Good Omen

Today I began a new routine, which included an old one; sitting at a desk to write. As soon as I positioned the desk chair, Betty demanded I retrieve her perch. I wrote my first novel with Betty sitting on the red footstool. I guess she wants me to write the next the same way.

A very good omen. Happy Monday!

Spiffy new look!

My friend Dawne Dominque over at Dusk Til Dawn Designs made me a wonderful new badge!  I'm working on integrating it on all my online appearances.  It certainly gave this old blog something new to look at.

Of course, it would help if I blogged more often, but remember you can always find me on Twitter and Facebook.  Don't be shy about letting me know what you think :)

Ahern State Park, Near Laconia, NH

  Enjoy some pics from a state park that nobody knows about and you NEED a 4x4 to access.  There was only the lap of the water, an angry squirrel and a lone bird.  Bliss.

Writing and Moving Forward

You can't share words without writing them.

The glamorous part of writing is actually the writing...the creating.  That's when your muse is set free to explore all your fears, dreams, wants and needs and translates them onto the screen.  It's exhilarating.  It is fleeting.

The rest of the writing process is downright torture, and yet without it, all those glorious words would be locked in my computer for all time.  Anybody who has ever read a book, knows keeping words to yourself is a crime.

In order to participate with the rest of humanity the best way I know how, I keep writing.  And then I have to edit those footloose words.  And then (lol...yes, and then!) I must send them somewhere for judgement.  It's called submitting.

Currently I'm trapped in the submitting portion, while I should be moving forward with the editing so I can submit the next story.  It's circular.  Round and round we go.  But on the occasion we do get stuck.  How to unstick?

The answer is as simple as it is difficult.  Just do it.  Take out that rough manuscript and start searching for the plot/pacing flaws.  Go back and check for continuity.  Go back again to clean up the inevitable grammatical errors.

Guess what I need to do this week?  Yep.  Get out my dear "Mistress" and go back so I can go forward.

I love writing.  I do! Can't you tell?

The lure of the Facebook

Fresh Air, Blue Sky...no computer in sight. 

I did it.  I added Facebook to my social media presence.  And now that I'm there (http://www.facebook.com/Author.SDGrady ) I may never leave.

It's like a child in a toy store.  And I realize I'm probably preaching to the converted, as I may be one of the last people on the planet to hand over my info to this decade's version of Big Brother, but the genius of The Creator cannot be dismissed.

People to see. Links to click on. Games to play.  My favorite products, shows, books....aaaah!

I am supposed to use this magical place for the purpose of reaching out to readers, both for NASCAR and Romance, but it wants me to jump down the hole, doesn't it?  I can hear the white rabbit disappearing around the next corner, "Click! You don't want to miss anything!"

Is there a Facebook Anonymous?  There should be, cause I am about to turn into an addict.

What are the tricks you use to keep your online time in control?  I think I need some suggestions.

What We Learn...More Thoughts from Bristol

Bristol Caverns Bristol, TN

What did we learn in the last few days on our continued adventures in Bristol, TN?

I don't like grits.  I tried.  With some cajun spiced shrimp, mushroom gravy and cheddar cheese.  Everything in the dish sounded good--including the grits.  They are corn.  I like corn in almost every iteration.  Popcorn is possibly one of the most divine creations on the planet.  Corn bread, corn dogs, hush puppies, on the cob, with butter...so I couldn't imagine I wouldn't like grits.

But I don't.  There's something missing.

Richard does not like white lightning, also known as moonshine.  Even when sweetened with Mountain Dew.  Still, the mason jar the drink was served in is really cool.  In case you're thinking we went up in the hills and found a local still, nothing so exciting happened.  They're selling it at the track in collectible jars.  We like the nostalgia associated with it, though.

Yesterday afternoon we visited the local tourist spot, The Bristol Caverns.  I've done the cave tour thing before, and it's always cool to look at our planet growing and changing from underneath.  But there's usually a story that goes with the cave.  In this case, it goes back to the early settlers in the area and their relationship with the Cherokees.

Now, in my everyday world they are definitely referred to as the Native American Cherokee tribe.  They suffered at the hands of the white man and we are admonished to remember this in our daily lives.  In the Bristol Caverns, we were told the Cherokee Indians used to pillage the locals' crops and use the caves to hide in, using a tiny entrance that required extreme agility to climb down the 180 ft. to the bottom and escape through the underground stream.  And then the Cherokees would attack again.

