Plan B (A Bigger Picture Moment)

Things, in this life, seldom go as planned. My knee-jerk response to the bumps in the road and the resulting mess that often follows is instant disappointment. But last week, I was blessed with a reminder of the grace and surprises waiting to be discovered within Plan B.

It was a little thing, really. A fall camping trip that I’d built up in my head for months. There’d be hikes during the day and camp foods and cobbler bubbling on an open fire at night, all playing out on the shore of the lake at our favorite state park. It was all of this…and something a bit more. See, as my kids get older, it becomes harder to find those special times away from activities and jobs. As I see them quickly morphing out of their childhood and becoming adults, I am painfully aware that all too soon, they’ll have lives beyond my home, outside of our family structure. So every chance for family time seems, lately, to be something bigger, something more.

We’re no strangers to the volatile nature of fall camping in the Virginia mountains. Past years have given us iffy weather forecasts, but we’ve always pressed forward boldly and were rewarded for our heartiness with sunshine, crisp air, and vivid colors. As we inched closer to our dates, the forecast went form an ideal sunny and 70s to a not-so-balmy clear-and-50s—and then worsened every time I dared to look. Until the morning of our departure when I woke to a 100% chance of 2-4 inches of snow by nightfall and a 90% chance of icy rain the following day. Even I couldn’t envision an ounce of outdoor fun living in tents under those conditions.

Not wanting to give up, I scanned the weather reports, looking for someplace within a four hour radius with a more favorable forecast. But I saw the same forecast on every single screen. Icy rain. Wind. Snow. My mother-heart broke. I knew we couldn’t have the weekend I envisioned. It was impossible. I knew we could make a go of things at home, but that wasn’t the point—this was supposed to be a getaway—no screens, no reminders of unfinished chores, no temptation to clean, or work.

There had to be a way.

I called the state park reservation center and asked if there was an open cabin anywhere in the state. There wasn’t. But I didn’t cancel, yet. I just couldn’t.

I called back an hour later just in case some weekend cabin dweller had cancelled. And someone had. There was a perfectly-sized cabin open in a place I’d never heard of. And I took it.

We tossed our tents aside and replaced the space with a stack of board games.

We drove through chilling rain, but ended up with a roaring fire. Perfect for cooking camp foods.

Especially cobbler.

And in the morning? We woke up to this:

And the only precipitation was the jewel-like droplets on the leaves for the previous evening's rain:

I believe in second chances. In grace and mercy and redemption in all things—even—perhaps especially, in the little ones.

Even when there’s a 90% chance of cold slushy snow, icy rain.

Even when you hear no the first time.

I choose to believe that if you look hard enough, you can always find a Plan B, and the unexpected joys that come with it. And for that, I will always be greatful.

An excerpt from my son’s entry in the cabin journal:

Today I am joining Sarah and the Bigger Picture Bloggers in celebrating little moments of gratitude

Mrs. Clara Confidence

I met her about a year ago, on a crisp fall morning in the mountains with my husband. We were walking around a little town near our camp site at our favorite state park, when the sign on her brick studio caught my attention. Funky and colorful, it combined the names of two of my favorite artists--Monet Meets Picasso—and produced sort of a magnetic effect.

Next thing my poor husband knew, we were standing in a sunlit foyer smelling heavily of oil paint, traces of which were immediately transferred to our hands as the paint splotched artist herself rose slowly from her perch in front of an easel to welcome us with warm handshakes. “I’m Clara, “she said. “I’m 80 and a half years old and this is my studio—welcome.”

To call Mrs. Clara’s studio eclectic would not fully capture the range of items and the scope of the work covering the brick walls and nooks and crannies on the rustic floorboards. She didn’t adhere to any identifiable genre or style. Six foot tall winter scenes on wooden slabs , juxtaposed with folksy pieces a la Grandma Moses, interspersed with realistic canvas portraits—Mrs. Clara’s definition of art was broad and comprehensive. I was, at the time, mere weeks removed from a run-in with a pretentious art gallery bent on a strict and narrow interpretation of what qualifies as art, and found myself intrigued by Mrs. Clara’s expansive view of expression.

