Advice… Maybe Not

By Robin Weaver

In my head, this month’s theme was Advice on Relationships. The actual theme is Tips on Relationships. Which is a really good thing, since nobody really wants advice. Nor does anyone actually  need advice (even from Nora Roberts or Michael Connelly).  Advice is preachy. Advice is controlling.

What we need is factual, relevant information so we can make our own decisions.

See what I just did? I’ve backed myself into an impossible corner. How can I possibly provide information that is appropriate for a blog audience with varied needs?  Any advice?

Kidding aside, I can’t provide info that will be all things to all people, or even some people. The best I can do is give you tips* for how I’ve coped during a decade of writing, hoping, and writing some more. I'll describe what has worked—and not worked—and hope you find one iota of inspiration. After all, having one person get something meaningful from the written word is every writer’s Mecca.

Here’s what I’ve done to keep my sanity (sort of) while writing and attempting to publish the novel that will get noticed.

 1.       I found myself a good critique group.  For non-authors, critique groups are still essential; everyone needs a sounding board for life events, career decisions, child rearing info, good restaurants (yes, I’m hungry), etc., etc. For non-author events, I call my critique group Friends and Family. These folks give me a lot of feedback; even when I don’t ask for it. : )

a.       Don’t be offended by critique feedback. I expect feedback, not praise.

b.       If I am offended, I attempt to figure out why.

                                                               i.      Is it my ego? If the answer is “yes,” I get over myself.

                                                             ii.      Does the person doing the critique simply have a difference of opinion? If the answer is “yes,” I acknowledge the feedback and move on. Why acknowledge, you ask?  Because of the old adage: if enough people call you a goose, you should look for feathers.  If other people have the same criticism of my work (or life event), there may be more to the critique than a simple difference of opinion.  Upon hearing a criticism more than once, I go back to step i—is it ego? If not, I look for feathers. I do an honest, often raw, evaluation and a change usually results in a better paragraph/scene/chapter.

                                                           iii.      Am I having a bad day? If so, I put the critique aside and plan to review it the following day.

                                                           iv.      Is the criticism just mean?

1.       First time? Ignore it. It’s possible the person providing the critique was having a bad day.

2.       Recurring? Maybe reconsider the composition of your critique group.

2.       I kept my day job.  For me, this was a no-brainer since I actually like my day job.  But even if I weren’t so lucky, a non-writing career was important for numerous reasons:

a.       Writing can be stressful; I didn’t really need the additional stress of wondering how I’d pay for my groceries—especially now. Have you see the price of milk?

b.       The office environment provides an abundance of story ideas.

c.       I can always quit when I make it big. For you non-authors, this mean winning-the-lottery.  Actually, I think it’s the same for writers. 😊

3.       I counteracted boredom/frustration. For me, this means writing in multiple genres. In life and literature, doing something new or different always stimulates the old gray matter (by gray matter, I mean my brain, not the rest of me).

4.       I remembered my mantra: If life was fair, we’d all be stupid. As a writer, it’s all too easy to read a so-so best seller, or in some cases a “less-than-so-so” book and grow frustrated that we aren’t receiving the same success. It’s easy to lament, “Why them? Why aren’t people reading my book?”

When I find myself on the Woe-Is-Me Road, I remind myself writing is only one facet of my life and success is never measured by the NY Times (truly). Having a best seller also requires a lot more than good writing, and sometimes a lot of that “lot more” is simple luck. Hard work, marketing, and audience awareness are also essential, and I honestly haven’t done nearly enough of that. Still, doing the best I can is all I can do.

5.       Most important, I brought back the fun.

a.       It’s soooooooooooooo easy to fall into the deadlines/I must do this/I must do that trap.  Often, these deadlines and traps are self-imposed. I.E., “If I don’t get my novel done by D-Day, the editor/agent/Oprah won’t notice me.”  Thinking like this is stressful—possibly harmful.

Self-imposed hardships are also a problem in the non-author life. For instance: “If I don’t have as many Christmas lights as my neighbor, I’ll look like a loser.”