Eventually, the Cherokees left (insert your own history here...it is not discussed in the tour) and the locals opened a better entrance and used the caves as a giant root cellar.

I found it interesting what is important to the area is not the Cherokee history, but the mayor's use of the cave as a conference chamber because it has awesome acoustics. I felt something is missing here.  Then again, the geography was only briefly talked about and more time spent pointing at formations that look like hamburgers, sharks, the nativity, etc.  And the gift shop sported lots of trinkets from China, a few made in Ohio.  Even the duck decoys were carved in Indonesia. Something better could be made out of this little tourist spot.  Just sayin...

Meanwhile, this area is undoubtedly suffering from the economy.  Many strip malls are empty, corner stores hidden beneath a carpet of kudzu. We drove down back roads where tiny houses are decorated by sad looking dogs and a single rocking chair on the porch.  It speaks of a depth of poverty I haven't seen since living in Downeast Maine.  The green hills and city of RV's that currently decorate them is misleading.  This neighborhood needs something more than a single race weekend.

Well, that's all for today.  NASCAR thoughts?  There will be my usual column in the Frontstretch Newsletter on Tuesday and probably another blog for the extraneous thoughts the column doesn't fit.

You Know You're Not in New England When

Steele Creek Park  Bristol, TN

If you're traveling, it seems that effort should be made to appreciate the local flavor. As I'm currently sitting in Bristol, TN--a very long way away from home--these are some of the new annd different things I've experienced down here.

Peach Nehi: We've all heard of a grape nehi, except like me you probably never realized it was actually a brand of soda forever and ever. In the soda aisle, above my usual orange Sunkist soda, sat a...peach colored 12-pk labeled Peach Nehi. Huh. I like peaches. I can love them when ripe just so. So, I bought it. Awesomeness. I went back and bought more. It tastes like the candy Sour Peaches without the sour. I can't seem to figure out how to order it online. It will probably become a flavor memory of our Bristol trip. How sad.

Hot Dogs: In New York, it's pizza. In Philly, you have the cheese steak. In Boston there are beans and seafood. Each region seems to have a food that appears with regularity on menus without explanation. It's just there. Around here there's BBQ and hot dogs. In fact when I asked somebody where a good place for lunch might be, I was directed to Sonic or the market across the way that had "really good hot dogs." Let's not talk about the Mexican restaurants that appear every two blocks. Nobody mentions them. Want a hot dog? I'll stick with the BBQ myself.

Chicken Cordon Bleu: No, not something you can buy in the area. It was just my RV fancy dinner. With cream sauce. I'm sure not every trailer in the campground added cooking wine, cream and paprika to their shopping carts. It came out rather pretty. I didn't have toothpicks, so the cheese sort of joined the sauce. But well done! Yummm... We're camping next month, too. What dish will I explore?

What was added to the shopping carts (buggies! We have buggies at the Food City, not carts.)

While wandering up and down the aisles, we noticed lots of racing t-shirts. Most of them didn't belong to the shoppers, but to the employees. Talk about a town that gets into the race! Bristol has mastered the art of the "really big show." And of course this means stocking what the fans want. We added chicken, onions, orange juice, chips, ice cream, bread...our buggy looked rather like a normal shopping trip.

We turned into the beer & wine aisle, while being muscled out of the way by a rather eager trio.

"Hey! We found it. Now we're good." All performed in an accent that reminded me of Billy Bob Thorton in Slingblade. They checked out in front of us with three cases of brew and a loaf of bread.  Oddly enough, I've heard that Billy Bob gravel tone repeated a few more times in and around town.

One wonders why NASCAR fans get the labels we do.

And last but not least for the Bristol flavor, we have a sound effect. "Woo!" I can't spell it any other way. An exclamation that seems to erupt spontaneously from folks who are happy. "Woo!" We first noticed it in the stands on Wednesday night, during hot laps our section passed this sound, "Woo!" from person to person. We chocked it up to too much moonshine--which is sold on the premises. But no, last night as we are going to sleep and someone nearby was still into a killer game of rings, we'd hear it.