In Mrs. Clara’s studio, there were no clear “rules,” no governing principles beyond expression and love of craft. Looking around her gallery, I knew the board of the aforementioned gallery would not put their stamp of approval on many—or possibly any—of Mrs. Clara’s works. She brewed coffee in a decrepit old pot, poured it into delicate teacups and regaled us with stories of her family, studio, and the old days at our favorite park. As she talked, I felt comfortable and at home, suddenly realizing that this was the whole point: At 80 and a half, Mrs. Clara came to the place in her life where she does what she loves and loves what she does, period. No agenda, no grand expectations—just doing what she has to do for the simple joy of doing it.

I’ve thought a lot about Mrs. Clara over the past year, as I’ve wrestled with my feelings over my own creative endeavors. The things I’m passionate about in life—writing and art—are so dependent on the opinions of others. Or are they, really? If I write something that no one reads, or display a mosaic seahorse that never sells, is it still art? Does response—or lack thereof-- legitimize or negate a creative work? Is it foolhardy, or possibly even wrong, to pour into a craft that gives so little back in the form of financial reward or public praise? Should I be spending more time on things that actually matter?

Deep, evaluative musings did not seem to have a place at Mrs. Clara’s. The critic may say that’s all well and good, but idealism does not keep the studio lights burning, and I suppose there is a point there worth considering. But let me also note that on our way out, I turned around and saw, above me on the foyer wall a scene I knew I wanted to see many, many times in my future. Colorful trees, a rustic building and some ducks circling a rippling body of water—Mrs. Clara’s interpretation of Monet’s Duck Pond. Although garishly framed (so much so that I have not yet been able to display the painting for want of a replacement frame), I (read my husband) opened my wallet anyway. My artist friend, Lisa, tells me that there are no sympathy sales—that, especially in this economy, the act of laying down cash is completely legitimizes an artistic endeavor. Which means that Mrs. Clara, in her lack of convention and single minded devotion to her own standards of artistic expression, made more money on that sale than an approved artist pocketing a small commission at a gallery.

About 12 years ago, I started writing a series of books. It’s been equal measures of fun and discouragement, and I have actively pursued and neglected it for a roughly comparative amount of time. But lately? I realized that outside my family, there is nothing I have cared about for a dozen years, and that my most recent attentions to my book series have been focused only on garnering attention to the two I actually wrote. I realized I was afraid to go ahead with new adventures until I knew there was an audience who would care. I’ve been afraid to throw myself into this creative world without knowing it would matter. I know now that I must go forward, without thought of who will read the stories or if it is a good investment, because I must. Because it is what I have to do, for the simple joy of doing it.

A couple weeks ago, my husband and I were in a coffee shop in the same little mountain town, pursuing the secondhand bookshelf next to the cozy chairs. He picked up a copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and began reading the preface. According to which, the realities of Thoreau’s work in his lifetime were exceedingly grim. Miserable sales, poor feedback on the lecture circuit, and personal failures caused the editor of the Walden edition in question to claim that Thoreau, in his time, “created no ripple in any puddle big or small.” Henry David Thoreau!

Inspired by the ripples in Mrs. Clara’s Duck Pond, and buoyed by the waves eventually generated by Thoreau’s pen, I press forward with my little series with my own blend of Mrs. Clara confidence, believing--just a little bit--that being free enough to pour myself into my work without reservation is the biggest success of all.

Two Books, Two Winners and 4.5 Chapters

Just popping in to congratulate Erica @PinesLakeRedhead--the winner of the book giveaway. (I hope your nieces love the books!) Also happy to report that Polly won a set of books in a simultaneous giveaway on my facebook page.

I haven't been around as much this week as I'd hoped, due in part to news related to my books. I haven't mentioned it yet over here, but I am writing my next YA novel "live" online--posting work-in-progress chapters roughly one a week on my other blog, Snapshots. I'd love to have the company over there if you'd like to join me. I've been "absent" over here this week, trying to get chapter 5 up and running, but it has been slow going. I have about an hour now to see if I can get it up before I need to go do freshman writing conferences at the university coffee shop, so feel free to pop on over and start reading and if all goes well, chapter 5 will be online by the time you get there :)

A Giveaway....

