100 Years of Divergent Paths

Hi guys, Rebecca with another dose of Poetry Corner.  This year marks the 100^th anniversary of “The Road Not Taken,” the well-known Robert Frost poem responsible for generating a million Hallmark posters of country roads that hung on college dorm room walls (including mine, natch). 

This poem is the epitome of decision-making – this way, or that way?  The clear way, or the hard way?  And does taking that less-traveled road really make all the difference?  In our case, yes.  We started our story journey back in 1990, on the way to Florida, on the heavily traveled I-95.  We spent many, many years writing cover letters and basically begging for an agent to read our work.  They wanted “published writers.”  So this year, we took that less-traveled road of self-publishing, and this poem took on a whole new meaning, and we won’t go back. 

Without further ado, I give you the marvelous words of Mr. Frost.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Thanksgiving Nut-Case

Ah, "Writer's Block"...two bad words for an author, and also the reason the blog hasn't really been recently updated.  'Becca and I are both suffering from it for the moment, especially with all the running around trying to get ATSBN-2 up before Black Friday.  We've been wracking our brains trying to think of what to write for the Thanksgiving holiday that wasn't a regurgitated Who-hash of smarmy, feel-good, blah, blah, blah.  I'll admit it's not my style.  'Becca does better with that!

Now, all that being said, I'm so ready to eat some bird that I wanted to cook it a week ago!  However, I held off, because by next week I'll be "birded out" with leftovers!  Even with 24 people coming for the holiday there will be leftovers, trust me.  

Yo, Squanto.  Gimme the acorn squash.

If you had read one of my earlier blogs (Autumn), then you know I'm in my element.  Fall, winter, cooking, the holidays - I'm in!!!  And although our beliefs of the first American Thanksgiving are actually pretty off base, the fact is, we have a holiday that brings us together that isn't deeply based in a religion.  Now the concept of Thanksgiving isn't locked up by Americans.  It is actually celebrated in several countries around the world, with most of them not at the same time of the American holiday.  The bulk of them are harvest holidays observed in October.  And don't worry - this is as far as the history lesson goes.  (I can feel my own brain going numb.)

BUT - and that's a big but - we Americans seem to take this holiday like we take all our others, very, very seriously and with the same verocity as eating a pound of smoked maple bacon.  (Mmm, bacon.)  So many are polarized for/against the holiday being folded into and/or overrun by the Christmas season.  For a lot of other places, Christmas follows Halloween so they go from one to the other.  

If they wanna do it, let 'em do it.  Just keep walking.

I don't care either way.  I look at Thanksgiving as the practice feast for Christmas.  I'll serve the turkey with the tree in the background.  It most likely won't be decorated yet, but it will be up.  (My Christmas cards are already written and addressed because if I don't do them before Thanksgiving, I won't have two seconds to do them once Christmas shifts into full gear.)

What I'm trying to say here is take from this holiday the fellowship and the fun.  So what if the neighbors have their Christmas lights up?  That's THEIR business and THEIR preference.  If it's not for you, then just keep your home the way it is.  But don't vilify them for it.  Let everything else hang.  It's not worth stressing over.  There are far worse things in the world that could happen.

Now give me a moment as I will fall into a smarmy feel-good mood (insert Very Special Episode violin music here).  Having spent the bulk of my life in service to others, I will touch on one thing here, and that is to help others around you who may not be able to help themselves.  More people pay attention to this concept at this time of year but it really needs to be in our hearts and minds year round.  Donating time, money, or food can easily be done.  A little bit here and there year round is an easier task than slamming it all into the end of the year...trust me because I have no time at the end of the year.

No matter how you celebrate - or when, for our non-American friends and fans - the fact is you are having a gathering with friends and family in homage to all the good things in your life.  Being happy is a matter of choice, perspective, and belief.  Look for the positive even when things turn to shit and you will find it easier to cope.  So grab a giant piece of homemade pumpkin pie with a massive blob of whipped cream, sit back and relax...and HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

- Rya

Things That Go Bump In the Night

Samhain.  When the walls between the worlds grow thin, and spirits of the Underworld walk the earth.  It’s the best time of year for those with a love of eating pounds of candy and being scared out of one’s gourd.

