Five Things I Do Not Like

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by Susan McBride

We’re about to start something new and fun here at the Stiletto Gang. Beginning on July 23, the Gang will do regular joint posts with our various opinions on a single subject. But before “Soapbox Stilettos” debuts, I decided I’d get into the spirit by writing about Five Things I Do Not Like. Yes, I know, I could’ve listed 100 Things I Do Not Like, but then this piece would’ve had to run for a week, and I’m not sure anyone would enjoy that (unless they’re being punished for eating the last pint of Ben & Jerry’s or for telling a spouse, “Yep, you do look fat in that”). So here goes!

1. Going to the Dentist

Yes, I’m a good girl so I see my dentist twice a year, and I love her. I really do. She’s about my age, and we always chat about boys, books, and boobs (she’s a survivor, too). But I am not fond of dental cleanings in the least. I can’t think of much I like less than someone’s latex-gloved hands stuck in my mouth while they’re scraping my teeth. Sometimes I wonder if they’re pick-axing for gold, they’re in there for so long. And while I am a chat-aholic, it’s awfully hard to talk when my mouth is wide open and someone’s scraping, flossing, and/or polishing my pearly whites. I’ve had a fear of the dentist’s office since I was a kid. I remember gagging into a spit-sink once because I hated the taste of the gritty paste. I still hate it, although I somehow refrain from gagging. However, I do like my teeth and would prefer to keep them. So I’ll fight my fear and show up for my every-six-month visit even though I’d rather run naked through Six Flags (and I so don’t want to do that!).

2. Clowns

When my brother was a baby, my mom had clown portraits hanging over his crib, and I always figured that’s why he screamed so hard when she put him down at night. The paintings frightened me to death, that’s for sure. On my first trip to Ringling Bros. Circus, I sat in the front row with my family, and a clown approached to pull an egg from my ear. Like any normal, well-adjusted child with a Bozo phobia, I began shrieking and crying my eyes out. And, no, I haven’t gotten over this. So don’t surprise me with a Clown-O-Gram on my birthday, okay?

3. Multitasking Drivers

I’m not even sure talking on cell phones is the most dangerous distraction for drivers. I’ve seen folks eating meals, icing cupcakes, styling their hair, putting on makeup, and reading newspapers all while commanding the wheel of large vehicles that weave over the lines and cut across multiple lanes of traffic because they nearly missed their exit (go figure). I understand how busy everyone is, but Multitasking Drivers are a menace to the rest of us. Since my car is small and lots of Multitasking Drivers helm oversized tanks, it’s almost life or death heading out to the grocery store these days. Is it too much to ask drivers to just, um, drive???

4. Celery

I am a big fan of green food. Give me a plateful of broccoli any day, and I’ll devour it. Green beans, lima beans, spinach, green peppers, and green onions all make me go “yum.” But celery? It tastes like nothing. No, I take that back. It tastes like a stalk of crunchy, stringy nothing. I don’t want it in my tuna salad, and I don’t want it in my stuffing. The only way it’s remotely enjoyable is filled with cheese or peanut butter. If it were up to me, I’d say, let the rabbits have it!

5. Toddler Beauty Pageants

Tiny children dressed in bikinis with fake hair and fake teeth, shimmying and posing in front of grown-up people all for the sake of winning giant tiaras too big for their little heads. What is the point here? To begin training a new generation of reality show hos, plastic Barbies, and porn stars? To keep the offices of every psychotherapist and psychiatrist in the country full for years and years to come? Whenever I’ve even glimpsed these sad contests, I feel as I do when I’m at the APA to pick out one cat: I want to let them all out of their cages and say, “Run! Run as fast as you can!” I wish someone would do that for these poor pageant babies. A pack of wolves in the wild could raise most of them more sanely than their stage parents.

Whew! I feel better after writing that! If anyone should want to join my rant, please do! I’d love to hear things that you really don’t like, too. I’m sure you’ll pick up on plenty that I missed.

