Ain't Life Grand?

My neighbor is an energetic woman, a nurse, an avid walker, a gardener.  She is trim and attractive as well as active. She is often seen playing Pickle Ball with kids in the yard. 

Her garden, though, is her hallmark.  Packed with perennials that start with crocus and daffodils before the snows have melted away, she has a pallet of ever-changing colors blooming through October.  Trees, flowers, and grasses explode like summer fireworks expanding in the sky before they slowly die out to make room for the next show of color.  Sitting in my sunroom, I mark the changing seasons by the state of her garden. 

I think my next door neighbor has a boyfriend.  I first noticed something going on a few weeks ago.  A silver pick-up would drive slowly by several times a day.  Up the street, down the street, moving at a snail's pace, the pick-up once slowed to a stop in front of her house before driving away.  

Spring has been slow to arrive this year.  Snow, heavy rain, cold temperatures and winds have forced the intrepid crocus and bold daffodils to hide out a bit longer.  Last week, a break in the weather brought her out to the garden.  She assessed its state, trudged to her shed and pulled out the tools of her passion.  She only worked for a few minutes before she disappeared into the house.  Perhaps an hour later, she reappeared, a man following behind.  She led him to the shed and I watched as he pulled out the heavier gardening equipment and together, they worked the garden.  He followed her cues and instructions and slowly the garden was cleaned up and ready for spring.  They laughed together, worked quietly together and then she led him to the memorial stone the neighbors bought to remember her deceased husband.  He stood in respect.  He put his arm around her and gave her a hug and then they walked back to the house where he started the grill while she retired to the kitchen to prep burgers.
They ate out on the deck.  In her driveway, a silver pick-up.

My neighbor is in her mid 70s.  Ain't life grand?

The Sacrificial Dinner(s)

My 31st wedding anniversary is fast approaching.  I married Moondoggy, my high school sweetheart thirty-one years ago and I have never regretted that decisions ever.  He has never done anything so heinous, stupid or thoughtless that I can't overlook.  Except maybe this; last week he called me "Gran".  Not because we are grandparents (we aren't. . .yet) but because I shared information with him that he apparently decided was reminiscent of his own grandmother whom they called Gran.

Gran lived with Moondoggy, his mom and his brothers - his mom was her caretaker.  Gran was wheelchair bound but got around the house by walking her feet along the floor as her body, in the chair, followed.  Gran liked being self sufficient and therefore could be found in the kitchen often frying various foods for meal.  She would put whatever food in a frying pan with a little Crisco and fry it up.  Food like peas; frozen peas, that when they hit the hot pan actually spit flames and burned the kitchen.  But that isn't why he called me Gran.

Once a week, I would have dinner at Moondoggy's house.  A sit down family affair with all four boys and meat, potatoes, vegetables and milk.  During my first meal there, Gran wheeled in, took her spot and looked at me, "Who's this?" she asked in a her gravely, loud 90 year old voice and Moondoggy answered, "It's Judi, Gran.  My girlfriend."

Looking me directly in the eye, she asked, "Ever been to South Dakota?"  I politely replied, "no," and she goes on to tell me she was raised there, lived in a sod house as a little girl, hard work, snakes, outhouses.  I sat and listened without eating as she spoke to me - because my parents taught me to be polite. No one else said a word, apparently enjoying their food.

The next week, I was back.  Gran wheels in as we take out seats and asks, "Who's this?"  Dave answers as he did the week previous.  Then she asks, "Ever been to South Dakota?" And we repeat the same scene again, no one saying a word as she spoke.  This time, I snuck in a few bites of dinner as everyone else enjoyed their full meal.

The next week was like someone had hit "Rewind" and then "Play."  This time as Gran asked the opening question and Moondoggy identified me and she began to ask if I had ever been to South Dakota, I looked around the table seeking asylum from Moondoggy, any one of his three brothers - even his mom.  I looked at them with pleading eyes, "Help me, here."  And this is what happened:

I looked at Moondoggy and he dropped his head as if studying his plate before starting to eat.  Then I looked at both of his older brothers who both dropped their heads, fully "occupied" with the meal. I looked at his little brother, well schooled apparently as he pushed corn around his plate.  I looked at their mother, the daughter of Gran, the one I thought I could count on to understand.  She, too, dropped her head and began to eat.  Again, Gran posed the question, "Ever been to South Dakota?"  and I am stuck answering and listening like a scene from Ground Hogs Day while everyone enjoys their meal fully aware that I, alone, am making it possible.  They've heard the story, they tell me with their actions, you're on your own.

