Peering Through Life's Window

I sat in my husband’s Avalon on the I-75 South exit ramp and Highway forty-one in Georgia. The man outside forty feet to the left of me put his black duffle bag and backpack on the snow-covered grass. He got out a cardboard sign that looked as though it had been made from the end of a box. When he held it up, I couldn’t see enough of it to tell if it read, “Will work for food,” “Please help,” or “Need a ride.” He wore a pair of blue jeans, tennis shoes, a beige jacket and a matching cap with ear flaps. I doubted he would be able to stand the frigid, twenty-six-degree temperature for long. But a woman in a sporty, red car stopped in traffic beside him rolled down her window and motioned for him. He hurried to her, leaned down, commenced to point and give directions! And no, she never put her hand out the window to give him anything! Just out of curiosity I Googled “The Golden Rule” to see if it still existed. Yep, it’s still around, and the meaning given was basically the same as I had ...

Having renounced killing people in mystery novels for a while, I am excited to announce my first venture into women’s general fiction. HOLD UP THE SKY (Isbn 978-0451-22914-4 - $15.00) is the story of four strong women in Georgia who face individual crises during a summer of dreadful drought, and discover that true strength comes not from independence, but from interdependence. It tells the story of Billie Waits, a single mom with a disabled child whose support comes from her estranged husband’s checks and the sale of peaches from a small orchard; as the book begins, Porter’s checks stop coming and her peaches freeze. Meanwhile her sister Margaret, an affluent housewife who lives happily in Marietta with her husband, Ben, and two delightful sons, is startled when Ben announces at breakfast that he wants a divorce and is moving out; her son Jason vandalizes a new commercial building and tells the juvenile judge he wants to live with his dad; and Ben informs Margaret they will need to sel...

Today, I’m all bundled up with a snuggly housecoat wrapped around me. I have on my red polka dot knee socks with a pair of red, fuzzy bedroom shoes. Still, it’s so frigid I think the heater is broken, until I hear the clicking noise it makes just before it comes on. Ahh, the warm air drifts into the room, and it’s comfortable. It’s my birthday, and my daughter gives me a pretty tee-shirt. The bright colors and sparkling tiny beads that look like chipped crystal on it lift my spirits. I try it on -- a perfect fit. Outside snow and ice cover the deck. Brrrrr, even though I can’t wait to wear my gift, I need to put on a heavy sweater. I lay the piece of clothing aside and dress warmly. Later, after my daughter leaves I get out the shirt. Considering the weather conditions, I probably need to put it away with my summer clothes until spring. No, I look at it again. I will hang it in my closet where I can see it. Every time I look at it, it will remind me that spring is coming. It will be a ...

Some say that Christ wasn’t born on December 25th. They claim that Christians took the date from a Roman holiday honoring the sun or a sun god. While modern historians disagree about this theory many agree that the Romans revered the sun. According to my Britannica Encyclopedia, Christians took the date to rival the pagan feasts that took place during the Winter Solstice, which honored a new age brought by the sun. Depending on location, the Winter Solstice occurs on or around December 25th. Even though it lasts only an instant in time, many cultures have held festivals marking it as midwinter. According to some, Christmas simply grew to be one of the most popular events. Nonetheless, every year by the time we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving festive decorations acknowledging the birth of Christ appear in overwhelming numbers across the American landscape. A majority of homes have wreaths on their doors, candles in their windows, lights in the yards and red bows on their mailboxes. The ...

Clear water bubbled from the fountain and shot heavenward like liquid crystals; then, spilled into the blue pool. Strolling up to it from a sea of cars in the parking lot was like trudging through a dark, dense thicket in the forest and emerging on the other side into a bright, sunny day. The presence of water spurting triggered thankfulness for prayers answered and delight renewed. Until several years ago I’d taken the fountain for granted. In the summers I had relaxed with my family on the patio of a restaurant at the mall that overlooked the dancing water in a city in Georgia. Even shoppers walking past it and diners chatting near me hadn’t drowned out its sweet babbling / splashing sounds that had sent soothing vibrations into the busy day. Erupting from the cement, sparkling underneath the sun, it had brought nature to life amid the asphalt and concrete buildings, until the drought. Since the dry spell had lasted for a couple of long years the fountain had sat quiet. Each time I h...

Several weeks ago my husband, Rick, and I ate at a restaurant we frequent fairly regularly. The cute, young waitress who usually waits on us took our orders for burgers and fries. I’ll call her Mandy. As usual Mandy’s smile and bubbly personality brightened our day. We giggled and confessed to her that we shouldn’t eat the fries, but we were going to do it just this once. She joked. “Okay, you’re being bad today.” Not long after we got our food a couple came in and sat in the booth behind us. Mandy walked up to the table with her big grin. “Hi, how are you?” she asked. The man, who had salt and pepper colored hair and a pudgy face, spoke in a harsh tone, “I want the steak.” “Sure, which one would you like?” Mandy asked. “I don’t want you to put it in the microwave. That will make it tough. Do you understand?” Mandy’s lips turned down. “Yes sir, which one do you want to order?” “I want it medium rare. I don’t want blood oozing out of it. I want it cooked right.” “Yes sir, which steak di...

THINGS LEFT UNSPOKEN I've been asked a lot lately what inspired my new novel, Things Left Unspoken. It’s a natural question; people often assume that novels are a look into the writer’s real life. Typically, for me, that’s not true. But in this case, it’s partly true. When my great-uncle died, he left my great-aunt (they had no children) in the house she’d grown up in. She was unable to live alone so she came to live with my mother. My mother sold the house — now in a dying town — to a land developer who was going to restore not only the house, but the town. (It didn’t happen … ) Anyway, it snowed the day we buried Uncle Jimmy. Fleeting snow. Years later (about 10 years!) I was sitting on my back porch, rocking in one of the front porch rockers given to me from my great-grandparent’s estate. It was cold. February. Very gray. And I thought, “It snowed the day we buried Uncle Jimmy.”I knew immediately I had written the first line of a novel. So, I ran inside and typed one sentence, t...