NANOWRIMO - Day 13

Current listen:  "Summer Girl" by Leighton Meester (from the soundtrack of the movie Country Strong)

Spent most of my writing time doing research today. I've picked the town of Sweet Home, Oregon, for my story setting. After locating the high school, I needed to find the library and get familiar with streets. In all my stories, water plays a big part in setting. Foster Dam proved to be just what I needed, sitting at the edge of Sweet Home and giving my characters a "play place."

So what happened to Tom's mom? In my last episode, she'd disappeared. I decided only one murder could be in this story (at least so far). Come to find out, according to Tom, when his stepfather and mom stopped for gas, she escaped.  Stepfather's character has ran out of storyline, so he does the honorable thing and turns him self over to police...or ???

Today's grand total is 23,790 words. A little less than I'd hoped for, meaning I'll have to do double time tomorrow. In a writing challenge with author friend and mentor, Lesli Lytle. 26,000 words by Sunday the 27th. That means 2,000 words per day. I can do it...I will do it...I have to do it! Lesli will never let me live it down if I don't! However, if I do, that will put me over 48,000 with three days left to write the final 2,000. Good way to push me, too.

Also sent off DESIGNER GENES to an agent this morning, so all in all...a very productive day. Later!

NANOWRIMO - Day 3

Current listen:  "Nine in the Afternoon" a strange tune by Panic! At The Disco

I like different music - modern. I attribute my strange taste to writing Young Adult stories and wanting to keep that "youthful" feeling in my head when I create. Hubby's stuck in the 80's or "riding the range" with a country western tune. He's played in a rock band ever since I've known him. We finally reached a settlement agreement. Whoever drives, gets to pick the songs on the radio. I carry my iPod with me constantly. When I've heard enough Santana, I place a bud deeply into each ear and crank on The Muse, Katy Perry, or sadly, Big Time Rush. I've yet to stoop to the "Bieb" though. Something about his carpeted head... I do have standards. I know. Shocking to some of you.

So I'm at Day 3 and this morning I started the second chapter thinking "what the hell?" The story was a mess. I contemplated writing NaNoWrimo 50,000 times and being done with it. Then, tonight, "the mess" made sense. A puzzle piece here and there snugged nicely together. A new character jumped on the page and he's campaigning real hard to be the hero. 


Meet Tom Callahan - the kingpin of the "bus cartel" occupying the back seat of the school bus. The first words to come out of his mouth, shocking me and my poor heroine, were "nice tits."  He is also the proud creator of  "the jiggle scale." Yep, that's how Tom's story rolls. Not sure where he came from, but he has no intention of disappearing anytime soon. We'll see how his character evolves...let's hope he sees the 'error of his ways'?

Today's writing challenge:  the aftermath of a murder. I'm sure the details of the murder itself will materialize, but today was about writing the shock my heroine, fifteen years old at the time, felt when she discovered her father's lifeless body on the sofa. 

She knows he's dead, but shields herself from the trauma by doing little gestures to make him more comfortable. Taking his shoes off, curling his arm against his body so it won't "go to sleep" from hanging at an odd angle. Covering him with a blanket so he won't get cold while waiting for help to arrive. When she decides she's done all she can, she sits on the floor beside him. Here's a glimpse:

Wrapping both bent legs, I pulled them to my chest and leaned against the sofa. Dad's limp, icy hand fell over my shoulder. I tucked my chin against it and cried.

Today's final count:  7,848 words! Wahoo!

WACKY WEDNESDAY....Proms and other parental nightmares

Tonight's listen:  "Midnight Romeo" courtesy of Push Play

"...tonight's a big night so let's make history"....."tonight your dinner's free - what's in it for me?"

Any parent break out in a cold sweat over those lyrics? 

