For anyone not familiar with the Boston Marathon - it's a HUGE event. It's a world class event, welcoming thousands of runners from all over the world. An event that has been going on since 1897. It's always held on Patriots Day, which is a holiday in Massachusetts. Not only do families and friends of the thousands of runners come to cheer on their dads, moms, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons and spouses, but so does half of Boston and all the towns along the race route. Thousands of cheering, happy people there for a day of triumph and celebration.
 
A few years back my son ran in this prestigious race. This year my nephew and his family were in Boston to cheer on the runners. It was a beautiful day - a perfect day for a race. The streets are lined for over twenty-six miles with folk who come out to cheer the runners on, hand off bottled water and enjoy the tradition. The finish line loomed just a few feet away, complete with flags, bleachers and cheering crowds. If it hadn't been for an antsy toddler, my nephew might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A time when someone wanted to hurt America by setting off two improvised bombs with the sole purpose of creating as much pain and loss as possible.

Is this the price we pay for being who we are? For the freedoms we enjoy? For the prosperity and all that America stands for? We don't yet know if it was terrorists from outside, or disgruntled, home-grown terrorists, but whoever chose this path to express their hatred, they won't win. Boston is better than this. America is better than this. 

In the chaotic seconds and minutes after the first and then the second bomb exploded, echoing off the buildings and leaving screaming bloody victims in their wake, heroes rushed in. Runners that had just finished the race, bystanders there to cheer folk across the finish line, medical personnel on hand to assist exhausted runners, soldiers, policemen, volunteers. Many didn't know what had happened. Many didn't know where to go or what to do. But so very many ran toward the scene of destruction with the sole purpose of doing whatever they could. Some runners, already exhausted by covering 26 miles to reach that point ran two more miles to donate blood at area hospitals. That's what America is made of.

Boston is a wonderful city with history, tradition and soul. I know it will regain its confidence, even if it has lost a piece of its innocence. There will be grieving and those whose lives have been forever changed have a long hard road ahead. But America is pulling for them. When the runners and spectators return next year, there may be an edge of defiance, but the race will go on. Boston will celebrate. America will triumph again. My thoughts and prayers are with all who were touched most deeply. God bless you today and in all the difficult days ahead.  

 

A few Christmases ago Santa left three smooth Petco balls in Duffy’s stocking.  Duffy loved them and had a grand time playing with them on the beach. Duff has his own rules about balls on the beach and they don’t include fetch, or drop the ball at my feet so I can toss it again. Instead, he dashes down the beach dribbling it with his feet and snatching it up to toss into the air. Eventually he stops to roll on it and finally digs a hole into which the ball rolls. Usually! Then there are those odd occasions when he gets sidetracked and leaves the ball to roll slowly toward the water. Then I have to wade in and retrieve it. He loves the game and most of the time I don’t mind letting him play ball his way, although it would be nice to have a dog that brought the ball back to me when he’s done with it.

Eventually all three of those lovely smooth balls broke, but Petco no longer carries that particular type. I tried replacing them with a variety of other balls dogs are supposed to love. Anything but a tennis ball. Tennis balls are, of course, Duff’s all time favorites. But have you ever put a soggy tennis ball in your pocket? Slobber would be bad enough, but since all Duff’s games end with letting the ball roll into the water, they get downright soaked. And that leaves a soggy patch in my shorts or jeans requiring me to change when I get home. Unfortunately, I ended up giving all the replacements away to other less choosy dogs. Then it occurred to me to try a racquet ball.

So, off we go on a brisk breezy Saturday to play with our new ball. Duff loved it. He romped and tossed and had a grand time with it. Then, suddenly something caught his attention just before the hole-digging phase - which would have resulted in the ball rolling safely to the bottom of a nice sandy divot.  As usual, the ball began to roll toward the sea, but then a gust of wind caught it and it changed direction. Now it was headed down the beach - away from me. I walked faster. The wind blew harder. The ball picked up speed. I began to run, but the ball was gaining ground faster than I was. Duff loved this new game, and he began gamboling around me. I pointed toward the ball and shouted for him to go fetch it. This is when I really would have loved a dog who understood the theory behind “fetch.” Although to cut Duff some slack, the ball was now so far away, he probably couldn’t see it any more. So, here I am huffing and puffing after a ball that is leaving me in the dust with a dog jumping and caroming off me in joyous abandon.

