Spring!

Maybe spring is finally here--at least in Central New York. There are buds on the trees, daffodils, grape hyacinths, Greek wind flowers, and violets sprouting around my house. The neighborhood children (the ones not shooting up my garage and porch windows with orange paintballs) are out on their scooters.

I could go to a baseball game, I could walk in the park, or take a ride to the Creek Walk and stroll there. But I probably won't. What I probably will do is clean off the patio table and bask in the sunshine this afternoon.

I have pages to write and more pages to edit. The sunshine just revs up my internal solar batteries.

Reading Lists

Last week, the Romance Writers of America announced the finalists for their annual award, the Rita, which is like Oscars for romance fiction. Not only do I love learning which of my friends are in the running (go Maggie Shayne!), but I now have lists of books to study. These stories have been judged, by authors, to be the best in their sub-genres.

There are several categories that interest me, so the first thing I do (after sending out congrats, of course) is see how many of the titles are carried by my local library. Then I put them on hold. I now have a kitchen table piled with books I want to not only read, but pick apart to learn why other writers believe these are the best stories of the year. I not only learn from the books themselves, but have found new authors whose work  I enjoy.

Now I just need to make the time to do the reading.

Third Time's a Charm

The Syracuse Orange made it to the Final Four again (YAY!). That means two Big East teams are half of the best college basketball teams in the country. Boy, do I hate that football is destroying the best basketball league in the country (even with imposter teams such as Louisville and Notre Dame).

And this isn't the first time Jim Boheim and Rick Pitino have been in the Final Four together. It is actually the third. In 1987, Pitino coached Providence College to the Final Four (where Syracuse took them out). In 1996, Syracuse and a Pitino-led Kentucky team met in the Championship game. (Kentucky won).

I predict a Syracuse-Louisville Championship game: the perfect ending for the Big East conference.

Madness in March -- and Man am I Mad

I was not happy to learn that my college basketball team was being sent to the west coast to play in an East Regional game. No wonder students don't do well in school: the NCAA (a college group) doesn't know east from west. For anyone who might be confused, they are opposites. Antonyms, not synonyms.

Then I learned the game wouldn't start until nearly 10PM  (it was actually later than that). How is that "area of natural interest" friendly? Or does the NCAA no longer take that under consideration?

Then I learned the game would be on Tru TV. Which used to be part of our cable package, but when my "TV provider" last raised the rates, they turned Tru TV into something for which one needs an adapter. Which we do not have. TV Stevie tells me the adapter would be free for the time being, but next year, we would be charged a monthly fee for it.

Then I remembered all the ads about watching the games on the NCAA website. So on Thursday night, I logged on and lo and behold, there was basketball! I started watching the Louisville game.

At no point was I informed (and no where on the website where one watches is is stated) that streaming live games from the NCAA website is good for only 4 hours. For the entire tournament.

After about 3 hours, I started seeing something on my screen stating that my pass was going to expire in an hour, and I would need to connect to my "TV provider." I had no clue what this meant. Because no where on the website where one goes to view the games does it state one receives only a 4-hour pass. No where.

About 10 minutes into the Syracuse - Montana game, I was booted. I was directed to a FAQ's page, where I was then informed (after the fact) that I was able to stream only 4 hours before needing to log in through my "TV provider." And, if I didn't receive the service through my TV provider (such as Tru TV), then I would not be able to watch the game on-line, either.

So the NCAA is not only guilty of not understanding geography and area of natural interest, but also the concept of  truth in advertising. One doesn't watch the games through the NCAA website. One links to one's cable system's website from the NCAA website to stream the games.


Makes one wonder what else the NCAA is hiding.

Raw

This week has been . . . difficult.

On Wednesday, a shooting spree in the nearby Mohawk Valley locked down schools and terrorized residents. I have friends whose children were in those schools, who teach in those schools. Another friend had planned to have her car washed at one of the locations where people were murdered, but a troublesome scene kept her writing at her desk instead driving to the car wash.

The shooter's final victim was an FBI dog.

Then on Thursday night, there was a carjacking/abduction at a local mall, during which a mom was stabbed to death and a 10-year-old girl was raped. Many of my friends knew and/or worked with the deceased woman and her daughter. Their children are students in the school where the woman worked.

Me, I know who the alleged perpetrator is. He worked at my local supermarket. When I think of the weekly shopping trips with my daughter in tow . . ..


You see, the alleged murderer/rapist was already charged with having child porn -- a lot of child porn -- on his computer, and was out of jail until his federal trial and wearing an electronic monitoring bracelet. Which he disabled and removed.

My former colleagues in the TV new business were busy. Upstate New York police/sheriff/troopers were busy. And the rest of us are raw.