Fall brings leaves tumbling to the ground, school bells ringing, football games and dances on the weekends. Homecoming parades roll down Main Street with floats holding boys in Letterman jackets and cheerleaders shaking pom-poms. (If you missed my post a couple of weeks ago about my embarrassing attempt to become a "pom-pom" shaker on my guest blog at www.christinawolfer.blogspot.com I'll have to repost it sometime for kicks *ha!* Right up there with my old post on most embarrassing dates.)

The season also kicks off the dance season for the teens and another wallet draining event for parents. Just as you get the school fees paid, the clothes paid for, and the "rules" reinforced again, along comes the invitation to "prom," usually in some creative or outrageous form. One year, one of my twins froze their answer to a girl's request for a prom date (my how times have changed) in the middle of a block of ice, then left it on her doorstop to melt. However, beyond the formals, the corsages, pictures and fancy dinners, follows the true anticipation behind prom night. I went to dinner with friends the other night and the idea for this blog presented itself, all wrapped up in satin ruffles and penguin suits.

  PROM NIGHT.

Girls spend weeks preparing. Shopping for just the right dress, matching shoes, trying out different hairstyles and hitting the tanning beds for that all over "golden glow." A minimum of three hours is needed to get ready. Phone calls or text messages bombard the airways with pictures awaiting valued opinions of those going through the same transition process.

Boys, on the other hand, concentrate their efforts on the "mode of transportation" versus the human. The car is washed, waxed, and the wheels shined to glint off light bright enough to rival the noonday sun. But the inside of the car is where acute attention is delivered. Floor mats and seats are vacuumed, the dash wiped, and the instrument panel polished to a high sheen. And, last but most important, the right air freshener is chosen. The one to set the mood.

That's right. The mood. A boy's car is his "lair." While he's cleaning the seats he's picturing it reclined with his date hopefully receptive to all the moves he's been calculating and discussing with his buds over the past week. Girls primp to catch the eye of their beau while the boys primp their lair.

Thirty to forty-five minutes is spent showering, shaving, "smelling the pits" before buttoning up the shirt and shrugging into the tux jacket. A once over to make sure the hair swings the right way and a crooked smirk to the reflection in the mirror with a pep talk. "Oh, yeah. She's gonna want you tonight." A slap of aftershave on the neck, the corsage from the fridge (the one Mom picked out, because face it, guys could care less), and a few annoying pictures, then he's out the door. The night is his. The seduction starts the moment the engine starts.

As we sat at dinner with our friends, we watched the long table next to us, bustling with "prom dates." Talk about an entertaining evening and the best research for this young adult fiction writer on watching the body language, listening to the chatter, and taking a few moments to walk down memory lane. We talked about our own prom experiences, laughing at the disastrous ones, but all agreeing…the expectation of Prom night was the real buzz. Not the dance. Filled with so much anticipation, the air crackled with it. Just as it did tonight.

We watched the girls chatter noisily, fussing with their dresses, and the boys with their arms draped lazily over their dates shoulders, catching glimpses of cleavage thinking no one noticed. Talk about hilarious and sweet at the same time. We waited along the wall outside the restaurant, watching the couples emerge to see if the personalities matched the cars. Hubby wanted to see how many had their own and who drove "Daddy's" rig. Proof that the "car"…the "lair" still takes priority in the male mind, even umpteen years later.

Out of the ten couples who entertained us through dinner, we figured two of those couples were on first dates, walking awkwardly together, the girl hanging back a step or two. Another four couples held hands, but remained stiff in their body language. A kiss goodnight was all "stud" was going to get, regardless of how many air fresheners hung from the cigarette lighter.

But, there were two or three couples who out "peacocked" the rest. The girls flounced just so, never allowing more than a couple of inches of air space to flow between their bodies and their dates. The boys lopsided grins tipped to match a wicked glimmer in their eyes, their hands never leaving the body of the girl…placed at the small of the back, snugging a waistline, or their fingers twisting in the locks of hair cascading down their dates back while she giggled with a girlfriend. All "signs of seduction" hubby pointed out.

