Timing Is Everything

In teaching my editing class, I always like to pass along stories about how books are accepted, and how they get skipped over until some editor finally "connects" with the book. One amazing story is "The Confederacy of Dunces," a book that was rejected by all the major publishers over a period of several years. After the author committed suicide, his mother continued to submit his manuscript and finally prevailed upon author Percy Walker to read it. Walker used his influence to get the book published. The book won the Pulitzer but that's not even the end of the story . When 100 prominent writers were asked to name the single best work of American fiction in the last 25 years, this was the book they named.

The story I personally love is from Lillian Jackson Braun, author of The Cat Who books. Her first short story about her cat was published in Ellergy Queen's mystery magazine and made the "Best Detective Stories of the Year." After she was asked to write several more, a publisher asked if she'd like to try writing a novel with a cat, so she wrote The Cat Who Could Read Backwards and then the publisher asked for another and then another.

But then...there's a gap between book number three and four--a gap of 18 years. As Braun explains, "By the time I had written the fourth one, tastes in mysteries had changed, the management had changed, the policy had changed. They wanted sex and violence, not kitty-cat stories. [Note: This was the late '60s, the era of Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins.] Sex and violence were not my style, so I just forgot all about The Cat Who. I had a full-time job on a newspaper and it was exciting and I had a wonderful life, so who needed it?"

During those years, her husband died and she remarried. One rainy day she gave her manuscript for book #4 to her second husband, and when he read it, he said, "I think its time has come. There are fifty-six million cats in the United States and I think you should resubmit it." So she did and now twenty-something years later she's on book #30.

The idea that an author may have to wait eighteen years may not be terribly comforting, but to me the point is more that we can't know the future and there may be some wonderful things ahead. We just don't see it now. But what we do now helps us be ready for it--whether it's writing a book or enjoying whatever we're doing because life is full of changes and we may be doing something else at any point that we didn't anticipate. You just may be surprised.

I Love History!

I do love history. I love to read it. I love to go where it happened and immerse myself in the atmosphere and ambiance of great places. And I love the little tidbits of history. In fact, I got so lost yesterday immersing myself back into our trip to Italy and Greece while doing my shutterfly book that I never did get to this blog!
You all knew that Michelangelo was master sculptor, painter, and architect. Did you know that he specified exactly where his tomb was to be in the exquisite Santa Croce Cathedral in his beloved city of Florence? He wanted to be buried so he'd see Brunelleschi's Duomo on Judgment Day! It does have to be one of the most beautiful buildings on earth! Another fun note: when Michelangelo designed the dome for St. Peter's Basilica, he said it would be bigger, but not more beautiful than The Duomo in Florence.
Speaking of The Duomo, when the Medici ordered the cathedral built, they wanted a dome on the top, but in 1296, there was no technology for building a dome large enough for the massive cathedral. They proceeded with the building for two centuries, figuring by time it was completed, someone wold have figured out how to top it. The cathedral was completed, with no dome, just a 143 foot hole in the roof, but in 1418, Brunelleschi figured it out! He designed his masterpiece: it weighs 37,000 tons and uses 4 million bricks. He even had to invent hoists and cranes to complete his engineering marvel.
Michelangelo's tomb is incredible - a work of art in itself. Another fun note about
the talented man: He did not sign his masterpiece The Pieta. One day he overheard some people discussing it, attributing it to a less talented sculptor. That night he stole into the place where it was displayed with his hammer and chisel and chiseled his name into the sash of Mary's robe so no one could ever mistake it for another's work.

Did you know that Hitler ordered Field-Marshal Kesselring to destroy all of Florence and the bridges across the Arno River as the Germans fled from the Allied advance in 1944? But Kesselring was an avid connoisseur of fine art and couldn't bear to destroy all those treasures and ancient buildings. So he "saved" the treasures of the city by removing them. He did destroy all of the bridges across the Arno with the exception of the ancient Ponte Vecchio (old bridge.) This bridge is to Florence what the Tower Bridge is to London. Built in 1345 to replace an earlier bridge swept away by a
flood, its shops housed butchers, grocers, blacksmiths and other merchants until1593. The Medici Ferdinand I, whose private corridor linked the Medici palace (Palazzo Pitti) with the Medici offices (theUffizi,) threw out the butchers and blacksmiths and installed 41 goldsmiths and 8 jewelers. It is now called the Gold Bridge because it has housed the expensive Florentine gold trade ever since.