"Woo!"

And usually followed by laughter.

We laugh, too. It's a happy noise. And one we will forever associate with Thunder Valley, the track built into the mountains.

On the road again...Bristol!

We're camping on The Dragstrip at the track. 

This year's vacation involves a visit to Bristol, TN for the Food City 500. 

Before we left the house, we felt exceptionally well organized.  Things were clean, put away, laundry done for the return...very odd.  Which only added  to the feeling of anticipation.  I got home from work, we threw those last few things in the truck and hit the road.

And then blew a tire.  Yep, 10 minutes from the house.  Shredded it, in fact.  The sort of horrid blowout you see and are happy it never happened to you.  But, you know, Rich is a boyscout.  We are prepared.  Jack, wrenches, spare (which was flat), compressor and generator to run compressor...good thing we're RV'ers.

Back on the road!  Suffering through road construction late at night in Connecticut, a brief respite from the road in NY and then the long day of driving through Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Virginia.

I love the Appalachians.  One of my favorite drives is I81 down Virginia.  Hills, farms, cows, greenery and a sense you have left the hustle of the East Coast behind.  And we've noticed from years on the road, once you're out of the I95 corridor, people just get much more patient.  (Dr. Zhivago soundtrack just came on my MP3 player...*sigh*) Merging isn't the panicky thing New Englanders make it.  Please and thank you.  Yes, despite that blown tire, we really could feel vacation seeping in.

We stopped in Fort Chiswell, VA at a campground run on the honors system.  Please leave money in the mailbox, we've gone to bed.  We slept to the sounds of crickets and the smell of freshly mown hay.  A baby bird was on the ground and Mama was feeding it.  Apparently somebody hadn't quite learned to fly yet.  In the morning I checked in with the office, the very pleasant lady wrote my name down on a piece of paper and thanked me after wishing us a happy race.  No computers or verifying we had actually paid on-line.  Signs that not everywhere on the planet have we succumbed to technology.

And then Bristol...the whole point of the vacation. 

Each time we book a new race destination, we look on the journey with a bit ennui.  We know how to do this.  We've got the bumps, bruises and flat tires to show our road weary experience.  But as we drove down the road and turned a corner, suddenly the track appeared on our left rising out of the hills.

BRISTOL!  We both succumb to pointing and smiling and yelling.  Look at it!  A giant colloseum rising out of the woods.  Terraced camping is to be seen in all directions.  We will most likely perish climbing around the facility this week.  But we don't care.  It's a new track, one full of history and excitement. 

The folks parked next to us were at Michigan last week. The campground shuttle took them on an extended tour of the track grounds yesterday.  Tonight there are modifieds and trucks.  The weather...is wonderful.  Somehow summer has departed and left in its wake cool, dry nights and warm sunny days. 

The spare tire is replaced, thanks to Danny at Appalachian Tire in Bristol, VA.  The nice lady in the bakery at the supermarket welcomed us to town as we gushed over some cute racing cakes and lunch at the cantina yesterday was quite good.

It's a vacation.  It's at Bristol.  We should have lots of memories to share when we return.

That Home Away From Home

I know it's silly.  This very same weekend used to be fraught with tension.  There would be endless traffic, generators that would make your ears bleed and uncertain suppers concocted out of our Escort's trunk.  Those were the days of youth and exuberance.  Totally committed to watching every minute of racing to be had at New Hampshire Motor Speedway, we rose at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic jam and would return to our home somewhere around midnight, only to repeat the feat the following day.  It sucked.

Then we graduated to the level of Racing RV'ers.  But this isn't an instant move into a mobile mansion thing.  First you decide that one of the little 16 ft trailers would fit you and your husband just right.  Heck, we splurged for that first mobile hotel room and nabbed a 23 ft. travel trailer complete with a bedroom and shower not combined with the toilet.  Then we discovered the only storage existed under the bed, you couldn't cook at the stove unless everybody else was banished from the trailer and well...life was much better if you basically tailgated outside the trailer.  I won't get into the separating wall panels, leaking roof, lights, plumbing...it was a handyman special, shall we say.