My mind traveled through a time warp, remembering those "signs" and the magic they worked. No, I didn't lose my virginity to a "prom king," but I remember the pimped out lairs now and I laugh out loud, thinking of the disappointed dates I left behind. Of course back in the day (when dinosaurs still roamed the earth) my formals were massive layers of ruffles and strapless gowns were unheard of (my dad would never have let me out of the house in one anyway) so when I sat inside a car I was pretty much protected inside a fluffy pouf that filled the front (or back) seat.

As hubby and friend tallied the "lucky ones" when the last couple left the parking lot, he turned to me and whispered, "So…'Prom Night'? Am I going to get 'lucky'?" I looked at the Harley Davidson, chromed to the max and gleaming in the moonlight. Talk about the perfect "lair"…

No confessions, please, but is there a favorite Prom Night that sticks in your head? A disastrous one that makes you laugh? How about all the "lairs" you rode in (or still are) during your dating years? Face it girls, the "car" got your attention. Guys knew what they were doing.

Hope I didn't worry too many parents out there. Yes, my mind also flashed to a couple of prom dresses my daughter talked me into buying and the way my boys pimped out their own "lairs" for dances. I tried not to linger on those thoughts for long. Yikes! But I hope you had fun walking through a couple memories. Come back next week where I'll blog about the reasons we (or at least I did) fall for guys and how many more times than not, it has nothing to do with the guy! 

As always, thanks for making the pit stop on your way to Thursday.  Joelene (I lost Harley Brooks to the first heartthrob driving a souped-up "lair!" A Camaro, I believe.....)

Today's thought:  Stop looking over your shoulder as you walk through life, watching the "what could have been." You might walk off a cliff and miss the "what could be" all together.

WACKY WEDNESDAY....Where Anything Goes

Today: Taking Risks - Living Dangerously (or basically, driving to work during rush hour.)

Miss me? Remember, I have that big ass Vidal Sassoon weapon! (new meaning to "blow you away). 

Still have one class wrapping up, one in which my bluff and dazzle routine at writing a show piece blurb and query letter has been shredded (and rightfully so). I'm in the corner cowering right now, licking my wounds. But now I see things from a perspective I hadn't before, so the lesson learned is worth the risk of putting myself out there.

Jump into your time traveling machines, buckle you seatbelt and set your instrument panel to take you back to your teenage years, some a short blimp - barely rounding a corner, others will need to pack a cooler of food and make a few potty stops, and even a few may need an overnight stay at a docking station until you get there. In particular, I want you to zero in on the ages 15-17, when your brains were sucked out - your parents were idiots, having no clue about "real life" and you...had "no fear" of real life.

What were the some of the most stupid, dangerous, stunts you pulled (and you all did - so don't give me any crap about being the "best child ever born")? Now of course, to start our tour down memory lane and have to face the numbskull we once were, I'll go first. (I know, how can I top the first date?) I performed several asinine (being the only word to describe said behavior) stunts. However, to keep anyone just waiting for the opportunity to have me locked away and throw away the key, I will only divulge one.

First, we must have a sense of the geography of where I grew up. Hills. Lots of steep hills that led to huge mountains. The "big city" sitting a few miles from my sleepy town was full of "ups and downs," literally. Nice steep streets for the green teenage driver to test the durability of the braking system on the family car. Sometimes, I wondered if my dad worried that the brakes would stop him at the end of the driveway after I'd had the car out the night before (which, I'm telling you "my driveway" qualifies for a blog all on its own, and anyone reading who knows me from those early years, is breaking into a cold sweat right about now).

