Plans

Perhaps it's just me and my way, but when I tell one story 12 times I grow tired of it... especially if it's a story I'm not too keen on telling in the first place. I plan to combat that before people start asking me what the 'plan' is. What's going to happen from here? Well, I plan to leave us all with a few thoughts on a simple theme, by telling all what was said by others on that very matter...

"Create a definite plan for carrying out your desire and begin at once, whether you are ready or not, to put this plan into action."
Napoleon Hill

"Plans are only good intensions unless they immediately degenerate into hard work."
Peter Drucker

"Bire off more than you can chew, then chew it. Plan more than you can do, then do it."
Anonymous.

"A goal without a plan is just a wish."
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

"Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood... Make big plans, aim high in hope and work."
Daniel H. Burnham

"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."
Dwight D. Eisenhower

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."
John Lennon, "Beautiful Boy"

"Just because something doesn't do what you planned it to do, doesn't mean it's useless."
Thomas A. Edison

"Plans change."
R Armstrong

"He who every morning plans the transaction of the day and follows out that plan, carries a thread that will guide him through the maze of the most busy life. But where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidence, chaos will soon reign."
Victor Hugo

"Life is what happens when soemthing else is planned."
A. Montgomery

And one final thought from yours truly... when I'm ready to tell everyone what the plan is, I will. Until then, please feel free to go about your daily life and forget about what's going on over here on the blog spot. There's no doubt that when I'm ready to share the story it will end up here. If you found this post, you'll find the next, and the next after that. The story will come, and without doubt, you will read it. By then changes will have come and gone, and plans may or may not be fulfilled. Time will tell.

One thing is for certain - the plans made are private. When it's openly and undisputedly agreed that it's a wise or good idea to share the 'plan' then it will be. For now, it's on a "need to know" basis. This isn't meant to be a rude or unfeeling remark. I thank everyone out there for continuing to read my blog. Not a soul out there has offended me by asking what's going on or by caring about what happens or has been happening. I just feel the desire to reassure everyone that there is, at least, a plan. I'm not at liberty to share that plan as of yet, but I will.

Things will be better than ever. I will be stronger and wiser than ever. The sun will shine and the birds will sing and the world will continue to revolve around the sun in the Milky Way galaxy snuggled safely within the vast Universe. My life and this blog are less significant than a speck of dirt in the overwhelming, boundless, infinite measure of all that exists. Remember that. Live your lives, as I do mine - fearless and full of hope for a future complete with personal success, andventure and happiness.

Friends

When I was a young school girl, almost all of my friends were boys. I did have the occasional female friend growing up, but after two 'besties' in my pre-teen years, I couldn't seem to find another female friend. My friends - all of them - for many years were all male.

My parents told me that would change when I grew up, but it didn't seem to change. I found that most of my friends were all males, except for the occasional female boss or coleague. Still, in 2006 when I found myself working in a male-dominated 'technology' industry selling production camera accessories, it worked to my advantage. I knew how to relate to guys.

Some guys seemed to take my friendly mannerisms for something else, and me being me, I didn't notice. Often a friendship would be destroyed by an advance from someone I thought of as a friend. In 2009 I was told that a problem I was having with a male boss was my fault because I was 'too nice' to him. I was then told that I was 'too nice' to all the guys I worked with, when all but one of them were guys.

I've always been a 'tough' girl. I've related well to men in many ways - being a tom boy. I climbed trees and played with worms as a little girl. I fought with the boys as a pre-teen just for fun. I loved old cars and target shooting with my father. I played football with the boys! In fact, I broke my foot doing it. I've always been a tom boy.

Finally, about this time last year, things started to change for me. I made a few new friends. Suddenly the balance shifted.

Now that I've settled comfortably into my 30's, life has morphed into something glorious. I found a long, lost uncle or two whom I adore and NEED in my life. I've traveled to places I've never been before, formed a family that I find I would have been lost without many times over, bonded with people over distances never imagined before the days of the internet, and discovered a little bit more about myself. My friends can rightly be split almost down the middle between males and females, though the majority of the really close ones are all female. That's certainly a first since I was 11 years old.

I have become who I was meant to be.
I have my friends and loved ones to thank for that.
I'll come back home... I promise.

Kathy and Louise

All of us have had pivotal moments in our childhood. Whether its an epiphany of age versus time or friends who helped to shape who we have become in our adult lives, there's always those ear mark moments that we remember throughout life, like a favorite poem in a book with the corner of the page folded down so we don't forget where it is. I've had MANY of those moments and I've been blessed with a good memory to remember most of them in immense detail. Some people I know (including my own brother) have managed to block out most of their own childhood.

When I first moved to Victorville CA at the ripe old age of 8 years old, I knew right off that I would have a hard time making friends. It was a while before I had even one friend, and that was my Great Dane named Lady. The neighbor girls Rachel and Rona were friendly, but both were quite a bit younger than I was. They were ok to play with, but we didn't become real friends until we had all been neighbors for a few years. Tina next door was older than I was and nearer my brothers age than mine, and her younger brother was still in the "girls have cooties" stage of life. By the time I was 9 I had all but given up on making any real friends.

I think Kathy and Louise moved into the "Circle" around the same time. They made friends with one another before I discovered the two of them while walking my dog one day. They invited me to play with them. I still remember the game.

It wasn't long after Christmas and all the scraps of used wrapping paper were fluttering in the ditch looking very much like one large gift to us, while to others it looked like a massive junk pile. The three of us (and my dog) spent the day right there in the ditch. We would pick up little bits of trash like old coke bottle lids and discarded nickles and then wrap them in the old bits of paper without using any tape. Then we would give them to one another and play "Christmas Morning" over and over until all the bits of paper finally blew away. They were never bits of trash to us though. That old coke bottle lid was a Barbie hat. The discarded nickel was exactly that - money! Even the used Popsicle sticks had a purpose when we were building rock castles for our toys.

Once all the paper was gone and we were looking for another fun activity, we went to Kathy's front porch where we would pick up the flat desert rocks from the garden and build things on the sidewalk with them. We would build as high as we could before they would tumble all over and we would have to sweep them up. Eventually we developed the Pony Playhouse system. We would build open-top castles for our toys at first. We couldn't figure out how to keep a roof from caving in on them. With the Popsicle sticks we collected with the Christmas game, we finally figured out a plan. They would hold the roof and door frame together so things wouldn't go crashing in around the My Little Pony inside. Later on we abandoned that idea though. It was too hard to get the ponies in and out, unless they were in prison.