So last week, I reported that we’d have a giveaway today, rain or shine. Let first assure you that if you’ve stopped by in hopes of scoring some nifty swag, you’ve come to the right place. Yes, this post is a runningwithletters giveaway kickoff…just not the item I previewed last week.

Let me explain. The plan was for me to download some possibly wonderful digital scrapbooking software, play around with it, whip up a cool layout,and post it along with the chance for one of my followers to get the same software. Sounds straightforward and simple, right? Well, because things have been just a little crazy around here lately, I blocked off a couple hours with the hopes of cranking the whole thing out in one shot: download, layout, post. Not a bad plan…except that I hit trouble with the download and the rep with which I was working answered a week old email from me, rather than the 2 desperate pleas I emailed in hopes of getting the bug worked out in time to keep the promotion going as planned. Depending on if, when, and most importantly, what, I hear back from this company, this may or may not be a promotion we re-visit later, but, as you can see, I was left with, at a minimum, a short term conundrum. I promised you all a giveaway…today, on a rain date, nonetheless! What to do, what to do…

Now, before you picture me rummaging through the goodwill bag from my recent closet clean out, or ransacking the pantry looking for an extra pound of coffee or some leftover Halloween candy to share, let me assure you that my backup plan is better than that. See, I had something I was going to share with you next week, and I’ve decided on an early deployment. Some of you may know that I am writing a YA series set at summer camp—stories of first loves, second chances, and lives changed forever. A reviewer for the first book, The Chrysalis, called it “witty, incisive, and a joy to read,” but for me, these books are a collection of distilled experiences from the 16 years of youth work that I shared a couple weeks ago on my guest post for Jade’s Pinnacle Moments Series.

So what am I offering here? How about a pair of the first two books, The Chrysalis, and its sequel, Drink the Rain, which chronicle the humorous misadventures of Christina's first summer away from home, and her resulting adventure to South Africa. These books make wonderful holiday gifts for the teen girls in your lives, and I will happily sign the set to whomever the winner would like. (psst...moms and 20-somethings tell me they love the books, too) To enter the giveaway, make sure you are following this blog, and simply write a comment below. I will randomly select from the entries and announce the winner on Friday morning.

And that’s not all! If you act fast, you can double your chances of winning over at my facebook page (see the little icon over on the left hand side of the screen? I promised to giveaway a set when I reached my first 50 “likes” and, at press time, I am hovering at 46…so hop on over. As an aside, both of these books are available in kindle and nook editions—check out the new cover on The Chrysalis…I pretty much love it.

Thanks for stopping by and for your patience...

This Week's Activities Postponed Due to Flooding

At the risk of sensationalistic journalism, I have to confess that the flooding here is metaphoric in nature, but I've been drowning nonetheless. I've been trying to stay afloat with 40-plus freshman comp papers hanging over my head, threatening at any moment to descend and pin me, anchor-like, beneath a fast moving current of deadlines, random obligations, and family activities. Happily, my imaginary flood waters are beginning to subside. Accordingly, I decided on a Tuesday rain date for my giveaway, when I can give it the attention it deserves. Just wanted everyone to know was up. I wish I could say that I was taking the weekend to metaphorically towel down, but it looks like there's a fair chance I'll be spending it getting literally soaked, as I'm looking at a rapidly deteriorating forecast for a planned camping trip to the mountains. Regardless, there are good things on tap for next week and I hope to see you back here then-- rain or shine.

Double Chocolate Goodness

Yesterday's guest post for Jade's Pinnacle Moments Series yielded a a couple inquiries about the brownies I mentioned. Here's the recipe that "ruined" all other brownies for dozens of teen girls for 12 years. If double chocolate gooey goodness sounds good to you, then welcome to your new favorite brownie. You can thank me with follows and sweet comments.

Bible Study Brownies (Nestle Double Chocolate Brownies)
3/4 cup unsifted flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons water
1 package Nestle semi-sweet morsels
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In small bowl combine flour, baking soda, and salt--set aside. In small saucepan, combine butter, sugar, and water. Bring just to a boil, then remove from heat. Add 1/2 package of morsels and vanilla. Stir until morsels melt and mixture is smooth. Transfer to large bowl. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually blend in flour mixture. Stir in remaining morsels. Spread into greased 9 inch pan. Bake 30-35 minutes.