I know longer permit myself to think these thoughts. Odds are, missing that deadline is not the reason we’re not being noticed, and if you add another string of lights to your two-story house, your neighbor will simply add two more.  If she’s smart, she’ll also run an extension and plug into your outlet.  Actually, pretend I didn’t say that last part. 😊  But remember, not hanging more lights means you’ll have more time to make mulled wine.  If you share, guess who will be the most popular woman in the neighborhood?

b.       Another pitfall my past-self has fallen-into is writing for the market. Vampires were hot, so I pulled out all the fangs, even though a DNA researcher keep demanding I write her story.  Anyway, when my vamp story was finished—yep, you guessed it—editors had put the stake into bloodsuckers because the market was blooded—er, flooded.

Now, I write what I want to write.  Don’t get me wrong, if a publishing house offered me big bucks (ok, even slightly-below-average bucks), I’d pen the novel in type O. Until then, my work-reward system requires something more substantial. As for me, my reward is having fun while I write.  Note: Salted caramel and mulled wine also work.

Recently, I combined two of the above, and IMHO, derived some of my best writing.  My critique partners and I created a compilation of short stories.  The anthology is called Three Perspectives.  For each of our 12 stores, we give you the plot from the perspective of the victim, the villain, and the investigator. We had a blast, and in the process, re-energized our Woe-Is-Us selves.

 To summarize, do something that makes you happy.  Your writing—and your life—will be better. Apologies!! That sounded like advice!  I meant, When I do something that makes me happy…

*Kudos to Judith and Sarah for actually defining the theme as "Tips" on relationships--not Advice. :)

*Being old doesn’t mean feeble, and hiring a gutter cleaner is a waste of money, but sometimes vanity can be criminal.
*A perfectly-imperfect socialite only wants to be adored. Which is a bit difficult after she’s found sprawled on a toilet. Dead.
*An aspiring writer wants to write a bestseller, but her critique partners have other ideas. Has one of them plotted the perfect murder? Hers.
*A retired schoolteacher conceals her lifelong secret. Until someone discovers she has insured her life for $5 million. There’s only one thing to do. Kill her.
* Don’t go into the barn. The one you love the most might kick the life from you.

These are just a few of the 12 compelling whodunnit mysteries inside Three Perspectives. Each tale includes the point-of-view from the victim, the villain, and the investigator, and will keep you guessing to the very end. And possibly awake—long after your bedtime.

Top "TEN" Lists

By Robin Weaver

Happy 10th Anniversay, Genreistas!

On this tenth anniversary, the number reminded me of top ten lists. To find the most interesting groupings for our “decennial, I let Google come to the rescue. There were soooo many truly “unique” lists, I decided to list some snippets of the most interesting.

Here we go…

10 Most Bizarre Ways We Use Animals as Food

10. Snail Caviar: Okay, at first, I thought this wasn’t that weird, but normal caviar is weird enough.  How small are snail eggs?

7. Cow Eye Tacos: Ewww.  Just moo ewww. Why wasn’t this number one?

1. Wasp Crackers: I had to do a second Google on this one.  These aren’t crackers with bits of ground up stingers. Nope, these are rice crackers infused with full wasps instead of chocolate chips. These treats are all the rage in Japan, but then they love raw eggs and horsemeat, too.

 

10 Unpleasant Facts about John Lennon

Seriously, can’t we let the man RIP?

 

Top 10 Conspiracy Theories that Turned Out True

8. The US Government Collected Dead Children to Test the Effects of Radiation

Totally true. The government used cadaver parts for testingS. The U.S. and U.K. governments reached out to find recently deceased infants and young children, taking tissue samples and whole limbs. The parts were taken without permission or even notification of some 1,500 families.  If that isn’t the basis for a good plot…

1 The U.S. Government Actively Investigated Aliens & UFOs

 ‘Nuff said.

 

Top 10 Breast Milk Headlines

Say what? Who came up with this list? Why did they come up with this list?

Number 10: I Scream. You Scream. We All Scream for Breast Milk Ice Cream.

OR NOT—Definitely not.

Number 1: Mother Breastfeeds Teenage Son.  Ewww!

 

 

Failed Products from Famous Companies

#10 Tesla: Cybertruck

To demonstrate the durability of the Cybertruck, Elon Musk slammed a sledgehammer into the car’s body. Next, to showcase the “impenetrable glass armor, the lead designer threw a lead ball at the car window. Twice. The window smashed. Twice. Mr. Musk admitted there was “room for improvement.” And this man is taking us into space?

