The Writing Life

Karaoke - One of My Little Moments

2011-02-06T05:40:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, February 4, 2011, my husband and I went out for Karaoke. He loves to listen to me sing and entertain the group at the Point Grill, Mt. Pleasant. As for me, I simply LOVE entertaining. At five-years-old, I had my first experience singing in a choir at church. Never did I experience butterflies or knocking knees. I simply slipped onto the stage at church, took a deep breath, waited for the piano, and off I went singing, "Jesus Loves Me." I looked into the audience, glancing at my grandmother wiping tears from her eyes as she listened to me. That is the moment I knew I wanted to sing to the world.

Flashforward -- many, many years later. Never did I find the courage to 'sing to the world.' In high school I sang in the choir and for a brief time, I sang with a rock band, entertaining at community centers, schools and other events. At fifteen, my parents divorced. My mother moved us in with our grandparents in Bibb City, the cotton mill district of Columbus, GA and for me, the music stopped. My grandfather restricted us from playing rock music. When he found my records, he trashed them. Little did he know I was hiding them in a secret place that only I knew! Music was my therapy. The beat and rhythm of music embraced me and even though I no longer sang with a band, music was still inside my heart and soul.

Friday night I was not in the mood for music. This year has started with a dear friend ill and other moments in my life that just do not appear to be going in the direction I want them to, and so, I was down. The weather in Charleston -- the extreme cold temperatures, the grayness of winter and the lack of sunshine and tropical temps has left me so depressed I simply wanted to wrap myself in a snuggie and keep the world away from me. But my husband insisted that we go. Karaoke started. My friends waited to hear me sing. "Barbie, aren't you singing?" They asked. "Nope," I said. "Not in the mood."

I glanced into the audience, noticing a beautiful woman dressed in a simple, but elegant white dress, accented with pearl earrings, necklace and flowers in her hair. She looks like a bride.

Karaoke singers continued to belt out tunes, only by now, no one appeared to be listening. The partying groups were loud - having a bit too much fun.

I jotted down a song, gave it to the DJ and sat down. When my name was called, I decided it was time to awaken everyone and entertain. Grabbing the wireless microphone I whispered, "Uh Huh. Honey. All right!"

"Sweet Nothings," a hit record by Brenda Lee during my childhood was always a song everyone loved to hear me sing, and so I began, singing, rocking, dancing and working the audience. Gone was the blackened veil of depression, replaced by passion I have for entertaining and singing. The only noise in the bar was the music and laughter as I moved from one table to another, singing to the men and women and enjoying one of my little moments. When the song ended, several people thanked me for singing.

Later, someone requested "At Last." I dedicated this tune to the bride and groom. Later that night as I gathered my things to leave, the bride approached me, carrying a bouquet of roses, babies breath and hydrangeas. The bouquet was beautiful. She thanked me for singing, telling me how great I was. I thanked her, shrugged it off, and started to leave. "These are for you. I'd like to give you this bouquet."

She elaborated on how special I had made her night. Never have I heard such kind, touching words and I thanked her for her charm. She thrust the bouquet in my hand, insisting that I take them home to enjoy. At first, I declined. She refused to take the bouquet back, telling me how special I had made their wedding party celebration. "You deserve these and I want you to have them. It's a tradition in my family. We always find someone special to give our bouquet to, so please take them and remember how special your gift of singing and entertaining is for those who listen to you."

"But it's only Karaoke," I said.

"Not for you," she smiled. "You entertain, making the audience feel special."

Today, is Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. Today, while writing this blog, I glance over at the bouquet. I doubt I will ever forget the beautiful bride and that special moment. For me it was only Karaoke. For her -- perhaps the beginning of a new journey with marriage and the future. I am hopeful someday she will read this blog and discover how touching her words were to me at a depressing moment in my life. The generosity of a bouquet given to someone just for singing a song. The expressions of encouragement and appreciation, just for singing a song. Life's little moments. Perhaps that is why I sing. To some it is just Karaoke, but for me -- singing is an expression of life's precious moments.

A Toast to 2011

2011-01-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1....Happy New Year. Phil and I toasted the New Year at exactly midnight with our special group of friends in Mt. Pleasant, SC. It was a joyous occasion. Hugging each member of our group. "Happy New Year..." Kisses. Hugs. Special moments of cheer. Welcome to a new decade -- 2011.

On this morning of a new year, I awaken to rain outside. My left wrist predicted it yesterday when I noticed the slightest movement, reaching for my coffee cup, washing dishes, lifting a weightless piece of paper, gave my wrist such pain I almost screamed. "Rain is in the air," I said out loud. My wrist is a great weather forecaster and as I look outside I notice the dampness on the ground. Sun is peaking through the trees. A new day. A new year. Happy New Year.

What are the predictions for 2011? World peace? Improvement with the economy? A better world? I doubt it. Let us hope our economy does improve, along with the unemployment. 2010 was a dreadful year, with the Gulf Oil Spill, corruption, and so much more to report it would take an unlimited amount of space to write about all of it. And so, I will not report about all of the issues of 2010. I am moving forward, not looking back.

For 2011, I have new hope for the world, and for myself. I plan to work hard to finish many projects I am working on, including "Chattahoochee Child" -- a project so near and dear to my heart that I find it impossible to write. Who wants to read it, I say.

2011 is a year that I will work hard to finish things, including losing weight, exercising more and working hard to be the best person I can be to those close and dear to me.

Happy New Year. 2011 is a fresh, new year of hopes and dreams. The ten year anniversary of 9-11. Let us never forget that day. Happy New Year baby 2011.

Oil Spill in the Gulf

2010-06-18T07:53:00.000-07:00

Last year, I was blessed to travel to the Gulf Coast, falling in love with its pristine beaches, the amazing food and people and all the ecotourism. While it is all still there, including the sugary soft sand that squeaks when walking on it, BP has managed to threaten tourism and the beauty of the area. Daily, I watch the stories pouring in, almost as quickly as the oil gushing along the shores and my heart breaks. Pelicans are my favorite birds. Now, they are dying, covered with crude oil while ingesting oil into their bloodstream.

Yesterday, I watched Tony Hayward testifying. Excuse me?.? Did I say -- testifying? What a joke he was, and what a fine example he revealed -- without saying anything. His actions were robotic. His demeanor -- without expression. What exactly is wrong with BP?

Fortunately, I have gorgeous photographs of the Gulf Coast -- before the oil spill. As a travel writer, I am still marketing the Gulf Coast, encouraging tourists to go -- to see the beauty, and now, the history of a tragedy that should not have happened. I have heard people express that the Gulf Coast region will not survive this. My response is -- oh, yes the people and the region will survive. Those people are strong. They have seen many storms and they have survived. Regardless what others say, the Gulf Coast will truly be one of the most beautiful, photographic and caring regions I have traveled. Like storms, this too shall pass. The region will survive. It is up to all of us caring Americans to pull together and make things better.

I will not patronize BP, but I will do all I can to market the area of the Gulf Coast. The food is incredible. The people -- some of the most interesting and entertaining I have ever met, and we cannot forget their talents. Just look at Jimmy Buffett, his sister Lucy, the author of "Crazy Sista Cooking, Cuisine & Conversation with Lucy Anne Buffett," and all that they have done, and are still doing, to promote the area. I must say, I have a copy of "Crazy Sista Cooking," and I've cooked many of the recipes. Her Gumbo is the best! I followed her recipes and every dish is terrific! If you are looking for a great recipe book filled with unique, delicious recipes -- get a copy of this one! You will not be disappointed! If you are in the area, make certain you dine at LuLu's. Sit on the deck, enjoying the view of the coastal waters, enjoy a delicious margarita and appreciate all that this talented and amazing Buffett family is doing for culinary cuisine, hospitality, tourism and the Gulf Coast.

The Perkins Family

2010-03-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

Recently, I decided to work on the history of my family -- The Perkins Family. Wow! Never realized how demanding it would be. Genealogy is an interesting study, but quite intimidating. I confess, I cannot find the time to dedicate to it, and so I have many of my father's documents that I have rewritten into a document titled, The Perkins Family, starting with the history from the 1600's. I admire anyone who dedicates to the task of studying their ancestry and heritage, but for me, I think I will simply find a place where all of these informative pieces can be placed -- perhaps a historical society of the Perkins Family. Does one exist?

I understand my family came over from England on a ship called the Lyon. How ironic! "Lyon!" Or, could it be "Lion?" Why not "Tiger?"

Well, perhaps not "tiger," that nickname has certainly taken a beating lately!

While writing a blog, sometimes I do wonder if anyone actually reads this, and if anyone cares, but today is a slow day for me. I am working on an article that I cannot seem to appreciate.

Perhaps it is the environment I am in today. Spring is in the air and I have been bitten by the spring fever bug, but I must get busy and be productive.

This epistle started as a conversation about the study of genealogy and it seems to be taking a different spin. See what freewriting does to a writer!

Okay, enough of this. It is a beautiful day in the City of Charleston. Pollen is in the air, and I hear birds chirping. I've seen the first sign of spring recently when the robins returned to my yard and I welcomed them. Last week, I took off to visit a friend and I spent some quality 'girl time' with her. This week -- can't get going. Spring is in the air and I have been attacked by it, welcoming the budding of trees, the musical chirping of birds, especially my robins.

Um-m-m! Smell the aromas of springtime. Ah-choo! Excuse me - springtime is calling me and so I must close. The Perkins Family will have to wait! There's too much to do!

Spring cleaning is calling my name.

Plagiarism at the New York Times

2010-02-20T11:54:00.000-08:00

Working frantically this week on assignments, I heard an interesting discussion on Fox News. Plagiarism at the New York Times. The New York Times??? How could that be? I was under the impression that a New York Times reporter had credentials and conducted themselves as professionals.

Yes, it is true -- I am from the old school -- the school of hard knocks. All of my achievements as a writer have been from the blood, sweat, tears, and pain of sitting at a desk, researching, writing, proofreading, reading aloud and working into the late and early hours, just to make certain my words are presentable and credible. Can't even tell you how many queries I've sent out, and let's don't even discuss rejections. They are a part of my life as a writer.

OK, maybe I'm not Jenny Sanford, or Sarah Palin -- but I am a writer and I do have stories to share.

Most professional writers work frantically to make certain their words are not plagiarized, and that they are not plagiarising. Yes, as stated on Fox News, writers do research, make notes, [and maybe it is easy to cut and paste, or print out a story, but it certainly should be credited]. I wonder how those reporters would feel IF their words were plagiarized. It would be easy just to take the words from a source and not give the credit. Nevertheless, that is the cheating way of conducting business. While I have seen it done, I work hard not to do this. When I take notes, I jot down the sources, making certain I give the credit where the credit is due.

During the newscast, one of the speakers said the plagiarism was a simple mistake. Probably copied from a source and forgotten to give the credit.

DUH?!?!?

Aren't reporters/writers/freelancers/authors supposed to conduct themselves as professionals?

Researching, especially on the Internet, we should be more accountable and responsible for what we are doing. I was astounded a few years ago when touring with a group of writers. One of the travel writers who has credentials and has spoken at several workshops actually stated, "When I do a guide book, I take everything from the Internet."

I gasped. "Aren't you afraid to do that without confirming the sources and data?"

"Nope. Publishers don't pay enough for me to waste my time."

Writing a guidebook prior to that discussion I remembered how much time I spent researching and calling all the locations. I certainly did not consider it a "waste of my time," just a responsibility. I suppose I am from the old school -- where my credentials and reputation are something to be cherished. I would rather spend a bit of time confirming, noting, and documenting simply because if my name is attached, I want the respect I deserve.

Plagiarism at the New York Times.

Now, I understand why it is so difficult to be a successful writer, especially when there are writers and reporters who feel they are wasting their time by crediting their sources.

Humph. Food for thought? Perhaps.

