What About Maude?

            I have just gotten another manuscript ready to go to my poor editor. Well, Maudy is ready to send off except I don’t have a name for the book.

            Now, this is the twenty-first century I have several modern options for naming my book.  I tried Googling “what to name my book about Maude.”  I learned that the name, Maude, means Battle Maid, which is very appropriate for a United Methodist Pastor.  I’ve considered doing more research, writing a list of significant events in the story and incorporating something from that.  I could poll marketing people or look for the names of best selling books in the romance genre.  Alternatively, I could do the same thing I’ve been doing to solve my problems for most of my life.  I can ask my friends, “What do you think would be a good name for my book?”

            Maude is a widow in her early to mid forties.  Her daughter has finished college and her son is a junior.  Maude’s husband died of a brain injury ten years before the story opens.  His injury caused him to hallucinate so that just before he died, he tried, almost successfully, to kill Maude.  Part of her problem is the trauma this event has left on her family.  The other part of her problem is that she must learn to find the pieces of her life that went missing while she was hospitalized. 

            This story begins shortly after Maude has been assigned as the pastor to a church in the small town of Blackfish on the Kitsap peninsula.  On a Monday, she runs away to the city for a day where she trips and falls onto Ralph’s chest.  From this moment we know she is destined to spend the rest of her life with Ralph.

            While Maudy and Ralph are figuring out their relationship, she is kept busy and entertained by her congregation, her family and her cat, John Wesley.  When a boy at the high school attacks a girl in the hall causing the girl to suffer brain damage similar to Maudy’s experience, Maude makes certain the family will not be offended by the presence of clergy then plunges into their crisis, using all the wisdom and memories of her own injury, to love and support this family in crisis.  She explains her involvement by telling Ralph, “I realize that by helping these strangers--making certain they have meals delivered and sharing what I know--I am helping myself.  I am rewriting my own history, only with more love.”

            Maude’s congregation consists of twenty-three people.  The youngest is only seventy-nine.  She is certain the conference is planning on closing this church soon.  Her struggles include her own internal battle as to whether to fight for the church to grow or let it dwindle and die along with its elderly congregation.

            Part of Maude’s charm is that she has vivid dreams that usually include things she can’t have, like fresh groceries or cute shoes that are too charming to ever find in a store.  Ralph figures prominently in her frustrated dreams, not always in a frustrating manner. 

            She is a bit of a rebel.  When we first meet her, she takes conscious pleasure in the feel of Ralph’s shoulder under her hand.  We see her giggling in the hardware store with the town’s scarlet woman about the best place for disposing of dead bodies.  Ralph occasionally exclaims in frustration, “You don’t look like a preacher and you don’t fit any of my stereotypes about them either!” 

            Maudy’s Porsche is my favorite of her little anti-social rebellions.  To put the matter delicately, her car has had energy-source realignment surgery.  She found a mechanic to rip the gas engine out of a Porsche body and install batteries and an electric motor.  She plugs the thing into an outlet at night and giggles when men give her silent car funny looks.

            The story is a delightful mix of contemporary social commentary, romance, wisdom and voyeuristic fun.  Alas, it does not have a title.  Do you have any suggestions?

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Travelogue - North to Alaska

            Our vacation started just a month ago as I was scanning through my e-mail.  I’d been nagging my hubby for months to take a vacation.  His standard answer was that we couldn’t afford it.  On this particular day, Princess Cruises sent me an offer I couldn’t refuse for fourteen days in Alaska.  “Look honey!  We can’t stay home for that much.”

            He grumbled some more about tips, port fees and other hidden costs.  I showed him that we did indeed have sufficient funds in our savings account.  Eventually, he not only consented to take a cruise to Alaska he got quite excited about the whole adventure.  Thus, we set sail from chilly Vancouver BC for Alaska via the inside passage.

            Our first adventure began our first night at dinner when our tablemates were seated.  People who prefer open or anytime seating have no idea of what they are missing by passing up the opportunity to dine with several complete strangers every night for a week.  This has got to be one of my favorite parts of taking a cruise. This week’s tablemates did not disappoint.  We had two sisters traveling without their husbands.  They were delightful.  The other three people soared above and beyond a writer’s dreams for random people to meet on vacation.