But it did introduce us into that mystical RV lifestyle.  Now instead of hours spent in traffic, we parked our carcasses early in the week and became part of the track scenery.  We were able to watch empty acres transform into a mini-city of a mere 100,000 in five days, and then vanish again come Monday.  But there was still the issue of eating campfire smoke for 7 days and discovering all the ways a lawn chair is not the best place to sit for long periods of time.

Thus came the step-up to the next camper, a 36ft. fifth-wheel.  I really think they should just get rid of the misnomer once you have a queen bed, sleeper sofa, rocking armchairs and a kitchen that rivals my own.  It's a house on wheels.

We spent about four years stocking it with its own things; no more shuttling pots, towels, pillows, etc. back and forth between house and trailer.  We pack clothes and food, check the propane and hook it up to the truck and we're off.  And when we arrive at whatever track we're visiting this week, we're home.

Yep, home.  With the purr of the generators (they don't tend to roar as much these days,) the smell of woodsmoke and the happy noises of friends sharing a brew, we sit down and instantly feel the work-day stress slide away.  There is no phone, save for the cell that nobody on the planet has the number to.  There are no deadlines, no customers, no staff, no co-workers.  For once we actually get to say "No!"  And just sit.


Until the first engine turns over in the morning and we are off to the races! This is the life...at least until Monday morning.

After All, Today is Another Day

Some days you get up in the morning and just know it's one those "start over" days.  That was yesterday.

Today I woke up and promised myself it would be a better day.  And that appeared to be debatable when I arrived at work.  Got out of the car, pulled out the rolling briefcase, juggled car keys vs. work keys and started to walked toward the building.  I passed over a storm grate just as I gave a nice energetic flip to the massive key chain and guess what?

Uh huh.  They flew through the air, I missed them on the downward flight and they landed on the grate...for a second.  Before they slipped between the holes and down...

Well, crap.  Maybe today wasn't meant to be any better. But--there's always a bright side, right?

The drain is only 3 feet deep.  The keys landed on a pile of leaves.  I could see them!  I just needed to get them back out.  Which my cleaner, Moacir, did quickly with an old coat hanger.  Don't ask what kind of deities left a single wire coat hanger in the booth--because we don't actually get them with uniform orders any more.  But let's not look a gift horse in the mouth.

The moment of panic passed.  My keys are back in my possession (you would not believe the kind of headache my keys getting lost would create) and the day is getting on.

Another good thing, the "TED" display is adorable--for all the wrong reasons.  I wouldn't take any child to see the movie when it releases next week, but I won't be missing it, either.  Check out the trailers at http://tedisreal.com

Hope you have a great day!

Don't Go In the Kitchen...

I've been warned.

It's a day off, so I should be able to accomplish what I wish.  I headed to the dining room after doing a couple critiques, thinking I could tackle the laundry.  Along the way, I notice the cats are not sprawled on the bed as is their custom.  I enter the dining room and immediately spy Emerson lounging in the window.  Right, one kitty checked off.  But I haven't tripped over Betty--as she's taken to flopping in the middle of the floor.  Odd.

I noticed her tail on the arm of the couch.  Ah, there we are.  She is full on lounging in the white laundry.  Guess I won't fold that this instant--but it is a cute picture.  I run upstairs to grab my camera.  Dead battery.  Fine.  Plug it in to charge.

I go in the kitchen to take out my tablet--it has a camera in it.  Guess what?

One.)  Betty has abandoned her napping spot and photo op so she can beg for food. AND
Two.)   Dead battery.

FINE! Everything's charging. Feed the cat. Now, I could tackle the peach cobbler I promised I'd cook....wait for it.

Four more of the peaches have sprouted massive black, furry mold spots overnight.  Really?

I put all the food away, thumped the cat and grabbed a bucket of darks to fold--upstairs.  It's safer up here.

[INSERT MISSING CAT PICTURE HERE]

Hoping for better things after the batteries charge.

Make Me Happy

It's another day, another dollar.  We get to work, say good morning to our co-workers, and let the bitching begin!

Well, today I'm not listening.  The door is only open to those who have positive comments to add to the conversation.  So, this is simple!  Leave a comment below--

What makes you happy?  Did you see something that made you smile today?

I'm listening to Celtic Woman to help banish the grembling.  That's my happiness for now.  What's yours?