Have You Found Yourself Camped Out

2010-01-29T06:20:00.001-08:00

As a teenager, I found myself visiting the Atlanta Airport lots -- I had an inside contact who would phone to let me know when the celebrity groups were arriving. I managed to meet Peter & Gordon once and there were other celebrities I rushed to greet. I imagined how exciting it would be for me when I took my first flight. I imagined sitting in first class or the budget class, eating lunch on the plane and getting great service. How silly. That would never happen now. Gone are the days of hanging out at the airport, and gone are the days of special treatment -- now, it is more like camping out -- just to catch a plane to your destination.

Now that I am a travel writer, I have experienced camping out at the airport many times. Once, I left Des Moines Iowa on an early morning flight. Arriving in Atlanta, I sat at the Atlanta Airport awaiting my plane for over seventeen hours. When I arrived at Atlanta Airport, I rushed to the gate because my plane was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. Rushing to the gate, I arrived, expecting to hop on the next plane to Charleston. That did not happen. The gate had changed and so off I went -- rushing to another gate -- expecting that I would miss my plane. Upon arrival at that gate, I was informed the plane hadn't arrived and it would probably be here at 7:20pm. I looked at my watch -- 6:45pm. So, I had time. I settled down in a chair, plopping my carry on luggage next to me. The wait began. At 7:20, we were informed our flight hadn't arrived again. And so the story goes. I waited. I chatted with other frustrated people. I watched children dancing around the gate, obviously restless and tired. I read a newspaper left by someone. Recognizing my own boredom, I reached for my Blackberry and I did something I detest. Text messaging. I am of the generation who believes a telephone is for conversations, not texting, but it is a great way to communicate -- if you prefer the language of RU there? LOL. And all of the other acronyms used in texting. Sometimes when I get a text, I have to decipher what is being shared in those abbreviations. Texting? No, not me. But on that night, since I was so tired and restless, I texted every friend I had in my cell phone.

7:20pm passed. The flight was changed to 8:45pm. And 9:15pm. 10:20pm. Enough of this. I approached the desk to inquire as to what was the delay. "We're waiting for the plane to arrive. If it doesn't arrive before 10:30 we will have to cancel until tomorrow morning. The Charleston Airport is under construction and flights are not allowed to land after midnight." Since I am a bit of a skeptic, I decided that my arrival home, to snuggle up in my bed probably would not happen tonight. Yes, it was a rainy night and I realized that storms such as a rainy night in Georgia create delays, but I was tired. I wanted to go home. I had been at the Atlanta Airport since 6:15. Charleston was only a five hour drive from Atlanta. I should've rented a car, I thought to myself, but then I remembered one piece of my luggage was on a plane. Just what plane was the question.

The clock continued ticking away. I watched two lovers smooching and touching. Young love, I thought to myself. How nice and sweet. An older gentleman was snoring two rows away from my seat. The life and times of camping out at the airport.

Seventeen hours after arriving at Atlanta Airport, my flight loaded. Finally I would get home to rest. When the plane finally landed in Charleston the rain was torrential. Awaiting my luggage at baggage claim I noticed many people complaining about how wet and heavy their luggage was. I was thankful my luggage was light, containing only three outfits. When I lifted it from baggage claim it felt as if it contained bricks! When I got home, I opened it, discovering everything inside was soaked! The luggage had been left outside on the tarmac and was filled with rain. Two blouses were faded and ruined. I contacted Delta only to be told, "Sorry for the inconvenience." So much for customer service and hospitality!

Last weekend a friend's husband was scheduled to leave Greensboro, NC in route to Nashville, TN. He left for the airport in ample time. His flight was scheduled to leave at 4:15, he entered the airport before 2pm. His flight was delayed due to weather, so he would arrive later than expected. My friend stayed in touch by checking the flight on Delta.com. and texting her husband. Each time she realized the flight was delayed she sent anothe text, and all during the day she phoned me to let me know of his delays. She knows I don't like to text! The phone is so much more convenient! Earlier in the week I suggested he might consider driving, instead of flying. My rule is if I can reach the destination within ten hours, I will drive. He spent the night camped out at the airport -- arriving in Nashville the next afternoon. No apologies from the airlines. No compensation. Nothing. Exhaused, my friend told me the next time he would drive to Nashville, not fly.

Years ago, flying was so convenient and quick. Didn't we have torrential storms in those years? And who would ever believe that you might actually 'camp out at the airport?' So much for flying. I think I'll drive, or take a train.

Camping Out at the Airport

2010-01-28T06:12:00.001-08:00

NEVER MEETING A STRANGER...

2009-11-07T06:38:00.000-08:00

As a child, I was told to sit and be quiet. Never speak to others, and always behave in the mannerism of southern children. Sitting ever so graceful, legs crossed so my underwear is not visible, shoulders back, posture perfect, I wanted to challenge why I must sit and not be heard. As I grew older, my father taught me to 'Speak up. Let your voice be heard so the world can hear you.'

How I loved my dad! At five years old, I put my dad's words to the challenge while sitting alone in the choir, singing my first song on stage. Never did I have butterflies in my tummy, or knocking knees. I remember looking out to the audience as the pianist strummed on the keyboard and suddenly, I heard my voice singing, "Yes Jesus Loves Me." My body felt as if it was on fire as I continued singing. My debut to the world of "Let your voice be heard so the world can hear you."

Flash Forward to many years later. Married at seventeen -- much too young -- still married to that same man. OK, life isn't easy, and neither is marriage, but to be successful at anything in life -- you've gotta work at it!

My husband was a believer that a 'wife should be seen and not heard.' Oh no -- here we go again with that stiff Southern heritage.

There have been many times when I have spoken up and put my foot in my mouth, but I am the first to apologize when I recognize I have made a mistake. I've recognized life is not perfect, and neither are people -- as hard as we try to be perfect, it just isn't meant to be for us.

I have the type of personality that loves to be the center of attention, and when I enter a room, I love to introduce myself so others will know who I am. Believe me, that has caused me much embarrassment over the years. My close friends describe me as a person who never meets a stranger and that is so true. I love meeting people and watching their actions, listening to their voices, actions, mannerisms, posture and how they respond to others.

On stage, I come alive! A few weeks ago my husband and I were at the local VFW in Mt. Pleasant, SC. Every Friday is our date night where we mingle with close friends while performing karaoke. Several within our group do not sing, but we have a few who have jumped on the stage to belt out a tune. When I am on stage I could not tell you who is in the audience. I am focused to the song I am singing, the dance movements and stage performance. Focused. We have a group of five to eight who sing several songs and before the night is over, we encourage our audience to get up on the stage and sing. It is so much fun.

Perhaps that is why I never meet a stranger. I love singing, acting and just being on the stage -- in the lights. Well, it isn't Broadway, but for me performing is so rewarding. On stage I am totally focused and I am not observing the actions, or whispers of someone in the audience. Focused -- totally! A few weeks ago when leaving for the night a friend informed me about a guy watching me while I was singing. "Didn't you notice him?" She asked.

"No. I was on stage focusing on my performance."

"But it's just Karaoke."

"Maybe for you -- for me, it is pursuing a silly dream I had as a child -- to sing to the world. Silly me."

Never meeting a stranger isn't so bad, even when some strange guy hits on me without my knowing it. I've always thought a wedding band would detract someone from doing that since I am married and my husband is in the audience. OK, so he ignores me -- that isn't anything new!

I suppose I will never practice the art of 'sit there and not be heard.' It is much too hard for me to behave in that manner. I have never been described as a Southern Belle. Steel Magnolia -- perhaps!

September 11th -- Never Just Another Day

2009-09-11T07:13:00.000-07:00

Today, September 11, 2009 -- eight years ago on September 11, 2001, Americans learned just how special every breath of life is, and how special every day is. We watched our TV's in horror, wondering what was going on -- only to realize terrorists had proclaimed war on our Nation. Freedom is never free. It comes with a gigantic price tag of blood, sweat, tears, death, and struggle.

Like those of you reading this, I will never forget that date. I awoke early without a TV on. I wanted silence so I could concentrate. Strange. I've never wanted such silence since that date. My husband phoned me, wanting to know if I had the TV on. "No," I said. "I wanted silence this morning."

Knowing me as he does, he knows what a news freak I am. Normally, I watch the Today Show while dressing, doing my hair and make up, but for some strange reason, on 9/11 the TV was silent. My husband encouraged me to turn the TV on because a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. My first reaction was, "Oh my God. Someone is attacking America." It was only a few minutes after 9am when I turned the TV on and watched in horror. Tears were in my eyes, and when the first building crumbled to the ground, I screamed. News breaks were pouring in. Much of the news would change moments later as the stories continued to develop. As a writer, I wished to be there, to get the stories I could write. Later, I decided it was best I wasn't there. How could I write about such tragedy.

Later that date, a friend phoned me, wanting to know if I had heard about the Twin Towers and all that had happened. She was crying hysterically and I tried to soothe her, only to discover someone she knew only briefly had been in the Twin Towers that morning. Reportedly, she had phoned her husband telling him she was trapped and she would jump to her death. She was in her mid twenties and eight months pregnant. I shared my friend's grief. Only three months ago she announced her pregnancy, so the relationship of someone eight months pregnant, jumping out of a window was a vivid image neither of us wanted to imagine. "How can I bring a baby into this world?" She asked.

So much has changed within our world since '9-11'. We grumble at the airports when we are restricted to pack liquids within the 3-1-1 rule in our carry on luggage. We feel invaded, removed of our freedom as we strive to be the citizens we were before 9-11. As travelers, we find ourselves curious when our flights are delayed, but we are ever so careful not to mention terrorist, threats, or any keywords that might make us suspicious to others. We are told not to leave our luggage alone, and to not accept luggage from others. On two occasions I have questioned someone who leaves luggage for only a moment. On one occasion a woman carrying an infant told me to watch her luggage while she went to the ladies room. Years ago, I would have smiled at her and nodded my head yes while watching her luggage. On this occasion, I smiled but reassured her that the luggage was her responsibility and as a good citizen, I could not watch her luggage. She snided me, turned her head away from me while calling me a bitch.

Yes, 9-11 has changed everyone. And today, I ache for those 3000+ people who perished. The pregnant woman who jumped out of a window. Today she would be the mother to an eight year old child. So sad. Tears are in my eyes as I remember this date.

Eight years later, I am older and wiser, still married to a Vietnam Veteran who in many ways never returned from a war zone. Eight years later and America is at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Eight years later and soldiers return from two, three, four, five tours of duty in a war and they are never the same. How can they be? War is something I can only imagine. Children using their innocence to kill others. Soldiers on guard, fearful to trust anyone but a 'band of brothers.' And there are people like me, sitting in airports, cautious and fearful. Knots of butterflies dance inside my stomach now every time I fly, but after a few flights I have finally taught myself how to pack light and apply the 3-1-1 rule.

I've always believed in the philosophy that rules are made to be broken, but after 9-11, I discovered that many rules are made to protect us. Maybe there is inconsistency within every airport, and certain 'rules' do not apply at every airport, but if we play by their rules, perhaps we will have a safe journey, while remembering 9-11, and how special life, love and a brand new day can be for us.

September 11, 2001 taught me to appreciate the journey as we live, along with the journey we learn to appreciate when unexpected tragedies occur. Life is a gift. We must learn to live it with respect, pride and appreciation. Let us never forget '9-11.' My heart goes out to those who lost family members, friends, loved ones on 9-11, and beyond. We must not forget those who have given their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan, fighting for our freedom. Someone said "War is Hell," and I have no doubt those words are so true. Soldiers return home -- to reenter a life of freedom, only to realize they cannot forget what happened 'over there,' nor can they share those experiences with family members.

Let us take a moment from our busy days today to remember 9-11. The heroes. Soldiers. Family members. 9-11. We will never forget.