#8 Coca-Cola: Diet Coke Plus Green Tea

Coca-Cola tried to cater to health-conscious in 2009, and tested the new product in Japan, a country that consumes green tea at over 600 grams per person. However, that product didn’t exactly taste yummy, thus the product never debuted in the U.S.  Too bad—it would have paired well with wasp crackers and snail caviar.

6 Burger King: Halloween Whopper

The black bun created for the Halloween sandwich caused green bowel movements the next day. I don’t do bathroom humor, so we’ll move on.

#2 Frito Lay: Cheetos Lip Balm

Hmm, if successful, would Funyuns breath spray have followed.

#1 Evian—Water Bra

Truth is truly stranger than fiction--in 2005, Evian tried to enter the clothing market with a Water Bra. Evian designed the bra to cool down boobies in warm weather with pads containing mineral water. There was a filter funnel that allowed women to top off the water to their size preference. The bra also featured a pouch to hold a miniature water bottle. I guess if you got really thirsty, you’d be really fat. 

 

Top 10 Really Weird Facts about Poop. 

I didn’t even bother to read this one.

 

Top 10 Strangest Personal Collections

#10 Do Not Disturb Signs

#8 Air Sickness Bags

#4 Pizza boxes

# 2 Traffic Cones:

# 1 Fossilized Dinosaur Poop.  (Now I’m wondering if this was included in the ten weird poop facts.)

TOP 10 Scientific Facts They Don't Teach in School

#10 Most of the Cells in Your Body Aren’t Even Human
The bacteria in your gut is its own biome and does everything from making you crave sweets to influencing your mood. And, your bacteria outnumber you. 
#7 Water Can Be “Supercoiled” Below its Freezing Point
Pure, distilled water doesn’t have such impurities, and as a result, pure water can be “super cooled” to well below its freezing point.
#4 Medical Mistakes Are the Third Leading Cause of Death in the U.S.
#1 Incandescent Light Bulbs Made a Century Ago Lasted Much Longer Than They Do Today
Once rivals, Philips, Osram, Tungsram, ELIN, and General Electric, conspired to fix prices and re-engineered bulbs with a shorter lifespan to drive up prices and increase demand. Prior to 1924, light bulbs could be expected

to last 2,500 hours. There are instances of these early bulbs lasting over a hundred years. The Pheobus Cartel decided to shorten bulb-life to 1,000 hours; that’s what we’re still stuck with a century later. 

I hope these top “10” lists have entertained you on this “10^th” anniversary of the Genreistas.  This decade of blogging is truly a remarkable feat made possible by Judith and Sarah. I salute you, ladies, and thank you for including me in this journey. 

Here’s hoping the next ten bring us all continued success.

Robin

Contemporary Settings: In the Here and “How”

By Robin Weaver

As an author whose first love is mystery/suspense, I keep scenery description to a minimum. Thus, the imagery I do include on the page has to carry a lot of impact. While the locale doesn’t have to be Rio de Janeiro exciting, any setting information must be pertinent to the plot and more than “just a little” interesting.

Unless I’m writing fantasy, I don’t typically set contemporary stories in a place I’ve never been. Why? Because when it comes to scenery, I need to “feel” the location before I can write about the place. Sure, I could easily Google any place on Earth. There are millions of pictures, videos, and detailed descriptions; all the information a writer needs. Only you can’t smell a JPEG. Nor can you can’t sense the hustle and bustle of a city by reading a street map. I can get into my character’s head without ever meeting her, but I need to actually plant my feet in the place she lives to portray the setting vividly.

Even when I set a scene in a place I’ve visited before, I like to return to the scene of the crime if possible. For example, when I decided to have my heroine experience a scary encounter on Chimney Rock in North Carolina, I took a hike—literally.  I absorb the details and incorporate the majestic views into the scene, from my character’s perspective, of course.

She hobbled outside and across the wooden walkway, heading toward the clear-span bridge leading to the chimney. The scent of pine intertwined with pure, fresh air and rushed into her lungs, displacing her wooziness. The spectacle of the mountain backlit with bright blue skies almost made her forgot she had to get in the same elevator for her return trip.

But scenery is just prose without a plot. During my visit to the mountain, I spotted a shadowy figure in the Opera Box (a ledge in the side of the mountain) that inspired another scene.  I also discovered a really cool niche—perfect for hiding the body in my next book.

