey with me, I give you great thanks. As you know, my life during the past eighteen months has had a series of ups and downs that cannot be explained. My writing was therapy; and you’ve touched my soul.
For those of you that I’ve inadvertently hurt with my words on paper, please forgive me. Even though in so many ways you’ve influenced my writing, my words are fiction…a complete figment of my imagination. And trust me….sometimes my imagination has pushed me close to the edge, often slipping into character. I’ve heard this is a sign of a good writer…but none the less, it’s very scary.
All that said, I’ll be editing for awhile. Then searching for a good agent.
I love you all!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Who has touched a star?
By Eli Grayson
Who has touched a star?
Neither I nor you.
But when you look up in the sky
They sparkle white and blue.
Who has touched a star?
Neither you nor I.
But when they look so beautiful
I wish they all were mine.
Who has touched a star?
Neither I nor you.
But when you look up in the sky
They sparkle white and blue.
Who has touched a star?
Neither you nor I.
But when they look so beautiful
I wish they all were mine.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day Poems by Eli
Haiku
Platinum, Silver, Gold.
All the moms enjoy their day!
They all shout "Hooray!"
Cinquain
Mother
best in the world
couldn't ask for more, Mom!
nobody compares to you, Mom!
Kristy!
Free Verse
This is my mother
she is very nice.
She doesn't like it
when there is mice!
Friday, May 7, 2010
Turning 40...The Grumpy Italian Way
Its been very difficult for me to keep up my blog posts as I've given myself a goal of finishing my novel. As a bulldozer, its hard for me to ignore that particular challenge. That said, I'd like to introduce you to an amazing writer and even better friend. My guest blogger for the next few entries is my husband Jon. I've selected some of my favorite stories that he's written. Beginning with the "Hotel Snob" 40th Birthday present for Jon. It begins in Rome. Take the journey with us in his own words.
******
Turning 40 hit me like a ton of bricks. Or at least it tasted like a ton of bricks, and will take me a year to digest. So why is a ton of bricks any different than a ton of sausage (or ice cream or stoopewaffles or any other delicacy)?
Travel is not just reaching a destination, it is a journey. All allegory aside, we embarked on a personal journey that would not only open our eyes and hearts, but our mouths as well (gosh, the food was good and I have a waist line to prove it—it can’t be the wine or beer, so it must be the tiramisu and schnitzel). How nice it is to have healthy and willing grandparents to come and parent our boys for ten days, not to mention paint our walls and fix our drains and furnace.
Kristy and I never had a desire to go to Europe, only a mild curiosity. But brother Pete has always spoken so highly of Germany that we finally decided to just go before we changed our mind. Honestly, if we hadn't gotten the passports, we would have never decided to just do it. Sisters Pam and Jen had a very detailed, painstaking plan that we admired, but upon hearing about their journey, we decided we needed a vacation instead of an education. And since Rick Steeves slighted Heidelberg, I joined forces with Kristy and became a hotel snob. After all, that is the American way and birthright!
It was easier leaving home as the cold weather arrived just in time for my birthday. The flight over was almost painless, now that the transatlantic airplanes now have personal TV monitors with the ability to choose your own movies/shows/tunes (note, IPods are no longer a necessity, so I sold my Microsoft stock before sales decline—I guess that isn’t such a problem since traveling adults and not the only market for MP3 players). Even the Northworst meals were not too bad, better than the $10 meals you have to pay for on domestic trips. The big surprise when entering the Amsterdam airport was how modern it is, with McDonalds, Sbaro and all the comforts of home. With three hours to kill, we were pleased to find the overstuffed reclining chairs, and agreed that if we ever got stuck for a day, Amsterdam would be better than St. Louis or Sioux Falls.
The KLM/NW flight from A-dam to Rome was a breeze, and included lots of interesting, free food (for a flight under 2 hours) and friendly crew. Once in Rome, however, the smiling faces were over. Kristy’s view of grumpy Italians come from What About Raymond (an episode with a mean Italian uncle), while mine from the Sopranos. Lack of sleep impaired our judgment, so we took the first cab we could find, which probably cost us an extra $20. That was the last time I’d be rooked. After that it was only public transportation, baby.