Lots of primal reaction on social media.

• The shooter was himself shot and killed. "Saves the taxpayers the cost of a trial."
• The alleged murderer/rapist was beaten up in jail. "I hope he gets worse," and "Attica is stocking up on KY." 

Someone suggested implanting a chip in the private parts of sex offenders, like the chip implanted in a pet's ear. That would be a little more difficult to remove than a bracelet. I rather like that idea. Recidivism rates for sex offenders is supposed to be pretty high -- but even those numbers are hotly contested.

I buried myself in basketball. The final Big East Tournament. My team made it to the final game, beating our "arch rival" to get there. We lost the final game to a team that really doesn't even belong, and there's a lot of woo-ha about bad refs (consistent part of the Big East conference), bad guards, and the team falling apart in the second half. The tournament was a much needed distraction this week.

Now, I'm not comparing losing the Big East Tournament final game to the Herkimer shooting or the Great Northern murder/rape. Basketball merely offered a brief escape from a hideous week in Central New York.

I ache for the victims, pray for the survivors, and hope that the justice system has the wisdom and strength to do the right thing with the alleged murderer/rapist. The federal judge thought he'd done the right thing before; turns out he was wrong. I hope the system isn't wrong again.

The coming week can only get better.

Not That I'm Bitter

The final Big East Tournament (as we know it, so the claims go) starts tonight. Except I have never been able to figure out the current Big East. I'm just a cranky old fuddy-duddy. Who are these teams that helped kill my beloved basketball conference?

Here's what the real (classic?) Big East Conference looks like -- in no particular order:

• Syracuse
• St. John's
• Georgetown
• Seton Hall 
• Pitt
• UConn
• Providence
• Boston College
• Villanova

The conference was started as a basketball conference. All the teams were in states along the East Coast. But then football had to rear its ugly head and the conference expanded, inviting teams that had no business calling themselves "East". Once the focus switched from basketball to football, the league was doomed. 

The worst, though, was the inclusion of Notre Dame basketball . . .  without Notre Dame football. Somebody explain that to me, please. "We're expanding the league to include football, except Notre Dame football remains independent."

Football destroyed a beautiful thing. 

Thugs.

The Back-to-Daylight-Savings-Time Blues

My body has barely--almost--adjusted from Eastern Daylight Time to Eastern Standard Time. How else do I  explain the almost daily 4:00 AM awakenings? Now the government is asking me to revert.

I'm getting too old for this stuff. Seriously.

Okay, the theoretical "extra" hour of daylight at the end of the work day is nice, but I lose an hour of daylight at the start of my work day. And it's tough to enjoy that "extra" hour at night when the old eyelids won't stay open.

We could just leave time alone and use light bulbs at night. Noon would then be noon, when the sun is directly overhead, not at 11:00 AM.

Did you know Daylight Savings Times may increase the risks of a heart attack, a car accident, and suicide?

Springing ahead would work better if nap time was allotted during the work day the first week or so.

To think I used to resend forced naps in kindergarten. What a silly girl I was.

Movie Talk: The Master

TV Stevie and I watched The Master last night. He tries to see all the major nominees before the Academy Awards ceremony, but something happened so he couldn't get his hands on this particular motion picture before the awards. Joaquin Phoenix, Amy Adams, and Philip Seymour Hoffman were all nominated. And Joaquin Phoenix was pretty awesome. He reminded me of a younger Sean Penn, while TV Stevie claimed to catch glimpses of Montgomery Clift. And maybe Joaquin should have won.

Now, I haven't seen most of the Best Picture nominees. I think Argo and Lincoln were about it. I saw Flight. I wish I'd seen Silver Linings Playbook. I have absolutely no desire to see most of the others. I'm not a fan of special effects for the sake of special effects, nor am I a fan of unremitting human misery. TV Stevie thought Life of Pi was very spiritual, but mostly I remember the book as being annoying.

But I digress. We watched The Master last night. And Joaquin was believable in his role. But I hate movies about unremitting human misery, and I really loathe movies I don't understand. Movies that make no sense. TV asked me if I needed a playbook to watch a movie. My response was that if I'm going to invest two and a half hours of my life in something, I want to know what the heck it is. He admitted he didn't get most of it, either. The story seemed full of contradictions to me.

At five this morning, I decided the movie was about seduction. Which still didn't make it a good movie, as far as I am concerned.

Maybe TV Stevie and all of his cinema-major friends can justify this sort of production, but I wish they'd keep it among themselves.