Diplomacy, Remaining Calm and the Issues of AT&T Migration

2009-03-09T07:46:00.000-07:00

Inhale. Exhale. Breate In. Breathe Out. Today I discovered the true art of diplomacy and how to remain calm. I confess, I am blonde. I am described by others as 'outspoken, diplomatic, ditzy, and at times -- a time bomb.' Yes, it is true, I've never been described as 'shy.' I do speak my mind, and when someone really ticks me off, let's just say, there are two "B's in my name." I'll leave that for you, the reader, to decide.

Last Monday, at exactly 12:58p.m. my e-mail system was migrated thru BellSouth/At&T/Yahoo. Big mistake! As you know, I am a writer. Writers function best via e-mail -- that is how much of our correspondence is done. Last month while on a business trip my blackjack phone wasn't working properly so I visited an At&T store inquiring about the infamous Blackberry. I felt like I was the only writer in America who didn't own a Blackberry, so I chose to treat myself, thinking I could always retrieve e-mail via the Blackberry. Last Monday crippled me. I went online to retrieve e-mail and wasn't able to locate the website, nor open anything. The frustration continued to build. When my husband came home from work, I asked him to help me. I gave him my passwords and left the room.

Let me share the scenarios of our relationship a bit. My husband is a Vietnam Veteran who suffers with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) -- that is, unless you ask the VA. They still decline his condition. They should move in with him! My husband doesn't understand my outspoken, gregarious personality and when he works on my computer -- he becomes a Jekyll & Hyde personality, and I become Julia Sugarbaker! The two are like oil and water -- we do not exactly mix. So, while my husband typed on my computer system, I stood in the doorway watching him. His fingers moved on the keyboard like Charlie Brown at the piano! Moments later, he looked my way and his stare said everything I needed to hear -- without any words. And so, I waited, in anticipation that I would hear him shout for me to come read e-mail. It didn't happen. We called AT&T, only to be placed on hold for over one hour, listening to music until we placed the phone in speaker mode. PTSD kicked in, so I left the room.

The scenarios could continue. I checked my Blackberry in anticipation of receiving e-mail. NOTHING! I was expecting four assignments from an editor. Since I could not retrieve e-mail, I phoned her, leaving a voice mail message, then I faxed a detailed synopsis of my 'migration with AT&T.' I was under the impression birds migrated, not e-mail systems.

OK. I confess, I am blonde and a bit ditzy, but when it comes to computers, I thought I was pretty savvy. Duh. I suppose not!

Hours passed. No e-mail. The next morning, Mr. Blackberry and I embraced, only to be rejected again. I'm a writer. I'm accustomed to rejections! I called AT&T, only to be told there was nothing they could do since the system was in the 'migration mode.' I'm beginning to hate that description. I needed to give the migration at least 48 hours! Gosh, in 48 hours I could be in route to the moon. Well, maybe not, but my frustration was certainly ready to reach the moon and beyond!

Flash forward to March 6 -- still no e-mail. Phil arrived home that date and the first words from his lips are, "Are you getting e-mail?"

I didn't say a word, but the look on my face said it all. "Give me AT&T's number again.

"I should know it by heart now." I said. "Important phone numbers are usually embedded in my brain."

Phil snarls at me, encourages me to give him the number and leave the room. I know this scenario well. Our worst fights have occured over the computer.

Off I go, to check my Blackberry again. By now, I no longer want to embrace it. I want to shout, scream, or say a few colorful words. I bite my tongue and walk away.

That evening -- rejoice. The migration is done and I can retrieve e-mail. I check it, squealing like a child, only to realize the e-mails from the editor are not on my system. My Blackberry is still rejecting me, so off we go to the local AT&T store. They know us almost intimately now, but to make a long story short, they suggested deleting my e-mail accounts and re-adding them again.

Their suggestion worked. Mr. Blackberry and I are now embracing again. E-mail has returned!

This morning, I chose to contact AT&T billing to see what could be done to accommodate me and my frustration. I was on hold from 9:47 a.m. until 10:22 -- getting transferred to four customer service reps. I chose to be diplomatic and not allow my frustration to show. I inhaled. Exhaled. Breathed in. Breathed Out. It worked! AT&T has some of the most amazing customer service reps in the world. They are always courteous, apologetic and kind. My needs were met and I will receive a portion of a credit on my phone bill. Last night my husband received a notice from AT&T, they plan to do some form of an upgrade within the next few weeks. At this rate, if I have additional headaches, I'll not need to pay AT&T for a while. AT&T I hope your improvements, upgrades work and we can remain professional. As for migration, I don't like that word anymore!

Freewriting

2009-03-08T05:55:00.000-07:00

Writers write. Many writers I know start their day off by freewriting for ten minutes. When discussing this topic, I discovered freewriting ia a time when the writer simply writes, maybe with a theme in mind, or maybe just whatever creeps into the mind. I suppose I am a bit stubborn, I find the freewriting process a bit difficult to do. Nevertheless, for today, I will do my best to 'freewrite.'

The topic or theme for this morning, not certain. I've only had two sips of coffee so far, so give me a break. I started writing this at 8:57, two minutes of nothing, but freewriting. My writing friends encourage me to just write whatever comes into my mind -- well, that could be a bit too revealing, perhaps.

And here we go -- freewriting. Sitting at my desk, my fingers tap dance across the keyboard but the subject at hand seems as if it is still asleep. Today is the first day of Daylight Savings Time, and it is rough for me. Losing one hour of sleep for someone who has difficulty sleeping leaves me tired and frustrated. Five minutes of this freewrite and I still don't know where it is going.

Yes, writers write. There are times it is really difficult to do, and today, no doubt, is one of those 'moments' for me. It is a beautiful day on the East coast, 55 degrees at the moment, with a forecast of the high 70's. Oh happy day! Yesterday, I worked in the front yard, pulling weeds, cutting back dead growth and I planted shasta daisies. I plan to stop by Lowe's later and get more of the shasta daisies. For three years I've attempted to grow them, only to have them wilt away. This year, let's just say, I am one determined woman and I am hopeful the shasta daisies will bloom. Today, I am treating myself to a day of relaxation in the back yard. I have a stack of magazines to sift through, books to read, and my pups will be next to me, but the sun is calling my name. I need the Vitamin D! When I had a check up recently my Vitamin D was extremely low. Well, doc, there hasn't been much sunshine lately.

OK, it's past ten minutes now, so this freewriting will cease for today, so I can get another cup of joe to wake me up! Why can't the clocks stay on daylight savings time permanently. I hate losing sleep!

Springtime is Coming

2009-02-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

Early today while finishing an assignment, I proofed it, read it aloud, and clicked send. Ah, such relief! When the editor arrives at her office, she will have the assignment that was given to me only two days ago. I stepped away from my desk, pleased with the story and my ability to research, interview and write when the pressure is on and the clock is ticking. One thing I've learned recently is even when a writer is ill, she (or he) can still write. I've been sick for over seven weeks now with a dreadful case of asthma, but the doctor has assured me that I am getting better, and this too, shall pass.

Strolling back to my desk, I glanced out the window, and for the first time in a long time I am watching birds in my bird bath. Flapping their wings, rolling their tiny bodies, I see a flock of robins enjoying bath time. A blue jay landed and one of the robins was just a bit possessive (or perhaps private) about bath time. He moved close to the blue jay, as if to say, "You're in my territory. Move!" The blue jay obeyed. Now, there are four robins dancing about in the bird bath. Two are playing, or maybe they are flirting, but they do not appear to be too happy about sharing their bath. Splashing about, how I wish I could comprehend what they are expressing.

Today is February 26, only two more days until February fades into oblivion. Springtime is only a few weeks away. Watching the robins searching for food and bathing in my bird bath is a symbol to me. I recall the times my father and I would play a silly game to see who would see the first robin of spring. Most of the time, Dad would win the game and I would giggle and exclaim, "Daddy, that is so unfair. When will I see the first signs of spring."

Oops. My silly pups are dying to go outside. No doubt they've hopped into the window seat to see the robins. Shakespeare scratches at the door, so the robins will flutter away soon, and I must make certain Shakespeare does not catch a robin. He loves to chase birds. Must be the Schnauzer in him. Eight robins are now in the bird bath. I hope they return after Shakespeare goes exploring. I opened the door watching the robins scatter away safely.

My dad was a reserved, private man who rarely shared his emotions or love, but each time I giggled, opened my arms towards him and squealed in my little girlish voice that "I wanted to see the first sign of spring and beat you at this game," he melted. Yes, I was a daddy's girl, even during the times of family battles, or should I say, family wars. My dad simply could not resist my charms and my sisters, and mother, were furious that I had that effect on him.

I lost my dad in 1999, but on a day like today, when I see the first sign of springtime, I still remember the games of childhood. Dad and I sang together, harmonizing, thus teaching me the beauty and appreciation of art and music. Now, I still sing, not professionally, but it is lots of fun. I have good memories to cherish. Today, I am so excited about the robins, springtime, the road to recovery and life in general. Happy springtime. The robins are home.

The Oscars

2009-02-23T06:10:00.000-08:00

Every year I watch the Oscars, hopeful and excited that the glamour of Hollywood returns. Most of the time, I get bored with the host, or hostess, and turn it off. It is too boring, I say. I'm sick of the silly skits. However, the Oscars of 2009 were great. Hugh Jackman was a brilliant, entertaining host. Most of the gowns were stunning. I was a bit surprised to see all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood actresses, dressed to the nines, or should I say, "Millions" -- minus flamboyant necklaces, jewels, diamonds and all that make a Hollywood actress a glamorous star.

The Academy Awards have been a dream of mine since childhood, and as a screenwriter, I still hope that one day, someday, I will be there in person to see the glitz, glamour and richness of dreams coming true.

Once, at a writers conference, I held the Oscar of the movie, "Witness." I wrapped my fingers across this amazing statue, lifted it realizing I needed the strength of another hand. Oscar is heavy, but look at what this fabulous statue represents. The recognition of peers, professionals and dreams. Oscar, last night you were amazing. for this screenwriter, I still believe in dreams. Way to go Oscar! You are a star!

There's Been a Fire at the Bibb Mill

2009-02-22T15:30:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, an e-mail from a cyberspace friend I’ve never met, left me brokenhearted. Reading the e-mail my mind rushed back to my childhood in Bibb
City, Georgia. “I’m so sorry to say this, but I don’t know if you’ve heard about the fire at the Bibb Mill.”

A fire at the Bibb Mill, sad thoughts rushed in my mind, picturing my grandparents working inside the textile factory. The mill closed in 1998. My grandparents retired from Bibb Manufacturing Company in the late sixties, during a troubled time in America. Times were tough and although my grandfather encouraged me to ‘go to work for the mill and to stop chasing my silly dreams,’ I ignored his suggestions while I pictured myself on Broadway or on the silver screen.

“There’s been a fire at the Bibb Mill,” I read the e-mail again, printing it while shuffling papers on my desk. Life has a way of changing our plans, along with our dreams. Forty years after my grandparents retired, ten years after the mill closed, Bibb Mill has burned to the ground, leaving the community of Bibb City devastated. I am married now and live in Charleston, South Carolina with my husband of thirty plus years and three precious rescue dogs we adore. Never did I make it to Broadway, or the silver screen, but words are my passion and livelihood and I have built a pleasant life while pursuing my life as a writer.

My cyberspace friend grew up in the same village of Bibb City. She and her husband and family still live in Bibb City, on the same street my grandparents lived on. Over the years, we have corresponded after she located my e-mail address on a website about Bibb City. I had posted my e-mail address to locate information from others since I was researching for a book proposal. She contacted me to let me know she still lived in the area and when I needed information, all I had to do was chat with her via e-mail.

Words cannot express the loss I feel for those who grew up in the textile mill villages. Bibb Mill was a landmark for the City of Columbus, GA. Perhaps a landmark for those who dreamed of a better life, and for those who fought for the civil rights and women's movements. I confess, I was one of them. I questioned how people could criticize (and hate) someone simply because of the color of their skin, and I simply refused to be treated as second class, or to walk behind a man. Never did I burn my bra, but I stood my ground, furious that some people believed a woman should be 'barefoot and pregnant, or a housewife.' No not me.