When we got to Hotel 47, I was determined not to let a bellboy help us with our bags, so we left them strapped to our back. Well, that was a mistake, ‘cause then we missed out of the tour of our room, which would have included a lesson in the latest in European security. So we had to figure out how to turn the power on, which is needed to unlock the safe, metal window shades, as well as the lights and TV. But even stubborn Americans can figure things out, eventually. I finally noticed a slot near the light switch that looked like the key card entry thing at work. You have to insert your room key to get any power. Now that that was behind us, we crashed (against the advice of many relatives). Waking up past 7 p.m., we wondered if we’d even find a restaurant still serving dinner. Upon reading the guidebooks, we found we’d be lucky to find a good place open BEFORE 7, which was right on. But first we had to learn how to cross the busy Via Della Rosa (the crosswalks are a joke in Rome. Even we, fast walkers that we are, were barely into the street when it turned red. We felt bad for the old and frail). Maybe that’s why we saw so many grumpy faces, or maybe we just had to let the effects of wine set in before we could relax. Because of the many political signs posted about, we realized there must have been some elections in process, because there were signs of grumpy-faced politicians in a contest to look the grumpiest.
As fast moving as Rome is, the hustle bustle did not bother me much as we were on vacation, but I think it would exhaust me as much as any large city. I am just glad I did not have to be in a hurry because traffic sometime inches along. After dodging the fast moving cars, busses, Vespas and bikes on the busy road, we thought we were safe on the narrower streets, until we were nearly run over (note to self, it’s a good thing the boys were not along). Dinner was great, and wine good and cheap. The bottle water, with “gas or no gas” was more expensive than the wine!
Next morning, we set out for The Vatican, and the bus stop was just down the street. The driver did not even look at me when I tried to pay him, just kept driving. Then we noticed people validating tickets on a time clock, but it was too late to jump off. Kristy looked and me and said “I’m just along for the ride” so we just enjoyed the tour. Arriving near the Vatican, tour guides offered English speaking trips, but we are more of the fast and furious types. So we went it alone, and followed a large Asian group. For awhile, I thought we had somehow gotten a free ride, but then realized St. Peters is free for everyone. Once inside, we were amazed at the incredible workmanship and beauty of such intricate detail. A silent side chapel beaconed us in, but once I smelled in incense, I knew we were in trouble (and I could not cope with Kristy’s possible week long migraine set on by some lousy incense). It we sensed God’s presence in this chapel and left after a short prayer and donation to the union of some holy order or another.
Being off-season, we wondered just how busy the Vatican and Sistine Chapel must be in the summer. There were no lines of people to speak of, but could not find any signs to the Sistine. I then figured it must be part of this exhibit just outside St. Peters, which was virtually empty, so we paid and entered. OK, we’d been rooked again, but not to worry. This time, we followed the map and crowds to the Sistine, which was busy but nothing like a regular summer day. Still, I clung to our camera and money, mindful that the pickpocks are in the big crowds. But the bigger crowds yet awaited us at the Metro station. I thought Kristy would enjoy yet another form of public transportation, and had read that the reason the Metro does not expand is because more ruins would be uncovered, which would halt the process (which is true).
After a short Metro ride, we found the Coliseum and Avenue of the Roman ruins themselves, while beautiful in the night lights, does little for us in their historical context. To appreciate the rise and fall of a great empire, I find it much easier to read historical fiction and have purchased (but not yet finished) two books.
Leaving Rome behind was easy, as we were in no hurry, or so we thought. We know holidays are frequent in Europe, but we were not sure if the parade was a celebration or a union/political rally. In any event, it sure slowed traffic down, and we wondered if we should ditch the slow-buss-in-traffic option or take a taxi. Then I remembered the Metro has a connection to another bus line that left the airport. It worked like a charm.
******
Turning 40 hit me like a ton of bricks. Or at least it tasted like a ton of bricks, and will take me a year to digest. So why is a ton of bricks any different than a ton of sausage (or ice cream or stoopewaffles or any other delicacy)?
Travel is not just reaching a destination, it is a journey. All allegory aside, we embarked on a personal journey that would not only open our eyes and hearts, but our mouths as well (gosh, the food was good and I have a waist line to prove it—it can’t be the wine or beer, so it must be the tiramisu and schnitzel). How nice it is to have healthy and willing grandparents to come and parent our boys for ten days, not to mention paint our walls and fix our drains and furnace.
Kristy and I never had a desire to go to Europe, only a mild curiosity. But brother Pete has always spoken so highly of Germany that we finally decided to just go before we changed our mind. Honestly, if we hadn't gotten the passports, we would have never decided to just do it. Sisters Pam and Jen had a very detailed, painstaking plan that we admired, but upon hearing about their journey, we decided we needed a vacation instead of an education. And since Rick Steeves slighted Heidelberg, I joined forces with Kristy and became a hotel snob. After all, that is the American way and birthright!
