New Bipolar Anthology (featuring Jamie and Amanda Weil along with 32 personal stories on living with bipolar disorder)

First-Of-Its-Kind Anthology Voices of Bipolar Disorder Available





Jamie Weil, Cottonwood Resident, and Amanda Weil, San Francisco Resident, Published in Book--

Cottonwood, CA December 10, 2009 – LaChance Publishing announced today the release of Voices of Bipolar Disorder: The Healing Companion: Stories for Courage, Comfort and Strength Jamie Weil, a local resident of Cottonwood, shares her story about discovering her daughter, Amanda, had early onset bipolar disorder at age twelve. Amanda gives her perspective on what it feels like to grow up with bipolar disorder.

With a forward by the creators and cast of the Tony Award-winning Broadway musical Next to Normal, a play that explores the challenges faced by those with the disorder, this new anthology is the first-of-its-kind publication to openly share the experiences of some of the approximately 1-2 percent of the people in the U.S. that suffer with bipolar disorder.

“Amanda and I feel the best way to bust stigma related to mental illness is to share our story,” says Weil. “Bipolar disorder is a brain disease, not a character flaw, and early intervention is critical.”

The eighth in a series of books that brings to light the real-life accounts of those living with chronic illnesses, Voices of Bipolar Disorder is intended to provide support and comfort to those living with the disease and those who care for them. Story highlights include:

• Carrie McCarter, wife and mother of three, who was diagnosed in the early years of her marriage, after years of emotional outbursts and mood swings;
• Jamie and Amanda Weil, a mother and daughter, who share their separate perspectives on how Amanda’s struggle with bipolar disorder impacted their family;
• Lisa Fisk, who tells the story of her brother, who lost the battle to this disease by ending his own life.

The anthology includes more than 34 stories of parents, spouses, children and loved ones who have felt the impact of the disease. These tales of courage, strength and compassion offer insight into the challenges of living day by day with the disorder and the terrible isolation experienced by its victims , but most importantly, the writers’ hopes for the future and the strength of the human spirit.

The Voices Of book series was created by Debra LaChance who, when diagnosed with breast cancer, sought out the personal stories of those who had been through what she was experiencing and from which she could take comfort and find the strength to survive. Debra has provided a new avenue for support for all of those who are coping with chronic and life-threatening disease. To date, the series has tackled some of the most pressing healthcare issues, including autism, breast cancer, lung cancer, alcoholism, Alzheimer’s disease, and multiple sclerosis.

Voices of Bipolar Disorder and all of the Voices Of books are available at bookstores everywhere and online at LaChance Publishing Web site, www.lachancepublishing.com.


Media Inquiries:
Carrie Goldstein
Impact Image, Inc.
954-712-2300
carrie@impactimageonline.com

Where to go in Napa

Mike and I have been collecting wine for 13 years, but living in LA, Napa was too far to drive and who wants to fly when you are going on a wine purchasing rendezvous? Not us. We like to baby our bottles. So we settled for Santa Ynez, Paso and Temecula, all easily accessible by car.

Now in the North State, Napa is only three hours away. When we planned Mike’s birthday trip, Napa was the winner.

When we were trying to figure out where to stay and go we were a bit lost. So many choices and we only had four days. Our research paid off—we had an amazing time so I share it here with you if you are planning to go.

Calistoga is the perfect place to stay. Here you are centrally located to about—um, 8,000 wineries or so—and some fantastic dining options. The Pink Mansion is walking distance from town and was the home of the Calistoga water man back in the day so bustles with historic flare. A B&B ran by Toppa and Leslie Epps, the Master and Honeymoon Suite are huge (actually have two sleeping areas) and are steps away from the outdoors hot-tub. (There is also an indoor-heated pool so bring your suits.) We met some great couples from other states, two of which were celebrating their honeymoon. Most notable, were Jim and Pamela from Houston. They met on Match.com (though they were not matched) a year prior. Their first morning there, Pamela was sick and Jim decided to go on an early jog through the vineyard where he found a doe with two broken legs. He called the vet paramedics who came and tried to rescue the doe. Jim told them he would pay the vet bill and take the doe back to Texas as a gift for his new grandson. (Sadly, the doe didn’t make it.) We enjoyed listening to their stories, including the one where Pamela’s had to swim to her house in Texas (past snakes) after Hurricane Ike took down her entire neighborhood last year. The first thing she checked when she got there was her Harley to make sure it still worked. Miraculously, her house survived and now she has no neighbors.

Breakfast at The Pink Mansion is the best in town.