Musical Icons: The Judy Collins Chapter

Several weeks ago, while running into a local pizzeria for a slice one lunch hour, I saw a poster announcing Judy Collins would be in town on February 23 at an old movie theater a mile or so from my house. Neither TV Stevie nor I had ever seen her in concert, so we decided to go.

There was no assigned seating -- general admission only. We arrived about an hour before the show was schedule to begin. At first, TV Stevie wanted to sit three or four rows from the front, but the floor is flat there, and I am short. If someone sat in front of me, I'd be sightless. Then he spotted available seats in the front row to the left of the stage. Oh my gosh. The best seats I have ever had at any concert ever. We had a clear view of the piano keyboard -- of everything.

The show started on time. Ms. Collins's musical director was on the piano while she played a twelve-string guitar. The opening song was Chelsea Morning. She told the amusing story of how President and Mrs. Clinton told her they'd named their daughter after her rendition of the song, and how she suspected they told Joni Mitchell (who wrote it) the same thing.

Ms. Collins chatted with the audience between songs, one time mistakenly calling her locale Buffalo, but she turned it into an amusing anecdote. So many stories to share, with the names of musicians who peopled my teen years. Her play list was eclectic: an interesting meld of Leaving on a Jet Plane and Take Me Home, Country Roads; Purple Heather; Midway; several a capella songs; Ghostriders in the Sky; Helplessly Hoping; a new song, Veterans Day; Bird on a Wire. We heard the stories behind the music.

And her voice. Oh, dear Lord, her voice. The woman is 73 years old. and while there was cracking once in a great, great while, for the most part her voice was as sweet and pure as it ever was, and at times, downright ethereal.

There was a brief intermission, after which, Ms. Collins returned to the stage alone and sat at the piano. She sang two songs: Secret Gardens of the Heart and the Colorado Song. Neither TV Stevie nor I were familiar with either selection, and both were long, but to hear and see her play the piano while singing . . . breath taking. I admit I teared up during the first song, because it reminded me of my grandparents' farm.

Her pianist joined her on stage again for her finale: Send in the Clowns.

Her encore consisted of an a capella version of Buddy Can You Spare a Dime? and Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

No matter how hard and long we applauded, how loudly people begged, that was the end of the concert. No Both Sides Now, no Amazing Grace, no Someday Soon (which TV and I both would have liked to hear her sing).

We are not at all sorry we went. Thank you, Judy Collins, for an excellent evening of music.

Recurring Dreams Recurring

Someone on Facebook commented on my last post about recurring dreams, saying that she'd heard recurring dreams meant unresolved issues.

Interesting.

Well, I dreamed I was moving back to 1911 again this week. This time, it was just me and the cat--who's been dead for 22 years--returning to that apartment with the turquoise refrigerator. The wallpaper in the kitchen and living room was the same, faded only a bit. And the curtains I'd bought back in 1976 were still hanging at the windows, dusty and fragile, but still bright and cheery. Very odd, because I'd stumbled across the avocado-and-cream weave living room drapes in my attic a month or so ago. I'm sure the cream sheers were in the same box.

I'd gotten some disheartening news on Wednesday, dreamed about the apartment that evening. I'm going to start keeping track of those dreams here. Maybe I can trace the source.

Heritage vs. Bucket List

Last night TV Stevie and I watched the season finale of a popular television show. Many of the scenes were shot in Scotland and featured lovely landscapes. And the entire time I was watching, I was thinking, "I'm part Scottish, yet that looks cold, damp, and miserable." I have no desire to return to either my Scottish or my Irish (or English or Welsh) roots. My ancestors left for a reason. I'll bet climate played a part.

If I ever go abroad, I'm going someplace warm. Someplace dry. I dream of red wine, foods marinated in olive oil, and dusty herb gardens. There are no boots, mittens, or heavy coats. I'd rather hear Pan's pipe than bagpipes. This longing hasn't changed in decades.

Top spot in my bucket list of dream destinations is Greece. I blame author Mary Stewart for this. My Brother Michael, The Moonspinners, and This Rough Magic are three of my favorite novels of all time.

Second on my list is Spain. Again, the warm and dry climate prevails.

After that, in no particular order, are the south of France, northern Italy, and Australia. Not tropical Australia, but the warm, dry part.

Sense a theme here?

Recurring Dreams

Years ago, when I was single, I lived in a little 3-room apartment. I was there for about ten years. My major complaint about the place was how cold it was in the winter. I had a huge kitchen (with an ugly turquoise refrigerator and a marvelous antique Norge gas stove), a bathroom shaped like a bowling alley, a small bedroom, and a small living room. I also had a back porch, access to clotheslines, and more closet space than anyplace I've lived before or since. There was no shower, but there was one of those old, deep, claw-footed bathtubs.

