A Clue for Adrianna (Captain’s Point Stories) A romantic women’s fiction/family saga/chicklit novel written by Annie Acorn and Juliette Hill writing as Charlotte Kent

Also available in print and for Nook and Kobo!

A Man for Susan (Captain’s Point Stories) A romantic women’s fiction/family saga/chicklit novel written by Annie Acorn and Juliette Hill writing as Charlotte Kent

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) a cozy mystery by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Like most little girls in the fifties, I grew up knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that my father was a hallowed being, due privileges of rank and respect far beyond those called for by the women who surrounded him.

An only child, his own father had succumbed to a heart attack when Dad was twelve.  My paternal grandmother and great-aunt, having been born and raised in Victorian England, immediately cast him in the role of man of the house.  My mother told me once that she knew she was in trouble when she found my great-aunt listening at the bottom of a staircase for the sound of my father’s first footstep of the day, because that was when the table would be set for the family’s breakfast.

In point of fact, Dad wasn’t a demanding person, quite the contrary.  He merely stated his preferences, and miraculously, the women who always surrounded him in life – mother, aunt, wife, daughters always made it so.  Hollywood would have cast him as a mild-mannered British vicar.  Tall, lean, with dark hair and eyes, he could be imposing in a suit, but he never used it to his advantage.

Everyone liked him.  He conversed easily with the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.  His shade tree mechanic worshiped him.  The Captain of the boat on which we rode as tourists to Ship Island off the coast of Mississippi said he’d never met anyone more interested in deep sea fishing – this about a man who didn’t even own a rod and reel.

As a young man, golf was his sport and provided income during the lean years of his high school days, when he made good money to help with household expenses caddying for others – the tables turning during his grad school tenure at Ohio State when a teenaged Jack Nicklaus caddied for him one fine day.

He studied hard and was awarded a full scholarship to Wabash College, where he majored in chemistry and earned a Phi Beta Kappa key.  Skipping the master’s program, he went straight to work towards a PhD at Ohio State, where a professor gave him a B+ solely because he didn’t believe anyone should receive straight A’s.

And then he married my mom and fathered four daughters…

I am the oldest of the four, and as far as I know, none of us was ever made to feel “less” because of our sex.  I was taken on my first college tour when I was six, it being assumed that a full education was in my future.  He took on the responsibility for teaching me French every Wednesday evening when I was nine, so that I would be ready to pass the language requirements. Years later, when our roles were almost reversed, he delighted in our watching together Maigret mysteries filmed in this language without using the subtitles, his memory still sharp.

Although not a trained musician himself, Dad loved classical music and bought season tickets each year to the symphony concerts held in our town.  Mother preferred a good theater excursion, so often I accompanied my father, dressed in my Sunday school finest, told as we left the house together each time that he hoped I would remember to act as nice as I looked because everyone could always strive to do better.  To this day, WETA classical radio plays throughout the day in my home, and the arts and music to which he introduced me run through my books, especially those written by me as Charlotte Kent in my Captain’s Point series.

Dad’s scientific papers were presented at international conferences and copies were ordered from behind the Iron Curtain when you could still hear the gates clanging shut.  He produced environmental impact studies for Nuclear Regulatory and testified when permissions to build nuclear power plants were being requested.  He flew in helicopters over the Mojave Desert and went down uranium mine shafts.    He wore a badge each day to the Oak Ridge National Labs that tracked the radiation to which he was being exposed – these badges proving years later that his work had indeed resulted in the cancers that would kill him.

He tutored high school students who didn’t have knowledgeable fathers of their own and welcomed interns each summer to work under him, including a president of Grambling State University, an historically black college, this man being himself a chemist.  When Dad agreed to drive to Louisiana and lecture during the turbulent civil rights era, his cohort and friend locked him in the Student Union building to keep him safe, although my father was never quite sure from whom, everyone having welcomed him warmly.

He was not able to ever successfully tutor me, completely unable to accept that his verbal offspring could not easily understand either chemistry or physics.  Years later, though, retired and sometimes bored, he read and reread Chocolate Can Kill, using his technical writing skills to help me make it the best manuscript it could be.

Woe to those who didn’t obey his rules, for the punishment he meted out was brutal.  “You will sit here until you can act like a lady,” he would say, and there you would sit on the couch next to him, knowing that you had disappointed.

How long would it take for one to be able to act this way?  One never knew as the minutes stretched.  Finally, he would ask, “Do you think that now you can do it?”

Struck mute, I would nod my head in the affirmative, slinking to my room in shame once released, hoping that if I would stay out of sight for a while my misconduct would be forgotten, and miraculously, when I would allow myself back into the world as I knew it, it always had been.

Father’s Day is now for me a little sad.  When you’ve had one of the best, their loss is felt all the more.

Now that Dad is gone, looking back at all the things he accomplished and all that he did, the real wonder to me is that, somehow, he managed to remain throughout the fifty plus years we had together the larger-than-life Daddy I revered so much as a little girl – untarnished and undiminished.

I love you, Dad!

Annie Acorn

A Clue for Adrianna (Captain’s Point Stories) A romantic women’s fiction novel written by Annie Acorn and Juliette Hill writing as Charlotte Kent

Also available in print and for Nook and Kobo!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) a cozy mystery by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, and NOOK!

After my husband died, I was filled with a need to do two things – memorialize him in some way and find a way to make good come from the bad that had surrounded my losing him.

It took me a while, but one day I finally saw the elephant that had been standing in the room all along.  His memory would live on both in my heart and through the two sons that we had produced as a result of our love.  Additionally, I recognized there were plenty of small kindnesses that I could reach out and do in his honor, unbeknownst to the recipient of such random acts.

Now all that was left was the harder of my two needs.  How could I make good come of his death and my grief?

Fate has a way of catching us unawares and in ways that we least expect.  The year was 1994, and I was trying to refinance my house, interest rates having gone down.  One interminable wait followed another as I was passed along to the one person who could clear the way for my loan, and as I waited, I read through the Birmingham News until I reached the want ads.

Now understand, at the time I owned and managed a tri-state medical outsourcing business, and I was in the process of successfully flipping a five store retail chain.  The last thing I needed was a job, but when you have the soul of a writer, you will read anything.  And so, my eyes traveled down the columns of alphabetical listings until they landed on the one that read:

WANTED:  Family Services Counselor – Work with families as they deal with the loss of a loved one.

Here was my answer, I thought.  I would pay it forward.  I would provide some sort of purpose for my husband’s too young death by passing what I had learned onto others.

Five days later, I began working at an historic cemetery in a less than safe neighborhood.  Back before time, I had majored in history, and the life stories reflected in the burial books that recorded more than a century fascinated me.  Then I met with my first widow.

She was fifteen years younger than me with a five-year-old son clinging to her leg as she tried to pick out a grave for the man she had loved, who one minute had been alive and the next minute had been dead, struck down by a drunk driver.  We were different ages, different religions, and different ethnic backgrounds, but grief for a lost loved one united us.  Somewhere on the universal balance sheet opposite the huge black void left by my husband’s death a tiny positive check mark was etched.