Kathy and Louise were easily the best friends I ever had in my childhood. I spent every waking moment with them. Sure, we had our arguments and I would spend a couple of days sulking on my own, or Kathy wouldn't come play with Louise and me. But as best friends always do, we got over it and we moved on. In no time at all, we were like the three amigo's all over again.

Both Kathy and Louise had beautiful blond hair. I always wanted to be like them when I was a kid. I didn't know too many blond kids, and both of them were so pretty. They had the faces of angels, while I looked much more like a troll. Kathy had bangs that were often cut too short and usually always had a pony tail, while Louise had gorgeous naturally wavy hair, like Sleeping Beauty herself. Kathy always had an extremely high opinion of herself while Louise was too humble to take credit for anything she did. It seemed the blond hair was the only thing my two best friends had in common, other than an overwhelming love of all animals.

Louise was obsessed with Bugs Bunny (and loved rabbits everywhere) while Kathy shared my adoration of horses. Louise wasn't allowed to have friends over very often, just like me, while Kathy was always wanting us to play in her room. Louise and I both had an older brother, but they didn't get along much that I recall, other than a brief month one summer where they went into the desert and dug a fort into the dirt. Kathy had one older brother and one younger, named John and Mikey. I had such a crush on John back then. I didn't dare ever tell Kathy that. Kathy and I were both very competitive while Louise was very relaxed and patient with us. Louise was always kind and gentle to all thing and people, while Kathy occasionally had a cruelty streak in her that frightened a lot of other kids that didn't know her very well.

Finally one year at school, Louise and I had the same class with Mr. Steinerson. It was the 5th grade and there were a lot of exciting things coming our way. And yet...

As was the way of Military life, eventually we had to part ways. Louise was the first to move, and Kathy went two weeks after her. I was left alone in that town without a friend to turn to. I went to school the day after she left and Mr. Steinerson asked me to come up to his desk.

"Louise wanted me to give this to you," he said, handing me her eye glass case. I gasped. Did this mean she was coming back? Surely she would need her glasses! I opened the case and I began to cry. There were no glasses inside, but instead a note and a photo of her from the previous school year. I was nearly inconsolable for a week. Every time I started to miss her I would open that eye glass case and see her picture and I would feel better. I truly loved Louise. I missed her terribly. Military life destroyed my childhood, but Louise and Kathy had somehow saved it from complete disaster.

Kathy and Louise had become more than my friends. They had grown to become my sisters in those years we spent together. Kathy sent a Christmas card once, but as with all kids, we loose interest in writing and the three of us completely lost contact.

That never stopped me from looking though. I never gave up the search.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Camp Thousand Pines

I think I was in the 5th grade when I went to Camp Thousand Pines for the first time. I remember pulling up in the bus and having all the girls in one group, the boys in the other. It had been a hard year in school for me that year, having just lost my best friend, Louise Pritchard, when she moved away. I've never stopped looking for her.

The bus pulled up in one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. Little cabins were dotted through the woods with a central hall in the dead center of it all. The kids all piled out and began to scatter in multiple directions before one of the teachers bellowed for them all to freeze where they were and reassemble by the bus.

One by one we received cabin assignments. There was a teacher or parent in each cabin, but that didn't stop the girls from giggling and the boys from trying to pull practical jokes on one another at night. Parts of the trip turned out like the practical joke events in the original "Parent Trap" movie.

We went on night hikes. We met the local Native American tribe and they came to teach us how to do the traditional Rain Dance. I discovered my allergic reaction to bees. I had a metal ladder fall on my leg and sprain my ankle and we all took turns in the kitchen preparing a meal for the other kids before taking any food for ourselves. We even learned how to curl our hands and place our lips in the correct position in order to call the squirrels. I can actually still do it.

We told ghost stories out by the fire at night, roasted marshmallows over the open flames and enjoyed root beer floats while chatting about life in general. Though it seems as if Camp Thousand Pines has changed a lot since I was last there, my memories of the place before technology, live on just as they were.

Boo Hag - a Ghost Story.

You know how they say some folks are lucky at cards and some are lucky at love? Well, that fit Bobby Hansen to a ‘T’. He was the best poker player in the county, but somehow he couldn’t find himself a bride. Oh, he proposed to several girls, and even got accepted by a few. But they always got cold feet a day or two before the wedding, and it was bye-bye Bobby.

After the third time, Bobby was mighty discouraged, and his Pa felt real sore for him. They worked together in the family grocery store, and Bobby would sometimes sit on top of the pickle barrel and tell his Pa all his woes. And his Pa told him to hang in there, because a nice lady was on her way. Neither of them believed it, but it made both of them feel better to hear it said. Well, the day after their latest talk, the old woman who poled her barge through the swamp to deliver milk and eggs to the grocery store had a long talk with Bobby’s Pa. Seems she had this daughter who was hankering after a husband with a good steady job, and the old woman thought Bobby would do the job nicely. She suggested they introduce the pair at the next dance, and Bobby’s Pa agreed.

The night of the dance, Bobby’s Pa insisted that his son dress in his best. Bobby was dragging his feet a little, remembering all those women who played him false and not wanting to go, but his Pa dragged him out anyway. Well, the moment Bobby clapped eyes on the dark-eyed, red-lipped girl from the swamp, he was head over heels in love. Her eyes sparkled like the sunlight on the bay. Her skin was as creamy as new milk. Her voice was low and sweet.

The pair cuddled and cooed and waltzed the whole night long, and come sunrise Bobby was all for bringing his new love before the visiting priest who delivered his sermons in the grocery store (since there weren’t no church in that vicinity) and getting married right away. Well the girl was willing to get married, but not by a priest.

“Let’s just go to Beaumont and have the judge marry us,” she said to Bobby, and he was so smitten he agreed, though it would have been quicker and easier to just walk a mile down the road to see the priest.

By the next evening they were wed, and Bobby brought his pretty bride to the nice little cottage he rented just down the road from the family grocery. It had a nice front porch with a swing, a big bedroom on the second floor and a big attic with a window that could be made up into a second guestroom should his new mother-in-law care to visit from her home in the swamp.

After fixing him a nice dinner, Bobby’s new bride sat awhile in the rocking chair near their bed while Bobby yawned and watched her fondly. She cuddled under the blanket and knitted and hummed, and Bobby’s eyes grew heavy. He didn’t wake up until early morning, when his new bride crept into bed all hot and sweaty and fell asleep at once. When he asked her where she’d been, she wouldn’t answer him. Bobby was mighty sore that his bride had snuck out on him on their wedding night, but when she got snappish and her eyes blazed like they did when he questioned her, he grew frightened and backed down.