There was one street in particular that qualified as the "death slide." A popular thrill ride. E Street. Started just below the Capitol building and was a straight shot to the lake, I swear. Now enter from stage left, three darling girls with big eyes, curvy shapes and great hair - but no brains. Zip. You could shine a flashlight through my ears. Whisper in one and there was an echo. But I had a valid drivers license and a car. Grant it, back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, cars were built of real metal, had hoods big enough a family of ten could sit comfortably on, and bumpers that were strong enough to push a building off its foundation. My car was a station wagon (yeah, go google that one!) - putrid green, inside and out, but the only car my family had (did I mention the dinosaurs?)

When the "trio of stupidity" went looking for a thrill, we followed the Friday night crowd to the top of E Street. Several side streets branch off of E Street, but E Street only had two stop signs. One at the top, and one at the bottom. When it was our turn, we'd put the car in park, take our shoes off and put our feet on the dash (I had to keep the car clean or I'd be grounded from it if I brought it back dirty. Of course Dad never discussed punishment if I crashed the car, but I assumed if I did, I would just ask the officer to shoot me and end my life to save my Dad from having to do the task). 

I (or whoever was the thrill ride operator for the night) would put the car in drive and we'd let the car go....all the way to the bottom....without touching the brakes until we hit the bottom of E Street (granted, we didn't touch the gas either but centrifugal force pretty much took care of accelerating the vehicle far beyond "safe") . Can you hear the screeching sound of metal rubbing against metal (not fancy disc brakes - again, T-Rex was my neighbor's pet) in an effort to stop the hundreds of pounds of metal rolling on four rubber tires (probably "retreads")? Smell the stench of burned rubber wafting through the billows of blue smoke? Of course being inside the car, we missed the whole "sparks" flying from beneath. Don't ask me why we had a smidgen of common sense to not drive back to the top and do it again, but we only did it once. Each night. Maybe it was our guardian angels "bitch slapping" us on the way down that our "need for speed" was satisfied.

Time out. I have to hurl my lunch. Just the memory has breakfast begging for exit as well.

And I was considered a model teenager. Studious, good grades, picked up my little brother on the way home from school from the babysitter, had my homework done and dinner cooking by the time my parents arrived home. Perhaps after 5 days of being "good" I needed a thrill. Or maybe I wanted to "fit in" with my peers, or wanted to impress them by not letting them know I had "fear cells" in my body. Whatever my excuse, I abandoned common sense at inopportune times, and of course, with friends.

Would I have the guts to do something like that alone? Oh hell no! When "flying solo," my brain drizzled back through my ears and filled the vacant cavity. I became "smart" again. I had good friends. No one was a bad influence, either. But in groups, kids think differently.

I did other stupid things, too, some probably considered felonies by today's standards (toilet papering someone's house is now a Class B misdemeanor), but this one sticks in my mind whenever I think of dangerous stunts that could have gotten me and my friends killed. A car could have pulled out of any of those side streets and we'd never have known what hit us. But those watching would. The trauma would stay with them, influencing their futures - something making their world spin a different direction. Luckily, no one was ever hurt, and after a few weekends, the thrill was gone, at least for my small entourage. We took up dragging State Street for boys after that.  Not sure which one turned out to be the most dangerous....

The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree either. My kids are thrill seekers. They love repelling cliffs, motocross racing, and snowboarding deep powder off the backs of mountains instead of groomed trails. I'm certain they performed their share of dangerous antics, which I hope I never discover, although in cleaning one of my tag-team's room, I found a picture someone took of him on his motorcycle....suspended in air....several feet above his truck, between two cliffs.

Am I still a risk taker? Yes. Every time I get on my Harley I take a risk (refer to last Wacky Wednesday). That's the real reason for "loud pipes." If not seen, heard works. Deciding to become a writer and throw myself in the wild publishing world is a huge personal risk. My biggest risk, however, was becoming a parent. Talk about dangerous, unpredictable, and thrilling. The ride's still going. I'm just keeping my arms inside until it comes to a stop. If ever.