Two months later, I added managing a cemetery to my already full work calendar, and as I worked with even more widows and helped them achieve healing, a few more checks on the plus side appeared.  Three months later, I took on five more cemeteries and funeral homes as a district manager, and a full row of checks appeared.

Each new family I counseled, each new widow who touched my life had their own story.  Slowly, these accumulated in a journal I kept until they numbered over 400 stories of love, loss and recovery.

One day I woke up and knew that, while the scales never would be balanced, my work at the cemeteries was completed.  Now, as an author, I am working on a book in which I’m weaving a number of these names-changed stories into a fictional umbrella in hopes that through them many others may be helped.

“I love Memorial Day,” the grounds manager at my first cemetery once told me.  “Everyone brings flowers, and the cemetery comes alive.”

I’ve spent much of my life in the Deep South where visiting the cemetery on Memorial Day remains a strong tradition.  Whether or not this is your tradition doesn’t matter.  You can still pause for a few minutes on this special day and remember those you have lost, touch base with them where they reside in your heart and keep their memories alive.

Best wishes to you, your friends and your families – those who are still with you and those who are already gone.  I know I’ll be spending a few minutes with each and every one of both kinds of mine.

Annie Acorn

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) a humorous mystery by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Clue for Adrianna (Captain’s Point Stories) A romantic women’s fiction novel written by Annie Acorn and Juliette Hill writing as Charlotte Kent

Also available in print and for Nook and Kobo!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) A cozy mystery by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, and NOOK!

The bad news not too many days ago was that I had to go to the dentist.  [A Tired Older Woman Goes to the Dentist]  The good news is that I survived and did not have to drive through snow, sleet and/or freezing rain to get there as originally had been predicted.

Barely had I been taken back and seated in the chair for my cleaning, when my dentist, Dr. Floss, who I LOVE, popped in to do the exam part that’s usually reserved for after the cleaning.  Having delivered a brief preamble, he popped his gloved fingers into my mouth and began rummaging around as he talked.

“Had he ever mentioned to me the poem that his college-aged son had written?” he asked.

“Uh-uh.”  I moved my head cautiously side to side to indicate a negative.

“Well, coincidentally, just the evening before he had reread his son’s wonderful poem and had once again found it to be way beyond good.”  Dr. Floss moved my tongue this way and that, checking for lost objects, I presumed, hoping against hope that he might find the Holy Grail, which everyone knows has completely disappeared.  “Would I be interested in reading said poem?”  He peered down at me.

Once again, I produced a series of guttural noises, somehow managing to indicate an answer in the affirmative.

“And are you still writing?”  Dr. Floss, who had been examining each tooth in my head with great care, now gave me a brief respite.

“Yes,” I uttered, my mouth now being cleared of extraneous debris.  “I’m launching a romantic women’s fiction novel titled A Clue for Adrianna on April 15th that will be followed by a second novel titled A Man for Susan on August 1st.”

Having chosen a particularly sharp looking tool, Dr. Floss once again bent to his work.  “A Man for Susan,” he repeated.  “Don’t you think someone like our Susan would be interested in a young, dashing dentist – dark haired with dark eyes?”

When, I wondered, had the main character in my WIP become ‘ours’?

Since the only two things I could see from my reclined position were Dr. Floss’s dark hair and eyes, set beside the horrified face of my dental hygienist, Ms. Brush, I didn’t have to use my degree in brain surgery to determine who he intended to be the role model for my next alpha male character.

“What a wonderful idea!” I exclaimed as soon as my mouth was free.  “Why hadn’t I thought of that?”

At which, Dr. Floss gave a small, deprecating shrug, his face taking on a look of total humility before he left Ms. Brush alone with me to do her duty.

A short while later, my now being all cleaned, polished and sparkling white, imagine my surprise when Dr. Floss once again popped into the small procedure room – a second meeting never previously having been on our agenda.  With amazing sleight of hand, he now grabbed my purse and headed with me in tow to the checkout counter.

Having placed my belongings on the high countertop, he proceeded to stage whisper into his surprised receptionist’s ear, “Keep her here.  She’s a writer!”

Then he disappeared into another small room from which soon emanated the sounds of a printer, emerging a minute later with his son’s poem in hand.  This, liking poetry, I gladly read and found to be quite beautiful – well constructed, stark and evocative.

“Has your son ever considered publishing his work?” I asked, at which Dr. Floss glowed.

My insurance having been filed and my next appointment having been made, Dr. Floss started to open the door to the waiting room for me, but then halted my progress as he leaned in my direction.

“Let’s not mention Susan to my wife,” he suggested in a real whisper.  “We’ll keep it between the two of us going forward – just our little secret.”

Pleased to have finally made my escape, I sat quietly in my car for a few minutes, reviewing this particular trip to the dentist.

On the plus side, Dr. Floss had been too absorbed in our conversation to notice the somewhat sensitive spot on tooth #14.  On the negative side, A Man for Susan would now require a complete rewrite, if it were to accommodate successfully a normally shy, dark-haired, dark-eyed, forty-something, dentally-inclined alpha male.  On balance, I had to admit, rewriting an entire full-length novel seemed a small price to pay for having saved tooth #14 from the drill.

As Ms. Brush would certainly say, don’t forget to brush and floss several times each day!  It really does keep the dentist away!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, Apple, and NOOK!

Well, it’s that time of year again.  March 17 is just around the corner, and I’m preparing for St. Patrick’s Day.

You know the holiday – the one on which almost everyone the world over, regardless of their personal heritage, pins on a shamrock and claims to be Irish.  To say that some of these folks go a bit overboard would be one of The World’s Greatest Understatements. Truth be told, there are times when I worry that I’m one of them.

But then, I take a look around, and what do my eyes alight upon but green beer.  Green beer?!?  I mean, really?

Not to be outdone by their New Yorker cousins, Chicagoans even dye their river green, just to help everyone get in the spirit.  Cast alongside these two super powers of the annual St. Pat’s Day celebrations, and my humble endeavors definitely pale.

In an effort to appear less crazy than some of the other St. Patrick’s Day aficionados, I start out slowly, just as soon as my birthday is left behind me towards the end of each February.

Starting with music, I reach for a treasured James Galway and the Chieftains CD, working under the assumption that you can’t go wrong with a classic.  Next I progress to the Three Priests.  Saturday morning comes along, and I switch to Celtic Thunder – some of the best housecleaning music around.  By that evening, I’m pooped, and before I slip into a warm bubble-filled bath, I stock the changer with Celtic Women and press Play.

Now before you all leave a million and one comments pointing out that some of the selections from which I am choosing don’t really reflect Irish music, I already know that, but I’m not a purist.  It’s a mood that I’m trying to establish here.

As a card-carrying foodie, you know that I haven’t just been listening to music.  In point of fact, I’ve been cruising the area’s grocery store aisles in search of two things – Irish soda bread and Irish butter.  Talk about a match made in Heaven!  Served with a cup of Irish Breakfast tea, there’s nothing better, but that doesn’t stop me.  There’s at least one good round of both Irish stew and its cottage cousin Colcannon in my future.

Now, I’m not much of a drinker myself, but if a certain friend of mine comes over anytime during the first two weeks of March, some Guinness will magically appear simultaneously.  Also, this is the season for a good cup of Irish coffee after dinner, and you might – just might – catch me sipping on a jigger or two of Bailey’s served over ice or even ice cream.