Life took on an odd pattern for Bobby. During the day, everything was perfect. His wife was sweet and pretty and loving. She kept the house sparkling clean and cooked him wonderful meals. But each night she refused to come to bed after supper. Like their wedding night, she sat up singing and rocking and knitting until he was asleep and did not come to bed til just afore dawn. She was always sweaty and cranky when she came to bed, and went to sleep before Bobby could question her.

Bobby was very confused and upset by this behavior, and finally confided in his Pa one morning after opening up the grocery store. Bobby’s Pa was awful worried. The visiting priest had gone on to his next parish, and there was no one they could consult but the local conjure woman. So he sent Bobby to her with a couple of chickens as a gift.

The conjure woman knew all about hoodoo magic and was an excellent herbalist. Local folks went to her when they were sick, on account of the doctor lived nigh on twenty miles away. When she heard Bobby’s story, she told him to pretend to go to sleep that night and watch what his new bride did. Then he was to come back and tell her everything. Bobby agreed.

The next evening, he pretended to fall asleep while his bride rocked and sang in her chair. Then he followed her up to the attic and watched through the crack in the open door as she sat down at the spinning wheel and spun off her skin, leaving only pulsing red muscles and blue veins. She was a terrifying sight and she sprang through the window and flew away into the night. Bobby ran out to the privy and was sick after he saw her. Who, what was this monster he had married? He was still trembling and in shock when his bride, looking like a normal person again, crept into bed at dawn, and he had trouble behaving normally at breakfast.


Part 2: Video created by a Reader
As soon as he could get away, Bobby ran to the home of the conjure woman and told her about the spinning wheel and the terrible skinless creature who flew away from his attic. “A boo-hag,” the conjure woman said at once. “You’ve married a boo-hag.”

“What’s a boo-hag?” asked Bobby. “A Boo Hag is a witch and a shape-shifter,” said the conjure woman. “She lures men into her trap and then delivers them to her Boo-Daddy, who eats their flesh and gnaws their bones. And that’s what she’ll do to you if you don’t get rid of her first.”

The conjure woman told Bobby to get himself some blue paint. As soon as the boo-hag left the house that night, he was to spread blue paint on every window frame and every door frame and make sure it was two coats thick. A boo-hag couldn’t fly through a window or door that was painted blue. And if she didn’t get back into her skin before dawn, she would be trapped without it, and be revealed for the monster she was. So he was to leave one tiny window unpainted, and keep it open a sliver so the boo-hag could squeeze through. Then he was to fill up her skin with salt and pepper, which would burn her up from the inside out. And Bobby promised to do exactly as the conjure woman said.

That night, Bobby lingered over his dinner, looking with sad eyes at the pretty woman sitting opposite him. He knew she was really a monster inside, but it was so nice to have a little wife in his home. He hated like anything to see her go. But he didn’t want to get eaten by a Boo-Daddy, and that was his fate if she stayed. So he went up to their bedroom and pretended to fall asleep while she rocked and sang and knitted. Then he followed her quietly upstairs and put salt and pepper into her skin after her ugly red-muscled blue-veined figure had flown out the window to her Boo-Daddy. He spent the rest of the night painting over every door and window frame with blue paint, leaving only one small unpainted window open in the cellar. He nailed it up so that it would open no further than a crack, just as the conjure woman instructed him. Then he hid himself behind a large chest of drawers up in the attic to wait for the boo-hag.

Just before dawn, the boo-hag came flying up to the attic window. As soon as she touched the blue frame, she gave a shriek of pain and rage. Bobby listened as she flew around the house, testing each window and door and howling like a banshee when it burned her skinless hands. Then she found the little window in the cellar, and he heard the thump as she landed beside it, followed by a painful whimpering sound as she squeezed and squeezed herself through the narrow opening, her skinless red muscles and blue veins tearing painfully against the rough wood.

The boo-hag ran up three flights of stairs into the attic and squeezed and squeezed into her skin as fast as she could. She just barely got it on when the first light of dawn shone over the horizon. And that was when the salt and pepper did their work, burning the boo-hags body from the inside out. With a scream of agony, she flung herself out the attic window. The glass shattered everywhere as she tried to fly away, tearing at the skin to get it off. But it was too late. She exploded into tiny pieces right over the swamp, and the alligators had them a mighty feast of cooked boo-hag for breakfast that morning.

So Bobby was once again without a wife. But bachelorhood looked much better to him after that, and he never went looking for a wife again. ‘Course, after he made a pile of money in oil, the girls started chasing him. But that’s another story!

Big City Life

I used to feel so alone in the big city. All those gazillions of people and then me, on the outside. Because how do you meet a new person? I was very stumped by this for a number of years. And then I realized, you just say "Hi."

They may ignore you.
Or you may marry them.

And that possibility is worth that one word.

Gold Fever!

Gold Fever struck on Saturday, February 20th of 2010. Suddenly we were thrust back to 1849 and the Gold Rush of the early California Settlers. The dog with us was no longer a companion, but a guard and a hunter, there to watch over us. The intricate Native American scroll work on the rocks we scrambled over were no longer hundreds of years old, but made just yesterday. My jeans and sneakers became a calico dress and work boots as I traversed through the woods just off the trail. The rock formations that had fallen long ago and retained their original squared shape were no longer ruins, but a standing cabin, waiting to be explored. I had stepped slowly off the path and back in time.


When I was only a child, my Uncle Mike taught me how to go Gold Panning. I will never forget that day. We went into the mountains of Toole (pronounced Tu-ill-a) in Utah, about an hour or so from where my Mom and Dad lived. It was near a copper mine, and a small stream ran down the mountainside by the road way. We found a good spot to pull off and my Uncle pulled out his gold panning supplies. I remember the smell of mud under my feet, the gravel crunching as I made my way down the path to the stream. We found a good spot to dig into the water and started putting small amounts of the silt into the gold panning bowl. He taught me how to swirl it around, looking for the tiny flecks. Nothing turned up for the longest time. Just about the moment we had decided to pick up and move to another spot, something caught my eye. There in the aluminum bowl, among the ridges and dirt, sat a shiny flake. It sat atop the dirt in the bottom, just below the surface of the water. I called to my Uncle, who came over expecting it to be a false alarm, like we had been coming across that day.


