The official blog of Denise M. Baran-Unland, author. Discover her books for all ages at bryonyseries.com.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Alert! The Irish Vampire Association is Meddling with "Bryony" Sales!
Deareset MOMI (Mistress of My Immortality):
Forgive the silence between this email and the last but in my frantic conversations with the IVA (Irish Vampires Association), the lake front property grab of greedy investors that have realized the climate change to occur in the Sahara region (five hundred years from now and counting; buy while it’s cheap) and the lack of attention historians have given to the role of beer, I've forgotten the invention of email.
Forgive the silence between this email and the last but in my frantic conversations with the IVA (Irish Vampires Association), the lake front property grab of greedy investors that have realized the climate change to occur in the Sahara region (five hundred years from now and counting; buy while it’s cheap) and the lack of attention historians have given to the role of beer, I've forgotten the invention of email.
The IVA is quickly becoming a organization of worry warts and is now
concerned that too many copies of Bryony are being sold too quickly. My
assertion that Denise doesn't hold that opinion has done little to quell the
fear.
Consider their perspective. How many copies of The Iliad
sold in its first year? Since no form of Greek writing existed, we know for a
fact the answer is "zero." But a mere six hundred years later, the tale made the
Roman “best seller” list,” and no aristocrat was caught dead without a
translated copy.
The IVA has seen this happen to numerous books and has true
reservations of how many copies of Bryony will be available one million years form now.
(Remember, I did predict the book would be worth six mil two thousand years
from now.)
Now Denise, much could be done on your part if you raised
the price by a thousand percent or simply promise not to print any more copies
two hundred years after your death. The later option could be done in the form
of a will.
Ruthlessly yours,
Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara
Friday, September 28, 2012
"The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes (First published in the August 1906 issue of Blackwood's Magazine, Edinburgh, Scotland.
PART ONE
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
PART ONE
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Extra Post: "Schedule Changes and Pets."
In Bryony, Melissa's Brian oversees the care of two pets. One is a small brown and white rescue dog; the other is a blue-eyed white cat with a strange neck tilt.
Although both animals appear to adjust well to the Marchellis household, many pets exhibit negative behaviors when their normal routine becomes distrupted.
Since no one's household operates exactly the same way day after day, this story I wrote for the Herald News in Joliet, Illinois offers suggestions for keeping Fido happy, secure, and well-behaved when home situations fluctuate.
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15289749-423/changes-in-schedule-can-upset-your-pets.html
Although both animals appear to adjust well to the Marchellis household, many pets exhibit negative behaviors when their normal routine becomes distrupted.
Since no one's household operates exactly the same way day after day, this story I wrote for the Herald News in Joliet, Illinois offers suggestions for keeping Fido happy, secure, and well-behaved when home situations fluctuate.
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15289749-423/changes-in-schedule-can-upset-your-pets.html
The Return of Sir Frederick Chook
Several years ago, while researching certain elements for
Bryony, I stumbled upon a delightful blog called Frilly Shirt: The Collected
Works of Sir Frederick Chook, a Gentleman (www.frillyshirt.org).
Living the Foppish Life: Here
He also wrote an original, absolutely hilarious piece
exclusively for BryonySeries. Read Of
Diets Most Diabolical Here
According to his site, Sir Frederick Chook is a foppish, transcendentalistic
historian who lives variously by his wits, hand to mouth, la vie bohème, and in
Melbourne with his wife, Lady Tanah Merah.
When not reading Milton and eating Stilton, he writes,
ponders, models, delves into dusty archives, and gads about town. He has
dabbled in student radio and in national politics, and is presently studying
the ways of the shirt-sleeved archivist. He is a longhair, aspiring to one day
be a greybeard. He has, once or twice, been described as “as mad as a bicycle.”
FrillyShirt is a compilation of articles, essays, reviews,
photographs, artworks, question-and-answers, promotions, travelogues,
diatribes, spirit journeys, cartoons, ululations and celebrations by Sir
Frederick, his friends and contributing readers. Irregularly regular features
include Teacup in a Storm, an etiquette column, and How to be Lovely, advanced
speculations on the aesthetics of the self.
Other topics that pop up include fun things in and around
Melbourne, art, nature, history, politics and schnauzers. Sir Frederick’s
favorite color is all of them.
