Newsletter by Liz Flaherty

I don't usually share my newsletter here, but here it is anyway. I hope you enjoy and comment for a chance at the prize package! See you Saturday!

Hello! The corn’s tall and tasseled and smelling sweet and the school buses are back on their routes here in rural Indiana. This summer has gone so fast, hasn’t it? And that’s okay with me. I’m absolutely an autumn person. The sights, sounds, tastes, and smells are like a new beginning to me.

I do love new beginnings, don’t you?

Because of Joe is a favorite from my backlist. I love its setting—Pensacola Beach—and its premise—marriage resurrected—and its theme—family. I imagine my writing has matured in the years since Because of Joe was first released, but the heart with which I wrote it is still the same. I love family, and it doesn’t matter at all whether you’re related by blood or not.

Anyway, a few people have asked for the book lately, which made me happy. However, it hasn’t been in print for…well, a really long time. When I asked Rhonda and R.J. at The Wild Rose Press about it, they were happy to give it a new cover and put it in print. This also made me happy. Find it on Amazon here.



I am re-releasing the Second Chances series with my own Singing Tree Publishing. I have new covers and the series has a different name, A New Season. Remember what I said about new beginnings? I’m excited to have these books back out there. I plan to have them all released by November. Wouldn’t the set make a great Christmas gift?

Book One, A Year of Firsts, is on Amazon in both ebook and in print. If you’d like a signed copy, email or PM me. Here’s the Amazon link.



Speaking of bargains…oh, weren’t we? Well, if you’re looking for one, the eBook edition of A Soft Place to Fall will be on sale for 99 cents on August 26-31! You can find it at the retailer of your choice here or on Amazon here. It’s one of my favorite stories ever and Early McGrath is one of my favorite heroines. I hope you like her, too.



Coming right up!

Well, on October 10, anyway, Harlequin Heartwarming authors—past and present—are going back to Christmas Town! This year’s offering, from authors Melinda Curtis, Anna J. Stewart, Cheryl Harper, Beth Carpenter, Cari Lynn Webb, Tanya Agler, LeAnne Bristow, and me, is Lights, Camera, Christmas Town! We are having such fun with it and hope you like it, too.

We’ll be looking for reviews. Email me or PM me and I’ll put you on the list!



Wishing you the best autumn ever, whether you spend it with football, pumpkin spice, or reading a good book…well, many good books…in your chair with a blanket and something good to drink.If you haven't subscribed to the newsletter, here's the link: http://eepurl.com/df7dhP

I’m assembling a surprise package for a newsletter subscriber, a Window Over the Sink blog commenter, or someone who reviews one of my books prior to September 15. Just drop me an email at lizkflaherty@gmail.com with "Prize Package" in the subject line. (A separate entry for each review!)










See you soon!

A MOMENT OF PERFECT by Liz Flaherty

I was standing in the middle of my office, with the mess of office stuff on my left and the even bigger mess of sewing stuff on my right. The windows and door were open. The fifth episode of the second season of The West Wing was on television. The orioles were talking outside and our cat, Gabe, was just sitting there. He may have been a little cranky about the orioles, but he’s old and he’s a guy—maybe he was just cranky for general principles. I had coffee in my hand, fresh from the Keurig, sweetened and creamed to just the taste and color I liked. My husband wasn’t here, but he’d kissed me goodbye when he left. We’d laughed about something and we’d danced in the hallway in the house before I came out.

I laughed out loud, in here with no one to hear me, and I can see my smile in the screen of the computer even now. The orioles in the yard are even more orange than they usually are. Birdsong is sweeter and flowers gorgeouser.

And there, just for a couple of minutes in my morning, life was perfect.

Joe DeRozier

My friend Joe makes doughnuts. During the coronavirus quarantine, he’s been delivering pastries to surrounding towns on certain days of the week. One town in particular was happy for his deliveries since their own long-time bakery was closed. The other bakery has opened back up now, so Joe stopped delivering to that town. He didn’t have to. They didn’t ask him to. But he wasn’t interested in taking over someone else’s playground.

For a moment in time, there was perfection in the world of local small business.

I like color. I like birds. I like rabbits and squirrels and deer in the yard. This morning, the cardinals, orioles, goldfinches, and blue jays—not to mention what I think was a bluebird but I’m not positive—are all over the place. I can see the rabbits down where they live and the squirrels scaling the cottonwood. No deer today, which is fine.

The scene out my office window is perfect. Just now.

Terri Hall

My friend Terri gave me ten bags of fabric. Yes, ten. Since I already have…much fabric, I don’t need to get into those ten bags all at once. They’re sitting over there on the sewing side of the room. And it’s like having a Christmas tree in May. Each of those bags is a gift and I don’t know the contents. When I need something new, something uplifting, I open a bag. I make plans for the pieces of fabric in the bag. Masks, or one beautiful piece I’m going to be wearing as a summer top—if we ever actually get summer—or the center of a quilt block.

There is nothing except the fabric and the plans for it and who can be made happy by what is done with it. Happy’s good. Passing it on is even better. Opening that bag makes for several perfect moments.

There are drive-bys going on for high school graduates. This morning I watched a video of North Miami staff sending their students off for the summer with signs and waving. Dry eyes weren’t an option if you were watching.

It was perfection in a time of pain and loss.

As part of a lifestyle, a vocation, or an avocation, I think perfection is overrated—possibly because I’ve always known I had neither the patience or the necessary skills to achieve it. I’m a great fan of pretty good, good enough, and okay. If something was fun, productive, and no one was hurt, that’s as close to perfect as I need.