WHOSE BALL IS THIS ANYWAY? The thought ran through my brain as my lungs threatened to explode. I am NOT a runner. I never have been. Not even when I was younger. I stopped running and gave up. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching up anyway. But luck was on my side after all. A particularly exuberant wave surged up the beach, snatched the ball from its get-away run and hauled it back into the frothy turbulence. It still bobbed there, blue and wet when I reached the place it had met its match. And it didn’t leave a soggy damp spot in my shorts when I shoved it back into my pocket. Although I doubt we’ll play ball on the next gusty day either.

My Tenth Anniversary

Last night I attended the Great Easter Vigil at St Anastasia on the island in St Augustine. It was the tenth anniversary of my joining the worldwide Catholic Communion.

That night ten years ago in Tonga was the culmination of a journey I’d been on for years, but for family reasons, had never quite completed.  But that year my daughter became engaged to a faithful Catholic man. The idea of joining the Catholic Church wasn’t new to her either as she’d been enrolled in CCD classes during her growing up years. So, now, with her wedding approaching, she was preparing to be received into the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil. I was in the Peace Corps and stationed half a world away, but the closeness my daughter and I had always shared seemed to reach out and tell me it was my time, too. I went to see the bishop of Tonga for guidance and was set on a course of retreats with the sisters at the convent on my remote little island. Thus it was that thousands of miles apart, my daughter and I stood before our respective congregations on that most solemn and joyous of Christian festivals and confessed our faith anew.

As I sat in the pew last night, waiting for the lights to dim and the vigil to begin, I remembered back to Holy Week in Tonga, to the rituals that are so much the same for Catholics everywhere, and yet can be so different in each culture. Not just in language, but in observance and passion.

This year our new pope celebrated Maundy Thursday by washing the feet of young prisoners in Rome. He broke tradition by including women as well. Ten years ago in Tonga, the priest at my church washed the feet of young people preparing for confirmation. Often in our churches here in the states, it is people chosen from the congregation.  

On Good Friday my second year back at home in the United States, I experienced the Way of the Cross at the cathedral in St Augustine, Florida. The cross bearer, two boys with candles and the priest rushed from station to station rattling off the prayers so rapidly that I found it impossible to follow and had no time for reflection. Just a few years before I’d dressed in the traditional Tongan black and followed a young man carrying an enormous and very heavy cross through the steamy streets of Neiafu on my tiny South Pacific island stopping to pray at length fourteen times. Each time it was harder for the young man to pick up his burden and move on. Near the end, he was hoisted up and his arms lashed to the arms of the cross. He pressed his heels in hard against a one-inch block beneath his feet for support. As the prayers dragged on and the silences stretched out, the young man’s muscles began to quiver with the effort and sweat poured down his face. He wore a crown of thorns and it had pricked his skin adding his own blood to the sweat. It gave me, for the first time, a viscerally intense picture of the physical torment Christ endured during those three hours he was nailed to a cross to die for me and for many to wash away our sins. Two similar rituals, yet very different in impact.

Another vivid memory I have of my Holy Week in Tonga was the all night vigil. Each village was assigned an hour to keep watch at the cathedral in Neiafu. Our village had two to three o’clock in the wee hours of the night. I slept for a couple hours before rising to join my neighbors. We rode to town in the back of a pick up truck, then, in our traditional Tongan garb, filed into the cathedral to the small chapel set up for this night. It was decorated as only Tongans can decorate, with silver streamers and impossibly brilliant imitation flowers. Gaudy by my standards, but beautiful by theirs. We began with prayer, but then moved to singing. One thing the Tongans do supremely well is singing a cappella. They have beautiful voices and they pour their hearts and souls into it. We knelt on the hard stone floor, singing and praying in the still, semi-dark cathedral until we were relieved by the next village on the schedule. The ladies returned to the pickup truck while the men gathered in a cluster on the cathedral steps to talk. I remember laying with the other women on mats lining the bed of the truck, cocooned in the tropical night air, in the stillness of that hour, listening to the soft murmur of the men’s voices and staring at the vast array of stars overhead. I was filled with such peace and it was a moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Then came the Easter Vigil. I’d spoken with my daughter earlier by phone. I knew that in a few hours, she would be standing at the front of her church in New York, just as I was now standing at the front of the Cathedral on a tiny island in the South Pacific. Having grown up and been confirmed in the Episcopal church, we weren’t being confirmed, but rather reaffirming our creed and being received into the Catholic Communion. We had studied and explored the nuances of our new allegiance. We had made a good confession and been cleansed. We were eager and ready to confess our faith and be marked with oil.