Venice is a city I could spend days in just exploring all the beautiful churches and cathedrals that have exquisite works of art on their walls and ceilings, inside and out! The rest of our tour group opted to stand in line for an hour to get inside St. Mark's Cathedral on Venice's famed St. Marks' Square. But I had been reading the history of Venice and had to see the Doge's Palace where the rulers of the fabled city had ruled for centuries. It was well worth it! One fun note we discovered was the reason the beautiful bridge over one of the canals is called The Bridge of Sighs. After the Doges had judged the prisoners of their wrongdoing, they were taken across this bridge to their punishment and people could plainly hear their sighs through the open windows on the bridge.
Don't you just love trivia!! If you want to see a marvelous replica of the exterior of the Palace, visit the Venetian in Las Vegas. They have replicated the canals, the Lion of St. Mark's and the palace exterior. Fun place!
The other part of the trip (besides celebrating our anniversary and seeing all these world treasures) was figuring out where Allison and Bart would have to go and what they would have to do when I wrote Topaz and Treachery. This was the research trip for that book.
Maybe next time I'll add more trivia and pictures of other favorite places: Santorini, Rhodes where the Colussus once stood, Corfu where I took a picture of Mouse Island, a setting for Allison's long swim in Emeralds and Espionage. Then I could add pix of.............no. I have thousands of pictures. No one wants to see them all! Still, the trivia behind them is fascinating. :)

Trekkie

Gale Sears

I cried at the recent Star Trek movie—not because of the storyline or the stunning visual effects, but because it brought my mom near. My mom passed away almost four years ago, and she was a Trekkie. Yep, from the series first gleaming episode on television, through the next thirty years, she was captivated by Spock, Tribbles, the Wrath of Kahn, and Captain Picard. She bought a cast metal replica of the Star Ship Enterprise which she displayed proudly on her bookshelf. While she was on her mission she had her sister tape every episode so she wouldn’t miss one moment of Captain Kurk. She even attended a Star Trek convention, and was thrilled when she met and had her picture taken with Scottie.

To set the record straight (lest you’re conjuring a weird picture of my cute mom) she was very normal. She was a well rounded, hard working, gray-haired, grandma. She attended church, loved animals, and was a very good cook. It’s just that she also adored Star Trek, and we, her progeny, adored her for adoring it. It made her more accessible, it made her the good-natured recipient of some intense teasing, and after she was gone it gave us all fond memories to lighten our hearts on those occasions when we wanted to talk to her on the telephone, and couldn't.

Therefore, it was fitting at the end of the film when the voice of Spock said, “Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Star Ship Enterprise…” and the Star Trek theme music swelled in volume, that I cried. Actually, they were tears with a chuckle. You see, one part of me was missing her, and one part of me was remembering something she said just a few weeks before she died.

Mom: Hey, you know Scottie has gone on before me.

Me: (smiling) Yep, I know. He’s off on his continuing mission.

Mom: Well, I’ve figured out what I’m going to say when it’s my time to go.

Me: What’s that, Mom?

Mom: Beam me up, Scottie.

(Tears and laughter)
Fade to black

Sports Day

It’s an incredible sight. It’s bound to touch the most sensitive part of your heart.
Children gather from all the elementary schools throughout the school district for the annual Sports Day, which is always held near the end of the school year. This year the event took place May 15th at Alta High School.

Every year all of the kids who qualify to participate in Sports Day gather to compete in three events. What is it that specifically makes them qualify? These are the sweet children with special needs. They may have physical, mental, emotional, or any other sort of special needs that may somehow make their learning a difficult task beyond that of the ordinary struggles other children their ages may have. These children come together to compete in a mini Special Olympics, if you will. It’s a day they all look forward to.

Of course an event like this takes a lot of planning on not only the school district’s part, but for all those who help to make the event possible. This means, Alta High School students and faculty, PTA’s from every individual school-- who not only help to do the judging, they measure distances, time individual events, chase softballs, give out ribbons, to name only a few. Alta High School usually hosts the event; PTA and parents run the concession stands. As you can see, it takes tremendous effort to pull this off. It’s gratifying to see the support of the not only the teachers of these children, but the aids, principals, and other student body come out to cheer their fellow students on.

To begin, all the children line up for the opening ceremony. Each school brings their school banner and they wear their school t-shirt with pride. Then they all parade onto the track, waving to the crowd as any true Olympian would. The crowd cheers and applauds for every single child.
Some children come in braces, some in wheel chairs, others who are shy—hold onto their parents or teachers hand for reassurance, while others who may feel more bold, walk onto the track with the thrill of competition shining in their eyes.