Much to my surprise, my Uncle practically jumped for joy. I had found gold, the real deal. He picked up the tiny flake with a pair of tweezers, filled a small glass vile with some of the creek water, and carefully let the gold piece go into the water. I watched as it swirled around in front of my eyes.


We took a break for lunch, which was my first experience with M.R.E.'s. They weren't as bad as I had been lead to believe, but they weren't that great either. My favorite was the crunchy freeze dried ice cream. Uncle Mike explained that it was Astronaut Food. My cousin Michael seemed to be used to the "astronaut food" since they often went camping and gold panning together.


After our meager meal, we went back to panning. Strangers walked past, curious as to what it was we were hunting for, none willing to ask. After a while, it was obvious that we weren't going to find anymore in that spot, so we cleaned up the gear and put it all away. Uncle Mike locked up the car and we decided to see if we could find the location the gold might have washed down from. That was when I learned about Sluice Trails.


As we hiked our way up a winding road that went towards the top of the nearest mountain, Uncle Mike pointed out the trails of rocks and debris that looked very much like a land slide that had nowhere to fall from. He explained to me that they were sluice trails, the rubble dug out of the mines and dumped down the hill when it was proclaimed that they had no value as a raw ore. They left pyramid shapes down the face of the mountain, looking like loose piles that rolled as far as the terrain would allow. At the top, almost always, was a mine that had been closed up long ago due to safety concerns.


The fence we came to didn't even slow us down. My uncle had been a smoker for many, many years. He huffed and puffed his way up behind Michael and myself, feeling the full weight of the altitude and humidity in his lungs. Finally we reached a clearing at the top of the mountain, where it opened out to the crest of the mountain. All around we could see wilderness, and off between two of the mountains on our west, Salt Lake City loomed in the distance. What brought us all to our full height and made the blood start pumping through our veins with the force of adrenaline was the timber lined entrance to an old Gold Mine.


Uncle Mike instantly forgot about the elevation and started to breath heavily, this time from excitement. He stood tall at six feet and almost 4 inches, and the mine was considerably smaller than that. He pulled a Mini-Mag from his back pocket and instructed us kids to wait where we were. This mine had not been closed like 90% of all others he had seen. Michael and I sat on the grass and waited. When Uncle Mike ducked his head and started to walk with bended knees with that tiny flash light in front of him, I asked Michael why we couldn't go in.


"Dad said that we should never go into something like that because there could be bears or wild cats inside. He said it could be easy to get lost in there too," he explained. My uncle was always a dare devil, but that didn't stop me from worrying about him. Those were possibilities I hadn't even thought of before that moment. On pins and needles I watched as the light in the back of the cave faded in the darkness, finally disappearing around a turn to the right. Uncle Mike was nowhere to be seen.


A good ten minutes passed and I started to get nervous. Finally that familiar weak beam of light from the Mini Mag became visible again and Uncle Mike emerged from the man made cave. He stood to his full height for a moment, stretching his back, leaning to and fro, getting things back where they needed to be. He didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, he turned off the flash light and put it back into his pocket.


"It was an old mine, but there's nothing left. Looks like nobodys been in there for years." He almost looked relieved. "I didn't go too far in. There were too many branches going off. Didn't want to get lost." Something inside told me that he had, indeed, gotten lost and that the relieved look on his face was due to the fact he was back in the sunlight once more. "Pitch black in there," he mumbled to himself. "Pitch, tar black."






As I stood just off of the trail looking at the base of what had once been a cabin in the woods while patting Muggsy the dog on the head, I talked with Sarah about which way we should go next. For some reason the image of my Uncle stretching out his back came to me. Like he did that day, I put one hand on my hip and leaned way over, cracking the bones on the right of my back in place before repeating that on the other side.

Sarah and I decided that we would follow Lou back towards the established trail. We walked past a tree with the exposed roots, I snapped a picture of the green glade with bare trees while Muggsy paused to sniff the air, and we stumbled upon a small section of the dry river bed where rocks sat under a felled tree at a cliff. We would have to walk the length of the tree to make it up the cliff, or walk the long way around. Always up for an adventure, we decided to try the climb. Muggsy ran ahead of us, bounded up the tree and leaped onto the grassy edge just beyond. He sat there panting, looking at us and wondering what was taking us so long.

I climbed down the edge towards the rocks in order to begin my climb and lost my footing. I feel on my hands and knees into the mud and silt at the base of one of the rocks on the down stream side. When I picked myself up to wipe the mud off of my hands, I froze. My hands glistened and shined like I had thrust them into a pile of glitter.

I gasped. Sarah thought I had hurt myself and rushed over to help. Muggsy ran down the tree and bounded towards me. Instantly I shot my hands up into the air to stop them both from treading on what I had found. There in the dirt before me, bright as the sun, tiny flecks of yellow stared up at my face.

I yelled loud enough for Lou to hear, and his head appeared over the cliff. As he looked down from the top, the disbelief was apparent on his face. Sarah, however, squealed with delight. We looked for a long time for a piece big enough to carry out with us, but I knew that there was no way we were going to find an actual nugget. It didn't stop me from looking though. Long moments passed where I rubbed the gold flakes into my hand, watching the soft metal blend with my skin.

"Come on, it's just Fools Gold" Lou said from above.

"Iron Pyrite is a hard stone, Lou. This is soft, malleable. There's no way this is fake. This is the real deal!" Excited, I continued to stare at the surface of the ground near my hand print for a long time. Finally, after a failed attempt to find something in which to store the precious substance, we gave up. We mentally marked the spot and reluctantly climbed to the tree. As we reached the end of the tree and started to scramble up the cliff side, Sarah turned to me.

"Look at this," she almost whispered, her eyes glowing as brightly as the gold we had discovered. She had set her hand into the dirt on the short cliff in order to find purchase and saw the entire hillside sparkling in among the dirt. She held up her hand to me to show that her hand now resembled mine, shining in the sun light with tiny golden flecks.

Sarah gouged out a hand hold in the hillside and balled up what she had removed into a large, smooth, round lump of earth. She tossed this up to Lou, who reluctantly caught it as gingerly as a little girl would grab a hold of a worm she had been asked to hold. The mud kept it's shape and we climbed the rest of the way up the hill.

Sarah was a trooper that day. She carried her mud ball prize all the way out of the mountain, a good two miles from where we had found it. Right now that mud ball rests inside a sandwich bag at my home, just waiting for me to "pan" the gold out of the earth and take it to a jeweler. I have no doubt in my mind that what we found that day was indeed gold. Separated and saved properly, that small lump of earth might be just enough to make a very nice necklace pendant in the shape of an "S" just for her, and that's just what I plan to do with it.