Piles of Bricks and Writing Prompts

Really, it's just a pile of bricks covered in nameless ivy that shields a rotting tree stump and a crumbling foundation that belonged to a long ago demolished barn.  Move the bricks from here to over there by the fence and make a decent border, much easier to weed wack.  At least you would think.

But, you know, after I identified the fourth creepy crawly bug I just had to stop jumping and going, "Oh God."  I'd never get this done!  There were  daddy long legs, hairy black spiders, furry red ones, pill bugs, black slugs--

Okay, I've dug up lots of the white slugs before.  But these black ones are kind of a dark purply color.  Really gross looking.

Earthworms, snails and why did the shadows under the rotting tree make noises? *shiver*

So, there we go.  My backyard, the home of my RV, a pile of wood, left over bricks from the last century and BUGS!  AHHHH!!!

Makes me wonder what else might be lurking beneath the surface of grass and anthills.

All Those Screaming Fans at the Brad Paisley Concert

I'm showing my age...or perhaps not.

This past weekend I attended the Brad Paisley concert at the Comcast Center in Mansfield, MA and admittedly had a great time.  I do get to a few music performances of varying genres each year.  In the past year there have been the Celtic Woman, St. Louis Symphony, Organ and Choral concert at Harvard, The Stray Cats, Foghat and Montgomery Gentry.  The other "pop" concerts were either in tiny venues or at the track--both of which have an older demographic.  This applies out of hand to the classical performances as well.

I tend to thoroughly enjoy concerts and am generally the one singing along--even the choral works.  There was a moment of either mortification or serendipity at the Foghat show when I appeared on the jumbo-tron.  Yep--that was me bouncing around on the track.

So you might understand when I say I was more than disappointed that the Stray Cats show elicited a rather sedate reaction from the crowd.  Everyone so nicely sat down and nodded to the strumming of the string bass.  So help me, where did their sense of party go?

Thus, after a 20-year hiatus since I bought a "big" concert ticket, my Brad Paisley experience drew me back to the days when...

In my immediate world, it seems to me that I am the predominant Country Music demographic in the Northeast--somewhere over 35 middle America.  When we pulled into the parking lot at the Comcast Center I was shocked to witness an apparent explosion of all the local college campuses decked out in cowboy boots and hats.  When had I missed the youth invasion?  Ah well, I was here to have fun, too.  And the young 'uns didn't disappoint. 

Yes, Brad Paisley earned my hard won money with his heart-warming lyrics, sharp comic wit and devastating guitar playing ability.  But how can one person stand on that vast stage for 90 minutes and get the crowd involved?  Oh yeah, that's right.  When you're 21, with your friends and at a concert you will make noise.

Song after song after song 15,000 voices rose together and hooted, hollered and sang. 

It's a joyous sound--one that resonates through your heart. And this huge crowd reaction is what I hold dear in my fading memories of summers spent dancing to the Beach Boys, Paul Simon, the Doobie Brothers, Gloria Estefan...those were the days.  But yes, I got up and sang with the guy on my left and the girl on my right.  For a couple hours it just doesn't matter who has the formal training--only that you share your love of music with those around you.

I could run a line by line review of all I saw and heard on Sunday night--but it won't be solely Mr. Paisley's performance that will stick with me through the years and encourage me to click on those tickets again.  It's the chance to involve myself with the rest of humanity for a happy interlude that is the real reason that I'll never be too old to join the youth in rockin' out on a hot summer night.

A Remembrance of Anne McCaffrey

“Harper, your song has a sorrowful sound,
Though the tune was written as gay.
Your voice is sad and your hands are slow
And your eye meeting mine turns away.”
― Anne McCaffrey, Dragonsong

Perhaps it's appropriate to write this today, on Thanksgiving, as it is my thanks I wish to convey to Anne McCaffrey for all she did as an author. 

I was handed the Dragonriders of Pern trilogy as a 10 yr. old by a friend at school.  I read it backwards--starting with The White Dragon.  While I adored Ruth, it wasn't until I met Lessa again for the first time in Dragonflight, that I truly fell in love with Ms. McCaffrey's writing. 

Yes, Jaxom overcame the challenges of not only being born as the Lord of Ruatha, but also answered the calling of dragonrider as well.  He and his dragon saved Pern. 