Last week while driving down the road that hugs a river, I thought I would point out the most recent eagle's nest I discovered on the route.  As we approached, I explained that if you look carefully, you can see the male sitting in the nest, his white head popped above the rim.  I spoke with animation and admiration.  They were on the Endangered Species list, you know.  Moondoggy reached over, grabbed my hand and said in his best gravely voice, "Ever been to South Dakota?"

Point Taken.

NEWS*NEWS*NEWS

Publisher's Weekly reviewed by book, No Such Thing as it was submitted to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA).  A Quarter Finalists, this is what PW said:

ABNA Publishers Weekly Reviewer

Young boys are disappearing in Detroit, boys with no families or homes. Boys like Tim, who skateboards in a store parking lot nearly every day. But one Fall afternoon, this proves to be the wrong choice. The killer is never found, but this novel creates a scenario to explain what might have happened. Sydney, newly divorced, has come home to Detroit to write a book about the Purple Gang, a notorious mob of bootleggers from Detroit’s Prohibition Era. She decides to rent the house where she spent part of her childhood and where her mother went mad; the house where her family stopped being a unit after her mother was committed to a mental institution. Then Sydney begins to hear voices. Are these the very ghosts her mother swore existed? Or is she plagued with her mother’s problem? Part ghost story, part thriller, this book engages from the first paragraph. Set in modern day Detroit, the city becomes a character of the novel. Sydney’s detailed memory provides quite a comparison between the city where she grew up and the Detroit of the present. The plot -- woman goes home to find answers only to find more questions, danger, and murder -- has a fantastic spin with the addition of paranormal activity. The characters Sydney, Tim, Jack -- Sydney’s brother -- and Thor -- Sydney’s dog -- are brilliantly developed with strong individual voices. The points of view of Sydney and Jack reflect the different truths experienced by two children raised under the same roof. The house itself becomes a spirit to be reckoned with. This superb story has many layers and well developed characters and makes for thrilling reading.

Grandma Has a Crush on Steven Tyler

My grandmother died in the early 80s.  She was a not a cuddly woman by any means, she was stoic and proper. She was unusual in that she was the wife of a retired naval captain, well traveled and a professor of music at USC in the mid 1920s.  She was not so unusual in that she tended toward a rounded figure, wore polyester dresses with matching jackets and covered buttons, sensible shoes and had a standing appointment at the hairdresser for bluing, wash, curl and comb out.  She looked like a typical old lady. This picture is necessary to understand something I recently experienced.

Moondoggy and I became the recipients of two tickets to see the Ten Tenors at the McCallum Theater in Palm Desert, CA.  It was a matinee show attracting an abundance of elderly people there to enjoy the remarkable talent these men showcase.  And so, we sat in our seats mid theater and as I waited for the show to begin, I surveyed the crowd.  In the box seat that hovered over stage left, there was a woman, sitting ram rod straight, pocketbook on her lap. hair newly styled with a bluish gray cast.  She was the spitting image of my grandmother.The house lights went down, stage lights up and the Ten Tenors came out singing something from some opera.  I don't know because I was mesmerized by this lady in the box.  Like the Queen of England, she offered her rapt attention as they crooned several songs.

The Ten Tenors are a blend of voices that create incredible sound whether it is an operatic piece or contemporary artists.  As the show continued they moved from pieces like Ave Maria to Elton John, the Beatles and even Aerosmith.  Their rendition of "Yesterday" was compelling and had the audience singing along.  I looked up and yep, even the grandma was moving her lips.  They transitioned to Elton John and I noticed the grandma actually swaying and clapping in time to the music as they sang.  It made me happy to know that she could appreciate the contemporary as well as the classical stuff.  Then, one of the Tenors announced their last song,"Love in an Elevator" by Aerosmith.  Uh oh, I thought, this may be where grandma leaves.