Yes, there is still gold in the California Mountains, if you're lucky enough to stumble across it.

Guitar Girl - The Story of Terry Ray Day

It had been such a long day. The drive home had made it seem even longer, winding my way through traffic for more than an hour. I pulled my car up to the house and gathered my things to climb out. My quickly wilting hand picked rose was in one hand, my keys, phone, purse, and little blue pine tree berries in another.

About the time I closed my car door with my hip, the sound reached me. I closed my eyes and listened as I heard someone up the street play the guitar with a gentle touch to a soft melody. Somewhere in the distance, a kid called for his mom to read him a bedtime story. The birds sang the day away. People went inside turning out their porch lights as they went. The man and the music played on in the most beautiful melody I’ve heard in such a painfully long time. It’s amazing, all the memories that can come from just a simple sound.

Daddy learned to play the guitar while I lived in Arkansas as a kid. I use to play with his guitar if ever he left it where I could reach it. I remember him playing "Home on the Range" so sweetly. I don’t think I really paid attention to the sounds of a guitar before he played for me. Ever since then, the sound has always brought back memories of my childhood, of my father playing guitar for his children.

A friend in Arkansas named Jeff tried to teach me to play guitar. Stevie RayVaughn blasted through my speakers for the first time when my roommate gave me a CD of his. I was dancing to the Guitar solo in "Freebird" by Lynard Skynard with Eric in Arkansas shortly after meeting my dear lifelong friend Robert. Another friend, Terry, played for me the first time I went to his house. The Guitar is a powerful instrument. It can take you back in time in mere seconds, transporting you to a world that no longer exists but in memories.

Terry – what an interesting character he was. Terry Ray Day was his name. When I first met Terry, he was the very most popular guy in school. He had one particular spot in the hallway where he always sat with his friends. He had long, rebellious red hair and vivid green eyes. When he stood up, he towered over me at about six foot four inches, and was still only in the 11th grade. Everyone in school knew who Terry was.

Even back in High School I loved to walk a lot. There wasn’t a while lot other than art that could keep me in my seat. At lunch I would roam the halls, usually alone since I didn’t have many friends. One day I wandered into Terry’s neighborhood. I felt really self-concious as I walked in front this popular guy and all of his friends. I felt the eyes of his friends looking me over and judging me, as was usual for me in those days. I was a social outcast in most circles, and this one wasn’t an exception. Some of them would laugh and joke to themselves and eachother.

"Hey look, it’s Nerd Girl."

"Shut up," Terry spoke over them. Shocked, I looked straight down at my feet, awaiting the verbal assault that was sure to follow, aimed at me. He was the coolest kid in school – surely he would want to out do the guys who worshiped him. I walked faster.

"Dude, she’s a nerd. We all call her Nerd Girl in Chemistry."

"Shut up," Terry repeated. "What’s your name," he asked me.

"Amanda," I replied without looking up.

"Well, Amanda, why don’t you come over here and sit with us a while. You know, kinda prove these idiots wrong," he thumbed at his posse of assorted jackasses. A few of them looked like they really didn’t like the idea of Nerd Girl sitting there, while others looked like vultures about to swoop in for the finish. All Terry had to do was give the guys an odd look, and they wiped the looks off their faces and cleared a spot for me to sit next to Terry.

I wound my way through the small crowd and had a seat, turning brighter red as I went. I didn’t know what I thought I was doing – the most unpopular girl in school was sitting with the very most popular guy? There were certain protocols that were to be followed. I was ignoring all of them. It was well known that Terry didn’t have a girlfriend, and hand’t had one in over a year. When asked why, he just responded that he hand’t found a girl that could hold his interest for long enough.

Terry began asking me questions. At first I was very quiet with my answers, terrified of what the general reaction of the crowd around us would be. I felt like I was being interrogated at first. Slowly I came to realize he was genuinely interested, and finally, I forgot the crowd completely.

"Where are you from?"
"Everywhere," I blushed.
"Where were you born?"
"Germany," I blushed harder.
"You’re German?"
"No," I hung my head.
"No? Why were you born there?"
"My Dad was in the military."
"Really? Cool! Where all have you lived then?"

As I rattled off the places I had been, the crowd faded out of my mind, though to them I was suddenly the center of attention. Terry asked me what each place was like, since most of the group had never been out side of the Utah borders. Everyone leaned in close when I started talking about California. Pretty soon everyone was asking me questions, and I was no longer Nerd Girl to them. Suddenly I was almost cool.

"Was it hot?"
"Did it ever snow?"
"How long were you there?"
"Ever go to Hollywood?"
"What’s L.A. like?"
"Have you been to Disney Land?"
"Ever seen any famous people?"
"Were you ever on T.V?"

The bell suddenly rang and we all went our separate ways to class, but a new aire surrounded me in the halls at school the rest of the day. People whispered, but didn’t giggle anymore. Something had happened.

"That’s the girl Terry Day wanted to sit with him," I overheard once and smiled to myself. "She lived in California," I heard another say. "I bet she knows a movie star."

"Amanda," Terry called out when he saw me the next day, "we saved you a spot." Sure enough, he didn’t have to give any funny looks. Everyone cleared a path to a spot right next to Terry, who had saved it specifically hoping I would show up. I waded through the crowd, for once being able to smile at the faces there, that welcoming sea of their anticipation smiling back. After all, I still had questions to answer. Mom taught me that making people wait was rude.

I went back to the group every day at lunchtime for a long time after that. People didn’t laugh at me in the halls anymore, I didn’t get spit balls in my hair in class anymore. I even started to care about my clothes and the style of my hair a bit more too. After a few weeks, Terry reached out and held my hand one day. A few glances were all we got. That day Terry walked me to class and kissed me before I went in. There was another shift in whispers, and people didn’t mind sitting next to me, or even having to work with me on projects after that.

One day, Terry invited me to his house after school. He was the first really genuine person I had known for some time, and I trusted Terry. It was not misplaced. That afternoon, after sitting on his porch swing and eating ice creams while staring down the view at Riverdale’s main road, he pulled out his guitar and played a while.

Terry played what was popular at the time; a Metalica song, Megadeath, ACDC, and others. He completely surprised me when he began playing a Classical piece I knew. It was beautiful! He played one after another, some I had never heard before. I loved it! It suddenly dawned on me… long hair, rebellious look, and classical music? He was once an outcast, just like me.