The point to this blog, while not as jovial, is that kids do dumb things. Be prepared. Teach them everything safe you can, then hug them when they walk out the door. A friend's 15 yr old granddaughter was killed by a commuter train when she and her cousin decided to slip under the safety arms and cross the tracks. Wonderful girls who made a stupid decision. One made it, but watched in horror when the other didn't. Her world stopped the same time and will never be the same. We can't put them in bubbles, or we'd be arrested for child abuse because they would be considered "imprisoned." We can't make them grow up safe. All we can do is hope their guardian angels bitch slap them when we're not around.

Thanks for walking through a memory. Hope your "thrill zone" is safe and your guardian angel nearby.



Joelene

YOUNG ADULT AUTHORS - STORYTELLERS OR GATEKEEPERS?

Current listen:  "Every Teardrop is a Waterfall" courtesy of Coldplay

ong from one of my favorite groups.

My blog today is on a serious note and comes from a personal level. In other words, my opinion only. I'm certainly not railing against any of my fellow authors, because if one of us gets ensnared in censorship, we all do.  I also want to credit my thought wave to a blogpost I read today written by Alethea Kontis [AltheaKontis.com], another young adult author who alerted our writing group to an article in the Wall Street Journal, attacking young adult authors. Below is the link, if you're interested. When I read it, I found myself wearing two hats. One, as a parent, and another, as an author in the young adult genre. Interesting twist in that the article borders on suggesting censorship which would take away my freedom to write what I want, but a journalist can write what they want? Hmm. We're both authors, are we not?

http://www.emailthis.clickability.com/et/emailThis?clickMap=viewThis&etMailToID=1617237800

of try  WSJ.com - Darkness Too Visible

If it doesn't connect, try Control + clicking or go to website www.wsj.com and do a search.

In March, I posted a blog about story characters' morals not always matching the author's. The article above talks about the "subject material" of today's young adult literature. This loosely links with my earlier post in that some may find my stories to be inappropriate. I will admit, my books will not be on the shelves of religious bookstores. My characters aren't sugar-coated nor are the conflicts they face and how they handle their lives. But dark? Not really, but conservative critics may say otherwise. I write romance...the happy ending...and although there is a "dark moment" (necessary to any story), I write "hope" or light at the end of the dark tunnel. But I do not soften the dark moment.

Here's the dilemma that plaques young adult authors. When is too much detail "too much?" The article lists several books dealing with dark subjects, surprisingly adding a few fantasy based novels into the mix. According to the Wall Street Journal, Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games trilogy is rated as one of the top ten most violent books for young readers. I've read all three books and recommend them to any young readers. Violent is not a word I'd use to describe her writing. Yes, there are attacking mutants, and the protagonist is thrust into the middle of a game of survival played out in real life instead of on reality TV, and the stories show how she survives and wins. It also shows what happens to her on a psychological level. Something very real in the fantasy. But, it is a fantasy. Now, who knows what will happen in the future, especially after an apocalyptic event, but to say that Suzanne Collins is responsible for planting violent thoughts inside young minds isn't fair. She simply created an imaginary world with imaginary characters doing imaginary things, but feeling very real, acting real, and the emotional aftermath real.

That's what readers, in particular young adult readers, identify with. The feelings and emotions of the characters. They find a piece of the character that relates to them, what they're feeling or whatever hell they may be going through (and with teens "hell" has many connotations depending on the day) and how that character made it through, showing the reader how to trudge through their own real life situation.

But, is it fair to put the responsibility solely on an author as to what thoughts are inside a young mind? The article sides with parents blaming young adult authors for planting dark or inappropriate thoughts inside impressionable minds. Are we authors the "gatekeepers?" If our characters drop the "f-bomb" does that mean sweet Jimmy will now use it in his dialogue? Or if a character has sex with a boy before marriage, or at least before college age, and innocent Sally reads about their forbidden love, will she suddenly decide to surrender her virginity? No. If Jimmy swears or Sally has sex, it's their choice. Believe it or not, our youth have minds of their own (although a few times I questioned if my teens' heads were actually empty).

