Category: Memories

Changes

It’s the time of year when I finalize my reassessment of my life goals. I’m making major changes come January 1. I revealed one in last week’s post: no more RWA local chapter. That one saddens me, but I’m also looking forward to being a part of revitalizing a once vibrant community.

The major change is that I am retiring from my day job and becoming a full-time author.

Another big one is putting this blog on hiatus. I have been blogging for years. The time is right for me to take a breather.

I am also revamping my newsletter. Instead of publishing only when I have news to share, “MJ’s Musings” will be emailed on the second Tuesday of every month. The newsletter will have a new look in addition to the new title.  You can sign up to receive the newsletter right here on the blog/website. The sign-up form is at the top of the right-hand column.  There will also be links on my social media sites.

Thank you for following me here. Have a wonderful 2022.

 

 

Farewells are Difficult

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Back in 1998, I gifted myself a membership in Romance Writers of America. Several months later, I joined my local chapter and found my “home”. My people were there. I found the women who are my closest friends there. We’ve seen each other through ups and downs in our personal lives as well as our writing lives. Most importantly, they “get” me.

Over the years, I’ve obtained additional friends through the local writing community.  New relationships. Wonderful people.

So my decision to leave the RWA community was difficult. My national membership expires at the end of February. RWA itself made the decision easy. The organization, IMHO, has been on a downward slide for a long time, even before the very public meltdowns of the past several years. I stayed only for my local chapter.

My local chapter, however, has burned out. A person can only volunteer so much before the well evaporates. We have evaporated.

Thank goodness for the magic of the Internet, where we plan to continue to be together, without the drama, trauma, and stress of the national organizations woes. Hopefully some former members will rejoin our community because we won’t be after their wallets or their time.

 

A Thanksgiving Memory

My mother had a classic set of nesting Pyrex bowls.

Only the blue and yellow ones survived. She used the blue one for mixing up the gravy thickening. Nowadays, it usually contains Jell-O.  The yellow one had many purposes. Most often it was for popcorn. But Thanksgiving day it had an even more delicious duty.

Thanksgiving Eve we would, as a family, lay out slices of bread. We covered the kitchen table and all the counters with bread. Then early Thanksgiving morning, we sat around the and broke the now-stale slices into small pieces and put them in the big yellow bowl while Mom chopped celery and onions.  We had to prepare the dressing (some of you may know it as stuffing, but we called it dressing) so it could cook inside the turkey.

Thanksgiving dinner was a family project. From setting a festive table, to sprinkling the paprika on the cream-cheese stuffed celery, to literally breaking the bread, we all chipped in.

What are some of your Thanksgiving memories?

 

Mommy Files: Birthday Cake Fiasco

My husband and I grew up in different cultures. He’s from a high-rise in the Bronx. My roots are in rural upstate New York. His mother bought his birthday cakes at the corner bakery. My mom baked mine from scratch.

When our children were young, I decided it would be fun for the three of us to bake my husband a birthday cake ourselves. Y & X-Chromos enthusiastically agreed. From scratch! We had such fun, measuring, stirring, tiptoeing around so the cake wouldn’t fall in the oven.

But Mommy made two mistakes. It had been so long since I’d baked and frosted/decorated a cake, I forgot one important thing, and didn’t consider a second important thing.

  • We didn’t wait for the cake to completely cool before we frosted and decorated it. Oops.
  • Even worse, we needed a place to hide the cake so TV Stevie wouldn’t see it. So we put it in the oven. Which also hadn’t completely cooled. Double-oops.

The next day, TV’s birthday, I discovered those errors. Oh, the cake was edible. But the decorations had melted into the frosting, making a pastel tie-die effect.

I think that was the last time I attempted to bake cake. The Chromos and I settled for a future of baking quick breads and cookies. X-Chromo spent many hours in college perfecting the art of molasses cookies.

At least I didn’t traumatize the children.

 

 

Neighbor of My Youth

As previously mentioned, I grew up in a rural neighborhood. This could be a challenge when selling Girl Scout cookies, which we did door-to-door back then. In March. In Upstate NY, where it snows a lot. My cousin and I, the same age, next-door-neighbors, would sell together. She’d sell one house, I’d take the next. A team effort.

That’s how we knew people. Or of them. Like Bill Peavert. Mr. Peavert lived in a shack. He heated the shack with a wood stove. He had a note thumbtacked to his door: “If you hear music, I’m home.” Mr. Peavert didn’t drive, that I recall. He always bought cookies from us, carefully counting out his money from a change jar.

My mom and one of her friends up the valley used to joke about wearing their “backless frontless gowns” and going out with Bill Peavert.

When he passed, I think we were all surprised to learn he had a son.

I have two other memories of Mr. Peavert. One night, my step-grandfather, who lived next door to us, called because someone was trying to break into the house. Dad grabbed his twenty-two and went to take care of the matter. Turns out Mr. Peavert had gone on a bender and thought he was home and was upset he couldn’t get in. Dad loaded him into the car and drove him home.

Several years later, my folks had picked me up from a party one Friday night. As we were turning off the highway onto our road, we saw something flailing in the ditch.  Dad pulled over to investigate. Mr. Peavert was drunk again. I scrambled into the front seat with Mom. Peavert recognized my father. “Ain’t you the sum-bitch who tried to shoot me?” “Yes,” Dad replied, as he folded the man into the backseat. We drove Mr. Peavert home again.