Several colored lights swirled across the stage as the guys regrouped and started to sing.  And when that happened, this crowd of matinee going senior citizens went crazy.  People stood, they danced, they swayed.  I looked at the grandma in the box seat and I swear to all that is true in the world, she was not only singing and playing air guitar as she was draping her pink polyester suited body over the railing, she screamed, "I love Steven Tyler" and then took out her iphone and produced a "flame" from her lighter app.

Well, I was stunned, to say the least.  I was impressed that this older crowd had such an appreciation of "MY" music.  Then I realized, perhaps these older people weren't appreciating my music. . .they were enjoying THEIR music which makes all of us old, I guess.

AND  GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!

A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman

Confession of a March Madness Housewife

I have a confession.  I am a March Madness addict.  I come by it honestly though.  My grandfather was a well loved basketball coach (Danville HS, 1950 State Tournament Final Two) and co-wrote a book on the subject, Fundamentals and Techniques For Winning Basketball.  Decades after he retired, he would still stand in front of the TV during a game and pace as if he were still coaching.  It was how he watched the game.  My father played the game.  This time of year we base our social interactions between games.  Priorities. 

I come by it honestly.  I have, however bastardized my own fanaticism into a shorter season.  I haven't watch pro BB since the Bulls were on top.  I don't pay too much attention to the college season.  In fact, I have always maintained that the most exciting part of the game is in the last 10 minutes.  For that reason, I don't care to watch the first half of any game.  What's the point?  I know I am going to get a lot of rebounds from that, but truly, what does the first half do but waste time, tire out the players and frustrate the fans?  If they could just cut it to the last 10 minutes, the 3 weeks of March Madness could be no more than 5 days.  Ok, I realize I am not taking into account the dollars generated in advertising et. al.  I get it.  I'm just sayin' is all.

I have my bracket all filled out and ready to go.  I don't get into a pool anymore.  I hate losing money.  So, instead, I happily fill out my bracket and doggedly follow the games, circling my winners and exing out my losers.  I base my picks on the science of emotion.  I am a Michigan girl, I always pull the Michigan teams to the second round, at least.  I like the east coast better as a general rule so I always favor the teams from that side of the country.  And I always choose Gonzaga to go to the final 4.  Gonzaga.  I love saying it, love the way it sounds.  So, there you go.  I won't reveal my other picks for the final four, that is between me and my bracket. I will get excited, I will have disappointments and I will behave just like my dad and grandfather.  I'm proud of that. I just wish it wasn't three full weeks.

AND  GUESS WHAT!
My book, No Such Thing has been selected as a Quarter Finalist in
The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award!

A Free sample is available here:
http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N3SKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1363875876&sr=1-5&keywords=judi+coltman

Tape a Cheetah to My Back

My Inner Athlete used to be very active: skiing, kickboxing, biking, weights, you name it she was doing it until sometime in the early 2000s.  Then, she saw the light and instead of attempting to shame me into joining her (it didn't work. . .I know my place-- it's
 on the beach. . .in a chair), she joined me.  Together we'd hit the sand, lie back and relax, sip wine.  It was a happy union.
I'm not sure what Inner Athlete has been spiking my wine with, but our relationship has changed without my even realizing it.  I have been duped.  Last August I started "running" using the Couch to 5K program; a program that turns you into a runner in spite of yourself and I have surpassed the 5K mark - heading toward 10K.  All of this has happened while IA stood on the sidelines with her back to me, glass in hand, pretending she didn't even notice.  She didn't say a word about it, just continued to sip wine with me, lamenting the winter months and yearning for sun.  DIDN'T SAY A WORD. . .until I needed new running shoes and then she started peppering my speech with words like "pressure sensors" and "mid-strike", whispering in my ear to buy the "good" running shoes because my feet would thank me (and they have).

Inner Athlete re-emerged in full force last weekend while in California. She grabbed my hand and dragged me full speed down the road to watch a triathalon.  The participants swim through the local lake, bike through a 14 mile course and run 3 miles to finish.  I stood on the corner as these athletes came riding by in all ages, shapes and sizes and the thought that I can do this quietly presented itself.  IA whispered in my ear, "Yessss, you caaannn."  I pondered the idea, concerned about my speed. . .or lack thereof.  I wouldn't do it to win, that's never gonna happen, but I would do it just to do it.  I am a strong swimmer, I love to bike and I can run 3 miles now.  I could do this.