            We were seated with two single men and one single woman, all three, attractive adults traveling alone.   I instantly recognized the potential for a romance writer.  My dinner companions met and exceeded my wildest dreams.

            Yes, both men instantly started striving to attract the young woman’s attention.  She commented that she might attend a certain party after dinner.  They both agreed they wanted nothing more than to attend the party.  She laughed at their jokes.  They were inspired to greater heights of comic wit.  She laughed all through dinner.  Her interests were their passions.

            When we went down to dinner on the third evening, the waiter seated me next to the young woman.  I recognized that it would be cramping her style to be seated next to me, the writer.  She solved the problem by getting up and changing chairs.  I thought she was a little weak as a romantic heroine if she couldn’t flirt with two men at the same time when an older woman was seated between her and the objects of her delight. 

            One afternoon when we met one of the men following her off to line dancing, I suspected that he had succeeded in capturing her affections exclusively for himself. Sure enough that evening, the victor proudly sat next to the young woman at dinner, whispering and giggling in her ear.  Alas, the vanquished sat next to me and carried on a discussion of the role shifting cultural norms have on the style in which stories are told.  I had to wonder if our romantic heroine was absolutely certain she’d made the best choice.

            I was sad to part company with our young friends when they left the ship for inland adventures.  They inspired me to focus my writing on a series of short stories about people I meet while traveling.  I would have to travel more than once every three for four years for that to be viable—such are the sacrifices of the writer pursuing the muse.

Life With Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder

One of the major misconceptions about drinking while pregnant is that the baby will outgrow the disability.  I asked some friends to be guest bloggers to tell their stories of life with their adult children with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders (FASD).

Tabitha is a parent of a young man with FASD.  She is committed to helping others understand the severity of this disability and to supporting other parents struggling to raise children with FASD. - Delinda

Here is Tabitha's story:

Life has been a real challenge for our son.  He was diagnosed with FAE when he was 10 yrs. old.  FASD (Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder) has impacted our son's life in so many ways.

         First his quality of life is compromised, he doesn't understand why he can't do the same things as other people such as playing school sports, having a social group of friends to hang out with, getting a job or a driver's license and most of all living independently in his own apartment.

He doesn't like having parents or others telling him what he can and can't do.  He wants the freedom to make his own choices, but doesn’t understand the consequences when he makes the wrong ones. 

He has struggled for 16 years in school trying to get an education and earn his diploma so he can get a good job after graduation.  He just graduated from high school. Other than having an aide for one year, which was a very much needed, he didn't receive any adaptations.

One of the most frustrating things for us is how inconsiderate people in our community are towards people with intellectual disabilities and how they make fun of them.  People take advantage of my son because they know they can get away with it. It's heartbreaking to see how persons with FASD are treated as an outcast in our society.

Our son has been on heavy medications to try and control his hyperactivity, short attention span, and his moodiness. Now we have learned that he has been given the wrong medications for a mood disorder that has been overlooked for years.  Since he started on the right medication, his future looks much brighter.

I can't predict realistically what his future is going to be like at this point. I don’t like to think that far ahead.  We are used to taking things one day at a time, especially since he became involved in the justice system a year ago, which is another challenge parents would rather not have to face.

I really doubt that our son will be able to live on his own.  He will always need someone to guide him through life and help him make the right choices—someone to make sure he gets to work on time, and picks him up. He needs guidance to keep him away from the people who are bad influences on him because he doesn't have the ability to say no or to understand when someone appears to be his friend that they are just taking advantage of him because he is disabled. He makes friends easily but friendships don’t last.  He can't understand why certain people have hurt him by laughing at him behind his back or why others steal from him.

There is no way to know how much society really spends on our son since it's very difficult to get state services for him.  Our community doesn't offer any services or activities for someone like him. As I see it, we as his parents spend much more on him than other parents do with their children, but this is one issue that needs a major change for us because he is an adult.