I will not deny that there are some dark stories in the young adult genre, nor will I deny I enjoyed reading some of them. I tend to like edgier stuff. It's more realistic to me, and I assume, the same holds true for a teen reader.

This world is different from even ten years ago, and bad things happen to good kids. Dark crap surrounds them. Again, their choices are their own to make as are the consequences they suffer, but sadly, they can become the innocent victim for someone else's bad choice. That's what these stories deal with. Reality. The reason they sell isn't because a teenager is looking for a "how-to" book on rape, hazing, or using drugs. They know other teens, friends, or they themselves have been the victims of some type of abuse, and they want to identify with someone else, even a fictional character, who has experienced the same thing. How did that character handle it? Did their thoughts mirror the ones running through the reader's mind? And, what happened after? What coping skills were used, what choices were made that brought the character's story to an end...good or bad?

The dark moment in Riley's Pond deals with "date rape." Not a comfortable subject to write, but a very real happening in our teen's world. My story deals more with the characters coming to terms with what happened and working through it, than the act itself, but that's the level I write from. Designer Genes is all about the sexual tension between the teenage characters, set in a futuristic time when the government decides everything, including with whom and when they are allowed intimate relations, in order to keep the gene pool pure. 

A book about a girl who cuts herself to alleviate the emotional pain she suffers from the real pain of being abused, or the gay high school boy who suffers a horrendous hazing at his classmates hands, almost taking his life, are extremely dark, but real. Fake characters, but characters that are relatable to young readers, with lives mirroring theirs or someone they know.

Should parents just let their kids read anything and everything then? Certainly not, but don't blame the authors who write reality. What's not right for your child, may be exactly what another one needs. If your teen is reading something you are uncomfortable with, talk. Don't just "forbid." Maybe you'll both learn something.

Before I close my rant, I want to recommend three"dark" books I found invaluable and wished were printed when my daughter was in her teens. Sarah Dessen's Dreamland is unforgettable and an eye opener into abusive boyfriends. Parents should read as well. Teens are famous for hiding things from parents, especially if "love" plays a factor.  Sarah Dessen's Just Listen and Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak deal with the importance of "telling" about abuse. One character does, the other doesn't, and although the consequence of choices is polar opposite, the emotional hell both characters go through is the same, as well as the final outcome. The difference, without telling, someone innocent gets hurt. Great books.

Like I said earlier, I like the edgier reads in young adult and most adult genre, too. Again, thanks to author Alethia Kontis for my inspiration. Oh...and a personal thank-you goes out to author Judy Blume!

Here's to life! Make it your own, but make it your best. Thanks for dropping by. 

WACKY WEDNESDAY...Where Anything Goes

Today's twisted topic:  Those little horror fables we call "nursery rhymes" - Brain teasers or easers?

I'm stretched out on a leather couch, my shoes kicked off so my toes can wiggle, hoping my feet don't stink or my stomach doesn't growl. Or worse…(refer to earlier posts). Across from me, a gentleman sits, pad resting on his crossed knee, and his pen tapping ever so slightly and annoying against the paper.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" he asks, as if scripted.

"Life sucks." Mature…to the point.

"And why is that?"

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be lying here, picturing you naked to ease my nervousness, and paying you $100 an hour. For that price, the least you could do is work out. Hell, you can afford a gym pass. And splurge on a tan, too, would ya? My fantasy isn't working with you flabby and pasty white. Would it kill you to get hair plugs and contacts? Honestly, the glare from your oversized wire rims is competing with your enormous forehead."

At this point, the counselor hands me the pad of paper and pen. He eases back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's my parents' fault," he starts. "I must have been dropped on my head."

That might explain the premature baldness on his frontal lobe.

It all boils down to the follies of parents.

I believe my parents were brain damaged from riding in the back window of the family car on long road trips. They "baked." My mother is the hyper type, so she probably only hit medium rare, but my dad's pension for "naps" leads me to believe he may have not been turned enough to heat evenly.