After all the children have come onto the track, there is a moment of silence. Music over the loud speaker begins to play. The flags are raised. The entire football stadium sings The Star Spangled Banner. To see the crowd singing the National Anthem with this special group of children brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Love for my country, love for these children, gratitude to all these people who have put this wonderful day together—it’s inspiring.

And then—LET THE GAMES BEGIN! So many children are going here and there to get to each competition on time. Amazingly enough, there is a method to the madness and it all comes together beautifully.

Some who read this may be thinking, wow, it’s sounds like a lot of work. I assure you, it is. It takes unbelievable organizational skills to pull this off but if you could only see the looks on each of those faces…

I walked around last Friday, following my son. This was his last year to participate. Next year he’ll be moving on to Jr. High. New experiences await him. So, it was with a little bit of sadness that I realized this was our last opportunity to participate. My son has gained some valuable lessons from Sports Day through the years. Lessons that I hope will make him a better man. Root for everyone, give it your all, do your best, be happy for other’s successes, practice, practice practice,-- I could go on… I am sure you know what I mean. We have had some good times and great experiences. There have been excellent teaching opportunities with Sports Day.

That day, I watched in awe as I saw such looks of determination to run the fastest, jump the furthest, and throw the hardest. I was touched to see athletes finish with such courage, giving their very all to succeed; really competing with only themselves. For in the end, everyone would win a ribbon with each heat be it first place or fifth. Every child was a winner.

I saw children step up to starting lines, get frightened and turn away, only to turn back and jump with all their might. I saw children who missed the starting signal of a race but then ran with all their heart to the very end never once slowing their pace even though they knew they were sure to come in last place. I noticed those who fell but courageously stood and carried on never giving up hope to the very end. And there were the parents and aids that cheered their kids in wheelchairs on as they walked beside them all the way to the finish line.
What heart-warming sights. The entire day was filled with them. I hated to see it come to an end.

I have learned so much from all of those sweet children. I watched them laugh, and celebrate their success, and I watched them persevere with a determination that I have not known within myself. They never gave up even if they felt beaten.

It’s my hope that I can carry the memory of Sports Day in my heart; that I will always remember the lessons I have learned from my young heroes. So that each time I feel like I am beaten, the race is too hard, or that I have fallen too many times, I will think of Sports Day and find a renewed strength from the example those amazing children set for me. I hope to rise with a determination to make it to the finish line, no matter what, giving it my very all.

It was a glorious day and I felt like I had walked among angels.

Blonde to the Core

by Anna Jones Buttimore

I have a very dear schoolfriend staying at the moment. Ruth is the person who first introduced me to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you know my conversion story, you'll know that I spent the next five years trying to "rescue" her from the "cult". Happily I failed, and she is now Relief Society president of her ward in Wyoming where she lives with her RM Institute teacher husband and six gorgeous children. I don't see her very often, so it is lovely to be able to catch up.

She was telling me that all her friends seem to be very intelligent people. I couldn't help thinking that she really shouldn't count me as intelligent since, while I do have a degree, I seriously lack common sense and have regular "blonde moments". (A small aside here: I use the word intelligent rather than smart, which I know Americans would be more likely to use, for the avoiudance of confusion. Over here, smart means well dressed. So when President Hinckley told us to "Be Smart", us Brits assumed he was suggesting we wear our best clothes to church.)

With nothing much else to blog about (Ruth only arrived a couple of days ago, so we haven't had that many adventures yet) I suppose it's time to treat everyone to the evidence that I am indeed blonde to the core.

• Playing Dungeons and Dragons a couple of weeks ago (yes, I am a nerd too) my DM husband was outlining the layout of the dungeon our characters were in. "There is a door in the East wall, and a passageway to the North." I was sitting the other side of the table from everyone else, so I asked "And where are the door and passageway from my perspective?" At which point my husband had to explain to me that points of the compass are constant, wherever you happen to be sitting.
• My friend Suzy has two friends called Sarah. One I met several years ago, and took quite a dislike to. Something to do with the way she criticised my housekeeping, I seem to remember, but I hadn't seen her since and had forgotten what she looked like. The other had a brother called Andrew who I knew quite well, although I had never had the opportunity to meet his sister. One day I called on Suzy to find that Sarah was already visiting. After Suzy introduced us I warmly greeting Sarah with the words, "You must be Andrew's sister, not that other bossy cow Sarah Suzy knows. I'm so happy to meet you." To which Sarah replied, "I haven't got a brother..."
• I regularly call my children by the wrong names. I expect other people mix up their children's names too, but I have been known to call them the cats' names.