I remember a customer showing me a bubblegum card with a a young Mickey Mantle on it. I was so impressed because it was really old and it was…you know…Mickey Mantle. But he said it was worthless because it was so imperfect. The corners were crumpled and it was faded and it looked…old. All I could think was, Yeah, but it’s Mickey Mantle.

And yet. And yet I can still appreciate those moments of perfection. And talk about them, remember them, and be glad they happened. So, once again in my best Pollyanna Whittier voice, I’m asking you to look for the perfect, enjoy it, and store it up so that when 2020 is in the past, you will remember more than darkness. More than division. More than haters hating and people dying and high school seniors having to grow up at least a semester before their time.

I hope you’ll remember that while churches were silent, the people who attend them still worshiped. That while school buildings were closed, teachers (and parents!) still taught and students still learned. Don't forget bright orange birds, graduates not in the least lessened by not being able to march with their classmates to “Pomp and Circumstance,” and health care and other essential workers who stepped up Every Single Day of the quarantine. Remember always that in the midst of all that was bad, there were also moments of perfect in every day.

Have a great week. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

Dear hearts and gentle people... by Joe DeRozier and Samie McFadden #WindowOvertheSink

There are two guests here looking out the Window Over the Sink with me today. What riches that is! I'm sure you'll agree when you read what they have to offer. My thanks to Joe DeRozier and Samie McFadden.

 The first real snow... by Joe DeRozier

One of my favorite memories of a good snowstorm was around 1999. It had snowed hard and continuously, all day.  There was no way my trucks were getting out for donut deliveries.

The worst days are when it snows and accumulates very early.  I've stared out the window a million times...is it slowing down?

Are the plows out?

Is it freezing?

Salt trucks?

I'd hate to halt production just to have the snow stop at six pm, and the snow removal teams at full force.

No, this was one of those days when it is so bad that you KNOW you can't deliver, and all your accounts know it. 

It’s evening, and I’m wired because I’m usually in full work mode.

The kids and I watch the snow come down by the bucketload and are amazed by the beauty of it as it hangs on the trees and blankets our cars.

Thumper (Nicole) konks out early, as is her habit, but Dodi and I stay up to watch it.

After a while, I ask her, "Hey, Doe, what do you think about walking around in this?"

She enthusiastically said she would love it, and after her mommy's protests fell on our deaf ears, I bundle her up to the point that she can hardly move. Under her hat, and above her scarf, all I can see are two big eyes that are very blue and very excited.

As we descend down the porch, I realize she is too small overcome the snowbanks, so I throw her on my shoulders and hold her hands

We venture down the sidewalk past the Shenemans’ and Dawalts’ homes...their lights are on and smoke is coming from the chimneys of their snow-covered roofs.

It is cold, but not the kind of cold that you feel through your being... it's the kind that after you're moving around, you feel comfortable...it was an absolute, living, Norman Rockwell painting.

I'd occasionally pick her off my shoulders and throw her into a huge snowbank.  She'd hit it and sink in with the sound that fresh snow makes when being manipulated...THHHUUMPH

The way she laughed...I saw her bright blue eyes crinkle and the sound of a child absolutely giddy with laughter...the most beautiful music in the world.  Every parent knows this sound. And every parent gets a slight lump in their throat while reading about it, as it brings back the memories of their own young child, making that most beautiful sound...

We get to the St. Charles playground. We climb the snow mountain to the rim of the basketball rim, where we make snowballs and push them through the hoop.

We trek farther north. There’s a train on the tracks.  We stand hand-in-hand, and watched the train go...we check each car and comment on all the graffiti.   Graffiti can be very pretty...

We get to Boulevard and climb a steep hill.  When we get to the top, Daddy does somersaults all the way to the bottom, as Dodi slides on her bottom.

 

I feel snow slide down my back and up my pant legs all the way down. It’s completely worth it to hear that musical masterpiece of a child's laughter once again.

As we walk home, I see Dodi looking at everything with such amazement...we forget, as adults, the beauty that every season brings, and it isn't until times like this that your mind is jolted back to a time when you appreciated such wonderment..

We get back home, and after I received a slight scolding from Mommy, we get Dodi into some warm dry clothes.

Completely tuckered from our adventures, she goes right to sleep.

I remember sitting on the couch, thinking...

I was thinking that I'd never, ever forget this time...

***

by Samie McFadden

But hey
What can you do?
Contribute protest create donate
Eat more eat less exercise stretch
Sound off educate debate research read test validate consolidate
communicate hibernate
Vaccinate medicate isolate procreate
Teach preach listen pray leave stay
Walk run jog kick scream soothe
pacify justify unify amplify
Think write
Make art make music make love make peace make a statement
Grow a garden shop locally open a business care globally
Say no say yes discuss resist
Run for office serve an office expose an office
Judge love dance
But do it because you choose to
And do it now.
That's what you can do.

Kickin' the Habit by Debby Myers #WindowOvertheSink

They call it “Kickin’ the Habit.” It’s something I really haven’t tried too hard to do. My habit began the night my new boyfriend picked me up in his 1978 Mustang Cobra. Remember those? His had bright blue lettering. When I got in that car, I had that feeling. You know the one…damn, I feel cool! As we drove toward his house, he lit up a cigarette. My habit began.

In a few weeks it will be 40 years since my habit started. Forty years. It started with just a few cigarettes a few times a week. By the time I graduated, it was a few a day.