Sand in My Eyes

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“The first time I wrote in my journal, I felt like I was stepping into a world of vast lands, both unexplored and undeveloped, and along with it came responsibility to fill it up with beauty, and to leave only meaningful footprints behind, for starting my new journal was like being a pioneer arriving in a place of natural, primitive potential where I could cultivate whatever I wanted and I could hardly wait to plow through its pages.”—Portion of the Sea

When I was a little girl and got my first diary, I filled it up before the year was over and needed a new one. At first I wrote about silly things, like the hot dogs we had for hot lunch. But soon, I wrote about more interesting things, like the adventures I was having living in a house attached to an ice-cream shop in Saugatuck, Michigan. In this thriving, summer resort town, there were lines out the door of our shop until midnight and to reach the flavors, I would stand on an upside down bucket to scoop side-by-side with my family. When I needed a break, I would sit in the sugar cone closet and write in my diary. I could hear the excitement of the customers ordering ice-cream just outside the closet. It was at this early age that I learned the significance of stepping away from the commotion of life, of being alone and of stilling one’s mind because here is where the imagination kicks in, and from where, I believe, writing originates!

Recently, my third grade son had to write an essay on what trees mean to him. I found him at my desk with his head in his hands, his pencil on the floor. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he couldn’t think of a first sentence. I had him lay down, and then I dimmed the lights, turned Beethoven music on and told him to close his eyes and imagine waking up in the morning and going about his day with no trees.

I left the room and when I came back, I asked him what he was doing. He said, “What you told me to do, Mom,” and I said, “No, what specifically were you doing?” He then said, “I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Sanibel with no trees. There were no birds to greet me as I walked out my front door.” I told him, “Quick, write it—you’ve got your first sentence, your second, too!” And from there, from his mind, from the unique and quiet moment he had to himself listening to Beethoven in the darkened room, he produced the most amazing essay and when his nine-year-old voice read it into the microphone at the school’s Arbor Day Celebration, I had to keep from wiping my eyes.

I hope those of you who want to write are not stuck on first sentences. I have English majors as friends who tell me they can hardly write a sentence out of fear of grammatical gods chasing at their heels. I am not an English major, but I fell madly in love with writing the moment I wrote about hot dogs in my first diary. It wasn’t the hot dogs that I loved writing about but the ability to tap into my innermost self, and to have a voice, and safe place to voice my voice that had me compelled to keep a journal consistently all the way through college. And this is how I learned to write.

If you have a compelling to write, write freely and lovingly of yourself; not out of fear. And keep in mind how therapeutic writing can be. It can easily become a friend. And if you want to write something good, don’t get hung up on sentences, paragraphs, and grammar. Dip deeper into yourself, into the flavors and colors of your mind!

“The words a woman writes in her journal are lit bits and pieces of her heart, soul and mind.”—Whisper from the Ocean

For more on Christine Lemmon and her books, visit: http://www.christinelemmon.com/ or find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Contest: Anyone who orders Sand in my Eyes from B&N and emails receipt is entered to win a beach bag full of 7 great new summer books (Jennifer Weiner, Elin Hilderbrand and more). For details click here

Creating Thrilling Female Protagonists (Lipstick Optional)

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First off, thank you to The Stiletto Gang for inviting me to guest blog.

I just got back from Thrillerfest where I presented a workshop with fellow authors/friends, Erica Spindler and J.T. Ellison. Ours was titled: Creating Tough, Smart Female Protagonists (Lipstick Optional). As thriller authors, we have a cache of personal anecdotes to share about the double standards we and our female protagonists experience. For example: are female protagonists allowed to swear? How about cry? I’m fairly certain my series character, FBI Special Agent Maggie O’Dell would never be allowed as many one-night stands as Jack Reacher.


We were surprised to find that almost all of the attendees agreed, that in the thriller genre, the bar is set slightly higher for female protagonists than males. There seem to be unwritten expectations. In fact, the reactions and comments we received made us realize we had only scraped the surface of this hot topic.