But Lessa...she was something altogether different that a headstrong girl growing up in the 70's connected with.  Tiny and powerful.  Arrogant. Smart.  Able to love, be loved and be more than what you might expect when you first meet her.  It would not be this woman's great beauty or connections that turned her into one of the great political powers on her planet, but the sheer force of being "Lessa." 

It was McCaffrey's ability to script characters who defied convention and expectations that had me plunking down my allowance for each new release, and into my adulthood, for first editions. And hunting back piles of bookstores for forgotten titles.  I was first a Pern fan, but as time permitted my library to expand, I realized I was just plain an Anne fan.   

As readers, we often select a favorite tale.  But I can't.  A favorite character?  Still not possible.   

While lost in the worlds of McCaffrey, I rode horses, met war veterans with PTSD, flew with the dragons, became a ship, sang arias to crystal laden valleys--heard and saw the universe in both the best and worst lights.  I came to understand what a gifted storyteller could do. 

It truly will always be one of my regrets that I never got to a convention to shake Anne's hand in person.  There were a couple letters exchanged, internet forum discussions, some bookplates autographed....but it's not the signature I cherish.  It was the generous nature, the insight into humankind and willingness to share that view with us that shall always be the greatest gift I could ever receive from an author. 

Ms. McCaffrey--thank you.  For being you and having the strength to follow your own dreams, such that many more could find theirs.  I shall ever be in your debt.

______________________

Anne McCaffrey  April 1, 1926--November 21, 2011

Find all her books here



Hey! I did it...

Sometimes there are good days.  This was a good day.

Occasionally you set yourself goals.  Some are short term, like getting all the laundry done today.  Others are more long term, like learning a new task.  And some are more grandiose--meeting that one person who has really brought some joy to your life over almost 20 years. 

For the past few years I've enjoyed watching Gordon Ramsey's Hell's Kitchen.  I suppose I truly enjoy this reality show because we are talking about real talent, not just who can out-last or whatever.  And it seems that one of the perennial dishes on Ramsey's menu tends to be Beef or Lamb Wellington.

Due to a certain amount of curiosity--having heard of this dish on and off throughout life--I looked up the recipe and determined this is one of those things I should endeavor to make.  Afterall, you cannot possibly screw up beef tenderloin, can you?

I did it!  It came out of the oven even looking like recipe pictures, and it was pronounced a good thing by my husband :D  Personally, not being a fan of mustard, I think I'd tweak it in the future, if I ever decide to take two days to cook a main dish again.  I might cook it on a broiling pan, too, as the drippings made the bottom pastry soggy.  Or was that because the pastry wasn't entirely sealed? hrmmm I wonder.  I might add that the Wellingtons were created in an RV.

Now, Good Thing Number 2. 

While the whole day at the track was pretty damn good (my husband earned Cold Passes through supporting the Best Buy Racing program at work) one moment stands out for me above all.

We were wandering through the Sprint Cup garage while the cars went through inspection before qualifying.  We spotted John Darby, Mike Helton, some major NASCAR reporters, Regan Smith, AJ Allmendinger, Carl Edwards, T.J. Bell, and a few other faces.  I was picking up driver cards from each team hauler.  I looked behind me and noticed we were standing in front of the No. 24 Dupont hauler and reached for a Jeff Gordon card.  Cool! That made it like 25 cards I could add to the ever growing collection of NASCAR memorabilia.  Then we noticed a guy walking backwards shooting photos...of who?

Hey! It was Jeff Gordon!  I am no autograph hound, but when fate offers you opportunity, don't pass it up.  I called out, "Hi Jeff!"  He answered, "Hi."  Kept signing a couple other things, but made sure to turn back and reach for his driver card I was holding and sign it before entering his hauler.

My driver.  The one I have cheered for since his first Cup appearance waaay back in 1992. 

You know, there were piles of tires, engines revving, team members running from one place to another, underfunded teams and the highest paid athletes in all of sports.  We had rain, a race and qualifying made all the more entertaining by the fans who have had enough of moisture in New Hampshire this year.

But nothing can dim my enjoyment of that moment of serendipity for me. 

So, a dinner that we would have paid much $$ for at a fancy restaurant and an autograph that means quite a lot to me all in one day.  Not too bad for day which was supposed to be nothing but rain, rain, rain.