When I left Tonga the following year in the middle of lent, I journeyed home through New Zealand where I worshipped at the Catholic Cathedral in Christchurch on the South Island. I found another Catholic church in Sydney Australia the following Sunday. The accents were different, but the words familiar. Palm Sunday found me in Thailand where I understood not a single word of the prayers or sermon, but it was the mass and I knew the English prayers in my head.  It began with a procession in the quiet streets of a neighborhood of homes and embassies in Bangkok. We carried palms and sang hosannas as we went. Later, inside the church, when we joined hands to say the Lord’s Prayer, I felt I was a tiny link in an endless chain that circled the globe. It felt good. Easter I celebrated in Vietnam, in an English speaking church a local man had directed me to in Hanoi. The voices were lighter and more lyrical than those in Tonga, but the music was just as heavenly. I realized I was now at home wherever I went anywhere in the world. As I repeated the prayers then and still, I know I share those moments with brothers and sisters in Christ who believe and worship just as I do in every part of this place we call Earth.

 

 

Today was Philip’s second birthday. Only he wasn’t here to celebrate it, to smash his cake into crumbs and smear frosting on his face. He didn’t get to open presents or to enchant us all with his glee and his winning, dimpled smile. He never got a chance to be two years old, just like he’ll never climb aboard a big yellow bus for his first day of school, or wear a gown and a cap with a tassel to receive a well-earned diploma. He’ll never learn to swim, or play baseball, or create music with an instrument. He’ll never fall in love, get married or have children of his own. And those he left behind will miss every one of those things and so much more.

It’s been 118 days since an accident took Philip’s life. Days filled with memories, tears, grief and growth. His birthday was no different. We marked the day with cupcakes and balloons, but we did it at the cemetery. When my daughter first picked this spot, she noted that there was a small airport nearby which seemed appropriate because Philip was fascinated with planes. Living under the approach lanes for the nearest big airport, ‘airplane’ was one of his first words as he looked up to follow the big planes taking off and landing. So, it seemed fitting that twice while we were at the cemetery, a small plane flew over our little ceremony on the ground. We sang happy birthday and sent our wishes aloft with bright blue balloons.

In the evening, we gathered once again at a nearby school playground to inflate and set Chinese lanterns aloft with messages and love. And once again, Philip got his fly-over as several big planes climbed into the inky night sky from LaGuardia. Meanwhile family in Maryland, New Hampshire and Massachusetts were joined in spirit as they, too, set lanterns and balloons free to climb into the sky.

Happy Birthday, Philip. We love you and miss you so.

        

It's out the door....... 

Sending a manuscript off to an editor or an agent is tougher than you might think. At least it is for me. All the writers I know talk about their manuscripts like they do their children and it's hard to send your child out into the world to be judged. On one hand, I want very much to have it accepted and one day grace the shelves of a bookstore where I can go admire the result of so many hours of hard work. Or listed on Amazon.com or B&N where gadget savvy folk can go to download it onto their Kindles and Nooks.  But I poured so much of my heart into this story and I want to be absolutely sure it has been polished and tweaked into the best possible book it can be before I send it out into that unforgiving world.

The characters in my book have become my friends. I've nurtured and taught them. I've spent hours, days and months with them and in many ways I know them better than I know myself. I want the rest of the world to love them as much as I do, but am I really ready to send them out there? Really? Maybe there was a better way to make my hero come to terms with his past? Was my heroine gutsy enough?  Was she too feisty? And what about that side-kick?

And even if I am totally convinced that my characters are all they should be, there are still questions. Did my dialog sparkle? Was it realistic? Maybe I should have consulted one of my grandkids on dialog for that teenager that became so important? Did I fail to research carefully enough? What did I miss? And even when I’m confident on all those issues, what about the finished product? Have I dotted every i and crossed every t?  Is all my punctuation spot on?