The trick is to overcome the double standards and shatter that glass ceiling, but to do it without reducing your female character to yet another clichéd, stereotype. Make her tough and smart but don’t make her give up her femininity – lipstick optional.

I like to share the story about my second book tour when a bookseller (who I respect tremendously) took me aside and told me that I really needed to get Maggie’s drinking problem under control. At the time, I thought she was joking. Sure Maggie threw back a few Scotches in SPLIT SECOND but it was nothing compared to what my male counterparts were having their male protagonists consume. Because Maggie’s mother is a suicidal alcoholic I thought it made sense that alcoholism might be something Maggie struggled with. Another tightrope for her to be walking. But according to this bookseller – and for the record, she was right – readers aren’t comfortable seeing a female protagonist deal with her problems by throwing back hard liquor. So now Maggie still struggles with “the urge” while she sips Diet Pepsi.

DAMAGED (released today) is my eighth in the Maggie O’Dell series and my tenth novel. This time, I actually have two strong females: my series protagonist, Maggie O’Dell and Coast Guard rescue swimmer, Liz Bailey.

Both women are brave and compassionate in different ways and through their necessary partnership I’m able to show their true characters. For Maggie, who is slow to trust and stubbornly independent, she learns to drop her guard with the younger Liz Bailey, who wins Maggie’s trust and respect early on.

With Liz Bailey I’m able to show a generation of women who don’t complain about the double standards in their male-dominated fields. Instead, they simply fight the stereotypes by proving themselves. At 28, Liz has more Katrina rescues over New Orleans than her air crew pilot and co-pilot have together, yet she’s the newbie on their crew. And although Liz yearns for the day they’ll finally call her “their rescue swimmer” instead of “the rescue swimmer,” she doesn’t begrudge the slight. She simply proves her talents and skills and bravery. It’s exactly what Maggie O’Dell has been doing in the FBI.

At the same time, neither woman is a superhero. Both have flaws and vulnerabilities. That’s also an important part of making them real and believable. Maggie may not be throwing back Scotches any more but she has a very real fear of flying, something many people (myself included) can certainly relate to. One of my favorite chapters is when she realizes that in order to view the crime scene she’ll need to get inside a Coast Guard helicopter. And because Maggie is a tough, smart female protagonist, she gets inside the helicopter.

Again, thanks to The Stiletto Gang for this opportunity. I invite all of you to discover more about DAMAGED and me at my website or on facebook.

Eclipse, the Movie

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Spoiler Alert! I don’t think I give away anything, but just in case I want to warn you I’m going to talk about my opinion of Eclipse, the movie.

Hubby reluctantly went with me to see Eclipse, the third in the Twilight movies. We’d seen the first and second together, and he wasn’t keen on seeing another.

First, let me say he didn’t go to sleep once, so it wasn’t boring. (He often falls asleep in a movie if it’s too slow, and even snores. A jab to the upper arm usually wakes him.)

I can’t say I loved it, but I did enjoy it. I can certainly see why so many women are crazy about the story. What a triangle: a hunky young Indian who has lots of muscles, Jacob. Who cares if he turns into a huge wolf at times? Bella, an ordinary looking young woman who wears little make-up with a wardrobe that mainly consists of hoodies, T-shirts and jeans, who is love with Jacob, but loves Edward even more. Now, Edward, he’s really something. He’s got a wonderful head of hair and a great profile–but his pallor resembles someone who has a terrible blood disease. Oh, I guess he does–he’s a vampire. However, he’s a good vampire who gets his blood by killing animals, not humans. (For those of you who like the old-fashioned kind of vampire, there are plenty of those–the villains.)

Oh, and did I mention, the young people in this triangle are all seniors in high school?

Sexual tension abounds as you would expect from this age group–but except for a lot of kissing and heavy breathing, nothing much happens in the sex department, except everyone watching the movie knows what the main characters are wishing for.