Two years ago, in a bold, impetuous moment, I fired off a
telegram to Sir Chook and inquired his availability for an interview regarding
dandyism, foppery, and all fun things clothes. He consented, and I published
the resulting conversation here:
Dandy or Fop: Here
Dandyism, Fashion, and Art: Here
The Lure of the nineteenth Century: Here
Living the Foppish Life: Here
Since then, Sir Chook allowed me to reprint two posts that
complemented Bryony:
So you've Traveled Back in Time: Here
Po'Boy and the Arcane Practices of History: Here
Since various tasks keep the gracious Sir busy at the
present time for additional commentaries especially for Bryony, he’s granted me
permission to dip into the FrillyShirt archives and republish such works as
might interest present day Bryony fans. Look for them on Tuesdays.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Extra Post: "A Great Lady"
One of the regular features I write for the Heald News in Joliet, Illinois, is a column called An Extraordinary Life.
Since 2001, I've enjoyed the opportunity to immortalize the inspiring and interesting lives of local people who recently passed.
The story that ran today showcased a woman of marvelous artistic talent, a woman who used that talent in remarkable ways in her community after she raised ten children.
Read the full story here:
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15288468-423/eugenia-bank-remembered-as-a-great-lady.html
Since 2001, I've enjoyed the opportunity to immortalize the inspiring and interesting lives of local people who recently passed.
The story that ran today showcased a woman of marvelous artistic talent, a woman who used that talent in remarkable ways in her community after she raised ten children.
Read the full story here:
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15288468-423/eugenia-bank-remembered-as-a-great-lady.html
So What Happened to the Great Makeup Experiment?
It’s, uh, on hold.
Turned out the Midwest drought wrecked havoc on allergic
people (like me). Despite daily high doses of antihistamines to combat chronic
hives, my eyes, nose, and throat rebelliously behaved as if I’d played purist
and shunned all medication.
So I’m waiting for frost to kill every living green thing
and for the itching, swelling, and congestion to depart. No point in slathering
myself with new products when my skin labors under the throes of histamine
overload.
Of course, by the time seasonal allergies settle down, I
figure a slew of winter viruses will wage war on my system, yet again delaying
a trip into cosmetic investigation and the playing with an endless array of
colorful facial paints, brushes, sponges...the birthright of women everywhere
since the garden.
Soooo glad I’m not allergic to keyboards, mice, and
monitors.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Ed Calkins Plans His Christmas List
Dearest MOMI (Mistress of My immortality)
I fear I will need at least thirty-five copies of the next book and
ten copies of the first for this Christmas. If there is a way that I can buy
these copies directly from the author, I would like to do that as it will add
to their collectiblity.
Of course, I am counting on my Christmas tips from the newspaper route to fund this
investment. Interesting, most of the copies I gave were read promtly, but not
completely. Many jumped to the page with my picture, read that first, then put
the book down for a few months.
Only now are most people finished, all wondering how the
next book might link with the first and still contain Ed Calkins since John
Simons might no longer be a vampire. (Of all those who read the first book, they
would like to have the second.)
For my part, it would be a spoiler, don't tell me. Let me
read the whole book when I buy it.
Yours ruthlessly,
Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara
Friday, September 21, 2012
"The Haunted Palace" by Edgar Allen Poe
The Haunted Palace by Edgar Allan Poe (1839)
In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
The Strange Tale of Pheo and Poly
I was in the middle of a reading lesson with Daniel when Christopher, who had been going through medical testing for nine months, called my cell phone.
"Hey, they figured out what I've got," Christopher said. "Bet you've never heard of this one."
I set down Daniel's reader and motioned him to take a break. "Doubtful."
"Polycythemia vera."
"Whoa, that's awesome, especially since I write vampire stories. I not only know what it is, I know how they treat it."
Christopher was only mildly surprised. "How?"
"Good old-fashioned remedy straight out of the Middle Ages. They bleed you."
Since 2010, my oldest son has required biweekly to monthly (more in hot weather) phlebotomies to remove several pints of blood to keep his red blood cell count under control. If he goes too long between treatments, his veins literally become as engorged as Count Dracula himself after a fun night out on the town.
These treatments will probably be lifelong, and he's only thirty. At the time of diagnosis, Christopher's hematologist told him he'd already experienced several minor heart attacks.
And here we thought inactivity caused his adolescent hypertension!
I had previously studied polycythemia vera years ago years ago while researching possible cause of my chronic hives. These had come at the same time I had the pheochromocytoma (a rare, benign, often fatal tumor of usually--but not always--the adrenal gland), although I'll save the story of how I found the tumor (Yes, me) for another post.
