I tried writing this on my birthday but I just couldn’t do it.  And then yesterday was two months since Dad died, and I spent it with Mom. Dad was a big kid when it came to birthdays and Christmas, especially in the presents department. In later years he kept asking for a pony or a Jaguar (no, it was not dementia, it was his sense of humor). Of course he never got either one. But he and his wife always took us out to dinner and gave me plenty of presents for my birthday. The PSU football tickets were always a highlight (even if we then lost the game). This year I was hoping to get him to Cantone’s for some really good Italian food (his favorite). Instead I went with my friend Violet, who gifted me with Mastering the Art of French Cooking (she hadn’t heard the hot-skillet story). I’m going to make something from it this weekend.

So I drove in the cold rain yesterday to see Mom. They’ve changed her medications and she actually seems a little more clear-eyed. I took her two slices of my favorite birthday cake (McCall’s Silvery White Cake with my mom’s chocolate-fudge buttercream icing). She said she’d been thinking that there should be cake, and there it was. Joe always makes me pie (his specialty) so I baked this cake with Mom in mind.

We went to one of our regular haunts—Morning Glory’s in Oxford—because I was thinking fancy soup but when we got there, a chicken and asparagus bake caught my eye and that’s what we both had. Very nice. With ricotta cheesecake for dessert. We didn’t do our drive afterwards because of the weather, but we sat and talked for a bit before I headed for home.

And when Joe came home, he brought me a very sweet message from two people I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Thank you both for the thoughts.

What a great weekend for the 1st Annual Martini Rock Invitational. Have I mentioned that I put a 9-hole miniature golf course in my front yard? (My friend Matt also blogged about this.)

It all started last summer. Joe and I were sitting out front, sipping wine and watching the hummingbirds fight, and it came to me. I had enough room to put in a miniature golf course. We had landscaped in gravel (I think it’s called “pea size”) with large rocks and grasses. The surface is even enough that a golf ball can roll effectively. Add some 3-inch PVC pipe, with some screen around the edges to prevent the hole from filling up with gravel, and Wah-la! (Or should that be “Fore!”?) The course at Martini Rock was born.

It wasn’t really that easy. I had to figure out where the holes should go. My friend Violet, who plays golf for real, was very good at envisioning and carrying out hole design. The course was completed just in time for the 1st Annual Martini Rock Invitational, held this past Saturday. Joe made very durable tees.

Mary the Photographer made gorgeous flags with a FLW feel. I made scorecards and rules. And I managed to collect 8 putters (and one little one for Miss K!).

As we always do, we asked the guests to bring a canned good for the Central PA Food Bank and as always our friends were generous (five grocery bags of food coming their way today!).

The course was busy all day, mostly with the kids. My more competitive friends couldn’t make it this year, which was too bad. I was looking forward to a little trash talk and rowdy play. The trophy—a giant martini glass—was won by a 16-year-old. Next year I may do pro-am or have a special set of prizes for the under 16 set.

Over the next year I’ll be adding holes—the goal as I see it now is 12 holes. Someone suggested a Stonehenge hole and that will be installed within the next month.

The course will be open until the leaves fly in the fall and make it too hard to play.  Then I’ll put away the tees and dream of what I can do next spring . . .

I knew it would be a time sink. I didn’t realize it would take me away from my blogging. I knew it would be silly. I didn’t realize it would reconnect me with people I haven’t seen since high school. Today I had lunch with a couple of old friends—real face-to-face talking and laughing and reminiscing. Great time and I know we’ll do it again.

I don’t think the computer has to take us out of personal relationships. In fact, it can enhance them. However, we still have to do the work to make that happen.

I’ve been signed up for Facebook for about a month. Right now I have 57 “friends,” 56 of which I know or knew personally at some point in my life. (The 57th one I’ve never met but it’s a famous person so what the heck.)

It was recommended that I sign up because it would be a good promotional tool for me-the-writer. I haven’t tried that part, yet, but I have posted pictures and videos, received email from people I haven’t seen in 30 years, and been found by one person I didn’t want to find me (but that person was wise enough not to try friending me).

It’s like a blog, but then again it’s like Twitter. Posting any little thing is perfectly acceptable. At first I found it really disturbing, but now I’m used to it.  I linked my other blog to it because that’s my business side. I have also learned that in this format my wisecracks don’t always come across the way they’re intended (sorry!).

I almost deleted my account within a week of starting it, but then I decided to commit and see where it led. Who would have thought that blogs would someday be the “long version”? Then there was Facebook, and then there was Twitter . . . what’s next? Just posting a single letter? T

Ever since we moved to the mountain, people have commented on how high up we are. I often walk the dog up and down our side of the mountain (the less steep side) but I’ve always wanted to try walking the other side. It’s not as amenable to foot traffic (narrow berm) but, outside of rush hour, it’s not well traveled. Last week I got a taste of that side when my car overheated and I had to hike the last mile (half mile up, half mile down). It was an unusually warm day and the dog and I both enjoyed it.