We had a big party the first weekend we moved into our place at college. Two roommates were sharing this great three- bedroom, two-bath, second floor apartment with me, complete with a balcony. It was at that party that I discovered they both had the habit, too. Great news! After all, living with a non-smoker would have made it more uncomfortable. They’d probably have made me go out to the balcony, even in the winter. People do that to you when you have the habit.

It was during that year that my habit grew into several smokes a day. I had been dating my boyfriend during that time. He had the habit, but only when he drank, which was often. We moved in together, soon learning we were expecting. We got married. I went to the doctor. She asked if I had the habit, but I lied so I wouldn’t get a lecture. I considered giving up the habit. I even slowed down. Yet I remembered the story about my grandma. She smoked non-filter cigarettes all the time. She had several children who all turned out fine. An excuse.

Soon after my daughter was born, my whole family was telling me it would be bad for her if I didn’t kick the habit. I used my grandma’s excuse. Plus, my own dad smoked, then my stepdad. They were all hypocrites. As my choices were really my own now for the first time, I made the first of many bad ones when I decided to continue to smoke. The habit had grown to a pack of cigarettes a day. I was 20, and it  has remained there since.

 I’ve had many friends with the habit over the years. I’ve also had many without it who have tried to talk me into quitting, telling me all the different types of cancer it causes, diseases, deaths. They must know I know all of that. I’d say, “The habit is very hard to break. Any habit, really. I have others. I bite my fingernails making, them look hideous, yet I love my toenails painted. For many years I’ve been addicted to sweet tea and Altoids.” They couldn’t argue with that.

Any habit is hard to leave behind because it’s the biggest form of change there is. I still don’t like change to this day. What would be the point of quitting now anyway? Isn’t the damage already done? So many excuses, 40 years’ worth.

One of the toughest challenges in defending my habit used to be defending it to my children. When my oldest daughter started to smoke, I didn’t know how to handle it. I, who handle all kinds of things with them, couldn’t handle this. They had all three seen me smoke since they were born. It was something else I’d been warned about. My grandma Betty would say, “Do you want them to have the habit because of you?” Ah, I could handle that when the time came. Not so much. Although I think the other two tried it, she is still the only one with the habit.

It’s funny how in recent years smoking has lost its cool. That was my original attraction, remember? The Mustang Cobra, the feeling…I do. Now you can’t smoke in so many places. Now I am frowned upon. Even by those who had the habit but were strong enough to break it. I’m a strong person, right? The problem has always been that I didn’t really want to. I like smoking. This time the excuse is that it relaxes me when I’m tense. Well, it does!

Heck, when I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, I found out one of the

causes was smoking. My neurologist saw on my record that I had been a pack-a-day smoker for 35 years. Like every doctor I ever admitted to about it, she told me I needed to quit. There are drugs now, patches, gum, support groups. She also told me she wouldn’t tell me again—it was my choice. My habit has become so expensive. I’m on disability now, living on half the income I had when I worked. Surely that $180 a month I spend on my habit would be better spent on paying my bills or buying food.

It was. It was my choice. Breaking my habit was now something I should really consider. My excuses just weren’t cutting it anymore. Smoking was doing all the things I’d been warned about and read about. It was affecting my health, my empty pocketbook, and one of my three children didn’t want me to smoke around his kids. My house, that I’ve lived in for 25 years, has smoke-covered walls and no matter how much air freshener I spray, it smells like smoke.

My mother-in-law had the habit, too. She is on oxygen 24/7 and suffers from emphysema. I might turn out that way, too―sooner than I realize if I don’t quit. Now they have those commercials. You know the ones. I might turn out like them, too. So, I made that list―the one with the pros of the habit matching the cons. I knew before I did it what the results would be. I’d never considered quitting before. Maybe the time had come.

I’ve had the habit myself for 40 years, but I’ve been exposed to it since I was born. I still might turn out to have a disease. The damage might already be done. I still might die from it. Quitting would be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I still might not succeed. Despite all of that, for the first time, leaving my habit behind is on the table. I finally want to “kick the habit.” January 1, 2020 is the date. Pray for my sanity! Pray for my weight (not to grow)! Pray for my husband!

Go, Big Red! #RedForEd

Here it is Tuesday and I haven't even started a post for today. I'm not used to the blog "working" every week again. But today it's easy. My message is one being shared all over the state today, by thousands of educators who have made the trek to the State house to speak for our kids. Red for Ed!

Our school, the one I went to, my kids went to, some of my grandkids went to, and where my daughter and son-in-law still teach, is a place that is dear to my heart. It is a "safe place," a hall of memories, and, like any other institution, as full of flaws as it can be. But I am, like my neighbor says, always a Warrior.

The football team's defense, when my son and son-in-law played (and likely still...) was known within the community as the Big Red Machine. Shouting in the bleachers was always punctuated with "Go, Big Red!"

So today, when Indiana's teachers are in Indianapolis wearing red shirts and lobbying for better treatment for both themselves and the kids they tirelessly support, I'm saying it loud and proud. I hope you do, too.

Go, Big Red!

The monument has gone #RedForEd tonight! — at Monument Circle Indianapolis.
Borrowed from Keith Clock with thanks.

The end of a love affair... by Liz Flaherty @WindowOvertheSink

My ongoing love affair with fall took three big hits this week. The other day, it rained and blew a lot, which made my hair look like the very worst of the "before" pictures beauty salons post on Facebook. Since I've never had great hair, I don't take that very personally, although I do notice everyone's eyes kind of glaze over when they look at me.