There’s one thing left if I’m going to enjoy a perfect St. Patrick’s Day experience, and those of you who follow this blog already know what is missing.  Yep, you guessed it!  Because of my well known addiction, I will eat my way through a fair amount of Irish chocolate – much more creamy than our American chocolates.  You really should give it a try.

At this point, I will have done everything but drink a pitcher of green beer while dancing a jig, so maybe I’m just as crazy as the rest of them…

But wait!

Surely, I’m not at all like those other Irish wannabes.  After all, my mother’s maiden name was Patrick!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

fAlso available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, Apple, and NOOK!

Okay, I admit it.  I’m a holiday junkie.  I have been known to layer my home with what my family laughingly refers to as Christmas World.  I am addicted to Cadbury Easter eggs, and I’m first in line at the family Memorial Day, 4^th of July and Labor Day cookouts.  I welcome, indeed relish, New Year’s Day as a time to work on getting my ducks in a row.   [A Tired Older Woman Plans for Success] and [A Tired Older Woman Wishes on a Star]

But Valentine’s Day?  Not so much, which is strange when you understand that I am addicted to chocolate. [Roses and Chocolates]

My dislike of this holiday started early on – in a place far, far away,  back before time.  I was in the Fourth Grade, and my nemesis was a blond-haired, freckled-faced boy named Tom.  Tom was smart, neat and clean, and except for one thing, there was nothing wrong with him.  Unfortunately, Tom had developed a HUGE crush on me, and I mean a real whopper.

Everywhere I went, he was there.  Rain, snow, sleet or hail, he waited each morning at the end of our street to walk with me to school, and each afternoon, no matter how much I dallied, he trudged along beside me on my way home.  If I was going home to a friend’s house or bringing a friend home with me, he was still there, like a sticky sheet of flypaper that I couldn’t shake off.

Looking back on it, I now realize that he was probably lonely.  His mother and father both worked, and he was an only child.  I imagine he spent many hours by himself, because most of the boys in our class lived further away, but at the time, I felt no sympathy.  He was ruining my pleasure.

I tried to discuss the situation with my mother – a disaster.  I was her eldest, and I had proven myself eligible.  She was delighted.  Besides, Tom was a “nice” boy, and his mother belonged to my mother’s church circle.  Garnering her support of my rejection of his shy, totally appropriate advances was a non-starter.

“I could expect,” she told me, “to have many similar experiences over the coming years.”

Having skipped the Second Grade, I was only the age of a Third Grader, and this was a much more innocent time.  I was appalled.

And then, our spinster Fourth Grade teacher announced with stars in her eyes that Valentine’s Day was around the corner.  Each of us was to bring a shoe box to school, which we would then decorate.

Too young to connect the dots, I looked forward to the arts and crafts activity.  My girlfriends and I spent a happy hour spreading Mucilage on fragile white dollies and red and pink construction paper hearts, which we then applied in decorative patterns on our shoe boxes.  How decorative they had become.  Innocently, I lined mine up on the deep window sill along the back of our schoolroom along with the others.

“Don’t forget to bring your valentine’s on Monday for the exchange,” our teacher reminded us as we hurried home Friday afternoon.

After Sunday dinner, Mother and I worked together, separating the tiny store-bought valentines from their sheets.  With great care, I signed each one of them in the new cursive script my classmates and I had practiced each day after lunch in our classroom, although I distinctly recall having done so in pencil instead of with a fountain pen that might blot one and spoil it.

Monday arrived bright and sunny with a chill in the air, but there was no hint whatsoever of the disaster to come.  Clutching my small paper bag of sealed envelopes, I headed for school, pleased when I realized that for once Tom wasn’t waiting to walk beside me.

Halfway there I was joined by two of my friends, and we chatted quite gaily.  Then we arrived at the school’s entrance, where some of my classmates were standing and whispering, punctuated by occasional giggles.  As we approached the doorway, one of the boys known for his merciless teasing stepped forward.

“Aren’t you in for a surprise?”  He let out a laugh and pointed at me.

Having been there before, my girlfriends and I merely ignored him, continuing on to our classroom.

“Take a few minutes before class and put your valentines in the recipient’s boxes,” our teacher greeted us, obviously in a holiday mood.

“Oh, look!”  One of my friends pointed out that a cupcake wrapper filled with hard candy “message” hearts and heart-shaped red hots awaited each of us on our desks.

“What’s that?” my other friend asked and pointed at my beautifully decorated box.

I stood frozen in place completely speechless – possibly for the one and only time in my life, I don’t remember another.  Propped against the window pane behind my box was a large heart-shaped box of chocolates and an oversized valentine, next to which stood my nemesis, Tom – a huge grin on his face.

“I’ll carry it home for you,” he promised.

Thank goodness that I had been well schooled in good manners.  In my innocence I could’ve ruined the poor boy’s self-confidence for life.  Instead, I murmured a “thank you” and tried to look nonchalant.

“I told my mother you weren’t allergic,” he continued – not the most suave or debonair of suitors, but then, who was I to criticize?

Somehow I got through the day – the whispers and giggles, the teasing and taunting.  I even managed to stay embedded in a circle of my girlfriends, thus managing to avoid Tom.

Left to himself, he struck up a conversation with a shy, quiet girl, who told him how wonderful he was to have thought of such a lovely gift.  From then on, he waited at the end of her street to walk to school each and every morning, joined her at the state university and, afterward graduation, they were married.  Tom went on to start a highly successful Dot Com, many years later, and I understand that they have been blessed with many grandchildren.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere, although my lack of appreciation for Tom’s puppy love did not preclude my finding the love of my life many years later – perhaps the result of my having remembered to say, “Thank you.”

Still, the whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth.  After all, it was the only time in my life that a box of chocolates let me down.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

The Magic Sand Dollar by Annie Acorn

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, ibookstore and NOOK!

How does one capture the essence of a child’s Christmas?  As I begin to write this, my third post referencing Little Annie’s Christmas [Part I] [Part II], I wonder if the task is indeed beyond the reach of a mere keyboard.  So many sights, sounds, and scents remain just as clear in my memory today as they were over half a century ago.

Although most of my memories carry me back to The Double as we referred to the duplex in which our young family lived, my paternal grandmother and great-aunt residing in the other half, other venues had their place as well.

First and foremost was Lazarus Department Store located in downtown Columbus, Ohio.  Having begun as a purveyor of men’s clothing, Lazarus had morphed during the Civil War into a major provider of uniforms for Union soldiers.  By the time, my small feet passed through its welcoming doors, it was a full-fledged department store and covered a city block.

Involving as they did so many homemade items, Christmas gift preparations began early.  As the leaves dropped from the trees, I would be called into service to accompany my paternal grandmother on her fall shopping spree.  This, of course, involved a walk of several blocks to the bus stop, where we caught a ride to our destination.

Whole new worlds passed by our dusty windows as we traveled downtown, including the forbidding gray stone walls of the Ohio Penitentiary, where I was told the inmates were busy making license plates.  My childish imagination quickly formed a picture in which these men happily sang as they worked in much the same way as the elves that I knew were busily turning out toys for Santa.