After I had the pheochromocytoma and had developed the thyroid nodule, I then began researching family medical history (Three of my grandparents had died relatively young of vague, abdominal tumors) and the multiple endocrine neoplasias. I have six children, so the genetic component, for their sakes, fascinated me.
It now looks like I may have found a connection. This is so cool! In 2009, seven years after my tumor, research showed that an is association between with paraganglioma (pheochromocytoma outside the adrenal gland) and polycythemia due to a inherited mutation in the gene PHD2.
http://drpheo.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-story-of-para-and-poly-are-they.html
"Hey, they figured out what I've got," Christopher said. "Bet you've never heard of this one."
I set down Daniel's reader and motioned him to take a break. "Doubtful."
"Polycythemia vera."
"Whoa, that's awesome, especially since I write vampire stories. I not only know what it is, I know how they treat it."
Christopher was only mildly surprised. "How?"
"Good old-fashioned remedy straight out of the Middle Ages. They bleed you."
Since 2010, my oldest son has required biweekly to monthly (more in hot weather) phlebotomies to remove several pints of blood to keep his red blood cell count under control. If he goes too long between treatments, his veins literally become as engorged as Count Dracula himself after a fun night out on the town.
These treatments will probably be lifelong, and he's only thirty. At the time of diagnosis, Christopher's hematologist told him he'd already experienced several minor heart attacks.
And here we thought inactivity caused his adolescent hypertension!
I had previously studied polycythemia vera years ago years ago while researching possible cause of my chronic hives. These had come at the same time I had the pheochromocytoma (a rare, benign, often fatal tumor of usually--but not always--the adrenal gland), although I'll save the story of how I found the tumor (Yes, me) for another post.
After I had the pheochromocytoma and had developed the thyroid nodule, I then began researching family medical history (Three of my grandparents had died relatively young of vague, abdominal tumors) and the multiple endocrine neoplasias. I have six children, so the genetic component, for their sakes, fascinated me.
It now looks like I may have found a connection. This is so cool! In 2009, seven years after my tumor, research showed that an is association between with paraganglioma (pheochromocytoma outside the adrenal gland) and polycythemia due to a inherited mutation in the gene PHD2.
Now for the really fun part. Two patients with both conditions that did not seem to have the mutations have something really interesting going on. Check this out:
http://drpheo.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-story-of-para-and-poly-are-they.html
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death," by Emily Dickinson
Because I Could Not Stop for Death by Emily Dickinson
Published posthumously in 1890
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
Published posthumously in 1890
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me.The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Balm for a Broken Heart
Last night I interviewed three people for two Herald News stories that, on the surface, sound like gloomy topics: a fundraiser for Joliet Area Community Hospice and my An Extraordinary Life column.
Certainly, I was in the mood for "gloomy." As a family, we'ved move through crisis after crisis the last couple of years, and as we're speeding into the thick of it, the number of trials we must meet is increasing, and that's no suprise. We're not complaining.
Several good friends are experiencing their share of sorrows and challenges, too, and we try to uphold each other the best we can, although, with struggling through the muck of my own dilemnas, I find myself often blundering through the consolation process. Such, I guess, is life, at least, for now.
Anyway, my oldest son Timothy accompanied me to a local restaurant for the meeting. I had given him an overview of what to expect. He and I anticipated sadness; we left still glowing from these people's upbeat enthusiasm for life.
Although tragedy spurred both of these stories, for without two deaths there would be no stories, it could not claim or control it. I'm not denying no one didn't momentarily choke up, but the overall message these three people delivered, the motto that steers their lives, is live each moment you're alive.
No, that wasn't a lightening flash of a new idea. Yes, as a family, our twisted sense of humor gets us past some rather grim times. Nevertheless, while we're thrashing about our own death throes, the opportunity to bask in the presence of three people who "get it" and most importantly "live it" refreshed us beyond words.
Looking forward to posting links to both stories after their publication.
Certainly, I was in the mood for "gloomy." As a family, we'ved move through crisis after crisis the last couple of years, and as we're speeding into the thick of it, the number of trials we must meet is increasing, and that's no suprise. We're not complaining.
Several good friends are experiencing their share of sorrows and challenges, too, and we try to uphold each other the best we can, although, with struggling through the muck of my own dilemnas, I find myself often blundering through the consolation process. Such, I guess, is life, at least, for now.