While it is true, I married much too young, I imagine there have been times I have truly driven my husband C-R-A-Z-Y. Never did I want him to open doors for me, and during the women's movement, well, let's just say, I went on strike many times, especially when he left a glass in the den, or socks on the floor! I'm certain he would prefer that I learn to 'keep my mouth shut, and to step off my soapbox' --- but that isn't my style. Never have I been described as shy -- advocate, and probably a few other choice words, could define who I am!

For me, the Bibb Mill was a symbol of my grandparents, their morals and family values. There was a time I rebelled about my life as a 'lint head.' Now, I am proud that my grandparents instilled the values that I practice and still believe. Yes, I am older and wiser, but I still have those morals and values, even when a fire attempts to destroy not just a brick building, but so much more.

While I do not know what will happen to the skeletal remains of a textile manufacturing company, I still picture my grandfather sitting by the only window in the mill, and I remember the Bibb overalls he wore, with Juicy Fruit chewing gum tucked in the pockets. I remember my grandmother, her cotton white hair curled into a bun, silk stockings on her legs, and I shall never forget her homemade biscuits, almost floating like a cloud, just before you bit into them. Grandma tried her best to teach me to bake them, finally shaking her head in defeat, encouraging me to continue baking the delicious lemon and cream cheese pound cakes everyone loved to eat.

Bibb Mill stands in my heart and soul. The charred remains of the mill and the village of Bibb City are part of my heritage.

Barbie Perkins-Cooper
Author of Chattahoochee Child

Trials and Tribulations of a Writer

2009-02-21T10:25:00.002-08:00

In 2005, I was downsized from a career in education. The campus where I worked for many years chose to move to a different state. Since my husband had a good job, making much more than I did the decision to remain in South Carolina was an easy one. And so, when my position downsized, I closed the window, locked it, gave my key to the office back, locked my heart away and walked away with a sigh of relief. June 2005, I kissed Corporate America goodbye, and I haven't looked back. I believe in the philosophy of 'when a door closes, God opens a window.'

My friends were concerned. Just what would Barbie P. Cooper do without a life where she worked morning, noon and night (including weekends) recruiting, administering and working my fingers to death to recruit and service college students. It is true, I was married to that position and in 2005, I chose to divorce it, close the door and pray that God would open a window to a new career as a travel writer.

I read reports stating that I should have at least three years of $$ stashed away, to survive. I laughed, while my fingers shook with fear. My husband thought I was nuts. On one occasion he suggested I needed to find another job because I had nothing promised or committed in my writing career. To those of you who do not know me, let's just say, I can be very stubborn, independent and persistent. I sent queries to publications, marketing my writing services and story angles. At times, I stood by the mail box, tapping my toes impatiently, in hopes that today a letter would arrive and I would become the next successful writer.

DREAM ON.

Nevertheless, I have taught myself self discipline and I work extremely hard to market, and publicize to get my name in print. Success isn't something that happens overnight.

Flash Forward to 2009

It has been four years of pulling my hair out, screaming my lungs out on the highest mountain (and there aren't any mountains in my home in Mt. Pleasant, SC) talking to my pups and doubting, but I believe that 'good things come to those who wait.'

Now friends encourage me, recognizing that this year appears to be the year that I might achieve a few of the goals established. I made a promise to myself that this would be the year, or this time, if I didn't succeed, I would definitely throw in the towel and find something else to do. Maybe I will spend more time on the beach, in hopes I will find a "Message in a bottle."

Years ago, when I was in college, an English professor wanted to know if anyone in his class thought, or wanted, to be a writer. Silly, gullible me! Always wanting to be the center of attention, I raised my hand. The professor reminded me of a George Carlin look alike, complete with graying hair, emaciated body frame, and stress filled, swollen eyes. He approached me.

"So, it is you who wants to be a writer."

"Yes," I replied. My heart was slowly crawling down into my toe nails. "I am a writer. I published my first story in the third grade of elementary school."

Intrigued by my reaction, the professor turned to the class. "Did you hear her, class. She published her first story in kindergarten." He smirked, rubbing his bushy beard.

"Third grade," I interrupted.

He laughed. "So, Ms. Cooper --- tell me --- do you love to write?"

"Ms. Perkins-Cooper," I spat. "You may call me Barbie, and to answer your question, yes, I love to write. It's my passion."

Within seconds I regretted my response.

"Oh class. Just listen. She loves to write. It is her passion, and her name is Barbie.... Humph! You are not a writer. Real writers HATE TO WRITE."

Defeated, I chose to hang my head and slide under my chair, hoping and praying the George Carlin wanna be would pick on someone else.

Now, years and many rejections later, I understand what the professor was teaching me, and I must say, he is right. True writers HATE to WRITE.

To those of you new to the industry, writing is an arduous task and there are many days where I would love to surf on the computer, play games, and feed my addiction to e-mail. It is so true. Writers hate to write -- especially when the words refuse to enter the brain, or when we struggle to send out queries, market our talents and work on assignments. Previously, when this happened, I would bite my fingernails, gnawing each manicured acrylic beauty until they were chipped and ugly. I would stare out the window, and when Shamus and Shakespeare tapped my foot for attention, I ignored them. Now, I have learned the art of inspiration and motivation. When stressed, I take a break. Grabbing the leashes, I prepare the dogs for a walk, while thoughts dance inside my head. Breathing in the sea breezes and fresh aromatic senses of the world outside, I am able to work out the hooks, characters and stories. Arriving home, I rush to the computer while my fingers dance a finger ballet across the keyboard.

Working as a travel writer, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty of life, characters, and the products of the struggles of life. I have stayed at some of the finest hotels and bed and breakfast inns along the East and Gulf coast. I suppose you could say I am living my dream now -- a dream that took me years to fulfill, but like all things in life, good things come to those who wait.

If you have a passion for writing, don't just dream about it. Like the Nike slogan says, "Just do it." There will be times of self doubt and defeat, but when this happens, dust yourself off, smile your biggest, most welcoming smile and whisper, "This too shall pass." Life is not easy. It is how we choose to believe in ourselves and our self worth that help to develop us into the person we want to become. We can choose to give up, defeated, or we can take one step forward, continuing the journey. Life is an adventure. Just do it!

Trials and Tribulations of a Writer

2009-02-21T10:25:00.001-08:00

WRITING ABOUT CHARACTERS:

2009-01-07T05:32:00.000-08:00

When I speak with others about writing, I encourage them to write about characters in their life, failing to recognize, I have many characters to write about, including an extremely interesting character I know – my husband, Phil.

When others tell me what a great husband I have, I encourage them to take him home for a week. Live with him. Cook for him. Clean up after him. Tolerate him. Quickly, almost faster than the speed of light, I get a response stating, “No thank you.”

I’ve often wondered why these kind women never take me up on my plea. The longer I live with my husband, the more I appreciate who, and what he is – even when he is driving me crazy!

Husbands are interesting characters, and most wives who live with them, learn to appreciate, or tolerate them, their habits of polluting the air with toxic gasses, explosive belches and behaviors that only a long-term wife can tolerate. My husband is filled with character. Always joking and teasing me, to the point of what some might refer to as rudeness I suppose I’ve adjusted, learning to put up with his macho behavior. I am supposed to laugh at his jokes, smile when he is teasing me, and be nice to him. What planet is he on?

Those who know me realize, I am a woman who speaks her mind. Independent beyond my means. Once, my psychotherapist said ‘I was the most independent woman she’s ever met.’ I thanked her. I suppose that is a true statement. Although I had three sisters, I was the middle, and I was the one who took care of the others, doing laundry and cooking when I was little. Sometimes I feel as if I have been the caregiver to everyone I know. My take-charge personality kicks in when I see someone in a walker or crutches struggling to open a door. Once while I was approaching the entrance to the office building where I worked, an older, debonair gentleman rushed to beat me to the door, to open it for me. When I reached the door first, I smiled and invited him in. “Gentlemen first,” I said. He paused, encouraging me to enter. Again I repeated “Gentlemen first.” He grunted, turned to me, and said, “But I am always a gentleman and I always open the door for ladies.” I smiled, letting him know it was now time for women to return the favor. “Women,” he growled.

I suppose I showed a part of my character to him that he was not too thrilled with – the feminist. That part of my personality drives my husband crazy. Oh well. He knew this about me on our first date. When he opened the car door to let me slide inside, I grumbled, telling him in a non-nonsense matter of fact way that “I can open my own door. Thank you.” He’s never offered to open the door again. C’est la vie! During the early days of marriage I would pick up the check to pay our bill and Phil would grumble saying he was the man and he would take care of me. My reply – a simple, “Excuse me, I can take care of myself.”

When I met my father-in-law, an angry man who enjoyed keeping women where they belong, I heard him describe me as ‘a woman who has a mind of her own. She uses seventy-five cents words.’ My reply was a tenacious, ‘what am I supposed to do? Should I sachet around you like a demure Southern belle, and walk five steps behind my husband? A Southern belle I am not, and I will not behave like Scarlet O’Hara, or a second-class citizen. What orbit are you on?’

My father-in-law obviously did not realize I was entering the room, and when I stood next to him with such an outspoken voice, he backed down. Until the day he died, he was careful what he said about me and when his health was bad, I was the first person he called to rush him to the hospital, or to check on him. OK – maybe Phil didn’t exactly get a Southern belle in marriage. And maybe it is true that I am nothing like my mother-in-law or my mother. I am a woman with a mind of my own, and the more I write, the easier it is for me to communicate and to speak my mind.

Raised to be quiet, I preferred to be heard. The old cliché, ‘children should be seen, and not heard,’ did not apply to me. In school, I was the first to respond to a question, and the first to voice an opinion. That hasn’t changed for me. It is part of my character.

While it is true that as a young bride (I was seventeen when I married) I did keep many of my feelings inside, over the years, I have learned to speak up and let my voice be heard. My father instilled that belief in me. He was the first to beam when I won debates in school, and the first to congratulate me for ‘being a voice to the world.’ My father was a role model to me, and in many ways, my husband has a few of his characteristics, although Phil is not the type of man to walk on stage and speak aloud, he does voice his opinion.

Writing is a process I find intriguing. Phil has an inquisitive mind – and he is always the character to tear something open to see what is inside. I, on the other hand, sit back and observe others, making mental notes about their mannerisms, voice, pitch, and body language. I get enjoyment watching the character traits of people, and when I can bring a character to life, I find it euphoric.

Perhaps there will come a day when I tell another woman (in a joking manner) to take my husband home for a week, just to see if he is as kind as they say he is. I doubt it. Once, when he was headed to Europe with one of the women he works with, I jokingly told her she would be able to see his true colors now, while he was traveling. She laughed, saying, “Oh, he can’t be that bad.”

“You wait. I want to hear you say what a swell guy he is while in Italy where he cannot get American food. He doesn’t like pasta. You’re gonna get sick of hearing his complaints about food, especially pasta. He’s a meat and potatoes man.”

Thirty days later when they arrived home at the airport, her look said it all to me.

“You deserve an award,” she whispered in my ear. “How do you put up with him, especially at the dinner table.”

“It’s called marriage,” I said. “You put up with a lot, just to keep it going.”

She winked and whispered, “I never plan to get married.”

Smart woman!

I am proud to say we have been married to each other for as long as we have. While there have been problems, and there have been times I’ve wanted to toss a white flag into the argument and say, “I’m done. I surrender,” I cannot. After all, I am a woman of independence and I will remain this strong-minded woman until I breathe my last breath. I suppose you could say, my father taught me well, and I will walk along in the memory of my father and the rules of life he taught me.