Tabitha

Cancer Survivor's Journal - Guest Post with Sandra Humphrey

Perhaps I should start a Cancer Patient’s Journal series.  We are all supposed to write one.  My cancer journal turned into an eight-hundred page love story.  Today my guest blogger Sandra Humphrey writes about her cancer journal turning into a litany of praise.  Enjoy - Delinda

Brief Bio:

Sandra McLeod Humphrey is a retired clinical psychologist, a character education consultant, and an award-winning author of eight middle-grade and young adult books.  She's also the recipient of the National Character Education Center's Award for Exemplary Leadership in Ethics Education (2000) and the 2005 Helen Keating Ott Award for Outstanding Contribution to Children's Literature. You can learn more about her books by visiting her Web site  at www.kidscandoit.com.

A Season for Everything

“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.”

Ecclesiastes 3:1

            When I found out I had breast cancer, my immediate response was--I’ve got to begin a cancer journal!

            With over thirty years experience as a clinical psychologist and my last few years as a writer, all my psychological and literary juices came bubbling to the surface, and I knew I wanted to--no, make that I had to--journal.

            And I knew exactly what kind of journal it would be. It would be a “psychological” journal relating my cancer journey from the viewpoint of a psychologist. A very sophisticated journal!

            I was more surprised than anyone when my journal turned out to be something quite different--an intimate dialogue with God, thanking Him for all my many blessings along the way.

            The first entry in my journal was a thank you for the gift of family when our ten-year-old granddaughter Johanna volunteered to journal along with me. I loved the idea of our journaling together, she from her perspective and me from my mine. And I looked forward to her companionship along the way.

            After the official diagnosis, everything moved very quickly. Surgery in less than a week and again I wrote a thank you in my journal. A thank you for the gift of so many friends who took the time to send wonderful uplifting cards and notes.

            Next came a thank you for the gift of caring professionals who treat the spirit as well as the body. All the members of my treatment team, from the surgeon and oncologist to the lab technicians, were always upbeat and optimistic, yet very professional and dedicated.

            My chemotherapy began a month after the surgery and it was time for another thank you. I was so glad the chemo would be during the spring and summer when things were bright and beautiful rather than during the more gloomy winter months. I thanked God for the gift of His perfect timing. 

            Even when I was too tired to write or too nauseated to read, God kept me busy thinking. Just as one writing endeavor neared completion, He made sure there was another one on the horizon waiting for me.

            Knowing how tired I was of the nausea and the “blahs,” He introduced me to The Heroes & Dreams Foundation which supplies character education materials to elementary schools all over the country. They had seen my website and asked me to be their consultant and official writer. What an unexpected bonanza and time for another thank you. A thank you for the gift of new endeavors and wonderful people who gave me all the time I needed to “get well” before expecting anything from me.

           

            It was unsettling, to say the least, as my hair began to fall out during the chemotherapy--kind of like losing a body part. I had no idea my hair was so gray until I saw it sitting there in the wastebasket. I decided it was time to make the dreaded appointment to get my head shaved, so that I’d feel that I and not the cancer was in control. And I thanked Him for the gift of courage when I needed it most.

            Next came the turbans and the wig. When our Great Dane MAC saw my wig on the styrofoam head in my study, he let out a menacing guttural growl, backed out of the room on his tippy-toes, and flew down the stairs like something was after him. We all laughed until it hurt and it felt so good to laugh. And I sent up a thank you for the gift of laughter which helped me keep everything else in perspective.

            After the nausea and the “blahs” (not to mention the heart damage and the two weeks in the hospital getting blood transfusions) from the chemotherapy, the radiation was a piece of cake.  I could finally see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel!

            As I finished my journal, it was time to review the past year. There were so many things to be grateful for. Small things like my hair growing in curly after the chemo (alas, the curls are now long gone) and big things like the gift of restored health. This was not a journey I would have chosen, but it is a journey I will always cherish and never forget!