It wasn’t too much longer after that the world and life forced us into opposite directions, but Terry Ray Day made a lasting impact on my life with words and music that I’m certainly not soon to forget. I stood outside that night, listening to the guitar with my eyes closed, hearing Terry’s heart tell me that someone out there understood me. After such a horrible week, after feeling like I would never be OK again, I was miraculously reminded by the wilting rose, the four pine berries, and anonymous guitar music, that I wasn’t alone after all.

That was the last night I ever walked back through the door of that home I hated to the people I couldn’t stand.

I broke free the next day... but that's another story all together.

Ode to the Cinedome, Riverdale UT

When we first moved to Utah, I remember coming over the hill and hitting Riverdale road. Off to the right of the main road was a theater we instantly nicknamed the Dolly Parton theater. Cars were parked around its perimeter for a Sunday afternoon showing of Aladdin that November. Snow was visible on the mountains in the distance, and it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.


I was only 12 years old the first time I saw the Cinedome. I knew instantly that I would eventually see a movie there, and the following year Jurassic Park was released. We went as a family. It was the first time we had all seen a movie together in many years. I'll never forget seeing the teeth of T-Rex closing in around me on the curved screen. I jumped a little and grabbed my mothers arm as she sat next to me. I remember her smiling and almost chiding me a bit.


"Oh Honey, it's just a movie," she said. This came from the woman who knew Gremlins gave me nightmares for weeks when I was younger. I was tough for her though. I didn't let her know it scared me as much as it did. I tried to keep the incident with Frankenstein in mind whenever I was scared. I knew it was "just a movie" and kept my startled jumpiness to a minimum.


I always thought I would end up going to the Cinedome on a date, but sadly that never happened. My parents didn't like the idea of me dating really, and the only guy they ever approved of was 8 years older than me when I was 16 years old. To their credit, Eric had lied and told them he was only 5 years older than I was, the exact age difference between my Mom and Dad.

Eric wasn't much of a "going out" person. His idea of a good time was riding a bull named Yellow Dog and drinking Coors Light at home. Eric gave me my first full beer. It was horrible, but I drank it because I didn't want him to think I was just a little girl. I hated it.


There was a house over behind the Cinedome where a photographer lived. He used to do the portraits for all the High School seniors in the area. He had the most amazing lawn I think I had ever seen, but his view was of the back side of the Cinedome. I can't imagine he ever had any true love for the place.


Behind his house though was a hillside covered in lush trees that led down a sewage drain we all called "the creek" and straight to a park. I spent about 80% of my free time at the park, climbing the hill up behind the Cinedome and pretending to climb the bricks that jutted out from the joints of the building.


I remember once I had a couple of friends come over to 'hang out' with me, since we were getting to old to 'play' outside. I had been grounded for something; it seems like I rarely had any free time because I spent most of my time being grounded. Mom told them I couldn't come outside, but she said it was ok for me to tell them that myself. I went out and told them to meet me at the park, I would be there shortly.


"No," Trent said, "You'll get in trouble, won't you?"


"Who cares," was my response. "I'm always in trouble anyway. What does it matter anymore? I don't care. What else can they do to me at this point?"


"Are you sure," Doug asked.


"Yeah, I'm fine."


"Ok," they said in unison, sounding doubtful.


"See you later," I shouted loudly for my mother's benefit.


They headed straight for the park and I headed straight for the back door. They weren't 200 yards away when I caught up to them. We walked straight to the park.


We were sitting on a bench when I saw a familiar little blue Dodge car turn the corner. My mother had known instinctively where to look for me. I darted into the nearby woods and started to make my way up the creek. The boys were right behind me.


"Hey," my mother shouted. "Where's Manda?"


"I don't know," Trent said from the other side of the tree where I was hiding. "You said she couldn't come out."


"Don't you lie to me," she shouted back at him. He stood defiantly looking at her. I could feel the tension in the air. He knew we were in trouble. We had been found. Trent turned to look at Doug who stood a few feet away. Doug looked at Trent. Audible swallows of salivating mouths could be heard. They gulped in unison. Trent looked back at my mother. Finally, knowing she wasn't going to get anywhere with them, she pulled away and drove off around the corner.


The boys and I made a mad dash up the hill, running over the muddy bank as quickly as we could. We had planned on finding refuge inside the Cinedome. The boys both had money and were going to take me to a movie. I couldn't wait! We came over the top and burst through the foliage straight into my mothers waiting car. I knew I was in trouble.


I got into the passenger seat after facing her grinding teeth and icy glare. As we pulled away she let fly with one of her physical tantrums all over the top of my head. At one point she popped me in the nose and it began to spew blood profusely. She didn't even slow down. She just aimed at the top of my head and my stomach again. The boys, having seen this from the back view, called the cops as soon as they got home.


We got a visit from the cops that night. I had been grounded even more severely and was being forced to go to bed at 8:30 that night. I was dressed for bed and ready to hit the sack when the doorbell rang. My Dad answered the door and shouted down to me.

"Manda!" he called out. He sounded amused. "You have a visitor."

I walked the steps up to the front door, puzzled. Dad had NEVER let me have a visitor if I was in trouble before, and even if I wasn't in trouble I couldn't have visitors after dark - even at 16 years old. I peeked around the door and saw two uniformed Officers standing there.

"Young lady, are you ok?" One of them asked me. "You have a couple of concerned friends out there who were afraid you were in trouble."

"Tell them what you did," my Dad urged me.

"I snuck out of the house when I was grounded," I told them quietly.

"But you look ok."

"Yeah, I'm ok. But I'm even more grounded now."

"You'd be worse than that if you were my kid," he answered. My father gathered a deep-down belly laugh at that. They said good night and closed the door. Nothing more came of the incident.

I never did end up going to the Cinedome with Trent or Doug, or indeed anyone but my own family that one time to see Jurassic Park. I always wanted to have that chance, but collectively since I moved away at 18 years old, I've only been back for a total of 2.5 months in the past 13 years.

Now the curtain closes for the Cinedome for the last time. They plan to tear it down soon. I know that I don't have as many memories there as so many other people, but the fact that it was one of the few constants in my life durring my time in Utah has always stood out like a beacon, reminding me that some things are solid enough to stick around forever.

It's unfortunate that it won't be around forever though. Then again, nothing really is.

Cinedome, you will be missed.

I was GOOGLED!

Through an odd series of events, recently I made a new friend. I wont go into the details of how this acquaintanceship occured, but it's quite the interesting story. This new friend and I email back and forth almost daily about the area where we live (we're neighbors apparently) and some of the oddities of the internet, like Craig's List.