Then there is the synopsis. Another very important piece, but one that’s totally not fun to write. And Finally, the cover letter or query. That first impression that must capture the interest of the editor in just a sentence or two. But eventually there comes a moment when you just have to take the plunge. You have to zip up their jackets, kiss them on the forehead and send them out to catch the bus.

And while they are off conquering new worlds, it’s time to go back to the beginning and start again. Create some new characters. Fall in love with them and then mess up their lives so there will be a story to tell. The life of a writer.....

You wouldn't know it from this photo, but not so long ago, this was a busy little river.

When I first moved to Summer Haven, a lovely little river meandered along behind the protective dunes. It was the home of dozens of species of birds and critters and men had fished it for centuries. When this island was first inhabited in 1885, there were no bridges and folk had to sail down here from St Augustine on the Matanzas River, into which our little Summer Haven River flowed. In the beginning the people who lived and summered here centered their little community on the river where new arrivals first came ashore. A hotel squatted on that welcoming shore and it boasted wonderful views of the busy little river as well as the ocean beyond the dunes. There was a store, a clubhouse with a room big enough for dancing, and more than one boarding house to accommodate all the summer “campers.” For a tiny barrier island, Summer Haven has a very interesting history and connections to some very influential folk over the years, but that’s another story.

 

A bridge over sand - no water            Standing in the middle of what was the river       

In 1964, I’m told, a hurricane ravaged this little island and took out a chunk of Route A1A, the road that runs along this chain of barrier islands on the east coast of Florida. What was left of the road on Summer Island became Old A1A and a new road a few hundred yards to the west took its place while a sea wall was built to protect what was left of the shore. But in 2008 another series of storms forged a new breakthrough at the point where the road and the seawall ended and the dunes began. Talk immediately began on how to “fix” this breakthrough before sand infiltrated the river and became a problem. Needless to say every alphabet agency with even the most tenuous connection to such issues jumped into the discussion. And there everything stalled. Sand pushed in on every higher than average tide and began to fill the river, swallowing docks and oyster beds, choking off the natural flushing system for the Matanzas inlet, obliterating the habitat of creatures as diverse as manatees, loggerhead turtles, snowy egrets and others who once used the river to forage and nest. Access to boat launching ramps and the Helen Mellon Schmidt Public Park was lost.

    Docks swamped and surrounded by sand. All the boats have been hauled out and access to the Matanzas river lost.

Since then the sea has finally healed the breach it created, but not before the entire protective dune system fringed with lush Australian Fir was destroyed. The river is only a memory now. I don’t know where the fish have gone, but the state just finished repairing a bridge that no longer spans any water. A brave and tenacious neighbor has spearheaded the effort to restore the Summer Haven River, but you would not believe the nonsense she has had to swallow. I’d have punched a few noses by now for sure. The most vociferous are the tern people. You would think, to hear them argue their case that these migratory birds had been nesting here for a millennium. But that is so not the case – they nested less than a ¼ mile away on the north side of the Matanzas Inlet before. And far from becoming inhospitable due to human encroachment, this area has been declared off limits to vehicles by the National Park Service. Then a very expensive study had to be done to determine if it would be appropriate to put the sand currently choking the Summer Haven River back onto the beach! Are you kidding? Where did they think that sand came from in the first place? It is suggested that rebuilding the protective dune would put a barrier between the nesting turns and the sea where they forage for their food. WHAT? When did terns cease to fly? They aren’t emus, for Pete’s sake! As I said, the arguments get pretty ridiculous. And those of us who love this place, we still miss our river. We’d like to look out and see herons and egrets wading around at the edge of a restored and healthy river. We’d like to be able to kayak and fish in its waters and see manatees cruising by again. I’m sure the folk who own the oyster licenses would like to have their livelihoods back and boaters would like access to the Matanzas River and the Atlantic Ocean once again.  It’s past time to bring this little river back to health and preserve this historic Summer Haven community.  

  Although winter has been pretty warm here this year, a writer friend of mine posted a photo of a new little fireplace/stove she had installed in her study. It looked so lovely and cozy and I was immediately jealous. But then it occurred to me that I had money my dad had given me for Christmas still unspent. And since my study is the coldest place in my house - which is a good thing in the summer when it's sweltering here, but not so good in winter - why not get one for my study. I currently have a little Pelonis space heater to make it comfy in there when I'm writing and don't want to crank the heat up in the entire house. So, I did my research.

