I'm going to back off blogging here, as I hardly get any comments I don't think you'll miss much, because I've discovered something about myself. Writing blog posts every week satisfies that instant urge to write that I should be using to write my books.
I'll still be around, though you won't hear from me every week anymore. It will probably be for the best, since you're more likely to get thoughtful, poignant posts if I wait for the inspiration to strike.
I'll still keep you posted on what the kids are doing, and stuff like that. NO worries.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Baking
Yesterday and today I'm baking gifts for friends and loved ones. I'm out of money to mail things, but I've got lots of love to spread out here, so it's all good. Yesterday I made batches and batches of cookies. Today, it's breadsticks. I'm going to put a little Christmas poem in with each package and deliver them tonight. Fun, fun. You can click HERE for the Christmas poem. I posted it on my author blog.
I have some news, but I'm going to wait to share it next week. Let's get through Christmas first, for goodness sake!
I have some news, but I'm going to wait to share it next week. Let's get through Christmas first, for goodness sake!
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Focus
The shopping frenzy is done. Now it's time to remember what this holiday is really about.
I'd love to say I purposely saved my baking and gift mailing for next week because the kids will be home and they can help me share the spirit of Christmas with our faraway friends and loved ones. I'd really be feeling like an amazing mom if I could say that. But let's be real. I'm me. And the truth is I am making secret presents this week and have no time for baking and mailing. The kids will be able to help and share in all that by default.
I take no credit for it. But, I still think it will be fun.
We do make an effort every year to remind the kids what the gifts actually represent. I'm fortunate enough to have kids who don't put a lot of emphasis on what they WANT for Christmas. So many times I'm the one asking them because I'm not sure what to buy, or what to suggest to family. Sometimes I feel like I'm raising kids too tender for this world. They understand the spiritual nature of our roles here so well.
For the record, I don't take credit for that either. They are simply amazing, even though they have the ability to completely frazzle my nerves and dance on my last shred of patience. I mean, they are children. Let's be fair.
I hope all of you can take a bit of time this crazy season to let a little truth into your hearts. That sweet manger scene isn't just a prop after all.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
December 7
It's December 7, and all my Christmas shopping is done. Yes, I'm bragging--but only a little. I mean, last year I had book signings all month and only had time to do my Christmas shopping in the few days before the actual holiday. It. was. madness. SO glad to be done!
Of course, December 7 has a different significance. This is the day in 1941 that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and our response as a nation drew us into WWII. My grandfather served in WWII. He was always a man I loved and admired--and not just because of that. He was a most remarkable man. He passed away around Christmas time, so I always have a tender spot for him this time of year.
My grandfather, Walter Charles Rohan, lived a full life. He met my grandmother--a divorced woman with three young children--while she worked as a waitress in a cafe. They began a cautious relationship until her son--my father--looked up at Walt and asked, "When are you going to marry my mother?" He was ten years old.
Walt not only married Ella, but he legally adopted all three children. They went on to have two children of their own, and built a house up on SLC's East Bench (which grandma sold for a tidy sum just before the housing market crashed).
Grandpa never distinguished his "real" children from his adopted children. They were all his. In fact, I didn't even know my dad was adopted until I was 16, at which time the family consensus was, "I thought you knew." It was one of those things the family didn't discuss, not because it was meant to be a secret but simply because it didn't matter.
Walt was a quiet man in his older years--when I knew him. As a young child, I remember he could drive, but he became legally blind and could no longer operate a car. Grandma never learned to drive. Grandpa survived cancer. Eventually his body gave in. It had become too tired to carry on. I remember when my brother called me to tell me Grandpa had passed. He cried. I cried because he cried. We knew it was for the best, that he was no longer in pain and now Grandma didn't have to care for him round the clock--but we would miss his quiet, gentle ways. His constant presence on the couch at so many family gatherings. His calming influence on those around him.
He outlived my father by twenty years. It had to have been hard to lose a son, but it wasn't something he talked about. Grandpa came from that generation that doesn't talk about those things. I miss him. I miss them both, sometimes.
Of course, December 7 has a different significance. This is the day in 1941 that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and our response as a nation drew us into WWII. My grandfather served in WWII. He was always a man I loved and admired--and not just because of that. He was a most remarkable man. He passed away around Christmas time, so I always have a tender spot for him this time of year.
My grandfather, Walter Charles Rohan, lived a full life. He met my grandmother--a divorced woman with three young children--while she worked as a waitress in a cafe. They began a cautious relationship until her son--my father--looked up at Walt and asked, "When are you going to marry my mother?" He was ten years old.
Walt not only married Ella, but he legally adopted all three children. They went on to have two children of their own, and built a house up on SLC's East Bench (which grandma sold for a tidy sum just before the housing market crashed).
Grandpa never distinguished his "real" children from his adopted children. They were all his. In fact, I didn't even know my dad was adopted until I was 16, at which time the family consensus was, "I thought you knew." It was one of those things the family didn't discuss, not because it was meant to be a secret but simply because it didn't matter.
Walt was a quiet man in his older years--when I knew him. As a young child, I remember he could drive, but he became legally blind and could no longer operate a car. Grandma never learned to drive. Grandpa survived cancer. Eventually his body gave in. It had become too tired to carry on. I remember when my brother called me to tell me Grandpa had passed. He cried. I cried because he cried. We knew it was for the best, that he was no longer in pain and now Grandma didn't have to care for him round the clock--but we would miss his quiet, gentle ways. His constant presence on the couch at so many family gatherings. His calming influence on those around him.
He outlived my father by twenty years. It had to have been hard to lose a son, but it wasn't something he talked about. Grandpa came from that generation that doesn't talk about those things. I miss him. I miss them both, sometimes.
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