Hubby watched a little more intently when the fighting began–and there was a lot, bad vampires against good vampires who teamed up with the huge wolves. Plenty exciting.

Did I enjoy it? Sure, it’s a great fantasy with plenty of mystical atmosphere in the form of rain and mist rising from the sea. I’ll go to see the next installment, I want to find out if Bella is going to finally wed Edward as she promised and turn into a vampire or choose Jacob, who has a good argument as to why she should pick him.

Marilyn

Great Expectations

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I’m old enough to remember going outside and turning an antenna pole to tune in a television channel. If we were lucky we got all three networks and a fuzzy PBS station. We had one television and it wasn’t a color one until I was in the third grade – or maybe the fourth. I’m not sure now. I do remember the screen. It was round. The remote control was the youngest child being ordered by Dad to get up off the sofa and change the channel. Surfing didn’t happen.

When I was in the seventh grade neighbors told us about cable tv and something called “Home Box Office.” I was fascinated with the idea of being able to see a movie anytime you wanted. The miracle of video tape recorders happened while I was in college. Not that I could afford one. Who knows what kind of degree I would have had, if I hadn’t been required to schedule classes around my daily viewing of Ryan’s Hope.

Today I own three televisions, all with remote controls (the ones you put batteries in), two dvd players, one leased dvr, and a couple of outdated vhs recorders. I also have digital cable with more channels than I can watch. One would think I should be happy with my tv viewing experience.

One would be wrong.

It’s all about expectations.

When I was a child I was happy to run outside in the freezing rain and turn a metal pole so I could watch a grainy black and white episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on a 20-inch screen. I didn’t expect more.

Today I pay big money to watch too-many-to-count digital cable programs on a 42-inch, high definition, color, flat screen television. And in exchange for my investment in expensive equipment and hefty cable bills, I expect perfection. Or at least the ability to view an entire episode of America’s Got Talent without pixilation (the image scrambling) and the sound dropping out every ten seconds.

Yes, I’m coming off a week of dealing with the dreaded, despised, cable tv company. I know some of you feel my pain.

My first sign of trouble was a couple of months ago when the “cable company provided” (and required for HD channels) dvr started randomly turning itself off and then rebooting. This happened without warning when I’d use the remote to access the menu/guide, change channels, or – hey, sometimes I’d just look at the remote funny and it would take offense and shut off.

This happened once or twice a month – not enough to make that “pain in the you know what” service call. But last week, the problem escalated to three or four meltdown events a day. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Plus the pixilation and sound problems began interfering with watching any HD channel. I was paying for an expensive “something” that I wasn’t getting – and you can imagine how I felt about that.

The cable company claimed to be there to help and would send a technician out between 10 and 2 the next day. Since this wasn’t my first rodeo, when they asked for a contact phone number, I gave them my cell number. Cell phones are wonderful tools in dealing with the cable company. Remember when you used to wait at home all day for the cable guy to show up? And since they never wanted to waste a service call on someone who wasn’t home, you’d have to sit next to the phone, ready to take that all important verification call? Remember when after eight hours of waiting and they didn’t show up, you complained? And remember when the cable company’s response was that the cable guy called before coming out and you didn’t answer, so they cancelled the appointment? And remember the rage and helplessness you felt at their lie? Evil, I tell you. Pure evil. Today, cell phones with call logs have changed the cable customer’s world.

So at 2:30 pm that day, the cable guy rang the doorbell. (Note: he was only 30 minutes outside my appointment time). He looked at the reception on the television – a little pixilation was all that was occurring. He started the “nothing wrong here” and “you’ve got to expect a little flickering” speech. I showed him what I had recorded from the night before – the episode of Rookie Blue where the sound for every other word was dropped and whole scenes were unwatchable. He told me he couldn’t do anything since the problem wasn’t happening currently. I could sense him inching his way backwards, towards the door. I protested. He started the “I could schedule another appointment” if the problem returned, when a miracle happened. The dvr box shut off and rebooted. Right in front of him. He stared at the tv. I sent up a prayer of silent thanks. There may have been some hand pumping. The cable guy sighed, defeated. His apology for implying I was crazy consisted of, “It’s not supposed to do that.”