Arriving at Lazarus, we would inevitably head for the sewing and notions department, where my grandmother would first rummage through the remnant tables – never willing to pay full price for anything she could purchase on sale.  Early on, I had been trained to distinguish flannel, organdy, and polished cotton, and Grandma counted on me to ferret out appropriate samples for her to consider.

The flannel, I knew, would be used to fashion nightgowns and pajamas for me and my sisters.  Polished cotton formed the basis of the puffed-sleeved dresses we wore on a daily basis, even when playing, and the organdy was sewn into pinafores to be worn over them.  Rickrack and zippers, lace and ribbons, buttons and thread would also be added to our stack.  Once my grandmother had paid for her purchases, I would be handed the bag of notions as my special charge – heavy responsibility for a five year old.

Now it was time to buy the yarn and crochet thread that would be turned into hats and scarfs and mittens we would find in our stockings, as well as collars to wear over sweaters and doilies for our table.  At this point, I would be handed a second bag to tote, now feeling more balanced.

By now, it was lunch time, and if I had been good, we would head for the store’s famous Tea Room.  Here I would be treated to chicken salad on a lettuce leaf with Waldorf salad on the side if I was especially lucky.  A fluffy yeast roll took up residence on my bread plate with a molded pat of butter that was almost, but not quite, too pretty to cut into with my butter knife. My grandmother had a sweet tooth, and each of us enjoyed a large slice of Lazarus chocolate layer cake to complete our meal.

Donning our coats and gathering our packages, we were now ready to return home.  Used to taking an afternoon nap, I inevitably slept on the bus during the return trip, my head snuggled against my grandmother’s arm.  Approaching our stop, I would be awakened and told to be ready to disembark into the cold afternoon wind for our walk home, where we would be greeted like returning world travelers with mugs of hot chocolate or tea.

A few weeks later, Thanksgiving now behind us, I would again make the trip downtown, this time accompanying my parents and sister.  During the intervening weeks, Lazarus had been transformed into a Christmas wonderland.  The store’s huge windows were filled with moving displays and flocked with fake snow.  Inside, colored lights glittered on columns and hung from the ceiling.  Christmas trees graced the sales floor, and large ornaments decorated our trip up the escalators.  In the toy department, an entire miniature town now resided in a glass case, complete with several moving trains, their signals and stations lit with tiny lights, and we would wait in line for some time just for the opportunity to make one turn around this wonder-filled living scene.

Our shopping completed, we now needed a tree, and I would generally be called upon to accompany Father to the tiny strip of stores across from my grade school, where a temporary tree lot had been erected.  Warmed by a fire, boy scouts manned the cash box.  Father took his time over the selection of just the right tree, measuring each one against his own 6’4” height and testing their needles for freshness.

Once selected the tree would be tied into the trunk of our ’51 two-tone blue Pontiac for the ride home, where we would once again be greeted like conquering heroes, usually with mugs of hot chocolate or cider.  By this time, I was feeling quite special, and decorating the tree became one of my favorite activities.

With great care, Father spread each string of lights across the living room floor, checking to make sure they still worked, these being the days when one bad bulb would take out a whole strand.  Once we were assured that everything was in working order, he attached the strands to the tree, taking great care to place the different colored lights in a pleasing display, some in and some out on the branches.  Finally, he would screw in our special bubble lights that provided hours of fascinated pleasure for my sisters and me.

Next came the garland, which was Mother’s responsibility as she wove it in and out of the branches in a way that wasn’t too overwhelming.  Each strand was a different color – red, green, silver and gold – for ours was not a high style tree, but rather a reflection of years after Christmas ornament sales.

Now we girls were allowed to help, placement of the ornaments being all that was left.  Father would first hang his own childhood favorite, a gold acorn that now graces Son #2’s tree.  I had a favorite Santa Claus ornament, and I made sure it held pride of place at my eye level.  Nonbreakable snowmen and reindeer were given to my sisters to hang on the lower branches.

Finally, the silver icicles were removed from their slender boxes.  At this point, my father would suddenly morph into a fanatic, there being a right and a wrong way to put such splendid additions on a tree.  Each icicle must be placed, not tossed, individually into position.

Several hours later, we would pause for a light supper before watching our normal Saturday evening line-up on our 10” TV screen.  The lights in the room would be turned down, and the tree would be turned on, a thing of beauty in our small living room, although my responsibility for it was not yet done.  As the oldest child, I knew I would be counted on throughout the season to check and refill if necessary the water in the tree stand, my being small enough to do so without shaking the tree.

An evening or two before Christmas, my grandmother and great-aunt would join us in the car, and Father would take us on an evening tour of Arlington, a richer suburb that backed onto ours.  Here the large homes on their sizeable lots were decked out in fine fashion, as the owners competed for a silver tray engraved with their name.

Thousands of blue lights flickered from the yard of one home, each tree and shrub having been covered in them.  A working train circled another house, while another sported one of the new-fangled silver trees that received mixed reviews from our numbers.  Snowflakes swirled beyond our car’s window, further enhancing the magical world around us.

One year, when it was snowing particularly hard, we had a flat tire, and Father sought shelter for my pregnant mother and the rest of us, while he took care of the matter.  Once inside, Mother fell in love with this home’s tree, which had been completely decorated with white lights, gold garland and ornaments and shielded masses of gifts that had all been wrapped in gold paper with green ribbon.

Back home, Father would read us a pared down version of The Christmas Carol as we sipped on mugs of hot chocolate and shared a plate of Christmas cookies before being tucked into bed.

Christmas Eve, of course, saw us in church, followed by a ride home, usually in snow.  Grandmother and our great-aunt would now join us on our side of The Double, where we would open the family gifts that had been waiting patiently beneath the tree, my sister having proven herself unable to handle the excitement of these gifts plus Santa Claus’s leavings all in one session.

These were the practical gifts with perhaps a book or a 45 rpm record thrown in.  One memorable year my uncle sent us girls a set of classical music recordings, which laid the groundwork for my love of classical music in adulthood.  Once the used gift wrap and ribbon had been carefully folded and put away for reuse, we gathered around Father, who now read us The Night Before Christmas to calm us down before we were tucked into bed.

Having sworn to stay awake until Santa arrived and dispensed with the milk and cookies we had left for him, I would immediately fall asleep, awakening the next morning to find his gifts left beneath the tree.  These were the fun presents that always included dolls – the original “walking” dolls one year, Ginny dolls complete with mahogany bedroom furniture the next year, Revlon dolls another year.  Games and puzzles and color books abounded, as did picture books and easy readers.  Tinker toys and Lincoln logs found their way into our home, as did jump ropes and jacks.  Stockings had been hung along the mantle throughout the season, and these were now filled with candy and small hand held games that required dexterity to place four balls into their spaces or arrange numbers or letters of the alphabet in the correct order.

Our gifts having been opened and breakfast having been consumed, Father would read us the Christmas story from Luke, before we all made our way upstairs to dress for our trip over to the other side of The Double, where we would enjoy Christmas dinner.

My grandmother and great-aunt having been born in Victorian England, this meal followed their traditions.  Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were a given, usually accompanied by mashed potatoes, green beans, and homemade cranberry sauce.  The meal not containing enough carbohydrates already, homemade yeast rolls and real butter also found a place on our table.  A plum pudding was always brought in for dessert, although mincemeat and cherry pies were also available.