Anyway, my oldest son Timothy accompanied me to a local restaurant for the meeting. I had given him an overview of what to expect. He and I anticipated sadness; we left still glowing from these people's upbeat enthusiasm for life.
Although tragedy spurred both of these stories, for without two deaths there would be no stories, it could not claim or control it. I'm not denying no one didn't momentarily choke up, but the overall message these three people delivered, the motto that steers their lives, is live each moment you're alive.
No, that wasn't a lightening flash of a new idea. Yes, as a family, our twisted sense of humor gets us past some rather grim times. Nevertheless, while we're thrashing about our own death throes, the opportunity to bask in the presence of three people who "get it" and most importantly "live it" refreshed us beyond words.
Looking forward to posting links to both stories after their publication.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Forever Remembered....
In Bryony, Melissa's younger brother twice experiences the loss of a beloved pet, and both times he's deeply affected by the experience. Fortunately for Brian, he has a mentor, Steve Barnes, to navigate him through those choppy waters.
Research shows people grieve the loss of a companion animal with the same intensity as for a close relative. Unfortunately, society as a whole does not always understand how a person, especially when that person is a man, can so deeply mourn a cat or a dog. After all, it's not a human being, right?
Each week since 2001, I've written a column, An Extraordinary Life, which memorializes a local, recently deceased person that has lived an interesting and/or an inspiring life. This means each week I'm talking to at least one grieving person about a loved one that has recently passed. I allow plenty of time for these interviews.
For a short time, another writer was offering a similiar feature on the newspaper's pet page, but the writer had difficulty consistently coming up with stories. I offered to do it, but the editor was lukewarm about the feature, and she ultimately dropped it.
When I'm interviewing people for An Extraordinary Life, I'm allowing people to express the happy times they remember with their loved one, which does help them work through their grief. Most of them, men and women, end up crying, then aopolgize for doing it. I reassure and encourage them otherwise. Often, they share details about their loved one's death, but I never press for those details. It is rarely the focus of the story.
Until last week.
For along time, I've wanted to write a story about the sadness one feels at the loss of a pet and then offer healthy ways to move through it. Sorrow, though, can be a tricky subject to discuss because too many of us are uncomfortable expressing it, especially to a reporter and especially when those wounds are still very much open and raw. This is the first story where I've specifically asked someone to expound upon his sorrow. I give him props. Most of us would rather not be that vulnerable and transparent.
So if you're grieving, or have ever grieved a pet, or if you're unsure how to address the topic with your child, check out this story. The account is not only openly honest, it contains some wonderful ideas for making a smooth transition from pain to healing.
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15055877-423/forever-remembered.html
Research shows people grieve the loss of a companion animal with the same intensity as for a close relative. Unfortunately, society as a whole does not always understand how a person, especially when that person is a man, can so deeply mourn a cat or a dog. After all, it's not a human being, right?
Each week since 2001, I've written a column, An Extraordinary Life, which memorializes a local, recently deceased person that has lived an interesting and/or an inspiring life. This means each week I'm talking to at least one grieving person about a loved one that has recently passed. I allow plenty of time for these interviews.
For a short time, another writer was offering a similiar feature on the newspaper's pet page, but the writer had difficulty consistently coming up with stories. I offered to do it, but the editor was lukewarm about the feature, and she ultimately dropped it.
When I'm interviewing people for An Extraordinary Life, I'm allowing people to express the happy times they remember with their loved one, which does help them work through their grief. Most of them, men and women, end up crying, then aopolgize for doing it. I reassure and encourage them otherwise. Often, they share details about their loved one's death, but I never press for those details. It is rarely the focus of the story.
Until last week.
For along time, I've wanted to write a story about the sadness one feels at the loss of a pet and then offer healthy ways to move through it. Sorrow, though, can be a tricky subject to discuss because too many of us are uncomfortable expressing it, especially to a reporter and especially when those wounds are still very much open and raw. This is the first story where I've specifically asked someone to expound upon his sorrow. I give him props. Most of us would rather not be that vulnerable and transparent.
So if you're grieving, or have ever grieved a pet, or if you're unsure how to address the topic with your child, check out this story. The account is not only openly honest, it contains some wonderful ideas for making a smooth transition from pain to healing.
http://heraldnews.suntimes.com/lifestyles/15055877-423/forever-remembered.html
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
"Meeting at Night," by Robert Browning
Meeting at Night by Robert Browing
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
That's My Plot Line, Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
There's nothing more scary to writers (well, at least to this writer) than to watch a movie or read a book and see your unique plot line unfold in someone else's work.