So, happy ending right? Not exactly. Although I had complained about the dvr when I scheduled the service call and requested a new one, the cable guy hadn’t brought one with him. But since he now had to do something, he went outside, climbed a ladder, checked a connection and reported it loose, but now fixed. I inquired about the dvr. He told me to call the cable company and tell them the technician said I needed a new dvr.

He left. I made the call. Two days and another vacation day wasted later, I had a new dvr. That evening the pixilation and sound problems were the worst it had ever been. Murder did cross my mind but reason prevailed. Third time was always a charm, right?

I called and scheduled a third service call for Saturday morning, all the while wondering what kind of television reception I might get with an outside antenna on a pole. They still make those, right?

Conclusion: On Friday night my cable reception mysteriously improved 100 percent. Picture was better than it had ever been. Sound was perfect. Something had happened – maybe divine intervention again. More likely a service call in the neighborhood fixed the problem. Tempting fate, I cancelled my service call. I hope the reception is good for tonight. New episodes of The Closer and the debut of Rizzoli and Isles airs on TNT.

Rhonda
aka The Southern Half of Evelyn David

The Opposite of Me

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I’m thrilled to be guest posting today to talk about my debut novel, THE OPPOSITE OF ME. It’s the story of twin sisters who are complete opposites – or so they think. When people learn the premise of my book, the first thing they ask me is whether I’m a twin. Nope; in fact, I don’t even have a sister. But I’ve always been intrigued by the complex relationships my friends have with their sisters, so I tried to make the relationship of my main characters, Lindsey and Alex, as juicy and competitive and loving and tangled as possible.

I’ve heard about twins who are so close that they create their own language, and can feel each other’s pain from miles away – but I wondered what would happen to twins who were completely different. What if two sisters had nothing in common, but were constantly being compared? How would that shape their relationship?

I also think it’s very common in families for children to get certain labels, either spoken or unspoken – like the “pretty sister,” the “smart one,” the “drama queen,” or the “peacemaker.” I’ve always been curious about how those labels are formed – are they really a true reflection of who we are inside? It’s interesting to me that we can go out into the world and re-invent ourselves as adults, yet when we go home to visit our families, they still see us through the lens our childhood roles. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, we get dragged kicking and screaming back into those roles!

So I took both of those notions and spun them around in my mind for a while before they turned into the premise of my novel. The intersection of those themes – sisterhood and identity – is the heart of my novel. The funny thing is, in writing the book; I created a new identity of my own. When I first sat down before my computer to type the opening lines to THE OPPOSITE OF ME, I was a stay-at-home mom, raising two boys and pregnant with a third. And while I loved being able to be home with my kids, I really wanted to find a creative outlet for myself – something that wasn’t just about nurturing the kids. Writing a book was a dream I’d had as a child. In fact, I used to scribble books on three-ring binder paper and send them off to publishers, confidently awaiting the day when I’d see my masterpieces in stores. It was a lot scarier to try to write a book as an adult. I kept hearing how difficult it was to get a publishing contract – how you had to know someone in the business to even get a foot in the door. But that rumor isn’t true – I got my agent the old fashioned way, through the “slush pile” of letters she gets every day from aspiring writers. Now I feel incredibly lucky that I get to blend my work and home life together (I actually take my laptop to movies with the kids and even write in the carpool line if I get there a few minutes early).

I just want to thank The Stiletto Gang again for having me today. I’d love it if you’d visit my website or friend me on Facebook!

Sarah Pekkanen

Just Say “No”

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Since this is a site led by women writers and (mostly) women readers, I thought I’d chat today about one of the questions I’m asked most often – which is how I juggle being a mom to my 5 year old and 3 year old (and our 8 year old very pampered and spoiled dog!) while still maintaining a viable and bustling career.