Other people can be very dumb too, though. Leaving a car park in the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwll-llantysioliogogogoch one afternoon I reversed over a traffic cone. Not my fault; the cone had been put in a blind spot behind my car after I had parked there. Finding it firmly wedged, I got out my mobile phone and called the AA. (That's the Automobile Association, not Alcoholics Anonymous - I was sober at the time.) They said it would take them about half an hour to reach me, so I got out my cross-stitch and sat in the driver's seat sewing while I waited. What I found truly amazing was the sheer number of people who would stop to tell me, "Did you know you have a traffic cone stuck under your car?" To which I replied, "No, really?" After all, why else would I be stationary in the middle of a busy road, doing my embroidery?

And, whilst I hope Ruth will forgive me, she can have her blonde moments too. During her last visit she fell in love with a three-foot high bronze statue of Peter Rabbit which she wanted to buy to take home with her. I suggested that something so big, made of bronze, might be a tad over her 50 lb. baggage limit for the return flight. Happily, the shopkeeper was able to inform her that it was actually made of cleverly painted cement. "Oh good!" she cried, and was about to part with money when I explained that cement is still extremely heavy. Tourists are generally not advised to try taking huge blocks of cement home in their luggage.

However intelligent we are as a general rule, everyone has moments when they are just daft. I love those moments; they keep us laughing and stop us getting too proud. I'm glad I'm blonde - whenever I am stupid, I can blame my hair colour. What's your excuse?

Colorblind

So it turns out I may be colorblind. Not with the common variety either. It seems every time I pick out a color I think will look sharp with regard to paint, dye and such, it never turns out to be what I envision. Is it me, or is this a strange phenomenon we endure in our society?

I've been told I'm too trusting. This is why a few years ago I believed the nice box of hair color when it promised to coat my gray hair a rich brunette color. At that time my family was traveling with two other families to Nauvoo and I wanted to look like a person. The trip we had planned would take approximately a week and a half and I didn't want to worry about my hair, which has been turning prematurely gray since I was about 25. So girding up, I bought the hair color that promised to restore things to my original color and I hurried home to make myself look beautiful.

Imagine my horror when instead of the natural brunette shade the box had promised, I was sporting a look that would be acceptable in most "Goth" circles. It was coal black---not brunette. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I tried washing it repeatedly and it simply looked like clean black hair. This was not a cool time in my life. Even though most people said things like "WOW!" I knew it wasn't complimentary. They were in shock, and so was I.

Then there was the time I wanted to redo the main bathroom of our house. Tiring of the bland cream color most of our rooms possess, I decided to add a little color. Emphasis on "little color." Since I was going through a peach phase, and I had purchased peach-colored shower curtains and towels, I decided to paint that room a nice shade of light peach. This proved to be a huge mistake. (Incidentally, don't make fun. This occurred during the 80's when peach was slightly an "in" color.)

I went to a local store and explained what I wanted. I picked out a paint sample that was the exact color. All should have been well. It wasn't. Envision, if you will, fluorescent orange. I'm not kidding. Even without the lights on, it glowed out into the hallway. With the lights, it was nearly blinding. We had to use sunglasses to tolerate this room until I could fix it. (Yep, I hurriedly changed it back to a nice bland color, choosing to decorate with accessories that happen to be the color they really are. This comforts me somewhat.)

The color moment I will possibly never live down involves what we painted our house several years ago. Once again trusting the people who mix the paint to be my friends, I bravely picked out a color scheme I thought looked wonderful. When I showed my husband the paint samples I liked best, he thought they looked great. I had picked out a soft cocoa color with dark brown trim. It looked gorgeous when I held up the samples. It looked pink when the paint was applied to our house. Pale pink with dark brown trim. Beautiful!!! NOT!!! That's when I was beginning to see the attraction of painting a house a simple white color with black trim.

My children (all boys, mind you) made fun of that house color for a very long time. They still say things like, "Remember the time when Mom painted our house pink." To which I offer a rebuttal. "It wasn't pink, it was COCOA!!!"

Fortunately, when we added our garage a few years ago, we opted to go with vinyl siding for it and the house, so it's a soothing cream colored home with dark brown trim. Vinyl siding doesn't lie like paint samples do. You get the actual color that you pick out.

This past week, we finally finished the downstairs bathroom. Now every room in our house is finished, for the moment. (As homeowners know, upkeep is something that will always be with us.) Since two of our sons will be living in the basement this summer, we figured it was time to get that third bathroom finished.

