Three mornings a week on my run, I stop to visit a sweet elderly Stallion named Festin. The last time I visited, my friend did not look well. Whereas he often met me at the chain link fence, this day he could not so. It appeared that his entire body was glued in place, and every tiny movement of his legs seemed too difficult. I picked up some hay and tried to feed him. I could tell he wanted to acknowledge my gesture in his usual way, but that he could not. I worried about him and hoped he would be okay.

When I went running later in the week, an acquaintance told me she had not seen Festin in the field for the last few days. “I think he’s gone,” she said. “I saw him limping last week as if he were in pain. He didn’t look good.” A few minutes later, when I reached Festin’s home, the field was empty. He was nowhere to be found. As I looked toward the wooden fence where he liked to hang out, or up by his water trough, I realized that I probably would never see him again.

Today, I read an article in our local newspaper that Festin had been put down due to a chronic leg condition that was beyond treatment. For the last two years, I have been blessed with the gift of a great friendship with this wonderful soul. Festin attracted a local audience with his spirit and friendly personality. I know several will be saddened by his loss, including his owners. I am really going to miss him.

To end my week, several angels stepped into my path. First, I received a check that was not due for ten days. I was surprised, but at the same time elated. Payday is not until May 15, and I wondered how I would make it through with the high price of gas and all. The money came just in time.

That Friday evening, I was on my way to Don’s for the weekend. On Range avenue, my car started shaking like crazy. I knew I had a flat tire. The only place I could pull into was the cul-de-sac next to where Festin used to live. I called the towing company to change my tire and called my boyfriend to let him know I would be late. As I waited for help, I imagined Festin running happy and free through the field. I truly believe that his great spirit was watching over me.

The towing company never did come, but a young lady stopped and said her boyfriend could change my tire. Once completed (and after I profusely thanked them for their kindness), they suggested I take the back roads to a local tire center. I made it there just as they were getting ready to close down. Instead of turning me away, the staff stayed overtime to put a new tire on my car and to make sure the rest of my tires were okay. While I waited the forty-five minutes, I worked on the editing process of my novel.

Until next time- be sure to keep your eyes open so you don’t miss any angels that come into your path.

A recent question at an online writer’s forum was when to call one’s self a writer. The responses varied, with opinions ranging from someone who is published and makes a living as a writer to those who simply love to write. My opinion was somewhere in the middle.

If someone asks what I do, I say I am a paralegal because this is how I make my living. However, in discussions on what we do outside of our careers, I tell people I love to write short stories, and that I’m working on a novel. But, I don’t call myself a writer because that is not what I do for a living. However, I might say that my hobby is writing.

When I was younger, I had dreams of becoming a lyricist. Then, I wanted to become famous writing short stories and novels. I saw the world through rose colored glasses. My mother thought it was wonderful that I wrote, but she also told me that one does not usually make a lot of money writing.

“You need to go to college, get your education and find a career. You need to learn how to support yourself.”

As any teenager would, I argued with my mother and stood my ground. As any good mother would, she encouraged me to continue writing and pushed me toward college.

Of course, mom was right.

I’m glad I chose my education and a career. On a daily basis, I create legal documents- compile facts and write about them so others can understand the case. Some time of each workday is dedicated to writing, some days it’s all I do. I love the law, and I love writing. What better way to earn a living!

When I come home from work, I write short stories and/or work on my novel, or do some other type of writing. Sometimes it’s 15 minutes, other times it’s an hour or two. It just depends. Once in awhile, I submit. Two stories I have submitted in the last year have been accepted. Two magazines have rejected another story. I think it’s a good story- perhaps I should continue submitting and see what happens.

As for the rest of life: it’s around 80 degrees outside and a wonderful spring day. I am taking a week off from work in a few weeks for window remodeling on my home. I will also be jumping into spring cleaning, as well as looking through some of Grandma’s writings and working toward compiling them into a family history.

Tomorrow, I will be going to the Redwood Writers Club joint meeting with Marin County. This should be loads of fun!

March 22, 2008, my grandfather was the guest of honor at an open house for his 92nd birthday. A few weeks earlier, my Aunt had sent me an email that two boxes of Grandma’s things waited for me in Grandpa’s closet. Aunt Marta knew the boxes contained more of her writings, but that nobody in the family wanted to hold on to them.

The boxes were too huge and heavy to carry. After the party, I loaded two paper bags with the notebooks, loose papers, folders and binders. Over a week’s time, I weeded out Grandma’s writings and discarded other things, such as workshop flyers, newspaper articles, etc. that were personal to Grandma but meant nothing to me.