Once we had consumed our Christmas feast and the dishes had been washed and put away, we would adjourn to our side of The Double.  Here we would play with our newly received games, such as word bingo, Snap, Go Fish, and Monopoly, the adults entering into the fun as well as we girls.  When naptime arrived, I as the eldest was usually allowed to stay up as I was needed to help sort out the edge pieces from one of the new puzzles.

Supper would be sandwiches, popcorn, apples, eggnog, Christmas cookies and fudge as friends would stop by, sometimes staying to watch a show on our still somewhat rare miniature TV screen that was housed in an oversized cabinet.  At the end of a day filled with excitement, rich food, and lots of activity, we went easily to bed, secure in the knowledge that we had proven ourselves to have been good for yet another year.

Times have changed dramatically since those simple days.  Sales of live Christmas trees continue to go down, and bubble lights are rarely if ever found.  Family members now watch TV throughout Christmas Day in different rooms.  Gifts have frequently been purchased off the internet and often require batteries to operate.  But still…

This year, I challenge you to spend Christmas as a family together in one room.  Share a story, play a game, and work a new puzzle.  Welcome family and friends into your home.  Create Christmas memories for your children and grandchildren throughout the season that are as special as mine are to me a half century later.

Remember that bigger, brighter, and more razzle-dazzle doesn’t necessarily mean better.  For what I remember most about the Christmases of my childhood aren’t the toys or the decorations or even the food, but rather the time spent in a meaningful way with the adults that filled my small world.

Merry Christmas!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Annie Acorn’s 2012 Christmas Treasury (Annie Acorn’s Christmas Anthologies) edited by and stories by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, ibookstore and NOOK!

It was two weeks before Christmas and all through our small house, everyone was stirring, and there was no quiet around.  Finally, we all settled into our seats at the dining room table for Sunday dinner, Richard, my first real boyfriend, a welcomed guest.

The previous day, we had decorated our live tree, cleaned the house thoroughly, and completed more of our Christmas baking.  The nativity was displayed on the credenza with care, and a wreath had been hung upon our front door for my paternal grandmother and great-aunt had boarded an L&N train that very morning and were chugging along the tracks as we ate on their way to join us.

Life has a way of surprising you, though.  Just as we had all settled down to our plates full of food, the wall phone in the kitchen cried out for attention.  Father arose from his seat, his silverware hitting his plate with a clatter.

“But how could that happen?” We heard him ask in the kitchen.  “So when is the next one?”

Silently, we waited, our forks poised at the ready.

“Stay where you are.  Cincinnati’s a big city.  I’ll find out when to pick you up, and I’ll be there to get you.”  And with this, he hung up.

The train my grandmother and great-aunt had boarded in Columbus had been delayed by a huge storm in the Chicago area.  Consequently, they had missed their connection in Cincinnati and were now waiting for the next train that would be heading our way.

The atmosphere slightly more sober, we finished our repast and cleared the table as Father checked on what would be their new schedule.  Realizing they would actually arrive at our home quicker, if we drove to Cincinnati and retrieved them, a new plan was hatched.  Richard, a senior in high school, volunteered to help drive.  Mother packed sandwiches, chips, and some of our fresh-baked Christmas cookies, as we donned our coats and warm gloves – it being in East Tennessee that year unseasonably chilly.

My father called the train station to let the travelers know that we were coming.  Twice they were paged to no avail.  Hanging up the receiver, his face filled with concern, he turned to my mother.

“You go ahead and get started,” she said.  “I’ll keep trying.”

And so it was that Father, Richard, and me headed out of town towards the Cumberland Mountains.  This was pre-interstate, pre-power steering, pre-power brakes.  We considered ourselves lucky to have heat and a radio in our green and white, tank-like Mercury Monterey with its push button transmission and jingle bells hanging from the rear view window by a red ribbon.

When we left the sun was shining.  By the time we reached Kentucky, having successfully negotiated the 24 miles of curvy road, by which I mean hairpins, gray clouds had begun to float in.  Still, we were making good time, and at this point, Richard took over the driving.

“It should take us about five hours total to get there,” Father informed us.

As usual, I was in charge of the map and followed our progress.  We all three sang along with Christmas carols that poured from the radio, each song sung marking off several miles.  As we approached Cincinnati, large snowflakes began to fall, quickly beginning to accumulate along the side of the road.

“Sleigh bells ring,” we all crooned, our faces filled with smiles.

Coming over a hill, we caught our first glimpse of the train station that always reminded me of a huge antique radio.  Entering the vast, high-ceilinged building, the first thing we heard was my grandmother and great-aunt being paged – a sign that Mother had been unable to reach them.

Worry immediately filled Father’s face as he searched the huge open space for his mother and aunt.  A few seconds later we located them – sitting upright and still on the first of many long pew-like benches, calm smiles on their faces, another elderly woman perched right beside them.

Father hurried towards them as their faces lit up.  “Didn’t you hear the operator calling your names?” he asked as they hugged him.  “Mary must be trying to reach you.”

“Of course, we heard it!” Grandmother immediately exclaimed.  “How nice of you to let us know you were thinking of us all afternoon!”

“You mean you never responded to the page?” Disbelief had replaced worry on my father’s face.

“Were we supposed to?” My great-aunt piped in.  “Should we have said, ‘Thank you?’”

Upon learning that the woman beside them had been on the same train as theirs and had also missed her connection, Father with change jingling in his pocket headed for a bank of pay phones to make two calls – one to my mother, whose dialing finger was surely swollen beyond all recognition, to reassure her and one to the woman’s family in Lexington.

“If they would meet us at a specific point on the road, he would bring the husband’s mother to them,” Father told them.

Relieved, they quickly agreed, this being a time in which one easily trusted strangers.

The large station windows clearly revealed that the snowflakes, now smaller, were falling faster, and we quickly loaded the three ladies’ luggage into the trunk.  Father held the door, and my great-aunt took the middle seat in the back with the other two women packed in nicely beside her – all three of them being rather pint-sized.

“On Dasher, on Dancer!” Father joked as we cleared the parking lot.

By now, it was dark, and the defroster was pressed into service to keep the outside world visible.  We all munched on sandwiches, chips and Christmas cookies as the occupants in the back seat related details of their various journeys.  Farmhouses sporting lighted decorations blinked us along our way.

We barely paused in Lexington to leave our new found friend with her family as the roads were beginning to get slick.  Hairpin curves in the Cumberland Mountains can be treacherous, and the mood in our vehicle sobered.  Outside the world became a blur of white snowflakes as the now fewer farmhouses had turned off their lights.

Wisely, Father pulled into a gas station in Corbin and purchased chains – $35 installed – an exorbitant price in 1963!

Chains on, gas tank full and ourselves refreshed, we again took to the road, it now being well after midnight.  Richard had done much of the driving on the way up, but Father was now well ensconced behind the steering wheel.

The windshield wipers metronomed away the miles as we slowly made headway until we were a few miles past Jellico on the 24 miles of curvy roads.  At this point, what traffic there was came to a screeching halt in our direction.  It was then that we noticed that no one was passing from the other way.