Memories of 09-11 by S.D. Grady

As the 10th Anniversary of the attacks on America come around, I don't think there are many Americans who are not thinking back on that horrid day.  I still struggle to understand what happened.  I still shed tears when I think about it...as it remains incomprehensible to me that humans would do this to one another. I offer up a piece I wrote on the 2nd Anniversary for you to think about.  I don't know that much more has changed in eight years...

Written September 11, 2003

What happened that day two years ago. We all have our own memories. We were all affected in some way by those terrible events. My life since has continued much as it was before, and that might be a good thing in many ways. I have not been forced to bend in fear to the terrorists; a small victory in the war. But for a few weeks in September 2001, that was not entirely so.

It happened on my way to work. I always listen to the radio in the morning, “Matty in the Morning,” something fun and perky while I stare at the traffic. The DJ came on with an odd announcement. “Apparently a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. That’s a doozy!”

I thought it a curious announcement. Figuring it must be a small craft, but none the less a newsworthy story, I switched the station to WBZ, the local news radio. From the moment I listened to the first live report in Manhattan, life slowed to a crawl.

I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. Realizing that it would take forever to reach my exit a mile away, I turned off on the “emergency” exit I use in such cases. This road twists and turns through grave yards, suburban neighborhoods and inner city slums. The scenery passed by as I listened in stunned silence to the surreal report of a major airliner slamming into the first massive tower. The reports were confused, erratic and unbelievable. And then the second plane came.

I knew it then. This was intentional. This was evil. Fear, anger, impotence and sadness rushed through my body.

Rumors of more planes missing. The Air Force scrambling. Maybe we have to shoot down some of the planes. Targeting the Pentagon, the White House, the Capitol building.

I pulled into the parking lot at the theatre, ran into the lobby and dialed my husband at home. He was still asleep. I heard the answering machine pick up. I yelled at him to answer, hung up and redialed. Again the answering machine. I started babbling at the machine. He picked up.

He turned on CNN and MSNBC and relayed the breaking news. The planes had flown out of Logan Airport in Boston and were supposed to fly to the West Coast. A tiny prickle of irrational fear added up some things. My father often worked at the Pentagon, he often flew out of Logan, he often flew to the West Coast. What if…

I had to know if he was safe. Frenzied phone calls to his home in Maine resulted in busy signals. And more busy signals. I could imagine my mother dialing frantically trying to find him. A moment of clarity offered itself to me. He could be on-line. I broke company regulations and sent an e-mail. Five minutes later he called me. We both cried with relief to know that our family was intact.

Meanwhile, another manager had gone back home to get a TV. He watched and relayed news to the floor as the fourth plane went down in the Pennsylvania fields, as the towers fell, as we all stood and stared. And then across the parking lot we spied a small army of children.

Across our parking lot is an office building. A mere 15 floors, but a “tower” anyway. It houses tech companies, a major phone switching station for the city, a police training school and a not so secret FBI office. And in its basement, a day care.

The tower was emptied in fear and the children had nowhere to go. We opened our doors and brought everyone in. A video tape was put on the video wall- that helped to distract. Crayons from coloring contests were dug out. Popcorn and lemonade were dispensed. Cribs were rolled in. Parents were called.

It took almost four hours for all the kids to be picked up. We let them watch a movie to help pass the time.

Over at the tower, it looked like the Army had descended. Fire trucks, bomb squads, police cars and local media. Nobody could enter our parking lot without passing a safety checkpoint. Later that day, a passing Police Officer stopped and said a few arrests had been made around the city. He didn’t say what for.

As the week passed other changes arrived. Our back parking lot became a gathering point for emergency crews. Several times a massive amount of emergency workers from many communities would suddenly appear- to make sure they were ready. The next day the tower was evacuated again because an employee called in a fake bomb threat.

We had to remove promotional material for “Spiderman”. Most of it showed a helicopter crashing into a giant web strung between two eerily familiar towers. Other soon to be released films pulled shots of Manhattan that showed the towers.

A young man on an exchange trip from Germany was noticed taking pictures of the office tower in the parking lot. The other managers wanted to call the cops. I asked him what he was doing. He said, “Taking pictures of the leaves.” While he waited for the theatre to open. Wrong place, wrong time.

I refused to watch the news. They would only show the towers crashing down again.