It was easier leaving home as the cold weather arrived just in time for my birthday. The flight over was almost painless, now that the transatlantic airplanes now have personal TV monitors with the ability to choose your own movies/shows/tunes (note, IPods are no longer a necessity, so I sold my Microsoft stock before sales decline—I guess that isn’t such a problem since traveling adults and not the only market for MP3 players). Even the Northworst meals were not too bad, better than the $10 meals you have to pay for on domestic trips. The big surprise when entering the Amsterdam airport was how modern it is, with McDonalds, Sbaro and all the comforts of home. With three hours to kill, we were pleased to find the overstuffed reclining chairs, and agreed that if we ever got stuck for a day, Amsterdam would be better than St. Louis or Sioux Falls.
The KLM/NW flight from A-dam to Rome was a breeze, and included lots of interesting, free food (for a flight under 2 hours) and friendly crew. Once in Rome, however, the smiling faces were over. Kristy’s view of grumpy Italians come from What About Raymond (an episode with a mean Italian uncle), while mine from the Sopranos. Lack of sleep impaired our judgment, so we took the first cab we could find, which probably cost us an extra $20. That was the last time I’d be rooked. After that it was only public transportation, baby.
When we got to Hotel 47, I was determined not to let a bellboy help us with our bags, so we left them strapped to our back. Well, that was a mistake, ‘cause then we missed out of the tour of our room, which would have included a lesson in the latest in European security. So we had to figure out how to turn the power on, which is needed to unlock the safe, metal window shades, as well as the lights and TV. But even stubborn Americans can figure things out, eventually. I finally noticed a slot near the light switch that looked like the key card entry thing at work. You have to insert your room key to get any power. Now that that was behind us, we crashed (against the advice of many relatives). Waking up past 7 p.m., we wondered if we’d even find a restaurant still serving dinner. Upon reading the guidebooks, we found we’d be lucky to find a good place open BEFORE 7, which was right on. But first we had to learn how to cross the busy Via Della Rosa (the crosswalks are a joke in Rome. Even we, fast walkers that we are, were barely into the street when it turned red. We felt bad for the old and frail). Maybe that’s why we saw so many grumpy faces, or maybe we just had to let the effects of wine set in before we could relax. Because of the many political signs posted about, we realized there must have been some elections in process, because there were signs of grumpy-faced politicians in a contest to look the grumpiest.
As fast moving as Rome is, the hustle bustle did not bother me much as we were on vacation, but I think it would exhaust me as much as any large city. I am just glad I did not have to be in a hurry because traffic sometime inches along. After dodging the fast moving cars, busses, Vespas and bikes on the busy road, we thought we were safe on the narrower streets, until we were nearly run over (note to self, it’s a good thing the boys were not along). Dinner was great, and wine good and cheap. The bottle water, with “gas or no gas” was more expensive than the wine!
Next morning, we set out for The Vatican, and the bus stop was just down the street. The driver did not even look at me when I tried to pay him, just kept driving. Then we noticed people validating tickets on a time clock, but it was too late to jump off. Kristy looked and me and said “I’m just along for the ride” so we just enjoyed the tour. Arriving near the Vatican, tour guides offered English speaking trips, but we are more of the fast and furious types. So we went it alone, and followed a large Asian group. For awhile, I thought we had somehow gotten a free ride, but then realized St. Peters is free for everyone. Once inside, we were amazed at the incredible workmanship and beauty of such intricate detail. A silent side chapel beaconed us in, but once I smelled in incense, I knew we were in trouble (and I could not cope with Kristy’s possible week long migraine set on by some lousy incense). It we sensed God’s presence in this chapel and left after a short prayer and donation to the union of some holy order or another.
Being off-season, we wondered just how busy the Vatican and Sistine Chapel must be in the summer. There were no lines of people to speak of, but could not find any signs to the Sistine. I then figured it must be part of this exhibit just outside St. Peters, which was virtually empty, so we paid and entered. OK, we’d been rooked again, but not to worry. This time, we followed the map and crowds to the Sistine, which was busy but nothing like a regular summer day. Still, I clung to our camera and money, mindful that the pickpocks are in the big crowds. But the bigger crowds yet awaited us at the Metro station. I thought Kristy would enjoy yet another form of public transportation, and had read that the reason the Metro does not expand is because more ruins would be uncovered, which would halt the process (which is true).
After a short Metro ride, we found the Coliseum and Avenue of the Roman ruins themselves, while beautiful in the night lights, does little for us in their historical context. To appreciate the rise and fall of a great empire, I find it much easier to read historical fiction and have purchased (but not yet finished) two books.
Leaving Rome behind was easy, as we were in no hurry, or so we thought. We know holidays are frequent in Europe, but we were not sure if the parade was a celebration or a union/political rally. In any event, it sure slowed traffic down, and we wondered if we should ditch the slow-buss-in-traffic option or take a taxi. Then I remembered the Metro has a connection to another bus line that left the airport. It worked like a charm.
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