For writers, I encourage them to be an observer of life. Listen to people when they speak. Watch their actions. Sometimes their body language says more than their lips, revealing character. When working out at the gym, notice the characters, because they are there. Maybe it’s the guy who grunts loudly while struggling to lift weights. What about the athletic young girl who complains about gaining two pounds over the holidays. When standing in line, does someone pace back and forth, telling you to hold his place? And when he finally makes it to the bank teller, is he rude to the teller complaining that time is money and he needs her to hurry the transaction? Once while relaxing on the beach I watched a beautiful five-year-old as she rushed toward seagulls. “Look Mommy,” she squealed. “Beach ducks.” My listing of characters could continue to fill the page, and I hope this essay will encourage you to open your eyes, listen, and watch the behaviors of others. Character, and CHARACTERS are everywhere. Moreover, when you meet them, jot them down in your day timer, on a napkin, or in your mental memory bank.

Toasting the New Year of 2009

2009-01-02T14:06:00.000-08:00

Here's a toast to a New Year, not just for me, but for the entire world. There is a magical excitement when the new year approaches. I enjoy looking at people as they anticipate the freshness of the new year. Many are filled with plans to make. Perhaps the thrill of a new marriage, a new child, a new home, new job, or a new life. Others are excited with future plans of graduation, while stepping into the new year and world of career and the future.

As for me, 2009 started with a celebration at the local VFW where my husband [Phil] and I listened to Michael Viljac, an Elvis Tribute Artist. As the moments of 2008 faded into the beginnings of a new year, hugs and kisses were shared by friends and a few strangers we met during the celebration and tradition of a new year.

Now that it is 2009, I have many things to change in my life, and I have made it my promise and resolution to myself to be more organized and to fulfill my purpose in life. Every new year is filled with resolutions. For this year, mine haven't been composed yet, but they will be -- before the end of this holiday weekend.

As a writer, I have made a mental resolution to keep my office area more organized, and to not allow the stacks of papers, magazines, newspapers, and e-mails collect into disgusting dust bunny piles that leave me overwhelmed. I'm pleased to report, I have accomplished that mini-goal this week, starting the exhausting stack of clutter I allowed to slowly become a mountainous piling of stuff I need, stuff I don't need, stuff I--, and just stuff to make a mountain out of a mole hill I should've organized and put away, or trashed. I learned a valuable lesson from this monotonous habit I allowed myself to slip into and I am determined it will not happen again. After sorting thru too many piles to list, I have only two more stacks to complete. When I return to my home office on Monday, I will be ready for the challenge. Instead of sifting thru stacks of stuff to find that important e-mail, folder, or letter, I have them filed away and can find them. Instead of looking for something I've misplaced, I can focus on my writing assignments and queries. Eureka!!!

So, I suppose one of my goals for 2009 is to stay organized! I'll share more of my goals later -- after they are written! I'm still a true believer in putting things in writing. Looks like some habits never change!

In Memory of Tim Russert

2008-06-15T06:34:00.001-07:00

Friday the 13th is considered a day of bad luck, especially for those who truly believe in the myths of "Friday the 13th." Fortunately, since my marriage, Friday the 13th has been a day of good luck and mystical energy.

Friday the 13th 2008 at 4pm, I turned the TV to MSNBC, to get the latest news. Working as a photojournalist for a few years, I have become addicted to news, always anxious to get the latest news about world events. Friday the 13th was a day that broke my heart when I heard the shocking news of the death of Tim Russert.

What can I say about Tim Russert? If you read the blogs, listen to the news, or listen to the locals in every city in America, the one news story you will hear is, "shocking -- I can't believe such a great journalist and personality is gone." My words about Tim are no different than the other praises and accolades expressed. When you hear the name, Tim Russert, you hear "Tim." Everyone feels as if he was a personal friend and it is such a loss to lose him so unexpectedly.

His achievements are too numerous to name. He shared the love of family. He beamed with a glowing love for his son, Luke. His wife Maureen, and one cannot forget his devotion and dedication to "Big Russ."

The more I read about Tim Russert, the more I admire his tenacity and passion for life. In a world where some people make excuses for not having the time to be there for family members, Tim rose to the occasion. He made certain his father was taken care of. Although I never met Tim, his demeanor appears to be one who never took "No" as an answer. When he confronted detours, he found a way around them. Truly a person to admire!

Serving as a caregiver for my father during his terminal illness, I learned how to take on the challenge when medical professionals whispered, "No." I took the simple word as a way to remove the detour and find a way out of the road block.

Tim Russert was a true role model to all of us. We, as Americans, can learn a lot from someone who believed in the philosophy he expressed so eloquently, "What a great country." When life gives us road blocks or detours, we must find a way to find a new entrance.

Friday, the 13th, was a road block for Tim Russert. Peacefully, he grabbed that challenge, entering the Gates of Heaven, with that passionate smile and gleam in his eyes. Tim Russert, you will be missed by your colleagues, friends and family. My heart breaks for all fathers on this Father's Day, and I wish you God speed. I did not know you personally, but as a professional photojournalist, I ache because you taught us so much about how to conduct ourselves and how to elaborate with passion about the trials, tribulations and joys of life. From one writer to another, I will miss you and your empty chair on Meet the Press.

FREEWRITING - Something A Writer Must Do!

2008-05-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

I confess to my reading public, as a writer, I am frustrated with myself and my words. Toying with a story I dreamed of many years ago, I struggle to get the words right. Now, I play with words, doing something I thought I did not have the time to do.

Freewriting is the subject at hand, and now that I am scribbling thoughts, passages, ideas and themes into a journal, I find myself wanting to scream, while another part of me says -- Yes! Freewriting is helping. Do I dare to share a part of my soul?

Reportedly, a writer is supposed to think of a theme and write for ten minutes with that theme in mind. Duh! At first, I stared at a blank journal. A friend say I was controlling my thoughts. Eureka! With much reluctance, I admitted she was right. Control is one of my personality flaws, or, another a positive note, maybe control is a strength.

And so, for today, I am starting a new journey - writing some of the freewriting themes here on this web site blog. Now, I suppose all of you who read this (and I'm hopeful you do) will journey into the thoughts, characters, flaws and personality I alone possess. This could be dreadful, couldn't it?

Only a writer can decide and only a writer can appreciate the subject of freewriting.

Recently, while flying home from a press trip, I sat in the middle seat of the plane. A beautiful, blonde teen-age girl sat next to me by the window. To my left was an older, but distinguished man, carrying a brief case. He settled in to his seat, apologized for bumping me, removed his laptop, and started to work on a Power Point project. We made small talk. I introduced myself mentioning that I was a writer headed to a press trip to Hot Springs, Arkansas. He was scheduled for business meetings with a development group in Little Rock. On Friday afternoon, he planned to escape to play a round or two of golf. Sitting in the middle, I felt as if I was the entree ready to be served at an ala carte dinner. Leaning forward, I stared out the window. The young girl next to me phoned someone, and when she heard the familiar voice on the cell phone line, she started to cry.

"Daddy, I'm scared. I know you said I'd be OK, but I don't like airplanes."

She hung up the phone, turned it off and cried while staring out the window.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. I’ve never flown before, and today is my birthday. I’m eighteen today and I’m all alone. That was my dad on the phone. He said I’d be all right. How does he know? What if something happens to me? I don't wanna see it, if something happens.”

I touched her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s your birthday. Nothing can go wrong on your birthday. You are stepping into the future now. You'll be fine.”

She sniffed. “You like the window, don’t you?”

Realizing how I stared out the window, I smiled. “I’ve always liked windows. They encourage us to go out into the world to make a life.”

She thanked me for my kindness. I offered to let her exchange seats but she declined.

A few minutes later, her breathing relaxed and I realized she was fast asleep. Staring out by her window, my mind drifted to the opportunities and adventures in life, all built with a theme of windows.

When our plane landed safely, the pretty young girl thanked me for making her feel better. "My name's Amanda."

"Happy birthday, Amanda."

Quickly, we gathered our belongings and parted. I saw her chatting with a group of girls as we waited for our luggage. Her eyes were radiant, and I knew Amanda was headed on to an exciting adventure on her eighteen birthday.

Windows have always given me a feeling of warmth. As a small child, I stared outside by the window, during a cold winter day, and when it rained, I would sit by the window, counting the raindrops. Windows have always welcomed me.

When I was a teenager, I found my grandmother sobbing uncontrollably one day while she sat on the floor of her bedroom, looking out the window. I knocked at her door. “Grammy, are you all right?”

“Yes. Just burdened. When I have a burden, I always come to my window to pray, so God will hear me and lift my burden.”

I was fifteen. Grammy was battling breast cancer. My parents were divorcing. My mother and I were fighting like cats and dogs. My life was falling apart at the young age of fifteen, so I started to practice my grandmother’s insight, looking for a window to pray, to lift my spirit and to see that there was life and promise outside, in the promise and magic of the outside world held so captive by a window.

Windows reflected the light, allowing me to see the bright sunshine.

Windows open our hearts, eyes, and ears to the journey of life. Looking out the window of my home, I see trees swaying, dancing a graceful ballet as the wind kisses the limbs of each tree. Birds are bathing in the birdbath. The sun beams brightly and I am thankful for another beautiful morning.

Like people, windows come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Windows are a gateway for opportunity and the future.

Open your windows and start your journey into life.

Life as a Writer - From the Roots of a Mill Town

2008-04-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

It has been said by many of my friends that my life as a writer is so exciting. After all, I get to go to interesting places, to see amazing sites, and to meet fascinating people. Yes, all of that is true. I am living a life that I never imagined I would live; after all, I grew up in a desolate community, known as a 'mill town.'

Many people do not understand the description I use when I say mill town. They picture a community where people were close. Life in a mill town was close -- close to everything. We could walk to church and school. When we shopped, we walked to the local general store to purchase what was needed. Never did we have luxury, or an easy life. We were close to our neighbors and we did our best to be a close-knit community.

As a child, I knew I wanted to break away from the mill village. I wanted a life of luxury, and excitement. Now, that I am older and wiser, I realize that life in the mill town was not so bad, after all. My grandparents worked hard to make certain we had what we needed. We wore crisp, clean 'Sunday best' to church. Our clothes for school might have been hand me downs, but we were clean and we did our best to keep the lint off of our clothing. I credit my grandparents with the roots and family values I cherish now. While it is true, I did break away from Bibb City, GA, I took the precious values and morals I learned in a mill town with me.

Over the years and struggles of life as a young married woman, mother and now as I journey into more stresses and adventures of life as a baby boomer, I appreciate what was instilled inside me and with every journey I take as a writer, I am able to appreciate what I was blind to as a child. Writing and the demands of life have opened my eyes, and now I appreciate the little things I watched others do as a child. My roots have spread out as I journey into all of the many aspects of my life as a writer. No longer blind to seeing the good and the evil, I appreciate my life as a writer and I am thankful that I can create stories, characters and adventures from all walks of life. When my readers review my stories, they cannot see how I am dressed, or if my makeup is perfect, or hair windblown or needing a style. My readers experience the journey, the taste, scent, smell and feel of where and what I am sharing. All of the experience is a credit to my life in a mill town, the woman/child I became and the goals, journeys and dreams I worked so hard to develop and believe in. Life is a journey. With each day we meet people, we see places, and we learn another part of our journey to become who we desire and choose to be. Never be envious of those who work hard to seek their dreams. There are many adversities in life that might hold them back, but only through the challenge of road blocks, detours, and the belief in our dreams, do we find the road to take to achieve what we all hold so dear.

A Toast to My Grandmother for the Holidays

2007-11-28T13:54:00.000-08:00

A Tribute to Winnie R. Hunter

by

Barbie Perkins-Cooper

Holidays can be a time of great depression for us. Families rush around, shopping for gifts, mailing Christmas holiday cards to family and friends, attending parties, drinking holiday spirits.