So today I decided to hike down that side—into town—to pick up the car at the garage. It’s about 3 miles. I could have asked a neighbor to take me, but I wanted the challenge. I wanted to know that if I ever really needed to do it, I could.

It was great. I got to walk, with my own thoughts, for an hour. Only the first half-mile was uphill, and I’ve done that many times before. I couldn’t take the dog because he can’t ride in that car, but I think it was safer for me not to have to deal with him anyway. I got to see my neighbors’ houses, mailboxes, yards—places I usually zoom by.

At our former home, I walked Foggy Hollow so many times over the years I knew every inch of the road and the houses on it. All my neighbors knew “the lady who walks her dog” even if they didn’t know my name. I didn’t realize it until today that I miss that feeling in this neighborhood. But here the houses are farther apart and I have other things to look at (bears, foxes, turkeys, etc.). And a definite plus, I now have neighbors who would take me down the mountain if I needed it!

Sometimes you meet someone and instantly connect. That’s how it was with Carol and me. We met on the internet as fans of the same rock star. We chatted about our lives, our hobbies, our outlooks on life. She did my horoscope chart.

Carol and her husband, Eamonn, came to the U.S. one summer, hoping to meet me as part of the trip, but didn’t make it to central PA. The next March she came over alone. She told me Eamonn had encouraged her to try traveling on her own, as a little journey of personal growth. We had a fantastic time together and when I took her to the train, the tears that sprung up in my eyes surprised me. She had become my Irish sister.

Her next trip over, Eamonn came with her. I knew she had married a man with a good heart, but the sunshine he radiated just swept over everything we did. He could make the unhappiest person laugh. Eamonn brought us some of his artwork as gifts—they are framed and hang on our walls.

During Carol and Eamonn’s visit, my dad and his wife took us out to dinner, to a hibachi restaurant. Eamonn had never experienced wasabi and so when he saw the little green lump, he took a large piece in his mouth. I can never eat sushi without thinking of the steam that came out of Eamonn’s ears as he drank water to ease that burn. We had a good laugh over that one. Right before he left us (Carol stayed another week), we took them to see the land that would become our new house. That’s where the picture (below) was taken.

I kept saying that as soon as the house was finished we were going to Ireland. I’ve always wanted to see “the homeland” and Eamonn promised me we’d dance in the pubs and drink a pint of the “black stuff.” Carol’s life was full with her daughter’s new baby and the other grandchildren, but she was looking forward to the day I’d visit, too. We laughed through many a phone call. The last time I heard his voice, during one of those calls, he was yelling while watching a soccer match, but he stopped long enough to offer to “beat up” someone who had caused me a little heartache, which made us both laugh at the thought. He was no fighter.

I haven’t heard from Carol in a little while, but we’ve exchanged a few emails, and she’s promised to call. When she called me last night at 9, I said, “You must be up so late!” Then she told me why—while he was hiking Eamonn was killed in an avalanche in Scotland over the weekend.  

It feels like the sun’s gone out. And that’s for me, who has only met this man once, but adored him. I can’t imagine the pain for those who truly knew him and loved him. He touched so many people and he lived life full tilt. He wouldn’t want anyone to do anything less. We’ll miss you, Eamonn Murphy.

I went to see the movie last evening with a group of friends. Despite many urgings from people who know my 85 Pounds o’ Love (aka the Wild Man), I have resisted reading the book. I wanted to believe that Marley was worse than my dear puppy, and I knew the ending would break my heart. My sister warned me to take tissues to the movie, but I didn’t.

So let me first say, it’s a wonderful movie. I think there are too many adult themes for the kiddies, but maybe they just don’t understand those parts . . . I did spend some of my time noticing when they used a different dog (longer muzzle here, darker ears there), but overall I loved the story, the actors (Owen Wilson was a great surprise), the film. (John Grogan had to think about having a column???? I was ready to smack him upside the head.) And I needed those tissues in the end, but Mary the Photographer had brought plenty with her.

And no, no matter what anyone might try to tell me, the Wild Man is no Marley. He has never eaten a couch or an answering machine. Part of a tuna can, yes, and of course there’s the razor blade incident, but overall he has not been very destructive. But he doesn’t heel at all, and he is a very enthusiastic greeter of people and dogs (not just poodles), which is probably why people recommend the book to me.