I love Halloween.  I love the costumes and the chill, I love black cats and Jack-o’-lanterns and trick-or-treating, and I will happily consume miniature Butterfinger bars by the truckload if I could.  But horror movies?  Horror stories? The paranormal?  

Hell no.  

Preach it, Wonder Woman.

I have an extraordinarily hyperactive, incredibly overactive imagination.  It's the main reason I love to write, and why I'm good at it.  I can write scary shit like nobody's business - I'll freak you out in a minute - but overall, I simply don’t do scary shit.  I’m a composite wuss, if you will.  I am a firm believer in the existence of the Closet Monster, the Creature Under the Bed, and the Magic Blanket – ah, that heroic bed cover that must be draped over at least one buttock in 90-degree weather or securely tucked around one’s toes in the cold…because no one in their right mind would sleep with an exposed body on TOP of a mattress in the dark, am I right?  Even the slightest sound in a black hallway will flare into Something That Goes Bump in the Night and I will lie there with my blood pressure increasing, my heart pounding, and my imagination going haywire.  Did I lock the door?  Because, you know – something is out there.  (Especially if you live in an old, creaky house.  Like me.)  Nothing will make me go to a haunted house or haunted forest because I will piss myself in 2 seconds and will be one of those people that screams until someone slaps them.  Disney’s Haunted Mansion is my limit, and I was 13 years old before I would even consider going in there.  (Okay, okay, I was pretty much dragged in there, if you really need to know.)

What scares me the most about horror movies and horror stories is that I can’t stop watching or reading.  It’s like a train wreck – I can’t look away.  Years ago, I was subjected to “The Shining,” with the crazy Jack Nicholson.  Yeah, right.  I didn’t sleep for a goddamn week.  I refused to go up the stairs for fear of running into those chopped-up twin girls ("Come play with us, Danny!") at the end of the hallway, so I always made someone else go first.  

Get out of my hallway, you little brats.

Then there was “The Amityville Horror,” which made me close the bedroom curtains for weeks so I wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night and see those glowing pig eyes looking in the window across from me.  

Stupid glowing red-eyed pig!  I'll make you into goddamn bacon if you come in here!

On New Year’s Eve, my father made me record this movie for him while he, my mother, and my sister went out for the evening.  (I was certain I was being punished for not going with them.)  As a result, I had every light in the house turned on, the stereo was blasting loud Christmas Muzak, the TV over the refrigerator was blaring a Perry Como holiday special – anything, anything to keep me from hearing that horrible theme music coming from the VCR in the basement.  Why do horror movies always showcase little children singing?  GAAH!

The Blair Witch.  The Exorcist.  The Grudge.  Paranormal Activity.  All of you, BITE ME.  Oh, wait, don’t.  I’ll freak out, beat the bloody shit out of you, and then probably fall down the stairs and break my own leg in my mad urge to escape.

Reading is just as bad.  Stephen King’s prose, for example, is just so fabulous that you are sucked into the horror in a Clockwork-Orange-ian, eyes-held-open-with-a-wire-speculum kind of suckage.  You read until you can't take any more, slowly put the book down, and try turning off the light, and you lie there with your eyes still wide open, bloodshot and burning, afraid to blink because Annie Wilkes from “Misery” might be standing by your bed with a fucking sledgehammer, calling you a dirty bird.  

This is what a psycho wacknut looks like.

Or that cat in “The Cat from Hell” might be sitting there, grinning, ready to pounce and force itself down your throat.  Really, it’ll be best to just turn the TV on and watch “Big Bang Theory” reruns until 3 in the morning.  You can sleep at your desk.

When I was a kid, my parents gave me “Alfred Hitchcock’s Haunted Houseful,” a compendium of ghost stories for kids.  While I now cherish it – it’s a collector’s item, very rare and very hard to find in good condition – I used to hide this thing under the living room sofa cushions.  My mother always found it and returned it to my bedroom - at first my imagination made me think that it floated up the hall in the middle of the night and slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y inserted itself into its place on my bookshelf.  (Aw, shit - *shudder*)  What scared me?  The artwork inside the front cover!  I mean, look at this…

Look at that ghostly seaweed woman!  (Actually, it’s “The Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall” – a terrific story, by the way.)  This dead kelp-covered chick is one of the reasons I couldn’t keep the bedroom door open because I thought she was in the hallway at night.  The damn moon has an eye.  An EYE.  The tree has FINGERS.  And that stick-man on the water!  Who makes artwork like this in a book for impressionable, easily-spooked children?  (Oh, shut up.  I told you I was a wuss, didn't I?)  