As a child, my holidays were spent with many traditions. Thanksgiving was a time of feast. My grandmother spent days baking pies, cookies, cakes, hams, turkey, and her infamous, melt-in-your-mouth, and soft-as-a-cloud homemade biscuits. I can still taste those delicate homemade biscuits, and each time I think of them, my tongue tingles to taste just one more. I remember sitting in the kitchen with Grandma, listening to her humming a Southern gospel song while she baked. At times, I washed the dishes, just to help her. When she trusted that I would not burn myself, she allowed me to learn how to bake cookies and cakes. Although I tried to bake biscuits and pies, each batch of my biscuits were fit for only one thing – hockey pucks! As for pies, well the local grocery stores sell Pillsbury pie crusts, and on rare occasions when I attempt pie baking, I’ve learned to appreciate them.

Christmas traditions were a bit of the same. We visited Grandma and Papa in Bibb City, GA every year. Church was a priority for us, not something we might do. Grandma dressed us in our Sunday best and when I walked into the church, I made certain to make an impression. My hair was decorated with hair ribbons. I wore velvet Christmas dresses and French pumps, and when I entered the church, I spun on my heels so the boys would notice me. Grandma shushed me, shaking her finger at me. “Young ladies behave in church,” she said.

“Yes Ma’am,” I replied, rushing toward the boys.

During Christmas, I sang in the church choir, and if there was a church musical, I worked hard to sing and perform so Grandma would be proud of me. Grandma was my role model in life, always there to teach me how to become a lady. When I was ten, I remember rubbing my hands along her stocking covered legs, anxious for the day when I could wear nylon stockings. I sprayed her cologne on my neck and arms, powdered my face with her facial powder, wishing for the day when I could wear makeup and dress ‘lady like.’

After my parent’s divorce, I caught Grandma sitting by a windowsill. I stopped to listen, hearing her prayers and tears. Carefully I opened the door. “Grandma, are you upset with me?” I asked.

“No, sweetie,” she whispered, wiping tears from her eyes. “I have a burden and want to share it with God.”

“Burden? What’s the matter?”

“Whenever something bothers me, I always find a window; look up to the Heavens and pray to God. After I pray, my burden lifts.”

I have remembered that conversation for my lifetime, and when something is gnawing inside of me, I find my special window in my home. Looking up to the sky, I place my hands on the window. “Hey, God, I’m here. I need you.” After my prayers, my burden and my worries lift from my chest, and I feel reborn.” Grandma was so wise. She has no idea the priceless gift of wisdom she gave to me on that day.

We lost Grandma in the early 1970’s to breast cancer. I visited her at the hospital two days before she died. Her doctor prepared me, exclaiming she was in a coma and could not hear or respond to any conversation.

“That’s my Grandma,” I said to him. “She’ll speak to me.”

Lying in coma, I kissed her smooth rose-colored cheek, noticing the stiff white sheets and flat pillows on her bed. Her face was sunken. Eyes tightly closed. Her hands were icy cold, but I held on to them, knowing her life was fading away.

“I love you, Grandma,” I whispered.

Although she was deep in coma, I heard her moan, “I love you too.”

Overwhelmed, I rushed from the room. I did not want Grandma to see me crying. I told the nurses I could not stay.

“We’ll call you,” the charge nurse said.

“When she dies,” I cried, rushing for the elevator.

For three years, she battled cancer never complaining or asking why. When both breasts were removed, her chest left exposed and raw from cobalt, like a rare piece of beef, never did I hear her complain, or ask, ‘why me.’ All she wanted to do was to have the strength to lift her arms again to make homemade biscuits. During those years of fight, I imagine she found her window and prayed so God would lift her burden of cancer.

As a young girl, I did not appreciate traditions. Now that I am older and wiser, I crave them. The holidays are a time to reminisce, and maybe that is why I remember Grandma so vividly on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and every Sunday. I commit to memory her traditions, faith and dreams for her family. I have broken every tradition by not attending church every Sunday. Occasionally, I toss a load of laundry in the washer on Sundays, and my Sunday dinner consists of something quick, or reservations. Thanksgiving and Christmas are shared with extended family and friends, and although I strive to prepare the traditional holiday meals, I have learned to appreciate invitations from my friends. Rarely do my husband and I eat holiday meals in restaurants. “Something is missing when we eat out on Thanksgiving,” Phil says. I nod my head in agreement. There is something to be said for traditions and holiday gatherings at home, sharing a warm fire, a romantic movie and a chilled glass of wine. Although I am exhausted from cooking all day, I feel comfortable with my family and friends nearby.

Life has given me new traditions and with every year, I strive to build more of them. For 2007, I want to find a church where I am comfortable and can offer my talents to help others. I want to remember Grandma. How I wish I could hug her and thank her for the values and beliefs she gave to me. A proud, soft-spoken woman with a strong faith in God, I would not be the woman I am today without her knowledge and the traditions she taught me.

“Whenever you have a burden, go to a window, and pray to God. He is always there, and He will never abandon you. He may not grant all of your wishes, but God knows best.”

Thank you Grandma for your love and your faith.

2007-09-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

A WRITER’S PURPOSE IN LIFE

by

Barbie Perkins-Cooper

Two days ago, September 26, 2007 -- to be exact, I received the surprise of my life! After years of struggle as a writer, I have been selected to participate with the SC Arts Commission Arts in Education Roster of Approved Artists, in the Literary Arts field. I read the letter three times, just to make certain I was not dreaming! I confess, I have been praying to God to guide me and give me strength during the times of doubt, and to please give me a sign of what to do to define my true purpose in life.

August 22 was my birthday; a day most people believe is a day for joy, a time to celebrate and do whatever one feels inclined to do. For me, it is a day of self-examination, a day to rewrite my purpose in life. As a child, my grandmother said, “Your life has a purpose, Barbara Jean; you just need to find it.” Sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen, her words whisper in my ears and I still have difficulty defining my purpose in life. I doubt my abilities as a writer and photojournalist. Bills are beginning to pile up and I am curious as to how I will meet financial obligations. Miraculously, money appears each month, much to the credit of my husband and pending assignments.

Writing is an isolated chore. There are times when the words flow, as if they magically dance on the keyboard before I can process them. Other times, like now, my fingers move slower as I struggle to process thoughts, research, notes, photographs and story ideas. A writer who is lost for words? Impossible, people say, but it is true. A writer writes, even when the fingers ache. Now I understand what my college professor expressed. Writers hate to write!

To be a writer, you must open a vein and let it bleed. An expression easily stated, but hard to comprehend, if you are a writer. I have debated returning to the corporate world; however, I made a promise to myself in June 2005 that I would seek my dreams as a writer. Every week I send queries to magazine publications. Like a slow time bomb ticking away, I wait in anticipation for assignments. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Slowly, I wait with the doubts swirling inside my head. Tick tock. Tick tock.

For fifteen years, I allowed my life to spin in an out of control direction manipulated by the corporate world. I followed the rules dictated by corporate life, never complained and was the first to volunteer. I conducted myself as a professional. Suggesting I needed a college degree, I enrolled as a full-time student still working full-time and managing a full-time household. When Corporate America reorganized my department, I moved to another department. Although my evaluations were outstanding, Corporate America found ways to manipulate promotions due to budget cuts, and excuses they controlled.

Tired of the elephant on my back, in June 2005, I chose to leave Corporate America and I never looked back. Choosing to establish a new purpose in my life, I stepped into the role of a travel writer. Accomplishing my first published travel article, I was euphoric! Two years later, I have several stories and photographs published, a book with my name as the author is coming out in the fall, and I send queries out on a weekly basis.

Although my goals are not out of reach, my plans are outlined, and I am moving into my true purpose in life. Today, I question my talents as a travel writer. I create a new plan, a new purpose while recognizing that maybe travel is only one avenue I should explore. Reviewing my resume, filled with five pages of publishing credentials, I remind myself to get back into the saddle and explore my true talents. Armed with the awards and certificates I achieved as a screenwriter, I must get myself back into the screenwriting mode, polish my screenplays, and begin a new marketing approach. Based on my abilities from working in the hospitality industry, there are markets I should approach including destination weddings, romance, food, and wine, health and photography markets. I must admit to myself, I have been neglectful. Waiting in anticipation of story acceptances, I found other things to do, instead of writing. Always fearful of rejection. The life of a writer is filled with what-ifs.

Procrastination, e-mail addiction, and a constant echo of self-doubt are enemies to me and I must acknowledge them and shrug them away. I must remind myself that other people saw in me what I failed to see at such a young age.

My high school English teacher encouraged me to write. I shrugged her words away.

My mother belittled me when I came home to boast about getting the highest grade in class on my projects. "You ain't no writer," she scolded. "You're just a stupid girl with big dreams. You are nothing and you ain't never gonna amount to nothing but a stupid hill of beans. Stupid girl. Stop dreaming those stupid dreams." The poisonous words of my mother still echo inside my brains sometimes.

My husband, threatened and fearful of my accomplishments, discouraged me, at first, telling me I was making a serious mistake. Recognizing his passion to control me, I inhaled, exhaled, deciding it was best to battle the situation with softness, kindness and a voice filled with my passion, not dominance or fear. After a lifetime together, I stood up to him telling him if I was making a mistake, it was my mistake and I was d--- determined to take this first step to seek my dreams as a writer. Now, he beams with pride when my name is in print. I imagine he might be a bit proud because his last name, the name I chose to take during marriage, is a reflection of who and what I am today. Perhaps he understands the miles of rejections, the years of fear, determination and the many road blocks I, as a writer, have endured. I honestly believe that only an 'artiste' understands how difficult it is to 'open a vein and bleed.'

Dressed in an invisible veil of armor, I must destroy the demons that keep me separated from my success and purpose in life. My plan of attack needs to be documented, read, and remembered, and I must repeat to myself the words of encouragement from my deceased father, “My daughter --- now she’s the writer!”

After my birthday, I have recognized it is a new year for me to seek my dreams. My purpose in life is to write, educate, and inform my readers. I must remember I can express what they hold back, because I am outspoken and I am a gifted observer of life. I have been described by others as 'having a mind of my own.' Yep, that is truly who I am! My neighbors describe me as an advocate, and I confess this is true. Whenever I see something that is wrong – an abused child or animal, a woman or man slapped or mistreated by someone who professes to love them, trash on the street, disturbances, alienation, homelessness, racial slurs, or inconsideration, I am the first to stand up and approach the situation. I react to things that other people choose to ignore. Perhaps this is my true purpose in life, to write, market and share my stories to make a better world.

WITH REMEMBRANCE TO THE CHARLESTON NINE FIREFIGHTERS

2007-06-27T05:21:00.001-07:00

Last week, I was out of town in the beautiful city of Springfield, MO, working, interviewing, and learning about a little city so similar to Charleston, in many ways. Listening to the evening news, I was exhausted from delays at the airport. My eyes were so tired, I fought to keep them open; however, when I heard the dreadful news about the Sofa Super Store fire, I ached, telling myself it was only a figment of my imagination. Fires like that do not happen in Charleston.

Tuesday morning, I awoke to the news confirmed by the Today Show. Nine firefighters dead in Charleston. Nine families forever changed. Nine heroes embraced in the arms of God. Fires like that do not happen in Charleston. I was still in disbelief.

The fire at Sofa Super Store took the lives of:

• Engineer Brad Baity
• CPT. Mike Benke
• Firefighter Melvin Champaign
• Firefighter James “Earl” Allen Drayton
• Asst. Engineer Michael French
• CPT. William “Billy” Hutchinson, III
• Engineer Mark Kelsey
• CPT. Louis Mulkey
• Firefighter Brandon Thompson

Living in Mt. Pleasant, a suburb just across the Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, I do not recognize any of the heroes, although the more I read about them, the more I know them. As a writer, I feel compelled to write about them, to let the world know, people in the Charleston, South Carolina communities cherish and respect our firefighters. After all, they are the first to come to our aid when we are injured, sick, or in need of their lifesaving services.

To the families of the Charleston Nine, I wish you love. I cannot imagine how dreadful that day was for all of the families. Awakening in the morning, kissing your loved one before he goes to work for his dedication to service. Perhaps speaking to your loved one during the day, never imagining a tragic fire would turn into a tornado of fire and take him away. Saying to you, “I know how you feel,” is simply a cliché. No one can imagine how empty you feel, but please know, we, the community want to help.