As I said, this is one of the most common questions that is posed to me, and my go-to answer in the past has always been that I have a great babysitter, and I’m not shy about asking for help when I need it. But recently, maybe with this answer in the back of my mind, I’ve started to pay more attention to how I actually do things, and I’ve noticed a pattern. A good pattern, or at least I hope it is!

And that is that I don’t hesitate to say “no.” I say it often, liberally and without any guilt. I say it when I’m already overcommitted, I say it when I’m to tired to do something that’s asked of me, I say it when – let’s be honest – I just don’t feel like dealing with something and I’d rather spend time in my sweatpants at home with my kids. And as I say that tiny little – but very empowering word – it occurs to me why we, as women, don’t say no more often, and why, when we do, we feel so dang guilty over it. Why are we the ones who are asked to take on everything? Why SHOULD we be the ones who are asked to take on everything? And when we finally decide not to take on everything, why do we feel badly about it?

Well, I’m not a therapist, and I won’t even try to be, but I will say that there is some sort of idealized superwoman in my generation of women: we’re in our thirties, we’ve had great careers, we’ve had great children, and well, we like to be sure that it all keeps staying GREAT. And also, we’re self-reliant and independent and very, very good at what we do. So when we’re asked to do one more thing – whether it’s for our child’s school or a project for work – well, one more thing doesn’t feel like too much. But then it’s like that stereotypical house of cards: when you add one more card, it all comes toppling down.

I’ve felt this way recently – that I’ve added one too many cards – between my book promotion and my kids’ needs and my husband’s new job and my travel demands and all of the little things that add up to life. And so, I’ve started saying no. I have more time to myself, more nights to watch crappy TV if I so choose, more hours to feel rested and slowly, the circles under my eyes are fading (though let’s be honest, they’ll never fade completely). I highly recommend this. Say no. Say it once, then try it again, and pretty soon, it gets easy. No no no no no no no. See? Now, it flies out of me without even a second thought. 🙂

_____________________________________

Allison Winn Scotch
New York Times bestselling author
The One That I Want (Random House)
http://www.allisonwinn.com/

The Good News

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I’ve always tried to be a “don’t worry, be happy” kind of person but if you read the news these days or watch television, you would be hard pressed to stay in the happiness zone. Unemployment continues to rise, oil continues to spew from the rig in the Gulf of Mexico, and the stock market swings with more wild abandon than my butt in a bathing suit.

Depressed yet?

I keep looking for the silver lining and have had to look no further than my backyard to find some good in the world. People constantly talk about today’s disaffected youth, and I have even railed about how today’s teens and young adults need to find worthwhile pursuits. But having read some graduation speeches and met some recent high-school and college grads in the past few weeks, I’ve become heartened by what I’ve discovered: Today’s graduates are more on the ball than I ever was or will ever be.

In the past week, I’ve had the pleasure of attending several graduation parties for the children of friends. At these parties, I’ve met other graduates and their families. I have been struck by the fact that all of the young men and women I have come to fete or met for the first time are articulate, polite, poised, confident, and studious. They are all on their way to some fine institutions of higher learning—the University of Delaware, Columbia University, the University of North Carolina, and even West Point, to name a few. They are people who I am sure will accomplish great things in their lives. They are people I enjoy talking to, getting to know better, and learning more about what they think about the big issues that confront our country and our world.

With my friend, Tina Jordan, I taught a college-essay application writing course at the local high school to a group of fourteen students. Based on what I had heard from their parents, the kids attending had no blessed idea about what to write, nor did they have any experiences that would help them achieve the goal of preparing a well-written, interesting essay. I found the opposite to be true. Even if they came without any ideas, by the time we began the writing portion of the program, everyone was busily writing about things that make them happy and unique: chicken fungus, rapping, super stacking, and the love of Jane Austen. To see a disparate group of kids writing about their passions was truly a joy for both of us.

So if things are getting you down, I’m here to tell you that the future is not as bleak as it seems. If the youth of my little village are any indication, we are in very good hands.