           

Cancer Survivor's Garden - The Flowers

I have been writing about the disasters and weeds in a cancer survivor's garden.  In among the weeds, my flowers still survive.  To the right  are some of the flowers I arranged for Mom's memorial service in August 2011.










The photo on the left is of flowers in buckets before we arranged them for a wedding.  These are also from August 2011.  This photo was taken about three weeks after Mom's service.  I adore lilies.



During most of my illness, I still sold flowers.  Working with color and beauty was part of my healing process.

The arrangement on the right was for a church.  The dark roses are Hot Cocoa, which has been unbelievably prolific.  The arrangement also includes several English roses.  I love my bright blue hydrangea seen toward the bottom of the arrangement.  I have a Cancer Survivor's Garden story about the poor hydrangea.

Despite neglect, my flowers continue to delight  my customers and lift my spirit.

http://www.delindamccann.com

The Cancer Survivor’s Garden – The Three Harsh Winters

No contemporary discussion of a Pacific Northwest garden would be complete without a discussion of The Three Harsh Winters. (Read The Three Harsh Winters in a deep voice with maximum reverb.)  The Three Harsh Winters were what we call an act of God.

I will admit, when it comes to winter weather, people in the Pacific Northwest are spoiled rotten.  Most of western Washington and Oregon are protected from ocean storms by the Olympic Mountains, and Coastal Range.  I sit in an even more protected area, an island in the middle of the Puget Sound.  The Pacific Ocean is warm enough to keep the coast warm.  The Puget Sound is about fifty-four degrees year round.  The water seems cold in the summer, but on frosty winter mornings, the steam rising off of the warm water into the chill air is absolutely mystical. 

So, my garden sits about eight hundred feet from the Puget Sound.  I hate to confess this to other northern gardeners, but a killing frost is unusual for me.  I garden year round.  In December, I spend the few hours of daylight we have getting bulbs into the ground.  I still harvest greens and winter blooming honeysuckle for bouquets out of the garden.  My December bouquets are really some of my most beautiful all year.  The winter garden still produces kale, carrots, beets and cabbage.  My everbearing raspberries will still give me enough berries for garnish or a smoothie as late as mid-December.

January is my month for topping up beds with new soil.  I work on the garden structure in January.  This is the time to add new gravel to paths or repair a raised bed.  The garden beds can be edged.  This is a good time for some of the heavy chores that would be uncomfortable in warm weather.  Of course none of this can be done when the garden is covered with snow.

February is time to weed.  It saves so much time later in the year if I can get the overwintering and newly sprouted weeds hoed up in February.  This is the month I add duck-yard litter to the vegetable beds and prepare them for the peas, cabbage, broccoli and cauliflower.  It is impossible to do this when absolutely everything is covered in a quarter inch of ice. 

Another hazard of The Three Harsh Winters was the down trees and tree limbs.  It is just hard to garden with large branches and half of a madrone tree on top of the beds.  I needed to get someone with a chain saw to go out between storms and cut the trees and branches out of my beds.  Of course the man with the chain saw couldn’t work in the snow or the ice.  He objected to going out in a gale.  He refused to work with an electric chain saw when the rain was blowing sideways through the garden. 

For three years in a row, I left my usual winter garden chores undone until April.  I like to have most of the garden planted and the rest ready to plant by April fifteenth.  The Three Harsh Winters meant that planting was delayed at least until mid-May.  I then needed to do three months of garden work in two weeks.  At the same time I needed to do the summer chore of mowing and running the weed eater.  My body was not going to do that much work all at once.  The man with the chain saw had limited time to work in the garden.  I had to choose between having him cut up the limbs and trees or run the weed eater.  It was a tough call.  The weeds had grown up to hide the limbs and down trees.

Thankfully The Three Harsh Winters are just a nightmare in our past.  This past winter was quite reasonable. We hired help to finish cleaning up the down trees and limbs.  I will go out in a few minutes and harvest the snapdragons that over wintered.  My peas, cabbage and broccoli are doing their thing.  I think I will harvest the overwintered artichoke tonight.  Ah, it is good to have had a normal mild Pacific Northwest winter.