In other news: I've mentioned that a giveaway is in the works...stay tuned next week for your chance to win free digital scrapbooking software from My Memories Suite. In between dating my husband, sailing, and grading freshman comp papers, I plan to experiment with the software this weekend. I will share my experiments and results with you next week, and then give one lucky winner the chance to win a free software package of your own. Sound good? (Psst--in the meantime, make sure you are a Running With Letters follower, as this promotion is a thank you to my faithful readers--new and old :) )

Pinnacle Moments

I am over at Jade's place today, blogging about teen girls, brownies, and moments of clarity as part of her Pinnacle Moments Series. Please stop on by and comment over there, if you are so inclined.

If you could use a laugh, take a pit stop at yesterday's post while you're here...and if you have a "mistaken identity" story, by all means share! Don't forget that there's a giveaway in the works...stay turned....

Face Value

So yesterday I headed out to conduct interviews for my monthly newspaper assignment, which, as an aside, never fails to be a calendar highlight. However, the interview in question was notable not because of what happened, but rather, what didn’t. As soon as I rounded the corner and turned off my street, my car lost all power, forcing me to muscle it around the next corner and leave it at the curb of my neighboring street. For those interested in quantitative measures, I was less than a football field away from my front yard.

Of course, my husband wanted a full break down of the, well, break down, which required me to pop the hood and give a play-by-play of what I saw, which happened to be a dangling belt. Being a guy, he wanted as many details about the engine as you or I would about the features of a quality latte or the coupons in the latest Michael’s flyer.

“Can we wrap this up,” I said through gritted teeth. “There’s this creeper watching me. He’s standing by some rose bushes watching me like it’s some kind of show.”

Casting a withering glance in the direction of the gawker, I closed the hood and headed home to reschedule my interview. Even though my kids thought I now had a bonus day off, I actually had to get to the university to teach my freshmen. My daughter was able to take me, and, on the way out, we stopped at the disabled van so I could pick up my books.

“Oh my goodness! I don’t believe it! He’s still there, creeping by the rosebushes. He hasn’t even mov…ed,” I said, my voice trailing off as I got a closer look, and discovered the, um, non-threatening nature of this stalker.



Yep, that’s right. Zoom in, if you can, on this low quality, mobile phone image so you can get the full effect. The whiskers are a dead giveaway. This guy’s a pussy cat.

I’d like to say the story just ends with a little chuckle right here. But that evening, after enduring my son and husband’s the good natured razzing as they tinkered unsuccessfully with the belt, we headed out to get some pizza, deciding at the last moment to go to an old mom and pop that we haven’t been to in a few years, as long as “they weren’t too busy.” Pulling into the shopping center, I groaned in hungry disappointment. “Oh, they’re packed!” I lamented. “Look at all those people just waiting to be seated!”

A hush fell over the vehicle before one of the boys said “Really? Not again!”
I took a second look and saw that all those hungry men waiting for pizza were really just mannequins patiently modeling men’s suits in the shop next door. I am not sure if it is more embarrassing than it is hilarious, but it’s true, nonetheless—I was bested by dummies twice in one day.


Despite the rocky start, we’re set for a big week here at RWL. Tomorrow I will be participating in the Pinnacle Moment Series over at Jade’s place, and be on the lookout for news of an upcoming giveaway!

Mail Mayhem and a New Post

As I pulled my van onto our dead end street one July afternoon, my son broke into a vigorous bout of enthusiastic waving. “It’s the mail lady, Mom. She’s so nice. Have you met the new mail lady?”

I had to admit that indeed, I had not made the acquaintance of our new mail person, but I was sure she had to be a vast improvement over the string of grumpy men who had been covering our street’s mail delivery duties over the past decade.

I joined the boy in a cheery wave in the carrier’s general direction, and started inside. I was about to query my son about just how he happened to strike up such a rapport with the mail lady, when my thoughts took a quick turn in the direction of the letters I had put out for delivery that morning, and were now, doubtless nestled in the bag of the friendly post woman.