On Sunday morning, I got up in the dark. This is fine, but it was also four-thirty. I hate time changing. So I'm thinking of seeing other seasons--I don't think it's going to work out with fall. Although my body says, "Okay, you can go to bed now," as soon as the Jeopardy music stops, I just can't make myself do it.

Monday morning--or maybe it was afternoon; it was daylight--I stood at the basement door and opened it with dread. There was a noise. The kind that's never good. That usually means a repairman. And writing a check.

However, that big hit wasn't what I feared. The sound was the drone of the

combine, taking down the corn in the surrounding fields. What a relief that was. I thought I'd be able to stay awake until at least nine o'clock!

And I did, but I don't remember anything after the music.

As you can tell from that idiotic thing above, I'm having a slow start getting back into getting the Window open. That's because, other than inherent laziness, I'm busy with the release of a new book. If you haven't seen me and everyone I've begged for support splashing it all over the internet, it's because you've been either asleep or in the fields. I have annoyed everyone.

That being said, The Healing Summer is on sale now. It's not in bookstores, but they can order it for you, or it's available everywhere on line. I hope you read it and like it. And I hope you have a good week.

Let's just be glad... by Joe DeRozier #WindowOvertheSink

Welcome to one of my favorite times of year, and welcome back to the Window--it's my intent to post once a week again. I hope you still visit and enjoy. If you have a good post for us, please get with me so I can use it here and we can all enjoy it. Joe DeRozier did just that this week. I love this, and I'm sure you will, too. - Liz

Joe and Kathy DeRozier

My wife and I had a date on Saturday afternoon. Saturday is the only day I really have time to enjoy her company. I have time to de-frazzle from the morning in the bakery and I'm not overwhelmed by what awaits me at the donut shop Sunday. I get paroled from work early on Saturdays and go in just a couple hours later (4 a.m) than usual on Sundays. To some, that schedule would seem terrible, but when you have so little personal time, every hour is precious.. But I digress. We enjoy a lot of places to go out to eat, but we have a special tug for the Twenty's restaurant in Charlie Creek. We were married there and the atmosphere at this place is nothing short of spectacular... the memorabilia from times gone by, really relax me... I swear I was born in the wrong era... As my bride and I are talking and enjoying some delicious cuisine, I couldn't help but to notice two older couples dining together. It was hard to tell their decade in life, because while their hair and some wrinkles told the tale of a certain era, their smiles, laughter, and teasing of each other, made them forever youthful. I couldn't help watching them ... their familiarity with each other... Were they related, perhaps? Coworkers from a lifetime ago before retirement? Did they share vacations? Did they raise families at the same time...maybe grandchildren...comfort each other during passing of loved ones? Did they visit each other on holidays? There was a bond. It was a closeness that could be felt. They were comfortable in their roles in this relationship. One man was the storyteller. I caught very little of the stories, but he spellbound the rest. He made everyone laugh often, but it was the laughter of his wife that I noticed. It was genuine. It was prideful. She was proud to love and be loved by this man that could regale a story with such elegance. The other man listened intently, but was very comfortable to humorously interject. The whole table participated in the dialogue... There were so many smiles. A lot of eye contact... ...a lot of love. When they arose to leave, there was a spring to their steps. They inadvertently touched while jostling chairs, and reaching for their wallets, but there was no awkwardness. They epitomize what I so want...what everyone wants. Those friends and family in life, that you feel so comfortable with... the love, the laughter and the closeness... that you're genuinely excited to be around. I wonder if they knew I was watching... I wonder if they know how blessed they are... I wonder if they have any idea of the example they set... ... I hope so

Till Next Time by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

The Window, at least this blog, is going to go on hiatus for a while. Because, yeah, you guessed it, I'm tired. Guest posts are still welcome and encouraged--just contact me by email or on Facebook and I'll be glad to have you.

I'll still be at Peru Indiana Today on Saturdays and at Word Wranglers, Romance Gems, and the Heartwarming Author Blog throughout each month. I hope you'll come by and visit.

For right now, I'm finishing one book and gearing up for the release of The Healing Summer. I don't have a date for it yet, or a cover, but I can't wait. It's a book of my heart that's been a long time coming.

Not sure when I'll be back, but I will. The Window Over the Sink never stays closed for long! Have a great summer and thanks so much for reading.

...like a band of Gypsies... by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Lots of people on road trips this year--have you noticed? It makes me want to go somewhere. I have so many favorite things about road trips.

• Hotels. I don't sleep especially well and I don't think the food at breakfast is generally all that good, but I don't make the bed and I don't cook or clean up, so...yeah. 
• Cracker Barrel. The food's predictable, service is almost always good, and I love shopping in the country store. And, if I don't talk myself into buying something there, I'll be able to get it a few hundred miles later.
• Welcome centers. They all have nice restrooms and coupons for hotels. Sometimes you get to have conversations with people you'll never see again. The flowers are usually pretty, too, and most everyone uses the trash cans instead of littering. 
  
• Exits. Sometimes if you see something on a sign that makes you sit up straight in the passenger seat, it's a good idea to turn on the signal and take the wrong exit. We were  going through New York one year on our anniversary and Duane saw a sign that said, "Niagara Falls, 20 miles." We were a day late getting to Vermont, but what a fun day it was.
• Unexpected pleasures. We were in a restaurant in Arkansas in 1980 and were served the best water we'd ever had in our lives. Nearly 40 years later, it's still the best. I have no idea where we were, but thanks.
• Awesome. I get the sighs almost every time I see or hear that word, but on road trips, you see things that really are. 
• Surprises. For some reason, I expected South Dakota to be stark. Plain. Soulless. Instead, it was...see the word above. 
• Wind farms. I know they're a sore subject around here and that many people
  
  think they're ugly (although I don't hear much about cell towers, which I think are hideous, but what do I know?), but I think they have an eerie beauty.
• Mountains and oceans. Because we don't have them and I love them. 
• Memories. We went to Washington, D. C., driving all night after Duane got done playing music, and ended up falling asleep crazy early the following night. We were all five in a room, sitting up talking at two in the morning. I don't know if the other four remember, but I do.