If there wasn't room in the back window, they were placed in a pile of blankets on the floorboards in the back seat and their siblings were threatened with corporal punishment if they touched the baby. I believe my uncle held his stinky bare feet over my dad's nose until he cried. He's had a feet fetish his whole life.

Personally, I think issues start in infancy, when the subconscious is damaged by dark twisted nursery rhymes, stories, and lullabies. Think about it. What's the most famous (and I might add, dark) lullaby a baby is cooed to sleep with?

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Oh hel-lo. I picture a mother suffering from post-partum depression, having given birth to her twenty-eighth child, all under twelve. They're running, screaming, jumping on the furniture and teasing each other relentlessly. The baby can't sleep, probably suffering from colic, and mommy dearest is at her wits end. Of course she's nearing the end of her six-week reprieve and daddy's getting all hot and bothered again. She's rocking the baby to sleep for the hundredth time to avoid amorous dad, and this lovely tune pops in her head.

Bewitched by the melody, the unsuspecting child craves the song night after night, his brain soaking in the lyrics which are embedded in the core of his mind. He grows up thinking mommy fantasized about putting him in a tree, praying for a windstorm, or tornado, blowing him out the branches and crashing him to earth.

Dropping him on his head.

My kids thought "Green Eggs and Ham" would be a fantasy come true, and I'm sure a couple of babysitters re-enacted the book.



And the nursery rhymes? Our infamous ""Jack and Jill?"  Sending two small children to traverse a hill for pails of water? What the hell did they do to deserve that punishment? Talk about child slave labor!

I picture myself using this threat on my cocky teenager:

"Son, if you sluff school one more time to play WarCraft, you will be dragging your sorry ass up that mountain with a bucket to search for water. Got that?" 

Of course Junior has heard the nursery rhyme countless times, and scoffs. His horny teenage brain knows he won't go alone. He'll take "Jill." 

What about "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed?" Think about it. "One fell off and broke his head?" Apparently, the chimp suffered severe brain trauma as the result of a massive skull fracture. The doctor, who we all told our little ones could heal all "boo-boos" can't do anything to save a poor monkey? How can he fix a broken arm or leg? He just left the semi-ape to die! And what of the other monkeys? It's obvious we have bully no one dares to stop until all his minions are eliminated. Then, it's a suicidal jump to avoid prosecution. (Wait? Is this symbolic of our schools?)





"Three Blind Mice?" Why isn't PETA all over this one? Cruelty to animals rates pretty high here. The wee ones singing this little rhyme have yet to process the words that account for a violent, premeditated murder. Carving knife? What frame of mind was this author in? A broom must have seemed weak and metal traps springing over nibbling rodents didn't seem cruel enough?

Is this where creative mastermind Stephen King goes when he needs to picture a gruesome scene to write? He just closes his eyes and starts singing an old childhood nursery rhyme. (Note: these "horror fables" were defined as "nursery" rhymes).

Next time you cradle a frightened or upset little one in your arms, think about the words you're going to use to soothe him or her. Little minds paint big pictures.

Be careful crossing London Bridge….



Thanks for letting me twist your brain a bit. Now you know why I think with a "limp!"   Joelene

REFLECTION...

Tonight's musical toast:  "Please Remember Me" courtesy of Tim McGraw

In case you didn't notice, I've changed my blog look. If you truly didn't notice, I suggest a doctor appointment be made first thing in the morning!  It's summertime (although someone needs to let the "man upstairs" know, because in my state today, it snowed in the North and the South end dropped 20 degrees) and I wanted something bright and cheery - whimsical and fun like summer should be. May keep it, may not. Takes me three plus hours to redo a blog, so this may stick, at least for a few days. Give me your thoughts.