Maggie Barbieri

How I Celebrated the Fourth, Then and Now

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Going way back, what I remember most about celebrating the Fourth of July was playing with sparklers in our front yard.

Another year, I remember organizing all the kids in the neighborhood, helping them decorate their bikes, trikes and wagons with red, white and blue crepe paper and having our own neighborhood parade. (This was during WW II.)

Someone was impressed enough that we got a write up in the newspaper–pretty good since we lived in Los Angeles.

Jumping ahead to when I had my own houseful of children, on the evening of the fourth, we’d all climb on the roof of the patio to watch the fireworks from the harbor. This worked well, except one year when it was too foggy to see much of anything.

Of course there have been many barbecues and big parades to watch on the Fourth of July since then.

For two years in a row, I had a booth at a Fourth Celebration in the park of a nearby town–but it was far too hot, so this year I headed to the Channel Islands Harbor for another Fourth of July Celebration and joined lots of other folks who had booths set up with their wares, crafts, jewelry and food–and as seems to be the case, me with my books.

This year I didn’t have to worry about being too hot because the day started out with a light fog which burned off for a few hours during midday–but it never too warm.

People watching is probably the most fun at something like this. Maybe I should say, people and dog watching, because there were lots of varieties of both.

Of course I enjoyed talking to people about my books–many are surprised that a “real” author would bring her own books and sell them at a place like this event. Some were thrilled to meet me and buy a book.

Most exciting was a 90 year-old-fan who had heard I would be there, who had her son bring her down so she could see me and buy my latest book, Lingering Spirit.

I also met a lady who lives in a city close to me but also has a home at Channel Islands Harbor she escapes to when the valley heat gets too much. She belongs to a book club and asked if I’d come and visit with them sometime–and I’m sure you know the answer to that–I’d love to.

We stayed with our youngest daughter and her husband while we were in the area and had a great time visiting with them too. (And they helped us set up our booth and take it down.)Another plus was having some great conversations with my seventeen year old granddaughter.

And that’s how I spent my Fourth of July this year. (And no, I didn’t see any fireworks though everyone else did–I was too tired and went to bed.)

Marilyn

Happy Birthday America

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Early in the 20th century, my grandfather Mendel left Russia knowing he would never see his parents again. He came to America, to New York, and like many recent immigrants, became a peddler. My great-grandfather invited him home for lunch after Sabbath services and introduced him to his daughter, Rachel Esther. In a nice ironic twist for this blog, my grandmother was born on the 4th of July, a genuine American beauty.

As the story unfolds, Mendel and Rachel were married and moved to Lancaster, South Carolina, then a small quiet town (now an outlying suburb for Charlotte, North Carolina). They opened the town’s mercantile (general store) and began raising their eight sons and daughters, one of which was my mother, the original Evelyn. They were the only Jewish family in the town, but my mother never recounted a single tale of anti-semitism. Her best friend, Lib Ferguson, would take my mother to Tent Revival Meetings – and she loved all the drama and energy she’d find on those evenings. It was an idyllic childhood, with high-spirited siblings and bountiful family dinners. One by one, my grandfather’s brothers immigrated to America, and each would open a mercantile in yet another small Southern town.

I’m in awe of my grandfather’s courage. He embarked on an adventure without a clear roadmap of where he was going or how he would live. Granted, life in Russia was bleak. He would have been conscripted into the Russian army and his hometown was the target of anti-semitic pogroms. So he chose the unknown over the known because America was the land of freedom and opportunity, neither of which he would find in his native land. We need to remind ourselves about that truth on not only this holiday weekend, but also on those days when there are no fireworks and no red, white, and blue bunting draped on the porches of homes across this great land.

Our country is far from perfect, but the foundation of this nation is as close to perfection as humans can get. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

That’s what my grandfather sought when he crossed the Atlantic in search of a new homeland. It’s what we still must strive to attain.

Happy Birthday America.

Marian, the Northern half of Evelyn David

Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David