So, yeah, I'm ready for a road trip. How about you? Where do you want to go, or what do you remember from the last time?

If you're happy and you know it... by Liz Flaherty #WindowOvertheSink

Last night, Kari took me to get my nails done and then we went out to dinner. It was a great way to end a nice day. I also ended it without writing a post, so decided I'd go with happy things. Like this.

And this...

And, oh, yes, this...

And this...

Especially this...

Things that are good for the soul, like...

And...

Photo by Sarah Luginbill

And just pretty...

What about you? What makes you happy today?

"I talked to a lady today..." by Joe DeRozier #WindowOvertheSink

The title of this post is from a poem by Tanya Howden. There is so much to be learned and read about Alzheimer's and its cruelties. I loved what Joe said. I think you will, too. My thanks to him, and to "T. S." and her family for allowing me to share it. - Liz

Alzheimer's is a thief.

It is a lowly thief that steals beautiful minds.

I know a strong, vibrant, intelligent, and outgoing woman.

This woman speaks several languages. She is an amazing chef. She is a terrific hostess. She has a vast knowledge of words, places and etiquette.

This lowly thief, Alzheimer's, has locked all of this women's attributes in a vault. A vault in her own mind. Those things are still there, they're just under lock and key. This key holder is a thief, and he will never reopen it.

I've read articles about this wonderful woman. I've heard a million stories from her children. She has told me many things about her life that the thief has yet to take from her.

I look in her eyes...eyes that have seen and experienced so many things...but those eyes no longer possess the depth they once held.

I'll ask about one of her past accomplishments. She smiles, but can't remember. She wants to remember. She tries...but that thing, that thief, just sits back and laughs as he dangles the key.

She asks questions. Questions that she should already know the answers. Questions she has asked before...maybe many times in succession.

To her, it is the first time she has asked. For us, it's hard to not seem exasperated...she has to think we're rude to not want to be bothered by a simple question.

The thief laughs.

She can't throw things away. We question her, but she doesn't know why...she just has to keep them.

The thief knows why...and smiles

We have to wait until she showers to wash her clothes because she's afraid to let us take them.

It laughs, again.

Well, thief, you HAVEN'T won! You haven't won because WE remember!

We remember the great mom she was.

We remember the great hostess she was.

We remember the great teacher she was.

We remember the great friend she was.

We remember her love and her compassion.

She would have always been kind to any of us, had it been one of us whose mind you had treacherously stolen.

This beautiful mind you have stolen, you thief, still has her beautiful soul.

She still loves, and appreciates, and she is so kind. You can't take that, you thief. And you can't
take our memories of her.

One day, she will leave us...and she will get back that key, because she will be in a place that no longer permits you to lock up her memories.

Until then, you will never win, because we will always remember...and you can't steal that from us.

We love you, T.S.

Kill the Stigma by Jerra Moreland

Please welcome my friend Jerra Moreland to the Window today. I have laughed with Jerra, shared popcorn with her, and laughed more. She has more empathy than anyone I know and until I read her story in her words, I didn't understand why. Please read this and, more importantly, share it. Have a great week. - Liz

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), one in five adult Americans experience mental illness. Depression is the leading cause of disability WORLDWIDE! Only 60% of adults with mental illness receive treatment and the percentage is half of that for African Americans and Hispanic Americans. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death over all and the second leading cause of death among people aged 10-34 in the United States. Frankly, I find these statistics alarming. They testify starkly to the lack of awareness, accessibility to treatment, and our general understanding of how mental illness impacts our world, our people. In the fall of 1998, I began my education in Psychology. I accepted my first paid position in the field of social work that same year. I earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and I have worked in the mental health field for over 20 years. I have advocated for many with mental illness. I have experienced the aftermath of suicide and suicide attempts, drug addiction, disabling conditions, families torn apart, lives forever changed. There are stories I could tell you that would numb your mind, make you want to give up hope for humanity. But bigger than those are the stories of hope, endurance, and resiliency that have risen from those same tragedies. Yes, every client I saw, had successes. I found that the biggest battle in my career was not “dealing” with the difficulty of mental illness, but dealing with the barriers that are in place that prevent people from getting proper and unashamed treatment for their illness.
But this story starts before my college education and my fulfilling career in mental health. It is about a story behind the statistics. This is my story. Circa 1980, my beginning was set in a hailstorm of childhood trauma. Born to a teenage mother, an addict. Witness to criminal activity, domestic abuse, neglect, sexual abuse, poverty and drug/alcohol abuse. Labeled survivor, resilient, successful. Buried under all those experiences is the shrapnel of a silent war that no one likes to talk about. The shards of that past remain embedded in my very being. The visible wounds healed, most of the scars are unseen, but the damage remains. I was well into my adulthood before I received treatment for my mental illness. I have PTSD, anxiety, and depression that I left untreated out of shame, denial, embarrassment. But, hey, I was doing okay. No one could tell. Tears stayed behind closed doors. Nightmares stayed in the dark. Fear was covered by confidence. I remained entombed in a past unsaid. Facing those demons was the hardest thing I have ever done. I learned so much in therapy. I developed healthy ways to cope with my anxiety. I found myself. I learned “grounding” techniques that have helped me live life past my PTSD. I have real confidence now. I believe in myself. But, up until say about hmmmmmm…yesterday, I kept that a secret. People around me know my background, know my history. Those few who are close to me know a bit more. Those who live with me know that I receive treatment. But ironically I have kept a pretty tight lid on all of that. Me, the woman who has worked so hard to help others access care and to not be ashamed of their experiences…I preach over breaking silence and bringing awareness to others. Yet I kept my own so very quiet. Then, I experienced in a very personal way just how the pain and frustration of the "stigma" of a mental illness can impact someone in a way that forces silence. I decided to share that experience on social media, breaking my own silence. It is my hope that sharing this will help others step out from behind their own curtains. That we as a whole can embrace the very real fact that mental illness should not be hidden, but embraced and given proper care. Suicide should not be in the leading cause of death category for anyone. After spending six days hospitalized for an asthma exacerbation and treated with strong steroids I found myself home battling symptoms of “steroid toxicity.” It is not easy to tell anyone, "Hey, I'm feeling a bit crazier than normal..." but I knew things weren't right and I reached out to the on call medical personnel for assistance. When the voice on the other end of the phone noted, "I see here in your chart that you have a history of depression/anxiety," my heart sank. In short, my symptoms: insomnia, heart palpitations, chest pain, headache, nausea, and mood swings were attributed to my "mental illness" history and were dismissed. Two days later in the doctor’s office, lab work showed that I was a very sick woman who needed immediate medical interventions to stop the adverse effects that the steroids were having on my body. Turns out it wasn’t my “mental illness” after all. Even if it were, "just anxiety or just depression," as they say, that dismissal and judgement placed on me is what causes people seeking help to stay quiet and to stay sick.