And so I am.  Next year's Desert Triathalon has another participant.  I turned to IA and sneered, "This is all your fault."  She laughed.  I said, "What if I am so slow that they pack up before I am finished?"

She laughed again,"We could always tape a cheetah to your back."

IA is such a smart ass.

Call It What you Will. . .

Menopause.  The Change of Life.  The Critical Period (or really lack thereof).  Whatever you want to call it, I've been ready for it since the day I gave birth to my last child.  No more children; no need for the uterus, the fallopians or ovaries.  I was ready to yank them out and donate them to an organ bank a long time ago.  My gynocologist, however, wasn't in agreement.  So, I toiled on until now.

I've had some symptoms for awhile.  Hot?  All the time (southerners call it "my own personal summer").  Itchy? Check.  But really, the bitchy and forgetful part haven't been so bad. I've been fairly open and ready to poke fun at myself when the sniping bitch rears her head and am quick to spin it back into position. In fact, I pride myself on quick thinking and innovative action.

Last week, a friend dropped by with little notice. I had enough time to pick up the dog toys, put the extra dirty dished in the oven and make a fresh pot of coffee.  And, we had a delightful visit, talking about, of all things, our experiences with The Change.  Her biggest complaint is her swiss cheese memory, which her children are quick to point out when it involves something they claim they have already told her.  You know, things like I'm having fifteen people over tonight, will you cook something?

That evening when Moondoggy came home, I told him of the visit, laughing at the funny stories my friend shared.  I preheated the oven for dinner, then continued the conversation, asking in a somber tone if I had been successful at not being overly moody or bitchy.  Moondoggy assured me, my bitch has been painless and sometimes downright funny.  I felt pretty darn proud of myself.

Proud, until I smelled melting plastic.  The dishes!  I had left them in the oven and forgotten.  My white plastic colander was dripping through the oven grates and pooling on the oven floor at a temperature of 375˚.  The stench overpowering.

I was stunned.  How could I forget?

Moondoggy grabbed his coat and brought me mine.  As he helped me put it on he said, "You know, you only asked about being bitchy, you didn't ask me about how your memory has been."

And The Beat Goes On. . .

Often, during the oppressive days of the summers of my youth, the neighbors with pools would run up a flag signaling that the pool was open.  Like vultures, we would ride around the neighborhood, circling, waiting for the flags so we could pedal home and drag our parents to the neighbor's pool.  We would play games: Marco Polo, Shark, Underwater Tea Party.  And when there was nothing left to do, we’d ask our mom  (who had grown up as the oldest child in her family) to “Judge” our underwater handstands.  Enjoying the poolside herself, she would assign arbitrary numbers to our attempts as a form of judgement without using any uniform criteria.  In other words, she was making it up as we went along.  And it worked.  We would repeatedly attempt to better our score.  As the older child, I caught on to what she was doing so that when I got tired, I joined her at the side of the pool and “helped” her continue to judge my little sister until she was thoroughly spent. I knew the game was over.

When my kids were small and bored and looking to expend extra energy, I would tell them to run around the house and I would time them.  I’d sit on the front stoop and when they returned, assign an arbitrary number for which they would then attempt to beat.  Around the period where my oldest could tell time, he caught on to what I was doing so that when he was tired, he would sit with me and check his watch while his younger brother continued to run around the house in attempt to better his time. (In all fairness, youngest did take the State Championship in the 4x400 at the State Track Meet in his junior year of HS.) My oldest son knew the game was over.

Yesterday, a cold, windy, blecky day, I was home.  No longer a child, my own children grown and out of the house, I pulled the same trick on my dogs.  I stood at the top of the steps and tossed a ball down.  The dogs chased the ball, ran it up the steps and I’d toss it again.  Finally, they figured out they could do it all themselves.  Drop the ball, chase it down and return to the top only to drop it again.  My older dog (12 pounds, age 11) kept pace fairly well, but the “baby” (5 months, 28 pounds) has boundless energy.  On the final toss down the steps, the oldest was in the lead, got the ball, returned to the top of the stairs, ran into the living room (with the baby right behind him) and pushed the ball under the couch where neither of them can reach.  Then, he ran back to the stairs and pretended to drop the ball, sending the baby back down the stairs and on a frantic search.  Older dog curled up on the couch. Game over.