Anyhow, I’m bringing up the Alfred Hitchcock book because I wanted to use his opening words in this book for my ending salvo.  So I leave you with the prose of the Master of Suspense. 

First find a room where you can be alone.  Next, turn the light down low.  I know; plenty of light is better for the eyes.  However, it is death to ghosts and we should always think of others.  Now, concentrate on the printed page…

What’s that? You hear a strange noise?  I’m sure it’s just a shutter banging in the wind.  You don’t have shutters?  Good!  Your attitude indicates you have completed your reading readiness and we are all set.  

You may begin wandering through our little tract of haunted houses. 

No, I’m not coming with you.  

This is as far as I go.

Me too, Al.  Now I'll just go see if "Big Bang Theory" is on...

Happy Halloween, all.  

--Rebecca

Pass the Nyquil, Please

Cough, cough, cough.  Sniffle.  Sniff, hack.  Wheeze.

Yep, autumn is here – my lovely, colorful, ginger-scented and pumpkin-spiced autumn.  Rya isn’t the only one who loves it.  I’ve waited all sweltering, dripping, bug-infested summer for autumn’s sharp, crisp mornings and warmth-infused afternoons.  Beautiful quilted patterns in the multi-colored trees.  Huge pots of puffy chrysanthemums, grinning scarecrows, bundles of endless corn shocks and hay bales.  Cinnamon tea and gingersnaps and that first burst of dusty, oil-scented air from the grumbly ancient furnace.  Personal heaters in the old bedrooms to boost the snap and watery rumble of hot-water heat rising through the old baseboards.  I love it all.

Well, except for one thing.  (Sniffle.)

Without fail, every gold-frosted autumn brings with it a small demon in the form of a bacterium with more facets than a bag of Dungeons & Dragons polyhedral dice.  My immune system, which unfortunately has a pink neon sign flashing “C’MON IN!” and readable to every microscopic bug and germ in the known world, has already thrown out the free-lodging red carpet to the first cold bug of the season.  It has burrowed down into my sinus cavity and has gleefully began tossing out its coded messages to my respiratory system, which is now trying to drown me in my own thickening juices.

I feel ya, Cameron.

Snort.  Hack, hack, sniff.

I know to start pumping up the Vitamin C when the folks at the office start coming in armed with their own boxes of Kleenex and stand at the secretary’s counter, red-eyed and pitiful, claiming they’re sick (really?) and they “just had to come in.”  This is the signal for me to repeatedly scrub my hands, close my office door, and ward off every sniffler coming my way with a large can of Lysol.  Sadly, one of those resilient little demons crossed the Valley of Antibacterial Hand Gel, fought its way through the Lysol Cloud of Death, and slid unseen under my door, where it was welcomed happily by my dumb-assed immune system, which wouldn’t know a bacterium from a Basset hound.  Eventually, it will remember its real duty and kick the cold out on its ear, and I can head back to the office…only to probably pick up yet another strain from a loo-la who “just had to come in.”  Stay home, dammit!  That’s what sick leave is for! 

Cough, cough.  SnorHHooooork.  (Sorry, that was gross.)

The good news is I can drink all the hot tea I want.  Lots and lots of tea.  I can stay home and catch up on all of the shows I recorded last week.  I can work on story stuff.  Or, I can just sleep.  Ah, Nyquil-induced sleep is the best.  No weird dreams, no aches, just deep, peaceful sleep – as long as I remember to turn off my phone, or Telemarketer Bob will be asking me if I want to donate my kidneys to the Lady of Perpetual Back Pain shriner’s convention.

In the meantime, pass the Nyquil please.  Good health to all.  And wash your hands.

--Rebecca

Liking the Rain

Rain, rain, go away // come again another day...

When it rains, it pours...

Rain makes corn // corn makes whiskey...

Raindrops keep falling on my head...

It’s raining cats and dogs...

I love a rainy night...

And many, many more for certain...but I won’t extoll every single rain quote or song lyric here and now...

Life isn't waiting for the storm to pass...yadda, yadda...