The letters represented a bold move made in the throes of desperation. I am posting about them today since I said last week that I'd fill in the gap in my blog narrative explaining my career shift from elementary art teacher to university professor. Also my friend Jade at Tasting Grace started a conversation on her blog about life a year ago, so a bit of reflection seemed apropos. See, I had been searching for new employ since April, after it became apparent that my stint teaching art at a pretentious local academy had run its course. Pleading budget and scheduling woes, my former employer informed me that if I wanted to keep my job, I’d have to work more and earn less, and, as I never really felt at home at the hoity-toity institution, I began circulating resumes in hopes of finding another position in the arts, or, failing that, with another worthy enterprise in search of a dedicated, yet part-time professional.

I regarded the whole job search as a Major Adventure. I wanted a challenge, but one that would not take me away from my family or my writing. I imagined all sorts of enticing possibilities, and cast my net broad and wide. Weeks passed, sans prospects. Weeks turned into months, with no interest in any of my carefully crafted cover letters or promising proposals. Not a note, not a nibble. Nothing. It soon became apparent that I was an involuntary resident of some sort of employment leaper colony. Even though it was still summer, a season during which I don’t work anyway, I began to get prematurely funky, shuffling around the house in a disillusioned stupor of vague angst, remembering the good old days when I was a vibrant, active member of the community.

As July threatened to unfold into August with nary an interview in sight, I broached the unpleasant topic of my secondary English teaching certification, the one that came along as a bonus add-on with my masters degree, not unlike the stuffed sleeping toys that come free with the purchase of select pajama sets. In short, I had never aspired to be an English teacher, at least in the all-day, full time, public high school sense. But faced with the prospect of going funky long-term, took the plunge and applied for not one, but two, such positions.

My reasoning was that, based on recent historical data, I wasn’t going to hear back anyway, and at least then I could say that I truly did all I could to find employ, so folks could grasp the enormity of my circumstances when I hit the skids.
My early experiences with my letters of introduction should have conveyed all I needed to know about my suitability for the positions. I printed the wrong drafts of the letters and dribbled leaky pen across the good versions when I went to sign them. I botched the addresses on both envelopes—twice, and when I finally got them properly addressed, I realized I did it upside down.

In my own defense, I have to say that I was assembling this mail in the company of my son, who was eager to get going on a lunch and biking adventure, and did not stop talking the entire time—a detail that astute readers will read as partial explanation for the boy’s familiarity with our neighborhood’s community helpers.

Upon our return that afternoon, however, my thoughts turned to the wording of the letters I’d put out for post that morning. A particular turn of phrase had entered my thoughts, and I was wondering if I’d had the presence of mind to actually use it, or if it was like those great comebacks that come to you about an hour after they would have been poignant. I glanced at my computer and realized the letter was still on the screen. Partway through the second sentence, I cringed at a small gaffe in word choice; nothing too serious, but regrettable, nonetheless. I gave an audible gasp when I reached a bad cut-and-paste in paragraph two, and when I reached the closing sentence, I flew to the front door, yelling “Buddy! Come! Help me find your mail lady friend!”

“I dunno, Mom, she could be anywhere by now,” my son said, as we beat the pavement on the neighboring street.

I made the decision to resume the search by vehicle. I was prepared to go all the way to the main post office and wait it out, but hit the jackpot when I saw the mail truck parked two streets down. The mail lady herself was just a bobbing dot at the end of the road, so I pulled behind the truck to await her return.

“Buddy says she’s nice, Buddy says she’s nice,” I chanted to myself.

And, you know what? The kid was right. She was a peach, patiently sorting through the day’s collected mail until we found the offending letters.


I took the letters home and added them to the pile of accumulated rubble from earlier in the day. I paused for a moment to consider the pile of pulp which represented the sum total of all my day’s efforts. I’d love to tell you that I learned my lesson and tossed the whole mess into the recycling bin and never thought of the whole affair again. But, writer that I am, I made the appropriate corrections to the letter and sent it off a second time to both prospects. Which subsequently led to an interview, a job offer, and, ultimately some of the funkiest, angst-iest behavior I’d ever displayed.