I found that the cost of running an electric fireplace was far less than using the heat pump that is part of my AC system. And even the smallest units will heat up to 400 square feet easily. Well, my whole house is only 800 square feet! Add to this the fact that the best - or only - place to put it is right between my living room and study - it could heat both and be seen from both rooms. I started looking. Home Depot had only one small one and I wasn't impressed. Apparently this is not the the time of year to be on the hunt for them because right now all the summer stuff is showing up in the stores. So, I went online, found this lovely little oak fireplace and ordered it. It was even on sale - better yet.

This morning I was excited because according to the tracking number it was on the truck and out for delivery. Sure enough the Fed-ex man pulled up out front shortly after lunch and unloaded my box. I hadn't eaten lunch yet, but that didn't matter - I was anxious to see my new acquisition and began unpacking at once. Tons of styrofoam later, I revealed my prize. Only problem was that my prize was not all in one piece. I don't mean that it was a "some assembly required" item. I mean that it was falling apart. I found screws, chips of wood and wood pegs that should have been glued firmly into holes to hold the assembly together. I might still have been inclined to get out my wood glue and put it back together, but I also noticed that the metal firebox was damaged. This has an electric heating element inside and the very last thing I need is a fire hazard. Talk about disappointment!

The form has been filled out, photos have been submitted and a case number assigned to my complaint. And now I wait with a big box sitting in my living room. And tomorrow the temperatures are predicted to return to seasonally cold. I really would have liked to fire up that thing, make myself a cup of tea and curl up with a good book to watch the make believe flames and get cozy. Guess I'll have to settle for warm stockings and my fleece lined hoodie.

  Welcome to the Next Big Thing Blog Hop. A neat way for readers to find new authors and perhaps a whole stash of books you haven't checked out before. My Gratitude to Kellie Sharpe for inviting me and to Vicki Hinze who invited her.
Vicki's website
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About this Blog Hop, I and my fellow authors, in their respective blogs, have answered ten questions about our book or work-in-progress (giving you a sneak peak). We've also included some behind the scenes information about how and why we write what we write -- the characters, the inspirations, plotting and other choices we make. I hope you enjoy it. 

My first published non-fiction, WHATEVER IT TAKES, came out in June - available at Wings Press.com, Amazon.com and B&N  Three Men are in a very close race for the White House. Each will face a tough decision. Decisions that will determine the caliber of the man, the kind of leader he might be and possibly even the outcome of the race.

Please feel free to comment and share your thoughts and questions. Here's my Next Big Thing!

I'm actually working on a Women's Fiction series with strong romantic elements. Two of the books in the series have been written and four more are in various stages of plotting. WORRY STONE and WHAT TO DO ABOUT ZOE are the first two. To be followed by A HEART IN HARM'S WAY, OWEN'S PROMISE, BROKEN SOULS and DARE TO LOVE. In addition to this being a family saga, the books deal with the agony of soldiers learning to live as civilians again and men and women who serve as firefighters and policemen, and the scars left by PTSD. The first book, Worry Stone was inspired by the struggle many of the young men I came of age with who returned from the ravages of war in Vietnam to a country that scorned them and the sacrifices they had made. The rest of the books in the series are contemporary. Our soldiers return to a much different welcome, but the struggles they face on every other front are the same. Here's a teaser for my current WIP:
"

Meg shrugged her backpack higher up onto her shoulder as she joined the stream of passengers filing past the empty chairs of the waiting area and toward baggage claim.  Her scuffed and dusty boots made a hollow sound on the tile floor.  A man in a navy blue suit jostled past her, then stopped and thanked her for her service.  She took the proffered hand absently and accepted the thanks in spite of the feeling she didn’t deserve it in the least. 

As she approached the top of the escalator down to baggage claim, she halted abruptly.  Her heart began to thump painfully.  Ben would be at the bottom of the escalator watching for her.  Maybe the boys as well.  It had been 358 days since she’d last seen them.  358 days that had changed her forever. 

The crush of people flowed around her like water flows around a boulder in a riverbed.  For a moment she felt like she couldn’t even breathe. 