Do I ever use fictional places in my contemporary stories?  Absolutely. In my holiday novellas, The Christmas Tree Wars, Full-Contact Decorating, and The Gingerbread Skirmish, the town of Merryvale does not exist—not to my knowledge anyway. Even so, it’s not entirely fictional. I incorporated parts of Concord, Massachusetts, Burlington, Vermont, and a little taste of three North Carolina towns--Concord, Asheville, and Boone--to create my fictional backdrop. 

For my non-contemporary novels, I do make up places. My fantasy novels are set on a different planet. I haven't been there. Honestly .J

Honoring Our Eighth by Remembering Age Eight

By Robin Weaver

Eight-million congrats to the Genre-ists on our "Eighth Anniversary!!"  A special thanks to Judith
and Sarah for inviting me to be a part of this awesome group.

Time really does fly.  In honor of our eighth, I'm re-posting one of my previous blogs about when "I was eight (or close enough)."  Hope you enjoy.

Near-Death After School Program

I grew up in the middle of nowhere, and since my parents worked long hours and had a lengthy commute, my non-school time involved very little supervision. In those days (and it really wasn’t that long ago), leaving eight- and ten-year-old children alone during the time between school bus drop-off and arrival of the parents after a day at the factory didn’t constitute child-neglect. My eight-year-old brother had a more structured existence.  He was supervised by ten-year-old me. Translation: it’s amazing we survived childhood. 

What could possibly happen in those three hours each day? We had chores to keep us busy, right?

Here’s what we actually did…

• Had races. On real horses. At full gallop, through the woods.
• Had tin can fights. Did I mention we loaded the cans with rocks because the weight made the throw more accurate?
• Went swimming in the lake. Said-lake had been created from a gravel pit, and thus had a very deep drop-off.
• Went fishing in the beaver pond. Several water moccasins enjoyed the same water.
• Had contests to see who could climb the highest tree. And jump down.
• Played circus knife-thrower. You guessed it—with the kitchen butcher knife.
• Tried to create fire by rubbing stones together. Fortunately for the hundred-acre forest, we never succeeded.
• Had target practice with B-B guns. Enough said.
• Played Zorro. Sword fights involved sticks sharpened with the circus-play butcher knife.
• Tested bed sheets to determine if they could be used as parachutes. Testing involved jumping from the roof. Note: Bed sheets do not make good parachutes.
• Drove the tractor to the neighbor’s house (in first gear the entire trip). Note: The neighbor gave us a lecture but never ratted us out. I don’t think the tractor ever ran the same.
• Made up stories. Probably the only safe thing we did. At least until we turned the stories into live-action plays.

Did my mom know about our activities? Of course not. She would have killed us.

My childhood didn’t seem like a near-death experience at the time, but a few years later, I freaked because my five-year-old daughter went roller skating without a helmet. I guess times really have changed. J

You might also enjoy what happens to thirty-eight & forty-eight year olds who try to date after divorce, loss, and bra fat.  Take a peek at The Boy Box.

A Funny Thing Happened...

By Robin Weaver

A couple months after my husband died, a well-meaning friend suggested a book might help—a self-pubbed collection of grief memoirs written by my friend’s friend. Somehow, I managed to don my polite face, while I inwardly cringed. And re-cringing. And cringing again.

First, nothing was going to help but time; I had accepted that. During that period, the only way I could get through my day was to play happy music and pretend my grief didn’t exist (in full disclosure, a lot of Ben & Jerry’s was also involved).  Yet this friend wanted me to read about more death? I already knew I wasn’t alone in my experience, but to this day, I don’t really understand how people think hearing about another tragedy can possibly make another person feel better.

You can relax, I’m climbing off that soapbox. 😊 But on to the next… Second, (and I repeat: “Second!”) he wanted me to read a collection of memoirs? By an untrained author? Was he nuts? Maybe my friend was trying to kill me.

Anyway, I accepted the book with a semi-smile, and promptly donated it to Goodwill.  Only a few months later, at a music festival (yes, the music actually helped 😊), I met the memoir author. And formed an instant connection. Not only because we had a shared widowhood experience, but because Mary is actually one of the coolest people alive.

Even so, I still couldn’t read her book.  My philosophy is to never intentionally do something that’s going to make me sad. And knowing the author would make Mary’s pages even sadder.