Today an email was sent to me by my new friend that they thought would alarm me, but instead actually managed to flatter me beyond belief. I don't know if that would have been the same, had my blog not been mentioned, but the fact remains that I was flattered.

This friend googled my name, saw a picture of me with a name badge on, zoomed in on the name badge, discovered my twitter name, found me on twitter and then clicked the link leading them to my blog. This long and twisted series of events is about as twisted (though several hours shorter) as how we met in the first place.

It started me thinking.... and you know what happens when I start to think. I start to blog! So, here I am.


Back when I used to model, I was splashed on every Google image search for pages with nothing but my first and last name, sometimes just my first name. I had photos that were in the San Diego Tribune, pictures on ModelOne.com that came up under different photographers, modeling photos for costumes that Lorianne made (think Ren-Faire) and photos people posted once they received my Harley Davidson catalog with my 'autograph' in it (see photo above). They would snap pictures and put them on Flickr. Others had projections of my face from the Queen Mary shoot on walls behind them durring a presentation on Photography. I was everywhere. I wasn't always ok with that, but I was everywhere. That's mostly the reason I'm so cautious with my personal information. I know how easy it is to find me on the internet. The city I'm listed as living in in Los Angeles - Yeah, I've had stalkers.

These days if you type in Amanda Blackwood, you're lucky to come up with two pictures. The first one would be of me dressed as Mary Jane from the 1st Spiderman movie with my ex-husband as spiderman. This is the photo that remains on the San Diego Tribune website from more than 4 years ago now. Yes, that's really me. And yes, it's really on their site. My face actually made a thumbnail on the front page of that news paper.

http://photos.signonsandiego.com/album66/06_G

The other picture is one from last summer when I went to Twestival and worked as a volunteer. I have a reputation for being well dressed at all the events I go to. This event was no exception, as you can see while going through all of the photos this particular photographer has taken of me. He is, hands down, my most favorite photographer I have ever worked with, and will always be a very dear friend of mine. One of these days he's going to bring his Fiance down to Los Angeles so I can finally meet her in person (Michael).


Michael is easily the greatest photographer I've ever worked with, but that isn't built on sheer talent alone. We are friends and have a deep connection, like that of family. That makes me far more at ease with him than I am with most photographers. With Michael, I wasn't afraid to laugh or be silly and goofy - and was actually expected to be that way sometimes. It was ok for me to laugh out loud and I didn't care if he snapped a shot, where most other photographers didn't want to see my teeth because they weren't straight. The picture to the left here is one that Michael took on one of our many adventures.


I've worked with people like Bravo Magic Imaging for several shoots, though a few photos in particular have lived on in the minds of those who followed my modeling career. (to the left - a shoe ad shot by Richie Bravo)

I shot with Jack Fleming when I first started out. He was still getting his "sea legs" in the world of photography when I first met him, but with raw talent and a lot of people who believed in him, he rocketed into the world of celebrity photography and now gets invited to events like Christina Aguillera's baby shower and Tiger Woods at the PGA a couple years ago. He's been able to shoot Jack Nicholson as well - something I understand isn't easy to accomplish. The picture to the left is from the first shoot I ever did with Jack and remains one of my favorites.

I once dated a guy that had an eye for photography. He hadn't been an actual photographer for many years, but he still loved to do it and I was his favorite subject. We shot THOUSANDS of photos over a couple of weeks time. We never ran out of creative ideas and locations to shoot at, and eventually even shot at the Queen Mary. Though it was some time ago now, the memories made while beeing 'spooked out' on the Queen Mary live on.

I've had a lot of fun over the years. From Bravo Magic Image, Jack Fleming, D'Jef Photography, Michael O'Donnell and several other photographers, I had a good run when I decided to be a model. People ask (not that often anymore) why I don't continue to model. They laugh or scoff when I explain that I'm too old. I'm not bitter over the age thing... I proved that I could be a model. In fact, the age cut off is at 24 years old and I didn't do the Harley Davidson catalog until I was 26 years old.

I have nothing left to prove to the Modeling world. I've done it. I've been there, I've seen it.

But I'll admit - I didn't realize until today - I miss getting Googled.

Friends and Heros Have Birthdays Too

When I got the text message, it took a few minutes for my mind to make sense of it. I had been working long, hard hours lately and things weren't clicking into place like they should have.

"Hi Manda Lynn. Today is my Birthday. I am with my mother at my apartment. Doesn't have to [be] today [or] even next week.. But I am very ill. I was close to death..."

His text message cut off there. My mind reeled, my heart raced, and I grabbed for my keys before remembering I knew the town but not the address for where my friend lived. Immediately I sent a text back.

"What is your address. I will come over RIGHT NOW."

His text continued just then.

"... not long ago. But if you were so kind... a Black and White movie night even if at my own [place] in my bedroom with a chaperon would be nice. I miss you."

It took a few minutes to get any other response. I called a mutual friend of ours to let him know what was going on. Instinctively I knew that he would be worried, but for him to do exactly what I had planned on doing myself meant a lot to me AND to my old friend. He told me "get his address, I'll meet you there."

His next text was his address and I made a mad dash for my car. As a bit of an after thought, I tossed my uniform into the passenger seat. Unfolded and thrown violently, it ended in a spread mess from the back of the seat to the floor, dangling like a loose thread from a jacket. I squealed tires out of there.

On my way I made a few calls. I managed to get the night off work through a little effort, and I haphazardly laughed at the condition of my uniform. It didn't matter anyway. I cried my eyes out and swerved through traffic before realizing I was almost out of gas. I had to fill up or I wouldn't make it there!

Still making calls to get the shifts covered at work, I stood outside of his apartment for a few minutes gaining my composure. Our mutual friend arrived with his wife, and the three of us went up.

Here was my dear old friend, laying face down on the couch. His cheek bones protruded, his temples were sunken, his eyes were hollowed out, but he still had those beautiful blue eyes. He looked up at me weakly and smiled. Me being me, I ran to his side and held him for a long time, kneeling on the floor beside him. I kissed his cheek and held him close, telling him that I was glad to see him. He was thin, but he was still very dignified and wise.

At first his concentration was almost gone. He couldn't pay attention to one thought for very long. He had been very ill. Friends and family gathered around, and yet all he could do was talk to his most recently arrived guests. Struggling at first, he sat up tall.

It didn't take long and my dear friend was talking as he normally would. His family noticed a slight change already. He had a spark back to his eyes they hadn't seen in a while.