Many people don’t care for the rain.  It messes with their plans, it can cause damage, it makes the roads slick, it makes non-drivers stupid, it makes people sad or cranky...in general many just don’t seem to want it.  I get that, but yet, I say bring it on!  First of all, we need it!  No water, no life!  There is so much good from the rain!  And trust me – at the moment where I live, we are seeing a lot of it.  I am certain we had over 5 inches fall in 3 hours last night.  Yes, there was flooding and the typical chaos ensued.  I will admit it’s been a long time since I’ve seen flooding like that.  Ok, that’s not rain...that’s a deluge...and with the report of a newly formed hurricane looming to add to it I say I might need to build an ark.

But regardless, I still like the rain and lightning storms.

Now mind you, I am no stranger to routine flooding.  I grew up in a 250+ year old farmhouse that turned into an island every time it rained 2 or more inches at once.  Between the creek that ran through the side horse field and the even larger creek across the street, that would flood the roadway, the house felt like a castle with its own deceptively devastating moat.  Scary though it was I secretly found it kind of cool.  It was then that I came to understand the sheer power of water.

The awesome thing though was the basement actually had a moat built into it to catch the water that poured in through the old fieldstone foundation.  And I mean moat...not French drain, not weep pipe, not anything you can possibly use in today’s modern houses – I am talking a 2 foot deep (in some spots) 1 foot wide open trench that rimmed the walls in the cellar, the center of which was a thick cement pad, known as a floating floor.  The entire basement was divided by stone foundation into 3 distinct rooms, so you actually had the “front” cellar, the “wine” cellar and “root” cellar.  The last two portions had dirt floors so the trenches there were just enough to divert water to the moat.  And they constantly ran water so the sound of trickling water in the basement was never absent, even in drought years.

The oil furnace and tank were on the concrete floor pad of the front cellar and when the fan would run, it sounded like a sleeping, snoring dragon in there, (at least to my father and me).

But then it would rain...

The rain would awaken the dragon.  I would go down the steps and listen.  Then the sump pump would suddenly kick on, loudly – and scare the hell outta me, even though I was listening for it – sounding like the dragon had awakened growling and snorting...(of course it was the initial draw of the sump pump, then the sound as it cavitated when the water level dropped too low for it).  I would unceremoniously run back up the stairs laughing and write whatever the encounter caused my over-active imagination to believe.

So yeah, I like the rain.

--Rya

Being Catholic

The Pope is in town, and the faithful are beside themselves with joy.  This guy is a rock star in so many more ways than one. 

Work it, Pontiff.

I was born a Catholic.  I was baptized as a wee babe, I made it through my First Holy Communion without spitting out the Host (which I would have sworn was Styrofoam), and I committed to memory the Gloria and the Confiteor and the Nicene Creed and the “short version” of the Our Father (other Catholics know what I mean there) and how to sing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” in Latin before I was ten years old.  I attended CCD classes with a very strict nun and I made it all the way through Confirmation and was happy to get the Beatitudes straight.

I, like others, have several stories about going to Confession…like the time I lost my balance in the confessional and fell, and the resounding boom echoed in the huge old church for what felt like eternity, and the priest quietly asked if I was okay before continuing.  There was also the time I drew a blank on what sins I’d committed and flipped frantically through my Child’s Book of Confession, only to wave it helplessly and tell the priest to just put me down for everything in there (I could see him trying not to laugh through the screen) and he just gave me a couple of Hail Marys for penance because anything else would have made him bust a gut.

My parents made certain my sister and I had a proper Catholic upbringing, and we went faithfully to Mass every Sunday.  Of course, it would be only a matter of time before my sister and I had to be separated because we would always find something to giggle about – the cantors, for example, had nicknames, like “Julie Andrews,” and “Tiny Voice Woman” and one was simply a hand gesture, which he used to tell everyone to join in the chorus, and to this day it always sends us to our knees with laughter.  Then there were the deacons, like “Story of the Story” (he repeated his words over and over) and “Ta-dayyyyyy,” who had an extraordinarily thick, slow Southern drawl and would read so slowly that it felt like I’d be in service for a week.  I can hear my sister laughing from here as she reads this.  She'll confirm all of it.