Only Mary decided to turn her Loss World Monologues into a play. And I was asked to participate.

“Say what?” It’s like these people don’t even know me. What part of I can only handle grief with humor did my friends not get? Even worse, haven’t they heard my squeaky voice?  And even though I can get loud with the best of them, squeaky voices do not project.  Not to mention my acting experience is zero.

Not being able to say, “NO,” or even no, or “I don’t think so,” I auditioned, thinking I’d finally found my way out.  Only I didn’t realize (THEN) I had a major advantage—I could memorize quickly. In hindsight, I might have flubbed a few of those lines.  More important though, I had lived through the subject matter.

Anyway… I somehow survived the three months of rehearsals; rehearsals which entailed hearing (and speaking) about the despair that follows the death of a spouse. Despair I felt but didn’t want to acknowledge. And before you ask—no, it didn’t help. After every rehearsal, I’d go home and play Bon Jovi and Def Leppard at earsplitting volume. That helped.

What did help was the lasting friendships I formed, especially with the Mary. When we were celebrating the end of a successful show, someone jokingly asked, “When are you and Mary going to write the sequel?”

I replied honestly, I can’t do this weepy, but if you want to do a comedy, I’m in?”

One of Mary’s monologues detailed her boy box—a cigar box that she used to keep the cards of guys who asked her out out after her husband died. After ten years, she had a lot of cards.

Thus, The Box Box was conceived.  😊

The ebook is scheduled for release April 9^th, and the print book will follow shortly.  If any of you in the RTG world would like to be a beta-reader and provide us some feedback, we’d love to send you a free electronic copy.

Until then… Happy Wednesday!

    What would you do if the undertaker’s son made a pass at you?

At your husband’s funeral?

    Jana Byrd stuffs the cougar-hunter’s card into a box and forgets him.

As she struggles to focus on one-day-at-a-time after her husband’s death, Jana acquires several dozen cards from wanna-be-lovers, friends-seeking benefits, and the occasional nice guy.  All the cards remain in the Boy Box, until Jana’s friends decide they should all date again and decide to draw names from the box.

    Forty-something Jana scoffs at the idea of seeing other men.  She’s still in love with her five-years gone soulmate and chats with him daily.  

Her BFF Nanette Meeks is equally appalled by the dating scheme.  How can she possibly date again after her ex-husband divorced her to marry his bimbette-a mousy little thing barely out of her teens?  What man can be trusted? Other than her former spouse’s younger brother?

    Faith Chanton, a former Miss Georgia and jet-setting preacher’s widow, refuses to be thwarted by her friend’s dating resistance.  She demands the four ladies draw cards from the Boy Box and “get back out there.”

The hot blonde, with loads of charisma and an even bigger bank account, shouldn’t need a Boy Box card to have men worshipping at her temple.  Only the man she seeks doesn’t exist – one who walks on water and is deliciously devilish in the dark.

    Faith’s dating enthusiasm is buoyed by Sapphire Bellona, the youngest of the group.  She exudes the overconfidence that only occurs at age twenty-eight, and believes she can have any man she wants. Sapphire is continually mystified when date number two never happens.

    Only nothing is as it seems.  Will the friendships endure as the four women start the arduous journey of dating after death, divorce and bra fat?

The Heart of the Cosmos

By Robin Weaver

What touches my heart? A myriad of things brings a tear to the eye and a smile to my face -- kittens, babies, the people I love.

While those wonderful things might garner an “aww,” or a “that’s nice,” or even a “bless your heart,” talking about them won’t really entertain you.  Have you already fallen asleep?

Well let me wake you up with my geeky love of science.  And Pluto.  YES, PLUTO.  With Valentine’s day just around the corner, we must honor the planet that literally wears a heart on its surface (See photo below).

I’ve been fascinated with little Pluto since the day I memorized the name of the nine planets. Obviously, I know Pluto is no longer a planet. Really, is there anyone on normal-sided planet Earth who doesn’t know poor Pluto is now a dwarf?  Frankly, I don’t get all the fuss? After all, isn’t being a dwarf planet far preferable to being a gas giant? Pluto is actually the kitten of the solar system—just look at the picture, all crimson and shiny white heart.  Almost makes you want to hug it.