That almost happened to me yesterday.
Because it was a holiday and because I was (almost) caught up with work, Bryony's assistant online administrator Rebekah Baran and I happily engaged in a fifteen episode marathon of Once Upon Time over a thirty-six hour period.
For those unfamiliar with the premise, Once Upon a Time is the story of bail bonds collector Emma Swan who spontaneously goes to Storybooke, Maine, when Henry, the child she gave up for adoption years ago, appears at her door with a book of fairy tales that he claims represents everyone in Storybooke. Henry's adopted mother, Storybooke's mayor, is really Snow White's evil stepmother, who is holding the characters hostage with a curse in order to "get back" at Snow White and Prince Charming. Only Snow and Charming's daughter, who escaped the curse soon after birth by being hidden in a magic tree, can break the curse. Emma is that daughter.
Bryony's online administrator Sarah Stegall had turned us onto the show back in the fall, but when the fresh and fun storylines turned stale and unpredictable, Rebekah and I abandoned the show...until Rebekah learned it had been renewed for another season.
I was incredulous. "How?"
Rebekah was nonchalant. "Sarah said it got better."
Of course, I was intrigued. We knew what we must do to gear up for fall. So we did. As the television mesmerized us, a very familiar plot twist took shape, and my blood really did run cold. I couldn't believe it. All my hard work on a part of the BryonySeries not yet published was about to appear before my eyes. I did what any normal writer might do under the circumstances. I panicked and texted Sarah.
Me: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Sarah: ?
Me: Once Upon a Time...That BLANK storyline HAD BETTER NOT resemble BLANK! Please tell me there's no resemblence. PULEEZ!
Sarah: Watch.
Me: You're evil.
Hyperventilating all the way, I did watch, and the watching brought blessed relief. No, the twist did not go where I had anticipated (WHEW!!!), but I did learn a valuable lesson.
There really is nothing new under the sun, and there are very few story angles that are truly original. It's up to us, the writers, to find that hook, that revolutionary approach, and the innovated resolution, to recreate a fictional universe in a way that enthralls the reader.
Challenge: I accept thee!
That almost happened to me yesterday.
Because it was a holiday and because I was (almost) caught up with work, Bryony's assistant online administrator Rebekah Baran and I happily engaged in a fifteen episode marathon of Once Upon Time over a thirty-six hour period.
For those unfamiliar with the premise, Once Upon a Time is the story of bail bonds collector Emma Swan who spontaneously goes to Storybooke, Maine, when Henry, the child she gave up for adoption years ago, appears at her door with a book of fairy tales that he claims represents everyone in Storybooke. Henry's adopted mother, Storybooke's mayor, is really Snow White's evil stepmother, who is holding the characters hostage with a curse in order to "get back" at Snow White and Prince Charming. Only Snow and Charming's daughter, who escaped the curse soon after birth by being hidden in a magic tree, can break the curse. Emma is that daughter.
Bryony's online administrator Sarah Stegall had turned us onto the show back in the fall, but when the fresh and fun storylines turned stale and unpredictable, Rebekah and I abandoned the show...until Rebekah learned it had been renewed for another season.
I was incredulous. "How?"
Rebekah was nonchalant. "Sarah said it got better."
Of course, I was intrigued. We knew what we must do to gear up for fall. So we did. As the television mesmerized us, a very familiar plot twist took shape, and my blood really did run cold. I couldn't believe it. All my hard work on a part of the BryonySeries not yet published was about to appear before my eyes. I did what any normal writer might do under the circumstances. I panicked and texted Sarah.
Me: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Sarah: ?
Me: Once Upon a Time...That BLANK storyline HAD BETTER NOT resemble BLANK! Please tell me there's no resemblence. PULEEZ!
Sarah: Watch.
Me: You're evil.
Hyperventilating all the way, I did watch, and the watching brought blessed relief. No, the twist did not go where I had anticipated (WHEW!!!), but I did learn a valuable lesson.
There really is nothing new under the sun, and there are very few story angles that are truly original. It's up to us, the writers, to find that hook, that revolutionary approach, and the innovated resolution, to recreate a fictional universe in a way that enthralls the reader.
Challenge: I accept thee!
Monday, September 3, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Saturday, September 1, 2012
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