All those days ago when she’d been walking the other way with tears in her eyes, she’d been an innocent.  An idealistic innocent.  She wasn’t the same woman who’d said goodbye to Ben that day.  She was no longer innocent.  And her idealism had fled in the face of the things she’d seen.  And done.

Would Ben notice?

Would he see it in her eyes?  Feel it in her touch?  Surely he would hear it when she called out in her nightmares.  Would he still love her if he knew the whole of it?  If he knew how far she’d grown away from the woman she’d once been?

Meg drew a deep breath and stepped out.  He was waiting however much she had changed, and she couldn’t put off the moment of their reunion forever.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben shifted his weight from one foot to the other in order to peer farther up the descending staircase.  He’d left the boys at home so he and Meg could have these first few moments alone.  Or at least as alone as it gets in a crowded baggage claim area.  The buzzer announcing the arrival of the luggage had sounded several minutes ago and already there were people crowding several lines deep around the carousel.  He’d been keeping half an eye on the moving jumble of luggage, boxes, golf clubs and carseats, watching for a camouflage duffle bag.

But so far, none had appeared.  Neither had Meg.  But she would.  Soon. 

She had called after she’d boarded this plane in DC to let him know it was on time and she had made the connection.  Her voice had sounded matter-of-fact and unemotional.  Very military, he conceded.  She was a Marine, after all. And she’d been in a war zone for almost a year.  A place where emotions didn’t belong.  At least not those reserved for the husband you left behind.

He glanced back at the carousel, then again at the escalator.  And there she was. 

Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, but he could see the black sheen of it glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights.  Head up, she looked straight ahead.  Shoulders back.  Very squared away.  His Marine.  His Meg.

Ben’s heart leapt in his chest and shuddered into a staccato rhythm.  His Meg was back.  Whole and unharmed.  And as beautiful as his memory had promised.  He couldn’t wait to haul her into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.  He couldn’t wait to feel her arms circle tight around his neck.  To feel her lips returning his hunger and longing.  It seemed to take forever for the escalator to bring her down to him.

At the bottom, she stepped off, turned sharply right and almost ran him down before her gaze finally connected with his.

Be sure to check back here often - I'll be sure to let you know when the book is coming out.

Other authors on this Blog Hop...

Nancy Quatrano - Co-author of The Method Writers, Snowbird Christmas and more...

Sharon Drane     Touch the Sky and Swept Away (WIP) 

Kellie Sharpe - author and publisher - Salt Run Publishing, where romance lives on.

  More than a year ago, my family decided that this year they were all coming to my place in Florida for Christmas. Don't forget I live in a little seaside bungalow, but fortunately for me it shares a lot with another bungalow that happens to be a rental so I was able to reserve it to accommodate the crew. Two little houses right next to each other worked out wonderfully well and we had a terrific week. I'm exhausted, of course, but it was so worth it. Every minute filled with fun and family. My work began before they arrived - not just the usual shopping, wrapping and cleaning, but sewing as well. When we all get together someone always seems to decide that it would look really cute if the kids all had outfits that match and since I sew - guess who gets to make them?

The Fun began on the 19th when my son and his crew as well as my youngest daughter and her family arrived at JAX. We spent the next day on the beach since St Augustine had blessed us with a lovely warm day that felt like summer for my visitors. On Friday we all got up long before the sun and headed to Disney where we were met by my step-son and his family and my middle daughter and her family (who had tried the novel idea of putting their van on the train from Maryland which conveniently delivered them to Florida not far from Orlando.) The little girls were all wearing princess dresses and got Bippity Boppity make up sessions. We met all (or most) of the princesses, too, as well as Mickey, Minnie, Daisy Duck, The White Rabbit and so many more characters. We also had tickets to Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party, which meant we didn't leave there until Midnight. Now you know why I'm exhausted!!!
   
At the Beach                                        My Grandkids at Disney

One of my neighbors owns some of the carriages that take folk for rides about the old city in St Augustine and I was able to make arrangements for us all to have a wonderful ride to see some of the historical sites as well as the Nights of Lights Christmas display for which St Augustine was just chosen one of the 20 best cities lit up for Christmas.
  Sean was a terrific driver and they kids were all enchanted with the horse and they fact that he gave them all a turn to "drive." Suzie was a very well behaved animal who treated them well and listened to Sean in spite of the kids.