Like most heroes, Pluto has been greatly misunderstood.  Discovered in 1930, scientists thought Pluto was a cold dead world, not unlike our moon, although Pluto is only two-thirds the diameter of the moon. Then the New Horizons mission by NASA changed all that.  We now know the planet has an active geology with ice volcanoes; a mountain range 11,000 feet tall; and a subsurface ocean.  Even though tiny Pluto is over 3.5 billion miles from the sun, some scientists believe it might harbor primitive life. There’s a lot packed into that little dwarf.

Pluto epitomizes the wonders of discovery. This little planet—excuse me, dwarf planet--demonstrates that things are not always what they seem. In a remote way, it demonstrates that good things do come in small packages. It also reminds us that we have so much to learn, and that there is joy in the learning. It gives us hope for life, both alien and humankind.

And I hope you have a fabulous Valentine’s day.

The Perfect Santa

By Robin Weaver

I know I've posted this a couple times, but it's Christmas...
And this story is about my Gramps--one of my all time favorite people...

The Perfect Santa

 

I hadn’t seen him in almost forty years but there he was, waving at me from the cover of a greeting card.  Perfection.  He bore no hat on his bald head and his beard flowed fat and fluffy.  A magical twinkle glimmered in one eye while the other closed in a saucy wink.  Just the way I remembered him.  I’d been five when I'd first seen him, but I remembered every detail with vivid clarity.

My mother and I moved into my grandfather’s old farmhouse after my parents separated. We displaced my mother's twin sisters when we put our bed in their room.  As a result, the tension in the house hovered like another person in the too full house.  Mother harbored angry feelings toward my father, my aunts routinely expressed anger about having to share a room, and I missed my dad.

Living in a house with three women, I had too many bosses so I spent most of my days outside, trying to hide in an effort to stay out of trouble.  They constantly reminded me that Santa would bring me nothing but a ‘sack full of switches.’ It was only natural that I wouldn’t be looking especially forward to his visit.

That December, the weather roared into our rural area, uncharacteristically cold and bitter.  I felt more excited about wearing my new fur hat than about any visit from Ole St. Nick.  The prior Christmas, I'd found a sweater and a set of paper-dolls under the tree.  Those old presents couldn’t compete with my new fuzzy head-piece with its big shiny sequins.  I loved to skip into the sparkling lights the sun created when it reflected off the sequins.  My father had sent me the hat.  Naturally my mother hated it, but it didn’t matter.

My hat was not my only source of entertainment.  When the house became unbearable, I’d escape to the barn and amuse myself.  I’d become a master chef, creating amazing pies and cakes out of mud and corn kernels; I’d be a major-general, leading my troops to victory against hordes of Nazi soldiers; or, I’d imagine myself a fairy queen, turning dandelions into roses with a single swish of a twiggy wand.  I possessed an active imagination, which I hid carefully because my mother didn’t appreciate my flights of fancy.

I might hide my activities, but I never lied because Gramps said I must always tell the truth.  I idolized my grandfather and followed him to the fields whenever I could.  Not only did he never scold me, Gramps often provided a buffer between the three screeching women and me.  He’d whisk me away just in time to avoid a spanking or he’d show me a new baby calf and let me help with the milking.  Best of all, he told the most wonderful stories.  At least once each week, he’d take a break from the rigors of farm life to sit by the fire and tell me a tale.  I would sit in his lap, mesmerized by his voice and the characters he imitated.  Even my teenage aunts often stopped doing teenaged things to listen.

One night in mid-December, Gramps finished his latest story about a ‘giant toe.’ I’d started to sweat because the fire crackled and I still wore my new hat.  Gramps just sat there instead of going to bed like he usually did.  My aunts, who were still in high school, went to their small room to do homework and my mother hadn’t come home from her second-shift job at the factory.  Just Gramps and me.

“So, Teensie, what do you want Santa to bring you?”

I took off my hat and concentrated intensely on a sparkly sequin, trying not to cry.  I wasn't sure how to tell Gramps about the switches.

When I didn’t respond, Gramps asked, “Teensie, what’s wrong with you?”

“Santa won’t come to see me, Gramps.  I’ve been bad.”

He started to laugh but stopped abruptly when he looked at my serious face.  I'm sure he feared I might start sobbing.  He put on his straight face and asked, “And just what have you done that’s so bad?”