Fortunately, I left for vacation in Florida without signing a formal contract for the unwanted post because a different kind of mail reached me there, as unexpected as it was welcome. It was a belated reply from one of my very first queries way back in April. One of my former professors had a surprise opening for a part time professor in her department and I was her first choice—was there any chance I was still available?

I didn’t make a single mistake in my reply. It’s hard to mess up yes.

Pumpkin Lattes and Professor Pants

The fact that it’s October means I’m pretty much into pumpkin everything these days. As I type this, I’m nibbling away at the season’s first batch of pumpkin bread, and wearing a pumpkin colored shirt. I’m also pretty into my new job as a professor at the university at which I earned my masters degree and which served as the setting for oh, so many of my 2008 and 2009 posts. I realize that when I was last blogging regularly, I was an elementary art teacher, and Regular Readers may note a gap in the narrative, but trading in my paints and smock for papers and textbooks is a story for another day.

So what could be more fitting than to celebrate my penchant for pumpkin and my passion for my new post at the university than to sit in the campus Starbucks with a steaming pumpkin latte while grading my first round of papers? I plunked down my five bucks, and sat down to crank out a couple papers before a professor meeting which I was expected to attend. In light of the meeting, I had opted to wear a semi-expensive pair of pants I’d recently purchased for an interview for a job I almost took, but didn’t, a story which is, again, best withheld for another post. As most of my colleagues actually double as my former professors, I always like to make a good impression, partly so they feel like they did a good job, and also so they can adjust to seeing me as something other than the points-hungry student in the Eeyore T-shirt waving her hand aloft from the front row.

Alas, it was meeting time, and I found myself with a still mostly full latte. I grabbed my papers, headed out the door and down the cement steps toward the cross-campus meeting. It’s hard to say exactly what happened next. I seem to remember making some sort of adjustment to the drape of the interview –slacks-turned-professor-pants and, be it a shift in balance, a gap in concentration, or just plain clumsiness no one can say. All that I can say is that next thing I knew, warm latte was raining down from above, and splashing into Jackson-Pollock-like splatters across the Professor Pants.

Fortunately, I was carrying a very large handbag which I gamely positioned across my waist. If I really were as bright as my former- professors-turned-colleagues would have hoped, I would have sat in the back, by the door, but I suppose walking into a classroom filled with professors caused my instincts to kick in, and I marched to the front row. After possibly waving my hand in the air one too many times, I realized the meeting was running long and I actually had to leave, which of course meant walking through the middle of the assemblage with a large bag positioned awkwardly across my midsection.

o make matters worse, the stain took on a reddish hue, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since the Warm Colors Unit I taught in my art room last spring. After 24 hours of intense Oxy-Clean action, I was still looking at stains that seemed more likely to result from a Bad Kool-Aid Episode at a preschool than a bobble with some errant brew.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

As disturbing as that was for the pants, I was perhaps, as somewhat of a purist, even more upset as I pondered what went into the latte to produce such a stain. I decided to try my hand at home lattes, which seemed not only a more nutritionally sound option, but considering my balancing skills, safer, and less expensive all around. Accordingly, I have been tweaking with home versions of the pumpkin spice latte, using the linked recipe as a base. So far, my taste buds and my clothes are happier.

Oh—and, happily, my clothes still include the Professor Pants, which came (almost) completely clean after a second day in the Oxy-Clean. I’m wearing them now—they pair perfectly with the pumpkin shirt.

Feeling Equestrian-A Pictorial Post, Because I Am, Well, Hoarse

Saturday afternoon, my husband and I drove down to North Carolina's Outer Banks to meet up with some friends at their beach rental. When we got there, we took a drive down a 20 mile stretch of shoreline--yes, that's allowed--in hopes of seeing some of Corolla's famous wild ponies.







It is October, though, even at the beach. Overnight the weather and my sinuses took a bad turn. I had planned a full post for today, but alas, I am headache-y, congested, and , well, hoarse. But as I want everyone to know that Running With Letters is back--really, really back--I decided to let the horses do the talking today in a pictorial post. Enjoy!