Down the street from The Pink Mansion is the Lavender Hills Spa. (All about the pastel colors in Calistoga.) There, in a little cottage looking up into a lush green forest, you can get side-by-side hygienic mud baths in one-time use volcanic baths instead of the reused mud in some of the other places in town which we thought was just a little gross. A bath attendant gives you remotes to control your bubbles (Note: just make sure your husband doesn’t get your remote) and comes in asking, “Would you like a cool compress?” After a half hour, you move to side-by-side tables for a renewing foot massage and then to separate rooms for a full-body massage. Use this event to detox from the ridiculous amounts of wine that seem to pour from the hills. (Note: do this BEFORE drinking. There are plenty stories of people who don’t and end up curled up next to the tub in the fetal position, which just doesn’t seem like much fun.)

Best restaurant picks: Brannon’s for short ribs, Calistoga Inn for the peanut butter pie, Go Fish for the sushi (all excellent-especially the spicy tuna roll and poke) and Flat Iron for the Meatloaf.

If you are coming from the North State, take Butts Canyon Road and go by Langstry in Lake County. This was one of our favorite stops because a nice Italian guy named Scott, hospitable as all get out, took us through the barrels using his turkey baster (or “thief”) to sample a whole variety of wines. His knowledge ran deep and we had much fun with him. Down the road is small, family-owned Pope Winery which is worth stopping at to see the old blacksmith shop (all with original tools) and the barrel-room built into the side of the mountain.

Then, of course, there is the vast number of wineries in Napa. Many of these require appointments based on an old law which tried to address the traffic and drunk driving issues in town. Many also have larger tasting fees then we are use to paying. Here are the ones that are worth it: Cakebread and Joseph Phelps (need appointment for both), Prager Ports (ports only-colorful), Mumm (all sparkling wine--has nice photography gallery with rotating exhibit—currently Ansel Adams originals and save the planet theme), Frank Family (both champagne and still wines) and Merryvale. We went to more, but these stand out the most. At Joseph Phelps, we carried a bag of cheese, salami, fig & olive compote and crostini from the Oak Street Market in with us so it wouldn’t get warm in the car. As soon as the check-in lady saw it she said, “Would you like to picnic?” and set up at a beautiful table (usually members only but going on weekdays has its benefits) overlooking a hillside of grapes. She even put out a beautiful Tuscan-like tablecloth with a reserved sign. We felt like we were alone in Italy.

In November, the Valley turns a menagerie of fall color. Most of the grapes have been harvested, and the leaves of deep reds and yellow prepare to fall. Where grapes still hang, the deep purple contrasted to the red is pure beauty. The weather for our trip was perfect, though we were told it can be touch and go this time of year.

Though we had planned to get to Healdsburg, we never got far from Calistoga. Dang. I guess we’ve got to go back.

In Search of Fall Color in the North State

Last Friday, Mike and I took a day trip. Our goal: soak up the fall color before the leaves dropped. We found color, but oh so much more.

We mapped out our route to start at Burney Falls. I hadn't been to the Falls in over 35 years, but remembered them being quite majestic. We stood looking at them, channeling John Muir. (Read with Irish accent.) The spray from the white veils of water misted the forest where we stood, knowing this must be one of the wonders of the world.

Near the top the Falls, a doe wandered, giving us a half-stare. After walking to the base of the Falls and back up, we drove further into the park to discover a still Lake Britton. Surrounded by blackberry bushes, fall color hugged the lake. We walked to the end of a pier and soaked up the quiet. With no movemement but the rings in the water from distant ducks, the color of the surrounding trees doubled, reflected by the glassy water.

The solitude was tempting and we could have stayed all day. But alas, the volocano awaited us!

After taking a side street up to Hat Creek and seeing the observatory where the SETI folks from Mountain View base their alien search (and UC Berkeley looks for astronomical discoveries), we drove into Lassen State Park.

Mt. Lassen is the only plug volcano in the Ring of Fire and is currently active. You realize how much is going on under the earth as you pass by portions of mountain with steam barreling out. In some parts of the mountain, large sulfur ponds boil up in a witchy brew like grey matter. We drove through the park, and through the snow splattered mountain, seeing evergreens far beyond the line of sight.

The park is something to see: meadows below the peak, streams running through fields of tall, wheat-colored grass, vast views of the valley extending clear to Lake Almanor, volcanic rock reminders of the explosion some 90 years ago and trees, trees, trees.

As a child, this trip seemed like a long car ride. As an adult, my spirit renewed, I returned home grounded and inspired. The trip reminded me to keep my eyes open to the journey for it is often there that life's purpose lies.