So I am going to be one loud voice. My name is Jerra and I have a history of depression/anxiety and PTSD and that's okay!

***

My name is Jerra Moreland. I am sharing life with my wonderful partner John and I am mother to five amazing humans! My two wonderful boys are 15 and 17 & my three bonus children twins (boy & girl) 21 and daughter 18. I have one of those amazing jobs where work does not feel like work. I spend my day in a multi categorical special education classroom working with students who have a variety of exceptional needs. I enjoy the arts... participating in local community theater, writing and creating various art projects using multiple mediums. The beach is my happy place. When I grow up I would like to publish a book or two. I would also like to become a life coach and a motivational speaker. Thank you for taking the time to read this piece. It is my hope that through my voice others will find peace, acceptance and unconditional love. Epilogue: Within 24 hours of writing this we received news that one of John's co-workers had completed suicide. It is my hope that no one would ever have to feel that the world, the people they love, would be better off without them there. You matter.

If You Woke Up Rich... by Liz Flaherty

From  Peru Indiana Today in February of 2018. 

There was this meme on Facebook today that said, basically, if you woke up with 500 million dollars in the bank, how would you quit your job? I've been thinking about it ever since I saw it. And I can't help but wonder about something.

Why would you want 500 million dollars? Why would anyone? I mean, I definitely get wanting or needing more money than you have. We raised a family in fear of emergencies, because we never had that nice cushion in the bank that was recommended. Eating out was a Big Deal because we couldn't afford to do it very often. Paying book rent at the first of the school year for three kids meant robbing Peter to pay Paul until things fell back into place along about November, just in time to shop for Christmas. More money would have been nice.

It still would, I guess. But, if you're not going to give it away or help someone who needs it, what is the point of having a lot of money? Maybe I have been luckier than many in that I've liked my jobs, both the one I retired from and the ones I have in retirement. There's nothing more fun than writing books, not much that's more fun (for me) than working in a library.

If I had 500 million dollars...no, even if I had five million dollars, how would life be any better? I suppose the house would be bigger and have more bathrooms. Maybe I wouldn't compare prices at the grocery store or book the cheapest flights or drive my car until its wheels threaten to fall off. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't clean my own house anymore and I know I've always said if I were rich, I'd sleep on clean sheets every single night. I might spend more on clothes. And closets. I'd give more.

But I'm not sure what I'd do once I was finished...you know...not doing what I do now. I don't think sunrises or sunsets would be any more beautiful, my cats more accepting, or my friends any better. I think relationships might change in crumbling, scratchy ways that would cause pain. I think there are people who would decide they liked me because I was rich, and...really, is that a good enough reason?

So, okay, if I wake up with that 500 million, you can have it (except for a little bit--I'm not entirely stupid) and I'll just keep the life I have. But I'd love to hear your answers to why you'd want that much money in the first place.

Thanks for reading. See you next week.

A Different Feeling by Joe DeRozier

Mom....

You get a whole different feeling when someone mentions her name, don't you?

I talk a lot about Dad. Maybe because I feel my life has been a series of failed attempts to be like him..... but Dad couldn't have been Dad.....without Mom.

"Mom" IS her name. Isn't weird when someone calls her by her first name?

Mom and Dad together are a formidable team.

While Dad's status as Exalted Grand King Poo Bah was never in question, Mom was the Radar O'Reilly of the home. Dad may have been President, but Mom was the Congress and the Senate...except she wasn't lazy and corrupt...but you understand.

Dad didn't anger often, but when he did, Mom was the only one that could calm him. Had she done it the same way, each time, we kids would have caught on. I suppose it depended why he was mad...but Mom always knew how to disarm him.

Mom never got mad...well, not screaming mad...more Clint Eastwood mad. Quiet, and looked you in the eyes..."Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?" kind of mad...