Arriving home from Springfield early Saturday morning, in the afternoon, my husband and I drove by the Sofa Super Store. The devastation reminds me of the skeleton of buildings from 9-11. Sound bites on the nightly news do not do it justice. The warehouse behind the gutted building echoes of 9-11 and it chills me to look at it. Taking over 70+ photographs, my heart aches as I walk along the Memorial sidewalk.

What can I, as a writer, and a resident of the community do? I have donated to the Charleston Nine funds. I pray nightly for your grief to ease, but it will be a long process for all of you. Somehow, writing about it, from the perspective of a writer and photojournalist is all I can do to let you, the families of the Charleston Nine, know we ache for your heroes and your families.

My one prayer is that the Charleston community will pull together to do all that we can to build a memorial park for that location. Rebuilding Sofa Super Store is not an option, at least not for those in the Charleston communities who cherish and preserve our history. On the local news, there are discussions of what should be done. Rebuild the store? I say no. We must honor the Charleston Nine and remember our 6-18-2007. We lost nine amazing firefighters. We must not allow them to have breathed their last breath in a tornado of flames. Rest in Peace, Charleston Nine.

MY LIFE AS A WRITER: A Married Woman’s Journey

2007-06-24T07:41:00.000-07:00

Now I can finally say I am living my dream. Yes, it is a different dream, one that I failed to imagine until later in life when I left Corporate America and decided the time is now for me to seek my dreams. On June 2, 2005, I stepped away from the Corporate World to seek my dreams. Living the life of a writer is such an amazing adventure. Yes, there are times of self-doubt, times when I ask myself what am I doing? When this occurs, I pray to God that I will achieve my success, and every time I pray, I am blessed with something new to motivate or inspire me.

Last night was one of those occasions. In the middle of the night, I awoke from a dream. I was on the lake, fishing with someone. I admit I am not much of a fishing person, however, in my dream, something tapped at my cane pole fishing line. When I pulled the line in, hooked to the pole was a plaque of an award, dated 1987. Since it is now 2007, I was intrigued with the plaque. Now, the creative juices are flowing and I questioned why someone would throw away an award. Now, I have ideas dancing inside my brain. Could this be a Cold Case story, CSI story or some other genre? Perhaps.

I work as a travel writer, traveling around the USA to meet and interview interesting people, do adventurous things, learn about lifestyles, cultures, arts, music, passion, education and so much more. When I first began this journey in 2004, I was still tied to the Corporate World. I was skeptical, so afraid that I would not be able to find story material on my journeys. Not!

I have so many ideas dancing inside that I cannot type them fast enough. I’ve jotted down story material at the airport – ideas such as Camping Out at the Airport; Losing My Luggage for 36 Hours – Now I Feel Like Paris Hilton in the Big House, Now I am a Bird, the Freedom of Hang Gliding. Trust me, there are so many ideas I cannot possibly elaborate on all of them.

People ask me how I became a writer. I smile and thank them, sharing a few of the opportunities I have been blessed with. I have written stories since early childhood. Later, after marriage, I placed my pen and paper in a nightstand, rarely writing anything. One day, I found myself looking out the window of my home. My marriage was under a lot of stress at that time and I was questioning the future. Did I want to journey into the unknown alone, or – did I want to stick it out, work out the problems and build a new, better life. At the time, my son was young and I did not want him to live in a broken home, so I chose to face the situation and do my best to work on the marriage. Now, 20 years later, my life is still the life of a married woman.

To those who wonder, I will not sugar coat the adventures and disappointments of marriage, although I will say, my marriage is improving. I am a strong willed woman. My father-in-law once described me as a ‘woman with a mind of her own,’ and I must say, his descriptions were probably the most honest words from his lips. My father wrote in his diary, “At the age of two years old, Barbara can be quite a character. She loves to be the center of attention.”

Interesting observations and I suppose those descriptions were the stepping-stones leading me down the path to my life as a writer. I fully believe my life as a writer was dictated to me while I was in the developing stages of my life. Words have always been my life. While it is true that I can always think of something to say, and I definitely have a mind of my own, nothing pleases me more than to find just the right words to share or express what others have difficulty expressing. I adore observing others. Sitting in a restaurant, I look around, listening to the actions, reactions, and expressions of others. When I started to write, I was known for grabbing a napkin and pen to jot down what I heard. Now, I reach inside my handbag, grabbing my notebook and pen, to get the words on paper.

Stories are everywhere. Notice the expressions of others. The personalities. Attitudes. Passions. Facial expressions. Actions. Goodness, the list could continue.

As a writer, I love words. Words are my passion. Sometimes, when I create a character, I become almost euphoric with the designs, metaphors, actions, and personalities created. My friends, and a few colleagues, are envious about what I do. They believe life as a writer is glamorous. Yes, at times, it can be, but it is difficult to tap into the higher paying markets; nevertheless, I am one determined woman, with a mind of her own. Writing is rewriting. Writing is euphoric. Writing is depressing. Writing is life. Write what you know. Listen to what you hear. Believe in yourself and what you desire, and soon, you can be living the life of your dreams. It is not easy, but writing is so rewarding. The best compliment I have heard when someone read one of my stories is, ‘Your story brought tears to my eyes.’

And that is why I write!

Happy Memorial Day, to All of Our Veterans and Soldiers

2007-05-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

On this Memorial Day 2007, I would like to take a moment to say Thank You, to all who serve our country, all who have served our country, and to those who will serve our country in the near future.

As the wife of a Vietnam Veteran, I am proud to share the memories and pride we share for the freedom in our country.

I do not proclaim to support war, because I have never been a believer of war; nevertheless, there is a price we must pay for freedom, and for those who must fight, I do support the troops. My heart breaks whenever I hear of casualties. It is not an easy task to anticipate hearing from a loved one via someone ringing a door bell to share the tragic news. I lived with that fear while my husband fought in Vietnam. There was a time I went over 20+ days without hearing from him due to the infantry moving locations and such. When I contacted the American Red Cross, I was told (and I quote) 'when he has been missing for over 30 days, we can start an investigation.' Thanks so much, American Red Cross. Your words certainly comforted me -- no, not at all!

To say I was livid is an understatement! No one, but the wife or loved one of a soldier can understand what it is like to live with such fear.

Today, my heart aches for all who must walk in those shoes. I wish all of the military my best, on this Memorial Day. May God protect you, your loved ones, and may all of you SOON come home to be with family, friends, and safety. We thank you for your dedication and service, and we pray that soon we will live without the threats or fears of war.

Thank you Soldiers, troops, families and Everyone. May God bless all of you and keep you safe.

Remodeling - A Kitchen Facelift

2007-05-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

Another beautiful day in the great city of Charleston, SC. A new, fresh day to be thankful for life, family and all that makes us whole.

Our construction project for the kitchen facelift began on February 28. Now, it is May 2007, effective three weeks ago, we do have a kitchen to use. The cabinets are complete, granite finally installed, and I can use my new stove and convection oven. I have so much counter space now I am amazed.

The construction crew from Ship Shape were amazing -- two lean, mean (in a kind way) muscular, mechanical machines who did a superb job and were so nice and pleasant. Never did I hear a swear word from Scott or Kyle. They went above and beyond to please us, and sometimes that can be an interesting task to do.

Next week, the Italian tile flooring is scheduled for installation. Home Depot is holding the materials (I am on the phone with them now) scheduling delivery of materials.

My tip to anyone anticipating remodeling -- patience! Have plenty of it, document everything, and be prepared to wash lots of dishes in the bathtub, especially when the remodeling is a kitchen renovation.

This has been an experience I never want to repeat; nevertheless, when I walk into my new kitchen (with exception of the bare, concrete flooring) I am so proud to have a new gourmet kitchen. As for cooking - well, let's just say, I still enjoy eating out!

Nature and Writing Have Much in Common

2007-04-14T15:55:00.000-07:00

Picture it! Today while basking in the sun, I sat up to glance at my new red schoolhouse bird feeder, anticipating birds would be eating away, since they were chirping and singing a melodious tune. When I glared at the bird feeder, I noticed it going in circles. Curious, I strained my eyes, somewhat dazed from the bright sunshine. No birds were near it! Shakespeare, my mini schnauzer was sitting by the bird feeder, observing his prey. The bird feeder continued to spin in a circular motion. I noticed a fuzzy tail - a squirrel.

Scratching my head, I was curious as to how the squirrel could get on the bird feeder, since it is suspended from a tree branch. The more I watched, the more I realized this squirrel and I have much in common. While the bird feeder continues to spin the squirrel around and around, he clings to the cables holding the feeder - refusing to give up, perhaps like I cling to the reality of breaking into bigger markets as a writer and photojournalist. Like the squirrel, I spin, sometimes hopelessly spinning, and other times, I am euphoric with excitement with my accomplishments and dreams. Scratching my head, I am mesmerized by this silly, determined squirrel. Drunk from the spinning bird feeder, he falls off, wiggles his fuzzy tail, while Shakespeare darts after him, but the squirrel is faster. He sprints towards the oak tree, his fuzzy tail tapping along the tree limbs. Quickly he darts towards the swing, stretches to get across it, and jumps back on the bird feeder. Spinning around and around in a non-stop circle, he must be getting sick from the spinning, but dear Mr. Squirrel continues swinging.

After a few minutes he falls to the ground, thrust himself back to the tree in record time before Shakespeare manages to catch him. As a writer, I cannot count the many times I have been left spinning in hopes I will accomplish my goals, and while watching the determination of the squirrel, I understand his pursuit.

How many times have I heard others tell me, "You're too stupid to write. You'll never accomplish those stupid, silly dreams. What makes you think you can write?" Chilling words to a child.

Like the squirrel, I still have that persona about me - the mental picture of myself as a writer. As a child, I turned away from other children when they laughed at my stories. Funny. I was the only one in the class whose story was read aloud by the teacher. I was the only child in third grade who rushed into the classroom, full of excitement with a published magazine story.

In high school, I had a great mentor by the name of Mrs. Marler. She was my tenth grade English teacher. When I enrolled in this high school (the fourth high school I had enrolled in that year, due to my parents divorce) Mrs. Marler called me aside, to speak privately with me. She mentioned that she was shocked to see I had failed ninth grade English, and she wanted to know why. She said my schoolwork in class was great. I was articulate, and I was a great writer. "You write so eloquently," she said. "You can be a great writer." Although I had a history of being the teacher's pet in school, her words echoed in my head over and over.

That afternoon, I rushed home to my mother, excited to tell her what Mrs. Marler said to me. "Can you picture it, Mama? Me - your little stupid girl - a writer? Mrs. Marler believes in me. She says I can be a writer."

My mother spat back, her poisonous words still burning inside my heart, "Last week you wanted to be a singer. This week - a writer. When will you realize, you ain't gonna amount to nothing but a stupid hill of beans, you stupid girl."

My mother always knew how to get to me. Fortunately, Mrs. Marler knew how to turn things around for me. Now, today, I sit, laughing at Mr. Squirrel. Stiff with his posture, determined with his actions, he is determined to get to the birdseed in the bird feeder and nothing will stop him. He rushes from the tree, down to the concrete bench, sprints across to the swing, then he thrusts his little brown body high into the air, catches the cable and swings around and around, in hopes to eat a meal of bird seed.

Some people could describe him as a stupid squirrel, but I see something others do not see. I see Mr. Squirrel as a determined little person, even when the chips are down and life is kicking him in the rear. He stops at nothing to reach his goal, just like I do, as a writer. Words are my life, my passion and words give me breath. While it is true, I could allow life to beat me down, simply because my mother's cruelty could destroy me, but as a young girl, I refused to allow others to hurt me more than life did as a child. I found a passion, and today I fight to keep that passion alive - through my words.

When poisonous doubt echoes in my ears, I push those negative vibrations away by remembering what my father said during a television show. "My daughter...Now, she's the writer!"