SCBWI Shasta County Schmooze

I just had yet another conversation with a local writer who will be attending our schmooze at The Elegant Bean on November 15. It's going to be a party. Here's the story.

Shasta County (and Cottonwood in particular)is small and rural. Rodeo is big and folks drink the football koolaid, starting their tykes out playing as early as they can hold themselves up while wearing pads. At the elementary school, they have two teams that play at recess: the Eagles (those on the team) and the "Suckies," those who have not chosen to partake in the koolaid. You get the picture.

When we moved from LA less than a year ago, one of my biggest concerns was small town thinking and the impact that would have on my ability to find critique partners as dedicated as I was, network with other writers, attend conferences, workshops and retreats and so forth. My fear was I would be sitting in the corner reviewing the local practice times (and by default by snack bar shifts) for pee wee football lest my son be ostracized at his new school with no time to write and no writers to behold.

Quite the opposite has occurred.

First, I have written more then I have ever written in my life (and been paid for it as a refreshing change from my pro bono contributions when I started three years ago). The wide open space allows my mind to open somehow, giving me more ideas then I could finish in this lifetime and the quiet to play them out. I am now choosing my projects carefully as to finish revising my YA novel, though did recently have to act on an inspiration from a horse to complete a picture book (my first nonfiction).

Next, I have discovered many talented writers here. They keep a low profile, but have published numerous books and stay true to the craft. I noticed a large number of children's writers around and not just the kind that say, "Yeah, I've always wanted to write a children's book" (which is like, EVERYBODY.)

When I saw an invitation from local SCBWI RAs Patricia Newman and Erin Dealey to start a schmooze in the local area, I thought, why not? A few of us can meet and network. I sent a response with a venue (local joint where I write sometimes) and time. I got a response saying Linda Boyden wanted to do it, too. Linda and I had met through email correspondence before, and I was fairly certain she and I were the only SCBWI members in the North State. I was happy to work with her to find a time that worked for both of us, and the gig was on. That night it posted on SCBWI's site.

"At least we'll have two people there," I thought. "Three, if you count Carly."

I serve on the board of Writers Forum, a writers group in Redding with very strong writers. At the Thursday night board meeting, I asked how they felt about promoting the SCBWI schmooze as many members wrote for children and I thought it would be good if Linda and I had company. They were enthusiastic about the idea of cross-pollination and about promoting writing whatever the type. So I gave them some fliers to hand out at the Saturday meeting.

On Friday Carly called from The Elegant Bean. "I have someone standing in front of me who just came over from the library. Apparently, the SCBWI schmooze was all the talk at toddler story time and there are a number of people that want to come. Do you have fliers?"

Who knew?

Next, I got an email from the RAs telling me we had 8 confirmed schmoozers. (This all before the fliers even went out at the Writers Forum meeting.) Then, in my phone call just now with Maxine she said, "At my writing group last Monday, there were five people who said they wanted to come."

Children's writers, they are emerging! I am thrilled to know that interest is so high and encouraged I will have new writer friends with whom to drive to the conferences in Sacramento and San Francisco. Who knows? Maybe we might even have a workshop in our own neighborhood?

And, by the way, our son will NOT be playing football.

SCBWI Schmooze: Sunday - November 15, 1:00 - 2:00
The Elegant Bean (or next door at the Eagles Nest if we're too many)
20633 Gas Point Road
Cottonwood, CA 96022
jamie@jamieweil.net for more info

Happy Birthday, Mom!

When we made the move north, being close to my Mom was a big consideration. An only child of a single parent, the responsibility of caring for my mom in older years falls on me. While she’s still younger, I want to soak up every opportunity to celebrate life. Our Mt. Shasta birthday get-away was one of those soaks.

We headed out early Thursday morning after school drop with four pillows and 3 bags, and several other ancillary items between us. As we drove north, the gray sky dropped rain making my mom—a bit of a back-seat driver—a little anxious on the roads. When we get in the car, we’re immediately back to 16 and 42. She likes to warn me about “the big trucks, the slippery roads, the merging lanes and whatever else she can think of” somehow not factoring in my 30 years of LA driving which I think should take me out of the “lesson” stage. Since we’ve lived apart for so long it is like losing 30 years of driving credit. Between jumps and gasps, somehow we make it up the highway to Mt. Shasta, still excited about our adventure.

As we headed to the Bed & Breakfast, called the Shasta MountINN, the mountain before us radiated, proud to be wearing her first winter snow. In Mt. Shasta, land of clean air and the best water in the world, skies were blue, temperatures crisp. Innkeeper and friend, David, greeted us and got our bags inside. His garden, breathtaking in every season, showed off her fall colors. With a bit of seasonal remorse, David had “winterized” his garden the day before, bringing in summer’s lawn furniture and getting ready for what seemed like might be a deep snow winter.