Father turned off the car, intermittently turning it back on for a few minutes to keep the women and children, as he put it, from freezing.  At some point while we waited, my head nodded onto Richard’s shoulder and his arm passed along the car seat behind me.  The world became warmer and more comfortable.

Slowly, news of the problem ahead traveled from car to car – a tractor-trailer rig had jackknifed and wedged itself beneath a railroad overpass several miles north of Lafollette in our direction.  Until traffic backed up far enough to reach a house with a phone, help couldn’t be summoned.  Finally, taillights up ahead indicated that the jam of vehicles was beginning to make its way slowly forward.

At 6:00 a.m, we dropped my grandmother and great-aunt off at our house and proceeded towards Richard’s, which was across town.  Having successfully delivered my knight in shining armor home, Father and I headed back along empty roads, a highly unusual eleven inches of snow blanketing our community – the result of what was being hailed on the radio as the storm of the decade.  Halfway to our goal, our car ran out of gas.

Resigned, Father left me alone and trudged a half mile to the nearest gas station, where he purchased a metal can and enough gas to enable us to reach the pumps.  Eighteen hours after we had set out, we finally returned home, our mission accomplished.

Having already fed and snuggled our visitors under warm Christmas quilts, Mother greeted us with a hot breakfast.  This we enjoyed before we both, utterly exhausted, fell into our respective beds.

Looking back on those eighteen hours of travel – almost to the day a half century later – I realize how many things I learned in those few short hours because of the experience.

You never know what awaits you around the next corner for one. A single phone call can make a huge difference is another. So much of life is a matter of chance – bad weather, a missed connection and life changes.

My grandmother and great-aunt, sitting upright and ready on the hard seat of the pew-like bench showed me grace and decorum that can, but often doesn’t accompany patience.  My father’s offer of a lift to a stranger was a wonderful example of how we should always be available to help others.  My new boyfriend’s shoulder gave me a treasured glimpse of what it would be like to lean on a man.

The cost of the chains taught me both that not everyone is nice and life isn’t always fair.  Father’s trudge through the snow explained why he had always insisted that we keep our tank half full, a lesson that translated itself further into such things as saving for a rainy day.  The tractor-trailer stuck under the overpass showed me clearly that just when you think you are well on your journey, Life can and often does find another way to delay you.

The most important lesson of all, though, was that no matter what time or effort is involved, having family join and surround you at the holidays is a pleasure worth fighting for.  Father and Mother, my grandmother and great-aunt are all gone now, but in my memories they remain.  What memories will you build within your family, church and/or community this season?

Merry Christmas!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Annie Acorn’s 2012 Christmas Treasury (Annie Acorn’s Christmas Anthologies) edited by and stories by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, ibookstore and NOOK!

I would be lying if I said that Thanksgiving was my favorite time of year – Christmas is, but Thanksgiving runs a very close second.  Perhaps, one of the reasons is that for me it marks the beginning of the holiday season, and who doesn’t love a beginning?

When I was a small child, growing up in the duplex we called The Double, we always drove to my maternal grandmother’s house to celebrate this holiday, and I never heard any complaining.  Usually, we left when my father returned from work, by which time my younger sisters and I had been bathed, fed and put into our pajamas.

As soon as Dad arrived, he would begin packing the car.  Once started on our four hour trek, my sisters would fall asleep under quilts on the back seat, but not me.  These were the old days, back before time and seatbelts, and I was allowed to stand behind my father, watching the car’s headlights reveal a frost-covered landscape over his shoulder as we traveled from Columbus, Ohio, to Crawfordsville, Indiana.

It was a badge of honor for me to remain awake until we got there, because I knew what certainly lay ahead.  How excited I was as we traveled the quiet streets of my birth town, just minutes away from my grandmother’s!  Finally, we were there, and my father would steer our 1951 Pontiac sedan onto the Lot as we always called my grandmother’s well-kept lawn.

Still wrapped in their quilts, my sisters would be bundled off to bed as Grandma bustled around her small kitchen.  On the stove, a pot of her chili simmered.  Places had already been set at the round oak table, and one would be added for me.  My uncle, who was still in high school, would be sent onto the unheated, but enclosed back porch to rummage through the many baked goods that were stored there in the cold for at least one apple, one cherry, and one pumpkin pie, as well as a cake of some sort.  Saltines were placed on the table, and we were ready to eat.

Father, who had munched on a cold sandwich in the car as he drove, always blessed the food and then received the first bowl, into which he would crush a large handful of saltines since Grandma’s chili was more soup-like than most.  My bowl would be next, probably in hopes that once finished eating I would be ready for bed, but by now, I had gotten my second wind.

Besides, I knew full well that there would be gossip afloat.  If I ate my chili slowly and stretched out my piece of pumpkin pie quietly, there was no telling what I might learn.  I am often asked where the characters for my books come from.  Can you guess?

Finally, someone would notice that my eyes were beginning to droop, and I would be hustled off to bed in the front bedroom that had once been the living room of the historic home.  Since the only heat in the house emanated from a grate in the next room and thick velvet curtains pulled across a wooden rod separated the two rooms, the front bedroom was rather chilly.  Layers of blankets kept us toasty, and I have never slept as well as I slept in that room.

Despite my having been awake half the night, I would arise from my bed quite early for there was plenty of activity going on in the house.  Even on this food preparation filled day, breakfast was bacon, eggs and toast, often followed by a sliver of pie, except for my uncle who was known to occasionally break his fast with a piece of apple pie he had placed in a bowl before pouring the cream rich milk of those days over it.

In an effort to keep us girls out of the way, my father would take us on a walk after breakfast, always herding us the few blocks to his alma mater, Wabash College, where we would visit with the college librarians my father had assisted while earning his B.S. degree.  These maiden ladies were always pleased to see us, allowing us to use their date stamps and play with their typewriters.  Is it any wonder that Sister #2 [Size Matters] became a librarian?

Our walk behind us, we were allowed to run free on the Lot if it was warm enough, or we could color on one of the many tablets Grandma kept in the lower drawer of her secretary desk.  I always preferred, though, to remain in the kitchen, not being an idiot.  This room was full of women working flat out to make sure that every plate on the three large tables around which we would eat Thanksgiving dinner could be piled high with traditional foods.

My grandmother was in command of this enterprise, but any of these women could have served a meal for fifty in her spare time.  Born and bred of pioneer stock (my grandmother’s family had helped settle what is now Indiana’s Turkey Run State Park), all of them had lived through World War I, the Depression, and World War II.  To have called them strong would’ve been one of The World’s Greatest Understatements.  They had worked hard, lived hard, and made hard decisions, having witnessed birth, death, and everything in between.  They had raised families, buried multiple husbands, acted as midwife to their communities and attained management positions in area factories – almost unheard of in the early ’50s.  On this day, though, they were completely immersed in more “normal” female roles of the period – cooking and cleaning.

My great-grandmother, who had been left legally blind by a childhood illness and still raised a family cooking on a wood stove, manned the Hoosier Kitchen, where she rolled out one perfect batch of homemade noodles after another.  My mother and several great-aunts, all tiny women who always fascinated me because their over-sized bosoms seemed to enter a room first, were in charge of vegetables, salads and stewed fruits, while my grandmother stood guard over the pressure cooker.