Over the weekend, my brother visited me from out of town and we went to spend the day with Grandpa. After lunch, I retrieved the last box. Contained therein were chapters of Grandma’s memoirs and random stories about their life in the sawmill camp in Arizona and New Mexico during the mid forties. Last night, much to our pleasure, my brother, boyfriend, and I were transported back through time with Grandma’s stories.

I am taking my time putting together the story of my Grandmother’s life, of what it was like for her in the 40’s raising kids in the sawmill camp while my grandfather worked in the mill. My aunt has already written about my grandparent’s childhoods and lives up until the time they married. I would like to pick up there and build upon our family history.

I keep a clean and neat house, but right now, my coffee table contains numerous stacks: one of binders, notebooks and journals, another of handwritten material, another of poetry, and a final stack of typewritten/computer generated stories. These are all treasures to me.

While friends and other family have wonderful memories, I feel like I have so much more- a compilation of historical events that helped shape my Grandmother into the wonderful wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, as well as the common bond of being writers.

Last weekend was cold and rainy and a nice day to stay in, but Don and I decided to trudge forward with our activities. On Saturday, we visited Grandpa in Vacaville. We had a wonderful lunch and played a game of Yahtzee afterward. Don has never won at Yahtzee while playing with Grandpa, but this time he came out the Yahtzee victor! Grandpa is nearing his 92nd birthday and so much fun to be around.

Later that evening, we had dinner with our friends Richard and Denise at a lovely Italian restaurant named Sicily. The evening was filled with great food and exciting conversation. However, just before we left for dinner, we learned that snow threatened to fall upon Lake County. Since I was at Don’s house that weekend, and I have not been in snow in several years, I wished upon a star that the Sunday morning ground would be white. Instead, the rain continued and no snow came.

I grew up in coastal northern California where snow is rare. Anytime it snowed, my mother made snow ice cream. She placed a clean bowl outside to catch the fresh snow. In our anticipation, my brothers and I checked that bowl every fifteen or twenty minutes to see if the sky had dropped enough white flakes. When Mother decided- and only when she decided- we had enough snow, she added vanilla, sugar or other type of flavoring. Sometimes we had chocolate or plain vanilla, other times strawberry. To this day, I can taste the sweetness of Mother’s snow ice cream on my tongue.

My favorite time for writing is in the evening with the rain hitting the roof when all else is quiet. If it snowed, I would get no writing done because I would be throwing snow balls or watching a bowl fill with snowflakes. Right now, I have just completed revising chapter three. Revising is one of the most difficult tasks this time around because I want to make it as close to the finished version that I can. When I do rewrite/edit number three, I may add or take-away, but I don’t want to spend a lot of time doing another big rewrite like this time around.

This is all for now.

See you soon!

January 24, 1985, my mother died of lung and liver cancer at the age of 42. Two months before her death, I turned 23 years old. She died two weeks before her birthday. When I was growing up, my mother and I went through the usual trials that seemed to push us worlds apart. However, by the time I reached adulthood, our relationship had blossomed into one of mutual respect and close friendship. I really miss her.

This year, the twenty-third anniversary of her death, I realized that I have been without my mother for half of my life. Over the years, it has been difficult watching mothers and daughters shopping at the mall, laughing at some private joke during lunch or walking through the park hand in hand. I am often amazed when my girlfriends talk about the wonderful times they have with their mothers, and even the difficult moments filled with mother/daughter issues.

How I wish my mother were here today.

Lately, I have been wondering what life would be like if my mother had not been taken by such a terrible disease. Where would she be, what would she be doing? What life transformations would she have gone through to become a human being of today?

Would she be shocked that a woman and African American are running for president?

Would she be involved in combating global warming?

Would she still make her beautiful quilts, crochet afghans for every family member, or bake those wonderful lemon meringue pies I remember so well from my childhood?

If she were alive today, I know that she would be proud of me. She taught me to stand up for myself, make my own way, and learn how to take care of myself. I have a wonderful life filled with family, boyfriend (who she would really like, by the way), a great career, and I own my home. I don’t have many possessions, but I have all I need and some of what I want. I think she would like my cats Buddy and Oliver as well.

I am grateful to my mother for her love, and for encouraging me to write. I still treasure two books she gave me in 1980 when I was 18 years old and sure I wanted to make a living writing: How to Write Short Stories that Sell by Louise Boggess and Make Every Word Count by Gary Provost. I am still writing my short stories and working on a novel, have had a few publications, and my career includes a vast amount of writing. I feel like I have succeeded.

Thank you, Mom, for all you have given me and for your spirit being present each day of my life.