When Dad disciplined us, he could get a little crazy.
Dad: Joey, you're late, again! You're grounded until you're 75.

Me: (maintain silence...don't poke the bear!)

After an hour or so, Mom came to the room and let me know it was for a week. I just had to let her work her magic.

When Dad didn't feel we did a good job, he redid it. We knew it. He left traces of evidence showing that we dropped the ball.

Mom did the same thing, but left no evidence... I noticed, though.

Mom is an observer. I don't remember her teaching us to be like that, or maybe I'm more like Mom than I know, but I would notice that the carpet was vacuumed a different way, or the cushions were set up differently. Then the question was, did she REALLY not want me to know she redid my job, did she REALLY want me to know, or did she REALLY want to see if I was observant enough to figure it out?

While we were growing up, Mom was an early riser. I'd get up at five am, and she was already up doing exercises. She was the last one in bed.

Her profession was nursing. She went back to it once we kids were older. Though nurses were just starting to wear scrubs, Mom insisted on wearing her nurse's uniform. I was really proud of that. That was cool.

Mom broke her back at work...twice. She has had approximately six million surgeries and most of her body parts are not original. She should have died a few times, but I fully believe her will to take care of Dad always kept her with us.

Moms, for those of us born so long ago, always took a back seat to Dad...but Dad could have never been Dad...without Mom.

That Damn Hot Rod... by Bradly Ferguson

 Brad Ferguson and I went to the same school from start to finish, although he was...ahem...older than me, so I really only knew him as Cindy's older brother. After I'd graduated and was enjoying being single--maybe a little too much--I met Duane Flaherty and a few of the guys he played music with. One of them was Brad. He was funny, smart, and scary talented. Fifty years later, he's still all that. 

This is a short story he let me read and, when I begged, said I could use in the blog. It's in two parts--the other half will be here next Tuesday. I hope you enjoy it. I sure did.   

      

                                 

      ...from the perspective of John Yorg:

 It was 1958. My son Pete was a sophomore at Southside High School where I had been teaching history for 17 years. Teaching history isn't the most glamorous of jobs, but I enjoy it; it's my passion. I know I'm not gonna get rich teaching; so with a son, a car loan, and a mortgage, the wife had to take a job at Woolworth's to make ends meet more comfortably. 

Mamma―that's my pet name for the wife―would take the station wagon to work and I'd walk to the school, as it was only four blocks from the house. I didn't mind the walk. I would think about teaching the day's classes on the way there and unwind on the way back. Sometimes Pete would walk with me.

    Pete was a good boy―respectful, honest, and a hard worker. Since he was 10 he’d had a paper route and. He’d mowed yards in the summer ever since he was big enough to push the reel lawnmower. And save? Lordy, that boy wouldn't spend a penny…well, unless it was for a hot rod magazine. He would read those magazines from front to back, again and again. He was crazy about them Hot Rods.

    When Pete was around 14, I asked him what he was gonna do with all that money he had been saving. He looked up from the   magazine and replied, "Dad, I'm gonna buy a car when I get out of high school."

      Hmmmm... I thought he would need to be running that paper route and mowing yards every day and night for 10 years to save up enough money for a car.

    I wanted him to be saving for college to get a good education so he could land a decent paying job. That way he wouldn't have to struggle with money like Mamma and I had been doing for years. But college didn't interest Pete in the least. He hated history, hated government, and didn't care for English or economics, either, and those grades reflected that. Math was okay, but his passion at that time in his life was shop; he got straight As in shop. Lester Yoemans, the shop teacher, often told me how impressed he was with Pete's abilities and determination. My son had been practicing on welding in shop class and one day he brought home some of his samples. Now I had heard or read somewhere that a good weld should look like a row of coins and sure enough, Pete's welds looked like a stack of Mercury dimes all laid out.

    That summer, Pete started running around with Frank, who was a new kid in town. Frank was 19 and worked in his uncle's machine shop. He drove a 1940 Ford pickup that was louder’n hell. I swear I could hear him coming from two blocks away even from inside the house. Had those spinner hubcaps and was painted a light grey primer. A hot rod.

     I didn’t think much of Frank at first sight. He had greasy-looking hair combed back in a DA, a tee shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and was wearing sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day. Looked like a hoodlum. But I had second thoughts about him after Pete introduced him to me. Pete says, "Frank, this is my dad, John Yorg. Dad, this is Frank Kirkpatrick.” 

Frank took off his sunglasses, looked me straight in the eyes, shook my hand firmly, and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Yorg.” It was always Yes, Sir or No, Sir with Frank. He showed respect and character and that was good enough in my book.

     Pete had a girlfriend now. Her name was Valerie, but Chickie is what everybody called her. He had taken her to a school sock hop last April and from then on they were going steady. Now, Chickie was a sweetie and she would come over when Pete wasn't busy. But that boy seemed to always have something going on.  That summer he was mowing yards, working a few evening hours at the Piggly Wiggly stocking shelves, and would go with Frank to the machine shop whenever he didn't have a yard to mow. Since he was so busy, he and Chickie agreed that Sunday was "her" day. They always spent it together. My wife just loved Chickie from the get-go; they got along just peachy.

     Now, I'll admit I am not mechanically inclined―I'm a history teacher, remember―so when Pete and Frank would talk about engine stuff and car modifications while going through hot rod magazines, I had no clue what they were talking about. But Pete was obviously learning a lot at the machine shop and from hanging around with Frank. Frank's uncle didn't pay Pete for any of the work that he did, and Pete never asked him to. He just wanted to learn. I think Frank's uncle was happy to be getting free labor. I didn't approve of that too much and told Pete so, but he would just say, "Ah, Dad."