Remembering my unfortunate bathroom painting episode of days gone by, I was trying to be extremely conservative. We wanted to paint it a soothing color that was "manly" at the same time. We narrowed our options down to an olive green color with cream trim, or a gray\blue color with white trim, or a light tannish brown color that seems to be all the rage of late, with a dark brown trim.

When it came down to picking out the final color, I was on my own. My husband was busy gathering bathroom fixtures in the lovely Home Depot store, and I had been sent to "get the paint." I almost cringe when I hear those words, but I gathered my courage and approached the paint section of this vast store. This time I utilized modern technology and took advantage of the computerized program that shows you what the colors will look like in the room of choice. I fell in love with how the light tannish brown color looked in a bathroom setting. Figuring it would be perfect with the tile we had selected for the floor, I picked that color and bravely told the helpful paint man what I wanted.

I was so excited to see those colors in that new bathroom. Light tannish brown with dark brown trim. It would be gorgeous. I bought dark brown towels and other accessories for accent. My husband and number two son spent one entire afternoon painting while I tended my little granddaughter. I didn't get to see the room until it was finished. Then behold . . . I walked inside our new bathroom and wanted to cry. It was pink . . . again . . . just like the time I had tried to paint our house a lovely cocoa color. ARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!

My husband and son said helpful things like, "It will look better after it dries." Guess what, IT STILL LOOKS PINK!!! I even sent a picture of it to my youngest sister, hoping for sympathy. Instead, she laughed at my pain. "It looks pink to me, too. Good job!!!"

So my sons will be enduring a "pink" downstairs bathroom. But at least they'll have manly-looking brown towels to go with it. ;)

Does this kind of thing ever happen to anyone else? Or am I the only doomed person on the planet with this kind of color-blindness? (This is where you offer tremendous sympathy and make me feel better about things like my new downstairs bathroom.) =D

Confessions of a Serial Plant Killer - by Michele Ashman Bell

I have a confession . . . I kill plants. I don't know if it's a curse or a defect, but I am horrible at growing things. I cringe when I receive a potted plant on Mother's Day or when I speak at a ward or community group and they give me a "thank you plant" because I know its fate. The minute the plant is placed in my hand . . . certain death! It doesn't matter how much I want to keep it alive, or how hard I try and be careful, I am as nurturing as a dementor when it comes to plant life. Do you know how easy it is to take care of bamboo? It literally requires no skill whatsoever and a minimal amount of water occasionally. Yea, I killed some. Cacti? It doesn't even require water. All dead. If it's supposed to be green, don't give it to me, it will magically turn to brown. Thank goodness my husband plants the garden. He worries every time he goes out of town for several days that he'll come back to a dead garden. We've never lost the whole thing, but many plants have met their demise this way.
I used to care that I was this way. I would fret and fuss and worry about keeping the hanging baskets of Impatiens and Petunias alive in my backyard. I'd poke little vitamin sticks into their soil and remember to water them. They still died. My poor husband calculates in his head how much money is wasted on buying flower baskets as he's toting them to the garbage.
There have been times that I've skipped the fretting and fussing stage and literally walked the plant straight to the garbage right after someone gave it to me. We know the end result, right? What's the use?
Also, you should know, I'm an equal-opportunity plant killer. From the tiniest sprout, to the largest stalk, I can kill it. Whether indoors or outdoors, it's as good as toast, if it is in my care.
I'm sure that everyone who has a green thumb, could tell me everything I'm doing wrong, but honestly people, I seriously have tried my darndest to grow stuff, and it just won't work.
Thank goodness for silk plants. In fact, one year, I had all of these beautiful geraniums in my window boxes in front of my old house. (This whole notion was a throwback to my mission in Germany and the beautiful windows boxes spilling over with color on every house and lamp post.) You guessed it, they all died. But clever me, I went to the store and bought flowers that looked just like the ones I'd planted and one evening when it was dark, I quickly replaced the almost dead blooms with the fake new ones. Ha! I've never received so many compliments on my flowers. You see, the trick isn't keeping real plants alive, it's being able to buy fake ones that look real. However, this does not work with vegetable plants. Plastic tomatoes do not taste the same as the real ones.
Just in case you were wondering, my children, so far, are all still alive. I guess this is really what's most important, right?
Next time . . . Confessions of a Non-Scrapbooker! Followed by Confession of a Non-Homemade-Bread-Baker.