I have never been in a space so filled with aromas – turkey, pot roast, ham all three meats intermingled in the air around me.  Two kinds of stuffing were in evidence – one with and one without oysters.  Each woman had arrived laden with freshly prepared food items from her own domicile.

Homemade cranberry sauce and applesauce (made from the apples grown in the orchard at the back of my grandmother’s property) were already waiting on the back porch, along with two open ironing boards and several chairs that were stacked with pies and cake safes too numerous to count.  It was nothing for us to have apple, cherry, plum, pumpkin, coconut, sugar cream, chocolate, lemon, and butterscotch pie, all available in sufficient quantity to satisfy everyone.  What we would have done without that cold enclosed porch I don’t know, because my Grandmother’s tiny freezer only held two ice cube trays and a half gallon of ice cream!

Dinner was always served as soon after noon as it was ready.  Grace was said, and then the meal was served buffet style from the kitchen, except for bowls of vegetables and fruit salads and sauces that were placed along the tables.  The men, of course, were always served first.  Then we children had our plates filled, and finally the women, who were probably exhausted, were allowed serve themselves.

Dinner was never a quiet affair in this house, and conversation flowed freely.  Competitions often arose as to who had eaten the most turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, or noodles.  Then, of course, there were the pie eating contests, and God help the man who forget himself and commented that another woman’s congealed salad was better than the one his wife had brought.

After dinner, the men lolled around in the living room as the younger children were left in the front bedroom to nap.  The women, of course, divided or put away any leftovers and cleaned all the pots, pans, dishes, and utensils by hand, scalding them with boiling hot water on the drainboard by the sink.  I was just old enough to be allowed the privilege of drying, which meant that Mother spent much of her time warning me to watch out as the dishes were scalded.  Believe me, those plates and utensils were hot!

Amazingly, after everyone but our own family unit had left, we were still ready for supper, which not surprisingly was comprised solely of leftovers.  Oh, what wonderful repasts those were!

All of those amazing women are now gone, but reminders of them still surround me.  My grandmother’s oak pedestal table now lives in my dining room, and my uncle just gifted me my great-grandmother’s chiming mantel clock and a great-aunt’s rose-colored marble-topped table.  As much as I treasure these pieces, though, I would give all of them back to have just one more Thanksgiving like those of my past!

May you and your family enjoy the best Thanksgiving ever!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Annie Acorn’s 2012 Christmas Treasury (Annie Acorn’s Christmas Anthologies) edited and stories by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, ibookstore and NOOK!

Those of you who follow my scribblings will remember that a few weeks ago my post was uncharacteristically reflective, as I outlined some changes I have had to make in my daily life during this past year. [Life Changing]  I say uncharacteristically, because I usually view Life in one of two ways, either as a glass half full or a new chapter just waiting to be written.

Sometimes, though, Life shortens our vision and demands a closer inspection, even a complete reevaluation.  I imagine that many of the survivors of hurricane Sandy along the New York and New Jersey shoreline are going through just such a time right now, since much of what they once knew has, quite simply, disappeared from the face of this Earth.

Most of us recognize that without change there can be no life, but change can be disruptive, challenging and even heartrending.  Even without Sandy’s unwelcome visit, these past few weeks have demonstrated all three of these truths most forcefully to our family.            [Size Matters]

Due to health concerns, my uncle, more like a big brother to me, has been forced in a matter of weeks to sell the house in which he was born, to leave hundreds of friends he has made throughout an outgoing and generous lifetime, and to sort through and giveaway many of his carefully collected and certainly cherished belongings.  Thankfully, he arrived here in Maryland somewhat intact weekend before last, and my sisters and I are already seeing signs of improvement in his overall condition.

Meanwhile, what was left of my uncle’s household has been packed by a marvelous veteran packer with twenty-one years of experience who not only recognized early Fiestaware, but felt privileged to be able to view some colors he had not previously seen.  The owner/operator who is driving the remaining belongings eastward for a top-ranked national moving firm has an MBA and has assured us that not a single box will be lost in transit.

Still, I am on pins and needles, because I’m the one who requisitioned the move, and if so much as an everyday mug is broken, I will feel personally responsible.  My uncle has lost so much already that one more loss seems to me to be unthinkable.

Besides, his move recalls my moves, not all of which went quite as we had planned.  I say “we” because my husband would have had to accept some of the blame, if he were still with us.  After all, it was his career in retail management that required us to move 19 times in 21 years!

Legendary among our moves was the one in 1977, in the course of which our young family moved from Gulfport, Mississippi back to Atlanta, Georgia.  Hurricane Babe hit New Orleans on Labor Day evening that year, and our belongings were loaded into the truck for their journey eastward the following day.  If that wasn’t enough, I learned with chagrin that our driver/loading supervisor was going to be Charlie L – part time stockman at my husband’s x-store and resident of XX county to the northwest of Gulfport.

Now this was before the gambling casinos put this part of the world on the map, and XX county had a phone book with fourteen pages in it that basically listed the members of three VERY extended families, who had taken the common phrase “Everyone in the South is cousin to everyone else.” to a whole new level.  To say that folks in this part of the world had intermarried would have been one of the World’s Greatest Understatements.

Charlie was typical of most of his kinfolk.  Short on brains, he carried a long rifle.  Both my husband and I questioned whether or not this delegate of the moving firm, who was tasked with taking our inventory, was even marginally literate.  Still, this paragon of good cheer greeted my husband with a firm handshake, tipped his baseball cap in my direction, and tossed our five-year-old ten feet in the air and caught him again before we could stop him.

Aghast, I hurried our child to a neighbor who had volunteered to watch him until we were ready to go, as my husband tried his best to keep his eye on our belongings.  Mid-afternoon, the door to the truck was slammed shut, I retrieved our son, and we headed towards the still under construction I-65.

Star Wars having been released in theaters only a short time before, Son #1 left for first grade the next day from the Holiday Inn on Delk Road in Atlanta, outfitted in a commemorative T-shirt on which Luke Skywalker brandished a light saber.  Six months pregnant, I gave my firstborn a big hug before sending him on his way, as he told me not to worry – The Force would be with him.

That afternoon, my husband and I met our son in front of the school, found the right bus and put him on it.  I then got back in our car, as my better half explained to the driver that our son had never seen his own home.  Therefore, we would follow the bus through its route until it reached the appropriate drop-off point for our child.  At this point we would flash our lights, so the driver could tell Son #2 to get off.  Our plan worked well, Son #1 liked his new room, and I began to feel a bit better about the drop-off of our household goods the next day.

Charlie arrived bright and early.  Again, he shook my husband’s hand firmly, but this time he sent me a grin, stating that I was looking “mighty lovely” that morning.  He then proceeded to marshall his troops as he opened the truck’s door.  I was busy lining shelves in the kitchen, but I could hear my husband in the back of our new home, directing the placement of our bedroom furniture.  Thinking I might be needed, I headed around the corner, only to be greeted by someone else’s couch and chair tastefully arranged in our new living room.