     The school board had voted that summer to try out a couple of new state-approved classes for the next school year. They called them Auto Mechanics and Auto Repair. They had sent Yoemans to the local car dealerships in town to get up to speed with the auto world so he could teach the classes. And guess who was the first one in line to sign up for those new classes! To no surprise, Pete got straight As. 

Midway through the year, he was even helping Yoemans teach the younger students. One day ole Yo Yo and I were in the teachers’ lounge and he says, "Ya know, John, that boy of yours is smart as a whip in my auto class. People are always needing their cars worked on and a good hustling mechanic can make some decent money, ya know."

 I just grunted and said, "I wish he'd put that kind of effort into the rest of his studies," and walked out.

    The summer between his junior and senior year, Pete started giving my station wagon its tuneups, and he did real good, too; the wagon always ran great when he got done with it. It got better gas mileage, too, and with the price of gas at a ridiculous 30 cents a gallon…well, every bit helps. He changed my oil, too. When the brakes started squealing , we went to Western Auto together and bought brake shoes and he installed them on all four wheels. I just stood there and watched in amazement. How in the world he put all those parts back together right, I have no idea, but when he was done there were no extra parts left over and it stopped like it used to when it was new.  Saved me a pretty penny, too. That summer, he tuned up a couple of my friends’ cars and changed oil for them. They paid him fairly and he was happy to do it.

    Then Frank's little brother JD came over one day with Frank. JD was younger than Pete and combed his hair like Frank's and dressed just like Frank too. But JD was a little smartass. I figured JD stood for juvenile delinquent. I caught him in my junior high history class last year flipping rubber bands at a girl. As punishment, I made him write a 500-word essay on the history of rubber bands. After all, heh heh, I am a history teacher! The day he showed up at the house, Frank brought him over and introduced him to me. JD didn't shake my hand. He just said, ”Yeah, I know Mr. Yorg from school.” I had him pegged right: a juvenile delinquent.

    Time was flying by. Pete had his driver's license and I let him drive the wagon here and there and take Chickie out on dates. He was a senior and before I knew it the prom came up and, of course, Chickie was right there on his arm. I could tell she was crazy about him. They were good for each other.

   Then came graduation day. We had a little party for both Pete and Chickie at the house. Her parents and some high school friends came over and even Frank showed up. I was proud that my son graduated but was uneasy as to his future. It's a different world out there when you get out of school. Yes, I was uneasy.

    The very next day I was outside dusting my roses when I heard this car a spittin' and sputterin' and blowing blue smoke out the back. It pulled into the driveway. It was Pete. I pointed at what was left of an old car and said, "What's this?” 

Pete told me it was a 1932 Ford three-window coupe... that it was one of Frank's friends’ hot rods and he had lost patience with it because he couldn't get it running right. And then he dropped the bomb on me. "So I bought it. I'm gonna fix it up."

     I flew off the handle. "Why in the hell are you wasting your hard-earned money on a piece of crap like that? I thought you knew better. The damn thing doesn't even have any fenders or a hood, and it smokes like a locomotive. If you were gonna buy a car, you should have bought Musselman's low-mileage '53 Plym―"

          I might as well have been talking to the wall. Pete didn't hear a word I said. He already had his tools out and was tinkering away on the carburetor. I took in a deep breath and let it out easy. "Well, don't block me in. You can park it on the side of the driveway over there.". I went back to finish dusting my roses to calm down. Within 10 minutes Pete had the piece of crap running smoothly, but it was still billowing out blue smoke. I thought, well, maybe there won't be as many mosquitoes around this summer.

      The little coupe was gone a week later. I figured the boy had finally came to his senses and gotten rid of the damn thing. I never said anything to him about it. I didn't want to come off with the ole  “I told you so” speech. Pete never said anything to me about it, either. Frank would pick up Pete every morning on his way to work and bring him home after 4:00, then Pete would ride his bike to the Piggly Wiggly and get home around 11:00 pm. The boy was burning the candle at both ends.

    About two weeks later I looked out the kitchen window and up pulled Pete in the '32 coupe hot rod. But this time it was a different story. The engine actually sounded great and was not blowing any smoke. Still a little loud for my taste but well, that's what kids like nowadays. The body was now in a black primer. Not only did it sound great; it wasn't an eyesore anymore. Looked pretty decent for a damn hot rod.

    I walked out the back door and said in a questioning tone, "I thought you had gotten rid of it.” Pete proceeded to tell me that he had taken it over to Frank's, taken the original flathead engine out, and put in a 1941 Lincoln flathead that he had rebuilt at the machine shop. Well, that came as no surprise to me―he was just being himself and doing what he loved to do. I had my passion and he had his. I was definitely impressed and I told him so. He looked at me and said "Gee, thanks, Dad."  He came in, cleaned himself up, and off he went to give Chickie her first ride in it.

    Pete and Frank were sitting at the kitchen table one evening. I heard them talking. I came from around the corner and asked them if they were playing cards. Pete looks at Frank and then Pete said," No, Dad,why?"

          I said, "Well, I heard you talking about three deuces and assumed tha―"  

          They both broke out in laughter.  "No, Dad. Three deuces is three carburetors. I'm going to put three deuces on my hot rod."

I just shook my head and let it go. Why anyone would want to put three carburetors on their car when one works perfectly fine is beyond me. Guess I'm just getting old.

To be continued...