“Well, I wrinkled Aunt Judie’s throw rugs and I got finger prints all over the coffee table after Aunt June dusted it.  I got mud on my new shoes and I wore my hat when Mama said I shouldn’t.”  I spewed forth, a litany of my transgressions.

I stopped rambling long enough to wipe my nose on my sleeve. “And, Gramps.  That’s just stuff I did today.  I can’t even ‘member all the stuff I did yesterday.”

He stared at me for a few seconds and I just knew he thought I would get those switches after all.  Maybe he'd feel bad for me and we could have some chocolate milk on Christmas and just forget about ole Santa.

He finally said, “By-the-By,” That was one of his favorite expressions but I had no idea what it meant.  “Teensie, you must try to mind your Mama and your aunts, but you must also remember, Santa looks at your heart, child.  He only cares that your intentions are good.”

I looked up in wonder.  “You mean?”

“Yep.  Santa doesn’t care about throw rugs and coffee tables.  He wants you to have a good heart and do your best.  Have you done that?”

“Oh, yes.”  I began to feel pretty good.

“And have you told any lies?”

“Not a one!”  Then, I felt really good.

“Then I’m sure Santa will bring you something nice.”

I hugged Gramps and went happily to bed.  I didn’t sleep though. I sat up under my covers and tried to imagine what Santa might bring.  If I stayed away from the rugs and coffee table, maybe my aunts would help me make some chocolate oatmeal cookies for him.

I tried to imagine Santa eating that cookie, but I didn’t know exactly what he looked like.  I knew he had a beard, wore fancy red clothes, and came down the chimney, but additional details were sketchy.  I finally fell asleep trying to remember to remind Gramps that we must put the fire out on Christmas Eve.

On December twenty-fourth, my aunts and I sat around our Christmas tree eating chocolate and biscuits.  Mama and Gramps had already gone to their rooms and Jingle Bell Rock played on the old radio.  I hummed along, cutting paper dolls from an old catalog.  Aunt June looked up from her photo album and asked. “Shouldn’t you be going to bed?” 

“I’m not sleepy.  Besides, I have to make sure the fire goes out.”  Both aunts snickered. 

June went back to her album and Judie stuck her head back in her magazine that had a picture of a man and a woman kissing on the cover.  I was cutting out another dress for my paper-doll when something in the window caught my eye.  There he was.  Santa!

His bald head shown in the darkness and I wondered if I should loan him my new hat.  He had rosy cheeks, a long glittering beard, and the brightest red coat I’d ever seen.  I quickly looked at my aunts to see if they’d seen him, but they were still absorbed in their photographs and magazines.  I looked back at the window.  Santa held his finger to his lips and winked at me. Then, just like that, he was gone.  I checked again to see if my aunts had noticed but they were still doing teenage things.  After a quick check of the fireplace to make sure there were only coals, I ran to bed and pulled the covers over my head.  Christmas would be wonderful.  I had seen Santa.

As years passed, memories of that Christmas Eve faded.  The greeting card brought them all

back.  I purchased the card and thought about Gramps as I drove home.  We moved away when my mother re-married and my aunts got jobs in the big city after they graduated.  I’d been sixteen when Gramps died, all alone in the old farmhouse.  I’d gotten my driver’s license the day before but never had a chance to tell him.  There were a lot of things I didn’t get to tell him.

I stood by his grave and tried to tell him how much I'd miss him, but I couldn't speak.  I knew Gramps understood.  He always understood, and his understanding made me believe in myself.  I whispered a prayer of thanks.

As I addressed Christmas cards, I took a break and called my Aunt June.  After we talked about the kids and the weather, I asked her about that Christmas, “When I was five, was that Gramps who dressed up as Santa?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That Christmas when I was five, there was a Santa at the window.  Was that Gramps?”

My aunt was silent for a few seconds.  “No one ever dressed up as Santa.  Even if we could have afforded to rent or buy a Santa Claus suit, your mother would never have allowed it.  You know that.”

“Are you sure?”  I persisted.  “I’m sure I saw a Santa outside the window.”

“I promise you.  While we lived in the farmhouse, there was never a Santa.”

Oh, but there was!  After I hung up, I looked out the window.  It had started to snow and once again, I believed.    ----------------------------

As promised, my 12 Days tree...

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

R