Mr. Squirrel, today you taught me a valuable lesson I will share with others when I speak about accomplishments, goals, and strategies of success as a writer. When life gives lemons, make lemonade. When the pendulum of life is heavy and not swinging your way, make a new strategy. Believe in yourself, your talents, and abilities. As writers, we must swing into a new course and believe we can achieve great things.

When the road is leading us astray, we must take a detour, continue our course, and never give up. Tomorrow is a new day. Fresh and bright with opportunities. Never give up. Believe in yourself, like Mrs. Marler believed in me and like Mr. Squirrel believes he can hang on to the cable and eat the bird seed. How I wish I could thank Mrs. Marler. She believed in me, helping me to believe in myself. Nature and writing are truly my connections to life!

Applying for a Passport Anyone???

2007-03-15T05:37:00.000-07:00

Working as a travel writer (full-time for just a bit over one year, I confess) all of my writing connected friends have been amazed that I do not possess a passport. "I don't anticipate needing one," I stated, "Especially since I haven't traveled anywhere with exception of the USA."

A few weeks ago I received an invitation via e-mail to tour Niagara Falls and Canada. Anticipating I would not be accepted to this divine location, I responded, letting the PR firm know I did not have an assignment. I mentioned I have a hospitality background and I know much about culinary arts. So, to move this blog along, the PR firm accepted me and I am scheduled to travel to Niagara Falls and Canada!

Oops! Think I need a passport!

My husband and I are members of AAA, so I phoned them anticipating filing for a passport would be an easy task. Wrong!

The kind lady at AAA shared valuable information, stating they could take the photograph, and she suggested I go online to file the application. She also suggested I would need a drivers license, and birth certificate.

I completed the process online, printed it, gathering a certified copy of my birth certificate and of course, my drivers license. [http://travel.state.gov/passport/forms/ds11/ds11_842.html]

Since I live in Mt. Pleasant, SC and the US Post Office is always backed up with a line of customers, similar to customer service lines at the check outs at Wal Mart, K Mart, or McDonald's, I chose to phone them to inquire about a smooth way to process the passport.

"Our first available appointment is March 23," the male voice at the post office said. "Would you like to reserve a spot?"

"March 23?" I want to apply this week.

"We can't help you. Try another post office. Maybe East Bay Street, downtown Charleston, or Huger."

Reluctantly, I hung up the phone while sifting thru the phone book. Since January 2007, the post offices have been bombarded with applications for passports. When I applied for mine, I realized the public needed to know about this process and how stressful it could be, IF the applicant was not prepared.

Rule #1: Do your homework. Go online to complete the application.
Rule #2: Get your documents in order - including the passport application, two passport photographs, drivers license, and birth certificate.
Rule #3: Don't just drop by the post office. Check to make certain an appointment is not required.
Rule #4: Arrive on time and expect delays. Many people are applying for passports now.

While I was standing in line at the East Bay Street location, a woman three people behind me, was under the impression she could 'pick up the application, complete it at home at her leisure, and fax the details over.'

Don't think so!

She established eye contact with the post office employee, asking her how she could apply, and if she could do it at home, via a fax machine.

The clerk at the post office chuckled. "You can apply here, but you need to complete the application first, and have all your documents. We don't accept facsimiles."

The woman was playing with her Blackberry, appearing not to listen to the tips from the official. She spun on her heel, grumbling while punching the keyboard of the Blackberry.

A perfect example of how not to apply for a passport!

So, if you are anticipating applying for a passport, please make it an easy process by filing the application online, or expect a delay. Post office officials are working hard to make the process easier, but it is a bit confusing. So, make the process a bit easier by reading the information online. Do your homework prior to applying. I followed the guidelines and information to a "T" and it took me less than an hour to finalize my passport application.

http://travel.state.gov/passport/passport_1738.html

This web site is filled with information to answer your questions, and to make the application process an easier task.

Processing fees I paid totaled to $97, payable in personal checks. $67 for the passport, $30 to the U.S. Post Office.

After you complete the process, you will be given a copy of the instructions sheet, listing a website where you can follow up on the process.

Good Luck! Safe and happy travels, everyone!

IT DON'T MEAN NOTHING...PART TWO

2007-03-09T06:30:00.000-08:00

Funny. This is the first time I've experienced a problem while writing my blog.

The subject at hand, "It Don't Mean Nothing."

When my husband filed for VA benefits, he scheduled testing for PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He has documents stating he definitely has this condition. No joke. If only they'd ask me, I could've definitely given them many dates, events, scenarios, but the family is not considered and that is sad. The VA only considers the Veteran, not the family.

Maybe now the Veterans Administration, along with its system, will recognize there is a problem. How can our military, or the Government of the USA expect Veterans to return home to duty in America and function as normal citizens. How dare them to expect such!

These Veterans have been to war - seeing unbelievable events and scenarios that most citizens cannot relate to or understand.

Wake up VA - wake up America, wake up politicians. Stop saying, "It don't mean nothing."

"It Don't Mean Nothing..."

2007-03-09T05:51:00.001-08:00

"It don't mean nothing..." I heard my husband, a Vietnam Veteran of the conflict of the Vietnam war, say repeatedly when returning home from war. We were newlyweds when he left. I will never forget the fear I felt while standing by the airport windows in Charleston, SC, watching him boarding the plane. The taste and warmth of his lips still imprinted on mine. The feel and touch of his hands, the tightness of his embrace still embedded on my body. How I wanted to rush out to the plane and scream, "Don't leave me. Don't go. We can go to Canada."

Something held me back. Maybe it was the pride he held for serving his country - for being one of the chosen ones who was called to a tour of duty for the sake of freedom.

How I wanted to scream, "Wake up. Can't you see what our government is doing?"

Flash forward to 2007 - a new time of an endless war. A new time to stand tall and proud for the freedom we share. A new time to recognize what war does to soldiers, wives, children, families, friends, and everyone.

For many years I have watched my husband fighting a new battle - the emotional scars of war. For many years I have listened to his chilling words, "It don't mean nothing." When we fought, when something bothered him, I heard these chilling words. "It don't mean nothing," does mean something!

Never could I understand it until the brunt of Vietnam related movies came out, including Hamburger Hill. In one of the scenes a soldier mutters, "It don't mean nothing," and finally I understand. Those chilling words were a way of coping and detaching from the situation.

It is my observation that the Veterans Administration repeats those chilling words, "It don't mean nothing," when they are overwhelmed with complaints. My husband and I have been married for 30+ years. During that time, I've observed behaviors I never anticipated. While it is true, he returned from war a changed man -- different, suspicious, watchful, anxious, and unable to adjust to social environments, I could not relate to the true identity of what was inside this strange man I have loved and tolerated for many years.

Divorce was not an option. I wanted to be one of the rare couples who survived marriage, but during nights of flashbacks and screams, straddling me as if I was the enemy, I found much difficulty. My husband refused to discuss what was wrong, repeating those infamous words, "It don't mean nothing."

In 2003 or 2004, my husband decided to visit the Veterans Administration to see if he could get some help with his situation. Over that summer, he met and connected with a friend, a Vietnam Veteran, at the golf course. While they bonded, my husband recognized some of the behaviors and flashbacks he was experiencing were not normal and he needed to get some help.

Yes, as stated, it has been over a four year struggle for my husband to get assistance. This is the system of the Veterans Administration. Overbooked. Overworked. Overstressed. Overwhelmed, and sometimes I say, slightly incompetent.

The system called the Veterans Administration is not working. I, as the wife of a Vietnam Veteran, have expressed this for years. When my husband returned home from Vietnam, he was greeted by me -- no one else. Never did he receive any type of debriefing, consultations, NOTHING!

For us, it felt like once he returned home from Vietnam, returning back to military duty, he was expected to act normal and be a functioning, productive service man.

Right! In a perfect world - but we all know -- WAR is NOT PERFECT!

Perhaps now, with the Walter Reed controversy and the additional complaints about the Veterans Administration, the government and military will awaken to realize, war is not normal and there is definitely a price to be paid - an emotional scar that never heals. To the outside world, it is invisible. Family members never see it because the veteran keeps it inside, whispering to himself, or herself, "It don't mean nothing."

War has a detrimental price to be paid to the veterans. Wake up, Veterans Administration. Stop losing paperwork. Stop missing appointments, and please never express to a Veteran (years later) after the emotional scars eat away into the core of the Veteran, please never express, "The fact that you've been involved in a long-term marriage does not help your case."

What should I have done to help? I was under the impression that supporting the Veteran, showing him I loved him and believed in him, even when he straddled me, choking me while in a flashback, I was under the impression that my husband needed support and love - not divorce.

I am outraged at the Veterans Administration and their lack of compassion, understanding and guidance. Their defense, along with my congressional support, has been negligent. The politicians believe the VA"s words

Bridging the Gaps of Writing, Creativity and Life

2007-02-22T12:18:00.000-08:00

I confess, I’m an addict. I’ve been described as such since the third grade of elementary school. Although I’ve had many opportunities to change those habit-forming ways, I cannot. Why? It’s simple. I’m addicted to words. Words pour from my fingertips, onto my monitor, into the Internet and beyond while my fingertips rush across the keyboard. Words are rhythm to me. I hear beats when words are spoken. Passions when words are read. Like a dancer, I rhythmically write with words, expressing what my heart feels. Writing is truly a power, release, and passion. While writing, I find my fingers dancing to a graceful ballet, moving to a beat of words dancing inside my head. Finding just the right words to bring characters, emotions, and stories to life is a power. The writer creates the magic of the story, the plot, and characters, sometimes touching the life of the reader, opening the minds to the content and impact of the written word.

As a child, the words I scribbled flowed from a pen. I remember beaming like a light bulb when the teacher shared my stories aloud while in school. Even when I’ve tried to stop the word addiction, after piles and remnants of rejections, I’ve always weakened while vowing to prove to those who discouraged me that I am a writer. I find myself waking while the world outside is draped in darkness, crawling to my computer, performing a musical rhythm tap dance of words while others find restful sleep.

I’ve been asked by friends how I can sit at the keyboard and type away, while giving birth to stories and characters dancing inside my head. The only answer I have is, I find writing euphoric and painful, but since I’m an addict, writing is something I simply must do. I love the life of a writer, finding it mystical, peaceful, and dreadfully depressing, at times.

So, perhaps that is the reason I write – to express the words coming from my heart and soul, to educate others, and to take armchair readers on a travel journey or an education from the eyes and words of the writer. I have always found writing as an expressive medium to share with others. There have been many times while writing that I’ve slipped from the writer of the story into the character, discovering inner feelings, emotions and special moments where I feel sentiments I never suspected.

As a writer, I am blessed to live in a country where freedom of expression is permitted, regardless of the message. When creating characters in screenplays, I refuse to add erotic or offensive language to my characters – unless the dialogue is a reflection of who [and what] the character is portraying. My goal is to take the reader on a journey, exploring the education and knowledge I have while writing health stories about the beast of cancer, the embarrassment of sweaty palms, or the adventures I discover while traveling.

Recently while lounging with a group of travel writers in a hotel, a discussion involving our writing routines took place. I listened to an attractive golden haired woman describing how she remains in pajamas all day when deadlines are pushing. A distinctive, athletic man with salt and pepper kissed hair described a pair of favorite gray sweats he wore. Another woman stated she could only write while nude. We laughed. Finally, I stated how I could not write a word until my hair was styled for the day and fresh makeup was on my face. “Unless it’s three o’clock in the morning,” I whispered. “My best writing is during twilight, while the world is asleep I find ideas dancing in my dreams and I rush to embrace it, before losing it.”

When story ideas race in my head, I’ve learned to follow the muse and let it flow. During these times, I do not edit while allowing my fingers to dance the passionate ballet of music, rhythm, and beats of a writer’s concert with characters, plots, and words. I am an addict who will never change. Without the freedom of words, my life would fade into oblivion.