Now granted, they were much nicer than the ones Charlie had loaded at our place, but still…

As I dissolved into hormonal driven tears, my husband sorted everything out, or so we thought.  Once we had been unloaded, we decided it would be best if we spent one more night at the Holiday Inn, where we could get both a good meal and a good night’s rest before having to go to the grocery store and then begin our unpacking.

At 2:00 a.m., the phone in our room rang.  It was Charlie, calling from a motel on the other side of town that was known for its dubious nighttime activities.  Charlie had apparently imbibed in one too many libations, because he wasn’t making much sense, but the long and the short of it was that he had found two more tiny boxes in the truck that he thought might be ours.  Oh, and could my husband come and get them?  Charlie wasn’t sure he should drive.

Always a sport, my better half pulled on a pair of jeans and headed out the door.  When I opened the boxes later that morning, I discovered that the two “tiny” boxes contained our couch cushions and the seat cushions from two wing-backed chairs.  Thankfully, Charlie was well on his way homeward.  Otherwise, I would’ve had to have found him, if for no other reason than to give him a piece of my mind.

So, you might ask, what does this pleasant story with its somewhat happy ending have to do with my uncle?  Well, I’ll tell you.

Years later, having moved many times since, I still have fond memories of Gulfport, Atlanta and all the other places to which my husband’s career led us.  Along the way, I met lifelong friends, enjoyed different types of food and had wonderful experiences.  And while it has been very difficult for my uncle to be wrenched from all that he has known, in the place where he has spent a lifetime, my wish is that he, too, will make some new friends, enjoy new types of food and have some wonderful experiences, surrounded as he now is by his loving extended family.

May this new chapter be the best one he has written yet!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Annie Acorn’s 2012 Christmas Treasury (Annie Acorn’s Christmas Anthologies)edited by and stories by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

Chocolate Can Kill (Emily Harris Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print, at Amazon UK and Smashwords, and for SonyReader, Kobo, Diesel, ibookstore and NOOK!

As you all know, I am prone to describing myself as A Tired Older Woman.  I’ve even written a series of posts using that nomenclature, as well as a book that I titled A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off.  Recently, though, I have been forced to face head-on what that term really means, due to medical emergencies sustained by both my uncle and myself [Size Matters] and [Life Changing].

Now this is isn’t the first time that I’ve given thought to the pros and cons of a having achieved a certain number of years.  For instance, in my late thirties and forties, I performed most of the marketing for a tri-state medical outsourcing company that I owned.  Inevitably, I found myself waiting in line to discuss my marketing proposal with a hospital CFO or COO surrounded by a gaggle of long-legged, bleached blondes in their early twenties, all of whom were bent on similar missions.  It didn’t take me too long to devise a counter offensive.

Graciously, I would allow each of them to go first.  By the time I entered their office, my target was usually looking quite dazed, and I would offer my condolences re their long and difficult day.  I would then lean back, relaxed and conversational in my chair and tell them that to save them time and trouble I would cut to the chase.

As the owner of my company, I was in a position to answer any of their questions and resolve any issues right then and there.  I was also, I would then point out, in my late forties, which meant three things:

1. I no longer had to worry about finding a babysitter every Saturday night
2. I was no longer expected to cram myself into a bikini by each year’s Memorial Day and
3. I brought twenty years of experience to our conversation.

Needless to say, I never left one of these offices without a signed contract.

Those of you who tweet with me on a regular basis know that I have a wonderful neighbor, who regularly brings me homemade, gourmet quality food because she has happened to “cook too much.”  (Is there really such a thing as too much homemade gourmet food?  One has to wonder.)

If this weren’t enough, she then fills double duty as my exercise partner, keeping me on the straight and narrow when it comes to my showing up at the gym.  She is a naturally bright and cheery individual, and I look forward to our chats as we sit side by side on our exercise bicycles, expending much energy going basically nowhere.

The other evening, though, she produced an out of the ordinary long sigh.  “Whoever said that these were the golden years, certainly lied,” she stated with a firmness that concerned me, because this wonderful woman is both caregiver to her husband and her ninety-year-old mother.

As we continued to pedal, she shared an awful thing she and her husband had experienced while trying to keep a doctor’s appointment that had virtually wasted their day.  In the end, though, her good humor won out, and I believe it helped that we were able to laugh about parts of her story together as we exercised.

If this weren’t enough to keep my eye on the aging ball, one of my VERY favorite authors, Peggy Teel posted a piece on her blog, peggyteel.com, this week that she titled, Growing Older Does Have Its Merits.

Niki Knows the Dirt (Niki Edgar Mysteries) by denise hays

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Peggy begins her post by saying, “Now that I’ve gotten over the shock of having turned sixty, I’ve begun to realize there are advantages to being ‘over a certain age.’”

Apparently, she and I both have issues with bikinis because she then goes on to say, “If I’m not in the best shape of my life, no one looks at me critically, because they expect nothing more of a sixty year old woman. I can eat all the popcorn I want and not have to worry about the bikini I definitely won’t be donning in the morning.”

I wish I could believe that if I ate all the popcorn I wanted I would look like Peggy, who is as thin as my pencil, but unfortunately, I can’t quite accept it.

Wardrobe placing high on Ms. Teel’s priority list as you would know if you kept pace with her wonderful blog, she adds, “Then there’s the constant worry over what others may think of my wardrobe. If I don’t want to wear heels with my pencil skirt, I can sport a nifty ballet flat and everyone will assume I’m babying a varicose vein or two. Since I don’t have any of those yet, the laugh is on them, because I’m just plain comfortable.”

While both Peggy and I are into laughing at ourselves, we do agree on one thing – sad, but true.  When you reach a “certain age,” folks no longer expect very much of you.

The good news is that this provides you with a certain freedom, now that you are no longer required to meet certain of society’s criteria.  For instance, I am a professional when it comes to flipping my days and nights.

The bad news is that you can find yourself somewhat ignored.  I look around at our elderly, and I see so many of them who are isolated and neglected.  On the other hand, my older friends are quite active.  Faced with the realities of our troubled economy, many of them have become self-employed in “retirement.”  Most of them exercise daily, and all of them are engaged in the communities around them.

So what does getting older really mean?  I believe that, at the end of the day, your life is what you make of it.  Personally, I like being “older.”  I just have no intention of filling the role that others so often define as “old,” even when my chronological age finally defines that I have arrived there.

NOTICE:  In case you haven’t already heard, Peggy Teel has come out of the closet! No, not THAT closet, the other one.

Deciding that she no longer wanted to devote so much time to maintaining two blogs, this week Peggy announced to the world that she has also been writing as denise hays.  You may find her reason amusing at the soon to be defunct denisehays.com, and I know you would enjoy her humorous mystery, Niki Knows the Dirt.

Who knew that the slim and trim Peggy Teel was not one, but two people?!?  Well, of course, I did since I am her publisher!

Annie Acorn

Murder With My Darling (Bonnie Lou Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

Annie Acorn’s 2012 Christmas Treasury (Annie Acorn’s Christmas Anthologies) edited by and stories by Annie Acorn

Also available in print and for NOOK!

The Young Executive (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

A Stranger Comes to Town (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!

When to Remain Silent (Annie Acorn’s Kindle Short Mysteries) by Annie Acorn

Also available for NOOK!