So what’s the “bad side”? People now think all retrievers are this way. A grocery store clerk one aisle away from me was badmouthing the breed all over the place this afternoon. She really had no clue. And, BTW, this is a pet peeve of mine (get it? pet peeve): people don’t know the difference between yellow labs (Marley) and Golden retrievers (Wild Man). Yes, they are both retrievers. But yellow labs are short hair and Goldens are long hair. Some people will tell you one type is smarter than the other, but that’s not true.

I guess the plus side would be if people think all retrievers are this way, they won’t go on a buying craze at the breeders. Retrievers of any hair length are lovable, goofy, devoted, strong-willed eating machines. I’m on my third one and I can’t imagine considering another breed.

The down (not bad, just down) side of the movie was seeing the funeral for Marley, which brought back to me a sunny November day when we had to let Foggy go and a rainy day in April when Askim was taken too soon. I see the white muzzle on my eight-year-old Wild Man and I pray his day doesn’t come for a long time . . .

Someone I consider a dear friend passed away this year. Augusta Schwab Petron, or Gussie as we knew her, lived a long life, full of family and friends. She’s the reason I started teaching the Writing Your Life Story class. I was at a township commissioners’ meeting for the local paper and she took my elbow and told me she needed a writing teacher so she could write her life story. Then she told me I was going to do it. I was smart enough to listen to her.

Her influence continues. Someone who is now a friend of mine because we both knew Gussie shared with me this little list that Gussie put together. It sums up her life attitude.

1. Think that good things will happen.

2. Express gratitude to a loved one.

3. Put your gripes away in a box.

4. Be patient with an annoying person.

5. Do something special for yourself.

6. Reach out to someone who needs comfort.

7. Focus deeply on each moment.

8. Learn from a mistake.

9. Look closely at a flower or tree you haven’t noticed before.

10. SMILE.

I’m back to unpacking, a year and a half after we moved here. There are still stacks of boxes in the basement. Obviously not stuff we need for day-to-day living, but still things I either didn’t want to pitch or didn’t have time to go through and then pitch.

Brought a box of old letters upstairs and opened them. I’d already decided to toss out all but the most meaningful letters and cards, figuring that meant keeping family and Joe, of course, and Sally and Daryl (both now gone). Knew I’d be throwing out letters from high school friends I cruised town with—Cindy and Marlene and Phyllis. Bev Schaeffer? We were good friends in high school but went separate ways pretty quickly afterwards. (Last I heard, she was married to a dentist and living in NC.) But then I came across Kerrie McPhee—she lived (lives?) in Australia. We were penpals for years. I still have a Cold Chisel tape she sent me. Keep or toss? Hers went in the “keep” pile. When I find Karen from Canada’s letters, I’ll keep them, too. A few I didn’t even recognize from the return address will go.

And then I came across a big bag of letters. Larry Lollar and Marvin Williams and Jeff Campbell and Neil Anderson and Kelly Houston (I’m probably even missing a few names in there). Guys I knew in high school who went in the service. In those days before email, we all wrote letters. I dated a few of them, but most of these guys were just friends who needed to hear from someone as they went through boot camp and into the post-Vietnam service. They sent silly postcards and told stories and asked what was going on at home (and in Marvin’s case wrote poetry). I haven’t opened any of the letters yet, but that’s because I’ve got too much work this week and I know if I open one, I’ll just keep going and the day will be lost. I used their full names in case anyone who knows them ever runs across this blog.

I feel sorry for all those in the email generation who will never know the pleasure of opening up a plastic bag years later and finding all these words and thoughts and emotions saved on paper. It’s a treasure.

(Or “writing isn’t the only way we can suffer . . . “)

I am often annoyed by the fictionalized versions of a writer’s life—so often it’s made to look easy, as though we write a few things and ta-da, people are lining up around the block to buy our book.  Well, if you’re at all considering this career, I can tell you, in the words of a certain rockstar, “it isn’t gonna be that way.”

I was excited for my first few book signings but the luster was soon replaced with disappointment, then frustration, and finally plain old boredom. Although a really fun read (just read the reviews!), my book was overpriced for the market. Very few were sold at book signings, despite my best author-patter (but the entire first print run did sell in a good amount of time and the publisher reprinted).

So when my friend Marion Winik came to town for her own signing for her latest book, The Glen Rock Book of the Dead, of course I went to support her. The Borders staff was incredibly friendly and helpful. The table was placed in a good area. Marion’s a well-known, phenomenal writer (read her!). And still nobody came.

At one point I wandered around while Marion talked to someone. I was surprised to find one copy of my own book. I also discovered that my publisher has once again raised the price. (Guess they like keeping that second printing in their warehouse!)

Finally, just as we were about to pack it in, a man came by and bought a copy for a friend (and I found out he knows my neighbors). So we ended on a good note. But she’s got three of these events left in the next two weeks. I don’t envy her.

(P.S.: For the record, last night I beat her [and my husband] at Scrabble. )