For some reason, I frequently dream that I'm moving back into that apartment. Sometimes it's just me; other times it's with TV Stevie, and sometimes I dream that the Chromos are young again, and the four of us relocate into those four rooms. There is nothing in particular that triggers the dream. It simply happens.

Sometimes, the locale has changed slightly. In reality, the back lawn sloped down to the back lawns of people living on the parallel street, but occasionally I dream there is a river flowing at the base of the lawn.

I dreamed about 1911 (the address) again last week. The landlord was showing me all the remodeling changes he'd made, including enlarging the bedroom by taking out the back hall closet. He'd also painted over the pineapple wall paper in the living room and the yellow-and-orange flowered wall paper in the kitchen. (I really loved that kitchen, except for the turquoise refrigerator).

Maybe someday I'll figure out why that apartment figures so prominently in my sleeping hours.

Sisters

I love my sister.

We don't have a lot in common, but the interest we do share, we share with a passion: words. Whether book, song, movie, or television, we both adore a good story. We're trying to figure out how to play Scrabble on line with each other -- I won't pay for Pogo, and she loathes Facebook. We'll work it out.

But our e-mails consist of such topics as:

• "Why didn't you tell me the new JD Robb was coming out next month?" 
• "Sorry, have you ever read Lisa Gardner?" "Of course. I have all of her early stuff." 
• "Did you see Downton Abbey this week?" 
• "I have to lend you two versions of Pride and Prejudice, I can't believe you've never seen it!"
• "Guess what I got from the library today? Neener, neener, nee-ner." 
• "Have you ever heard Adele? You have to listen to her!"

She's also my original and most trusted beta reader. Because she is a reader. A lover of words.

And if that's all we have in common (besides family), I can't think of anything else I'd rather have.

Love you, Sissy!

Goal Check

One of my 2013 goals is to reclaim my music. To that end, I want to have my guitar restrung and start playing again, a minimum of 30 minutes per week. That may not sound like a lot, but I work full time, am editing part time, and I am still writing. Trying to squeeze in 30 minutes a week can be a challenge.

Last week, I looked up the telephone numbers of two music stores in the area. This week, I called them both.

Had I known paying someone else to restring my guitar was so affordable, I would have done it years ago!

Clumps

Ever notice how things seem to happen in clumps?

Example: my sister & husband say celebrity deaths come in threes.

Yesterday was a clump day for me. The topic: flashing lights.

My first errand was accomplished without incident. As I drove to my second stop of the morning, my initial reaction was that the road was closed, but my depth perception is fading with age. There was what appeared to be a water main break with several DPW trucks flashing amber lights.

I didn't think any more of it until four blocks later when I came across the clean-up of a car accident. Either state troopers or county sheriffs and lots of strobing blue and red lights.

When I reached my third destination, there were amber lights again, this time a postal truck being towed.

I arrived at my fourth stop a bit early, so sat in my car and read. Something in the rear-view mirror tagged my attention. More flashing red lights, this time at the head of a funeral procession.

That's when it struck me that the theme of my day seemed to be flashing lights.

The drive to my fifth destination was uneventful, and I forgot about the whole thing. But when I was driving home, there was another automobile accident. There were so many vehicles with lights going it was difficult to tell which lane of the highway I was supposed to be in.

So what kinds of themes have you noticed in your life lately?

That (Not This) Time of Year

Thinking about your New Year's Resolutions?

Not me. I set goals for the coming year. My friends and I will get together sometime next week and recap  2012 and look at what we want to do in 2013. This is always a fun time.

I've had some successes: I now call my parents at least once a week. I was horrible about this prior to last year.  They won't be around forever. A weekly telephone conversation really helps keep us connected.

A couple of years ago, I added "Monthly date with TV Stevie" and this, too, has been a success. We usually go to a movie or something, but knowing that we're doing something together, not as parents, but as a couple, has added a nice dimension to our lives. Baseball games and work-related functions do not count. (I admit that I stole this from Kris Fletcher. That's the great thing about setting goals with friends: they sometimes have ideas that make sense to you.)

This year's list includes the usual: lose weight; exercise more; writing-related things.

In 2013, I am going to reclaim my music, so one of my goals is to have my guitar re-strung and play for at least an hour a week.

If you're not into resolutions or goals, author Holly Jacobs has come up with a fabulous idea: Word of the Year. Author Samantha Hunter has also adopted this. Check out their blogs to see how this works.

Before Television

Yes boys and girls, there was life before television.

I don't mean before working in television, although there is that, as there is life after working in television, too. No, I mean people had things to do before watching television became the American norm.