"I nearly asked her to marry me," he said to our mutual friends about me. He patted me on the knee, kissed my cheek, and smiled a genuine, heart felt, loving smile. I knew in my heart he was joking. Everyone smiled. "She was always so bouncy and fun, she brightened up my day each time I saw her. She made things better," he said, smiling a little more. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheek back.

When I first met this man, he was my boss. He was what my old company called the Post Commander for the Security Operation where I worked. It was my first day and he seemed almost frightened of me. Still, right off the bat we got along.

I worked with a crew of all guys back then. I knew that I wanted to be treated like one of the Guys, I didn't want special treatment from anyone just because I had hips. In order to make a good impression, I did something I hadn't done since childhood...

In the corner of the office in a small glass case sat a very large, very hairy red spider. It was a tarantula to be exact, a Chilean Fire Spider. Instantly I knew how to win Kudo's points with all the guys I was going to be working with. I didn't want them to think me prissy or girly.

"Oooh! Can I hold it?!"

My boss looked up from his paperwork and laughed. "Really?" He sat there, stunned. "Most of the guys scream like little girls and run from the room when she comes out of her terrarium." He laughed to himself.

We had many things in common, this friend and I. We often spent hours after work just talking about old movies and fine cigars. We had moments over the next few months where he and I were able to help one another. We had philosophical and religious conversations and debates. He was the one who made me open my eyes to the thought of being married to my ex for the rest of my life. He made me rethink my decisions and future. He was right. He was and remains a wise man.

He taught me almost everything I know about Security, about being a boss, a leader and a friend all at the same time. He trained me to do the job I'm doing now without my ever knowing it. He told me as we sat there that I had been his greatest success.

"You know," he addressed our friend as he put an arm on my cheek, "I wanted to marry her if she would have me."

Thinking he was either joking or feeling his illness, I chuckled. Our friends smiled. We all moved on.

Evenutally our friends left and I stayed there. I ate with the family, I helped sing Happy Birthday to him, and I cheered him as best I could. Hours later, he repeated those words that rang so clearly in my head, when I told myself he had been joking
around with me.

"Mom, do you remember about a year ago when I told you there was a girl I wanted to ask to marry me?"

"Yes, Honey" she said to him, smiling at me.

"This is her."

Suddenly it dawned on me. I meant so much to this man that he had wanted to marry me. He knew that he wouldn't be around forever and that there really wasn't anything we could do about it, but he wanted to spend what remaining days he had in my company. I cried again, unabashedly, on his shoulder.

He's a fighter. He's not done yet. He even says himself that he's not fulfilled his destiny and he has so much left to do in this world. I'll do everything I can to help him accomplish those goals. I would risk life and limb for this man, as I know he would do for me.

There are certain people in our lives we call friends. Others we call family. There are even some friends that are as close to us as family. This one person, this friend, is so much more than any of those categories. I have loved and cared for this man since the day I met him. He is a true kindred spirit. He would never judge me or "disagree" with how I live my life. I can't imagine this world or this life without him in it.

He is my Friend.
He's been my guide.
He'll always be my hero.




.

Relating to my Writing

Every now and then I get a chance to meet someone or speak to someone who tells me that my writing has in some way inspired them or that they could relate to it in some way. I never know where these things are going to come from next, and the one I got today was from a surprising source – a new employee.

It’s no secret that I love to write. A friend told me a story last night of something she had gone through over the past year or so, and as she spoke my mind whirled with visions of pages in a book. I could clearly define each chapter in my mind and told her at the end of the story that we should collaborate. It would be a wonderful romantic comedy with a dramatic twist or two in it. She inspired me – which for some reason hasn’t been easy to do these days. I've been very distracted by something going on in my own life, including writing a new book about two people who fell in love against all odds. It has a very happy ending to it. Still, it seems like everything I write lately in a public forum is about or pertains to love or a mysterious number of days until something big happens.

So imagine my surprise today when, in random conversation with a new employee, I started spouting off a poem I’ve not heard or said in many years.


Why is love like a sandy beach
Not to far but hard to reach?
Hard to reach and hard to hold
Hard to keep your heart a whole.

Bad luck comes to those who stand
Gripping tightly to slipping sand.
Good luck comes to those who wait
And hold out their hands in a childlike state.

They wait there
So patient and kind
Never aware
Of the treasures they find.

A broken shell
Cracked and old
Isn’t to pretty
And rather cold

But turn it over,
That broken thing,
And listen to
The ocean sing!

So why is love
So like the beach?
Not far away,
But so hard to reach?

Don’t hold too tightly
To things so dear,
If it’s mean to be,
There's no need to fear!


At the end, he asked me who wrote it. I could tell from the look on his face that he had expected to hear a name he would recognize; Dickenson, Frost, Stevenson… but I would NEVER compare my own work to any of them. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him that I was only 13 years old when I wrote that poem.

I had found yet another someone who appreciated my writing!! I explained the story of the book I wrote, how it was swept away in the uHaul in the Summer with everything else I owned, and how I had random samples online. Intrigued, he wanted to hear more.

The pieces I chose were dark and worrisome, I will admit. I find that I'm often at my best when in a morose or dark mood. I chose another poem titled Silhouette of Margaret, which I wrote in a fit of boredom one day in 2006, and the “Other Perspective” piece I did from another point of view over the end of a relationship. In both cases, he was drawn in. He identified with the negativity in the Other Perspective, and explained how it was a roller coaster when I was reading Silhouette of Margaret, emotional highs and lows, always wanting to know what happened next. I never thought so much of that one, but I have known a few people to really enjoy it. I think that’s why I chose it.

After the “Other Perspective” piece, he felt the need to talk to me. He confided in me and I took some pride in that. He had identified enough with my writing to feel comfortable telling me about his home life. I knew that, if my words never touched another soul from here on out, my work was done. Someone in the world felt like they weren’t so alone anymore. That’s all it’s ever been about for me.

There have been times that I have felt so alone and so empty that all I really had were my stories and writing. I wanted so much to tell others what I was going through so that if they ever experienced anything similar, they would know that they were never alone.

I’ve been lucky enough to reach a few people. It’s the greatest gift I could be given. I reached yet another today. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to reach another tomorrow. Perhaps the day after, too. Maybe even the day after that. But I reached one today. That's enough for now.

UPDATE

A sincere thanks from a friend of mine who read this... This honestly brought tears to my eyes. I hope my friend doesn't mind, but I wanted to share...

"You have touched me with your writing, shown me that with courage you can move on with life through difficult times, and face a future brighter than ever expected. Thank you"