Then came Christmas...  The Elves (on the Shelves) had arrived with the kids and kept an eye on them during the week leading up to the big day. I have to assume a favorable report was taken to Santa because he was very good to us all!

On our last full day together, we visited the Pirate Museum downtown. We had a lovely tour with one of my favorite pirates, Capt. William Mayhem. The guys abandoned us to have a pint of Guinness at Anne O'Malley's - just think of the fun they missed!

Lynn steering the ship             Theresa & Jacqui in             Julie and Jacqui with
                                                  the rigging.                            Capt. Mayhem.
But eventually all good things come to an end. The troops have all gone home to work and school leaving me with a cold they could have kept for themselves and a ton of wonderful memories. It's on to 2013 now - Happy New Year everyone. May God bless you with a year filled with love, laughter and good fortune. 

               

My kids have organized things so that on the odd years, they all go to their in-laws for Christmas and we get together for Thanksgiving. On the even years, we switch.  Once upon a time, not too long ago, they all came to my house for the turkey feast or the traditions of Christmas. But then they began to have homes of their own, and families of their own so we began to take turns. When I moved to Florida, to a cute little beach bungalow, I thought my days of hosting were over. Hah! Apparently the lure of a warm holiday was good enough to have them all decide last Thanksgiving that this year they would be coming here. Fortunately, my little bungalow has a twin that shares the courtyard and it’s a rental. I put my bid in early and we’re going to have a little family compound going for Christmas.

Many of the traditions we keep were started long ago. One is having Mary and Joseph travel from the furthest point in the house to the Manger, arriving on Christmas Eve and then having the baby Jesus appear while we are at church. Another is the white tablecloth, that once dinner is done and the plates cleared, colored pencils are brought out for everyone present to draw a small picture of something important in their lives that year. I always got to do all the embroidery after the holiday, but it’s such fun to look at all the drawings from years past and remember when….

A newer tradition is one my daughter-in-law dreamed up. She thought it would be fun to have all the kids dressed in similar outfits. A couple years it was pajamas that they ordered online, but sometimes I’ve been solicited to put my sewing talents to use and create matching outfits. This year it was skirts for the girls and a vest for Jack. (Christopher’s too grown up to get gussied up like  his cousins, now.)

       

Showing off Grammy made dresses        Waiting for Santa...

          Haven't seen them

A sled load of kids                                                                                        on yet this year!

We have lots of other great traditions. Like green punch that forces me to make the rounds of grocery stores on the hunt for lime sherbet. Letting the kids help play Santa when they first realize Santa doesn’t wear a red suit or hang out at the North Pole most of the year. Being secret Kris Kindles to each other during Advent, lighting the purple candles on our dinner tables at supper time to mark the passing weeks of Advent, making a game of tossing balls of discarded wrapping paper into a big box in the middle of the floor and dozens of other things that make it a family holiday. The kind of holiday you remember fondly and ache for when you have to spend Christmas far away from family and friends. The sort of thing that bring reminders of family members who are no longer with you, or make you feel like a kid again.

Christmas is a lot of things. For Christians, it’s the celebration of the birth of our Savior and all that implies in our lives of faith. But it’s a holiday for the world as well. Christmas trees and Saint Nicholas come from our roots in Europe and so does the idea of gifts left in stockings or shoes. But in our melting pot country where not everyone is Christian, the holiday has become more secular, with carols like Silver Bells and White Christmas.  Menorahs are as common a sight as mangers, and most every kid hangs up a stocking whatever their parent’s beliefs or non-beliefs. Christmas is a season of family and friends, of good times and great memories. It’s a time for giving - of ourselves, our time, our treasure and our talents, not just to family and friends, but to those less fortunate than we. It’s a time to reconnect with folk we don’t get to see as often as we’d like, at parties and in the sending of cards.

For my Christian friends, the candles are lit and prayers offered for a blessed season and a new beginning with Christ. For my Jewish friends - Shalom. For everyone else, Happy Holidays however you choose to celebrate. For the world - I wish for Peace and Prosperity.

Take a moment and share your favorite traditions whatever your faith. Click on the comment button below. I’d love to hear how you celebrate the season.