Here's a short list of things people used to do before watching television cut off other forms of human interaction:

• talk
• read
• community bands
• parades
• Christmas caroling

Just because you don't understand it doesn't make it a bad thing, and there's no need for mockery or name-calling. Some people are happy and want to share their happiness. And that's a positive thing. We need more  joy in the world. 

Especially This Time of Year?

A couple of weeks ago I started writing a blog complaining about the phrase "especially this time of year." I loathe and despise that string of words. Tragedy is tragedy, joy is joy. Helping others shouldn't depend on a date. The Salvation Army used to say, "Hunger knows no season." True. We have to do the right thing year round.

Yesterday, 20 students and seven adults were murdered in a school in Newton, Connecticut.

I waited for someone to say "especially this time of year," and I wasn't disappointed.

I heard it on the news last night. I saw it posted on FaceBook this morning.

So if these people--the adults as well as the children--were murdered in April instead of December, that would be better?

For whom?

Why?

Sorry, I disagree. Their deaths are an outrage, a travesty, and a deep, lingering sorrow that will never go away for their families and friends, and that doesn't change whether it's Christmas, the Fourth of July, or Arbor Day.

Working Weekend - The Writing Life

I'm taking this weekend to work at my writing job. Too often, especially this time of year, the physical act of writing gets shunted aside by other obligations, and when writing is a person's second job, it isn't always given the respect it deserves, much less the priority it needs.

Being a writer isn't only about writing. There is a lot of maintenance, even before one is published, that needs nurturing: websites, Facebook, Twitter, blogs, etc. It's enough to make a woman want to give up her dream. But it must be done. Even during the holiday season. So I'm taking this weekend to not only reach the 1000 word mark on a novella project and rewrite (for the 2000th time) chapter two of my current work-in-progress, but here I am blogging. I need to freshen my website. I'm tootling around a bit on Facebook.

And I need to work on my goals for next year. I need to think about every part of my life and what I want to improve. Are the areas I identified last year still relevant for the coming year? What other areas should be addressed?

A lot of things to fit into two short days. When Monday morning rolls around and I'm back at the Day Job, I want to know I didn't fritter away my time.

Onward.

Sweet Potato Galette

Mom asked me to make either a sweet potato or squash side dish for Thanksgiving dinner. For the past several years, I've made butternut squash with baby spinach, but now spinach and cranberries have been added to the ever-rowing lists of foods that someone in the family can't eat. We also try to avoid dairy (two severe allergies plus sporadic lactose intolerance) and gluten (one severe allergy).  And the thought of marshmallows on sweet potatoes makes my teeth ache.

Luckily, I like to cook. I like to look at recipes. I decided to make a sweet potato galette. I made a galette once in the past, and I remember it as labor intensive. I surfed the web looking for recipes, but most sweet potato versions included cheese or sweet stuff. Time to just make it up as I go, using online guidelines for the process, but not the ingredients.

Step 1 - Mend my apron.


I love my apron. The pocket came unstitched in one corner. Yes, I mended it with purple thread because X-Chromo used up my black thread. Yesterday.





Step 2 - Scrub and peel sweet potatoes.

Please note that I bought long skinny sweet potatoes to make the slicing process easier.

Step 3 - Slice the sweet potatoes into 1/8" thick rounds with a mandoline.

Step 4 - Mutilate an onion.

The only time I miss wearing contact lenses when I'm chopping onions.

Step 5 - pour Wegmans Basting Oil into a large cast iron skillet.

If you don't have a Wegmans near you, perhaps your supermarket sells seasoned oils. If not, you should move some place where there is a Wegmans. Just not near me, because there are already too many people at my Wegmans. The parking lot is a nightmare.

Step 6 - layer the rounds of sweet potatoes, slightly over lapping, into the skillet. Top with some onion, drizzle with some basting oil.

Step 7 - Repeat step 6 until all sweet potatoes & onions are used.

Step 8 - Cover the sweet potato mixture with a round of aluminum foil. Non Stick. And make sure the non-stick side is down. Trust me.

Step 9 - Weight the foil with another cast iron skillet (slightly smaller than the first skillet)

Step 10 - Cook on medium heat for 5 minutes. Then put into a pre-heated 425 degree oven for 25 minutes.

Ignore my dirty oven. I do.

Step 11 - Remove top skillet and foil. Bake for another 25 minutes.

Step 12 - Remove from oven. Let sit for 5 minutes. Loosen edges with spatula. Flip onto a platter.

It's supposed to look like a large pancake, but with texture.  

Nope. But it tastes good. I put it in a shallow baking dish with a cover and will transport to Mom & Dad's, reheat in the microwave. I just wanted it to look pretty, you know?