Nevertheless, we continued to attend, because despite the humor, we still enjoyed the ancient majesty of the Catholic service, the huge old church, and especially the sense of stately ceremony, especially on Easter Vigil and Christmas Midnight Mass.  I enjoyed the music, and inserted myself into it by joining the handbell choir.  I had many a great time with wonderful people in that choir.  When the director quit, the choir fell apart, and to this day, I miss it terribly.  I understand they have regrouped, but for me, it just wouldn’t be the same without that director and the other fun folks.

A few years ago, my strict churchgoing began to drop off.  I get up for work at 4am, as you already know, and I took advantage of sleeping in on Sunday mornings.  As time rolled on, I was surprised to find myself a “twice a year” Catholic – Easter and Christmas – and sometimes even those are questionable.  I know, I know – God doesn’t judge, but a part of me - that little girl in white gloves and black shiny shoes - still feels the sting of guilt for not attending like I should. 

So today, I’ve had the TV on all day on Channel Pontiff.  I’ve watched His Holiness stop the Pope Mobile to kiss babies, shake hands, and take selfies with the faithful.  I’ve watched him canonize a saint, and hold High Mass in Spanish.  And I’ve found that there’s still a part of me that knows God walks in all of us, and even though my churchgoing days have slowed, I found that I talk to God in my own way, and on my own time. 

So peace be with all of us today.  Love your neighbor, forgive (or ignore) the self-proclaimed pundits who post anti-Christian crap on Facebook, and dance your way through life.  Just don't trip in the confessional.  

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  Amen.

--Rebecca

Autumn

Finally!  According to the calendar fall is here. . .not sure about you but for me that kicks off the beginning of my favorite time of the year – from here to the end of it.  So actually fall and winter for me are the best.  From the first day of fall to the last day of the year I am ecstatic.

Hello, gorgeous.

Why?

WEATHER.  Oh let’s start with cooler weather.  BAM!  Hoodie weather.  Love my hoodies.  The cool crisp air feels good in the chest.  The cool breezes that give just that little chill that makes me burrow deeper into my hoodie.

BUGS.  As in NONE!  Yeah, not afraid of them, just tired of them being up in my face all summer long.  Because trust me I am the first one who will catch bugs in my house and turn them loose outside instead of killing them. 

TREES.  I love to see the leaves change in autumn.  Living in the mountains I get that privilege in spades.  The explosion of gold, red, yellow and russet leaves falling into the edge of the horse fields turns the green grasses into a particolored display.

HORSES.  The cooler weather is ideal horse weather.  Now yes anytime is a good time to ride, but the fall and into the early winter is the best.  The weather is perfect – not too hot, not too cold and the horses can just go all day long.  Riding in the first early snowfall is where it’s at.  Just as the snow starts to fall the horses sense the serenity that comes with it and as you ride in simple silence there is no better peace for the soul.

HARVEST.  I am relatively decent backyard gardener and I make everything I can, from tomato sauce to pepper relish, pickles, soups – you get the picture.  I dry, can, and I freeze everything I grow.  There is great satisfaction in eating the foods you have made from seed to harvest.

PUMPKINS.  Everywhere, just everywhere.  And in everything.  (I am a coffee drinker and love some seasonal pumpkin spice creamer in my coffee.) Pumpkins are the best single decoration for the entire tail end of the year.  They go with everything!  Pair them up with homegrown Indian maize for decoration.  And when ready make pumpkin pie and multicolored popcorn – the best desert and snack ever!

FROST.  The anticipation of waking up to that first sunrise of frost, which turns the world into a glittering realm makes me check out the window first thing when I get up.  Guaranteed to put an impish grin on my face!

WINTER.  And that of course leads to the thrill of the first snowfall that every school age child dreams of.  I am far from school age anymore, but I am just as excited as the neighborhood kids when I see all that white stuff falling from the sky.  Even simple flurries can just keep me grinning like the Cheshire Cat!

Then of course there are the big three:

Halloween.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

No need to extrapolate here!  Yes I love them all.  Yes I decorate for them all.  Yes I am that raging fanatic that has 40 storage crates of decorations – EACH!

What can I say?  At least I admit it.  I’m in full blown holiday mode from beginning to end.  And I absolutely love it!

Autumn is where it’s at.  It is a gateway we all get to step through every year. It is a return to childhood and simple make believe if you want it to be.  You just have to believe.

 -- Rya