Almost everyone at work knew or knew of somebody that died that day. A small boy, a distant cousin of mine, was in the tower that morning. My cousin, who is a union organizer, had led the restaurant workers at the top of the tower in their contract negotiations. They were all dead. Entire companies from Massachusetts were on those planes.

We hired a security guard to stand in our lobby all day and check everyone’s bags- for what, I often wondered.

I follow the news and listen to the on-going war with Iraq. Time has softened the edge of my anger, but not completely. A death for a death is not right, either. But, can we just let the evil that led to that day continue to exist? I don’t know.

I still drive to work every day and run the movies, providing an escape from a world that is sometimes very wrong. Perhaps that is something. Perhaps it isn’t.

The sun was shining bright this morning. It was shining two years ago, too.

Literary Nymphs Interviewed Me!

The interview was posted today:

http://literarynymphshotlist.blogspot.com/

The Stray Cat Lee Rocker

A tiny venue, the Tupelo Music Hall in Londonderry, NH.  It seats around 240.  I'd say about 50 people actually sat in the hardback chairs edged right up to the tiny stage.  But sometimes bigger is not always better.

When the Stray Cats hit the charts in the early '80's, I was an easily swayed not quite teenager who was won over by songs of teenage arrogance.  Ah, come on.  That's what they were.  Fast cars, fast women and rockin' music.  What made it different from the rest of the Top 40?  That string slappin' bass.  The Cats resurrected rock-a-billy, redesigning the world's love affair with twang and pop.  I bought into it then.

I was resold tonight.  None of us in that hall were teenagers any more.  But watching Lee Rocker play his bass, I rediscovered a little bit of that teenage awe.  Perhaps for different reasons...

I saw a musician love his instrument.  The four band members all had a wonderful time, still egging one another on to greater, faster heights as they explored the evening's riffs.  I listened to a voice a little mellower with age, but still very fun to hear.  The Stray Cats always wrote lyrics with more than a bit of tongue in cheek, and witnessing a bit of bantering on stage, there's a greater appreciation of where those tunes came from.

I bought the mp3 of the old album, and I can hear the youth in the studio tracks.  But Lee Rocker and his band have not lost that joy--the spark that brought them Grammy nominations and millions of record sales.

So, yes, The Stray Cat Lee Rocker can still deliver an awesome set.  The crowd leapt to their feet for the final songs.  Applause resounded amongst the rafters.

When we sat down three rows and about five feet from the stage, I leaned over and whispered, "That's got to be a good indication.  No chicken wire."

I'm glad to say, I was right.  Sometimes you don't need to visit a venue that seats thousands to find a night filled with killer talent.  Sometimes you only need to find a renovated barn.

http://www.leerocker.com/

The Silver Scream

A great many things in my life have inspired me.  Perhaps movies could be counted near the top.  It wasn’t always happy ever after, for me.  As a child, I adored the old creature feature films, many where shadows were the source of all fear.  I watched Mel Brooks’ classic High Anxiety and loved all the imagery, camera angles and hidden characters…all spoofs of the greatest master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock.

Thus when I decided to embark upon an erotic story that featured gremlins—those unseen creatures that live in the wiring—it should not surprise anyone that I placed the book in an old movie house.  How many tales of fear and love crossed that silver screen in its heyday?  And what of the old wiring?  Does it keep memories of lights and passion? 

The Silver Scream is not a tale of happy ever after, but perhaps lives closer to those suspense films of old where a great many things will happen in the course of time, many of them evil.  This tale releases August 10^th at Purple Sword Publications, and you will find it available at most major ebook outlets shortly thereafter.

TAGLINE:  Trapped in the wiring for decades, this Gremlin desires but one thing…and he can’t have her.

BLURB:  Film school student, Gilda Albright, has taken a job in the newly refurbished Orpheum Theatre as a movie projectionist.  The gem from another era prompts her imagination to take flight, and she invites her boyfriend Seth to a private screening.  Looking like a movie star from the 50’s, she strips in the spotlight, ensnaring Seth’s lust and drawing the eager eyes of another to her buxom figure.  The building takes on a life of its own—fear invades Gilda’s workdays.  Will the unseen gremlin let her go or fulfill its erotic obsession with a vision from the past?