Today's Memorial Day. A day of reflection and remembrance. I grew up with it being called "Decoration Day." My grandmother was big on decorating the graves. It was one of her many "celebrations" when the family would pack the station wagons with picnics and children and head for the little cemetery located in the then tiny town of Midway, Utah. The cemetery sits on a hill, overlooking the valley. The roads were barely covered in asphalt, with chuck holes large enough to consume a Volkswagen bug.

Grandpa spent the day before Decoration Day cutting wire hangers for hooks and gathering empty mason jars. My grandmother and aunts stripped their lilac bushes (and maybe their neighbors after dark, too) and clipped all the irises, packing them in buckets of water, we children were in charge of keeping from sloshing all the way up Parley's Canyon. When we pulled away, there wasn't a blooming flower left in the yard.

Once at the cemetery, Grandma gathered the grandchildren, forming a hand chain (that lasted about ten minutes) and she took us on a field trip to each grave marker of relatives that had passed. She shared the stories of their lives, their family lineage, and any other juicy tidbits she could share to help us remember. My great-great-great grandmother was a Cherokee Indian and the stories my grandmother told of how she served as an ambassador to the tribes the pioneers encountered as they crossed the plains westward.

Now that I'm a couple of years older and wiser, I regret not recording my grandmother retelling the stories from those days on our personal graveyard tour. My own memory can only recall bits and pieces, and after my mother had her stroke, taking her voice, the stories have sadly been lost or confused. For this reason, my friends, "journal" your thoughts while you have them to pass on to those generations that will go on without you.

It's been years since I've been back to the little cemetery, but I try every year to place flowers on as many graves where I live now, as I have family members who have passed. Sadly, we have a few friends here who have died, but the rest are reserved for those gravesites where nothing sits in remembrance. If it's a government issued brass plaque with a military insignia, all the better...or sadder.

"Memorial Day" was first observed on May 30, 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers in Arlington National Cemetery. In 1971, Congress made it an official federal holiday, placing it officially on the last Monday in May.

I hate war, but I realize it's necessary. Unfortunately, it never seems to end, just changes countries and boundaries. The flag draped coffins never end, and families bid tearful goodbyes to their soldiers at airports, while other families bid goodbye at graveyards. My husband served in the National Guard. When my grandfather died, my daughter was small but stood beside us when the gunfire salute was sounded and the flag folded and handed to my aunt. She whispered to me, "When Daddy dies, does he get a flag?" A sobering thought. Yes, he will.

Three movies dealing with war have left an indelible mark in my memory, none of which I could watch a second time, but will never forget. Saving Private Ryan with Tom Hanks hit me because when it showed the troops meeting violent deaths when landing on the shores of France, I realized my daughter (the same from above) was living in France, two miles from Normandy Beach.



The Hurt Locker probably the most intense movie I've ever watched, drops you in the middle of the Iraqi War, with an elite three member Army bomb squad, walking the streets where anybody and anything is a potential bomb. Not even the street itself is safe (significant scene).



But the most moving war movie I've ever seen and challenge you to watch if you haven't, is Taking Chance, with Kevin Bacon. Maybe because it's based on true story or that my son was nineteen when it came out, that it settled inside my soul. You travel with a volunteer escort officer as he accompanies the body of nineteen year old fallen soldier on his trek across country to his hometown. You will be taken aback by the respect shown our soldiers in the smallest, unknown ways. At the end, you see the real solder, meet his real life friends portrayed by actors, and his family who lives on without him. A wonderful, heart wrenching story.

Okay, now my water works are malfunctioning. I love my country, my freedoms, and those who fight for me to keep it. My heart goes out to mothers and wives, especially, whose husbands, sons and daughters are away in service to our country, on my behalf. This is also the first time I've witnessed mothers leaving families behind when called to duty. Thank you.

Life goes on, but let's not forget or take a moment before this day comes to a close, to find some personal way to "reflect and remember."  Thanks for stopping by friends. Have a safe holiday.