“Time for tea?” David asked.
“But of course. Time is all ours,” we said.

We sat, relaxed and talked in the lovely historical home that once belonged to Mt. Shasta’s mayor. Oh, the conversations likely to have occurred from where we sat.

Our next stop was Stewart’s Mineral Springs, a Bohemian mineral bath hangout far from the land of cell phones and flat screens. To get there, you drive past Mt. Shasta, then head out through field and farm, following a white water stream until you hit an area with a one way bridge that you are fairly sure may be facing its last car before the collapse. As you come off the bridge, you see bare butts diving into the creek which that day was 30 degrees. Brrrr. You pass a tee pee used for sweats by a local tribe. (If you’re there on sweat day, you can count on drums galore.) Finding a place to park, and getting out later involves dirt and a thirty point turn.

How to describe Stewarts? Detoxifying. People with names like “Twinkle” helping you. Wrought iron tubs with the sound of the creek coming in the window. The only wood-burning sauna west of the Mississippi that holds about 50 people, some of whom like to stand on their head naked (who does that?) Clothing-optional. Bath, sauna, shower (or creek)—repeat. Relaxing. Renewing. Unique.

After our baths, we headed over to the Spring restaurant where a lady dressed in Indian (eastern) clothes with paint on her forehead like she was celebrating Ramadan and her full abdomen exposed escorted us to a table amongst the trees and next to the creek. A beautiful day for joining nature, a dog was soon up on the deck with us. We watched as he walked in the restaurant, through the kitchen, took a jump in the creek and did the same all over again. Ahh, what different rules here in the land of the spiritual retreat.

After a delicious lunch we headed back to David’s for surprise massages, a nice follow up for two hours of bathing.

Meanwhile, Amanda had started her work day early, ended early and was attempting to time her arrival from San Francisco for dinner with us at The Trinity Café. She was Mom’s ultimate surprise. As a child, Amanda spent time with Grandma alone, but as a teen and now young adult, that time was missing in her life.

Amanda, the organized time machine that she is, arrived exactly at 5:45 when she said she would. I saw her pull in from my window upstairs, waved her up and David helped smuggle her in past Grandma’s room. It was so great to hug my first born and we were like two little kids Christmas morning, pleased with ourselves our plan had worked so well.

We snuck down to Grandma’s room. Knock, knock. “Come in,” Mom said. Amanda steps in and there is silence, followed by laughter and giggles and hugs. “This is my best surprise ever!” Grandma said.

The rest of the time was priceless. Talking, eating, cracking up at Wanda Sykes until our sides ached, eating David’s delicious eggs, veggies and potatoes with toast, walking down Mt. Shasta Boulevard and shopping, filling our jugs up with Headwater water, and just being in each other’s presence.

These are the moments that make life an e-ride and not the merry-go-round.

Horse of Another Color

On Labor Day 2009, I set out to do an interview for an article an editor had asked me to do. My task was to find out about a local afterschool program supported by a local horse sanctuary. What I found was so much more.

Driving to a town I’d only heard of, but never visited, turned out to be visually engaging. Winding my way towards Chico, I watched orchard after orchard glide by and give way to green open space. Destination: Los Molinos. I have never taken my son on an assignment before, but he was off school and wanted to come, and the sanctuary owner said he could come.

We were to follow typical rural instructions: go down a gravel road, turn at the blue post, undo the gate, drive through, redo the gate—that sort of thing. But when we arrived, there was no doubt we were in the right place. Grazing in the tall grasses, stood the most beautiful mare and foal I had ever seen. They were Cremellos, pale in color with bright blue eyes.

Jordan jumped out to open the gate and the pair came to greet us as if they had been told we were coming. I swear I saw them smile.

My own sad story roots itself in my desire for a horse since I was small. My dad was a rancher type (Cal Poly ag guy) and my mom more a city gal out of Long Beach who met dad briefly at Cal Poly before they relocated to the country. My dad built a corral for my horse when I was five, but come six, my parents announced they were getting a divorce. Guess what that meant? No horse. Instead, I got to look out at an empty corral for the next twelve years hoping that one day I’d have my own horse.

As an adult, fresh out of 30 years in the city, I still don’t have that horse, just a longing suppressed by time.

We drove in, but I had to stop again and get out of the car. The horses were beckoning me. As we approached them, they approached us. It felt like coming home. I felt we knew each other. We were connected. Jordan sensed it, too. We could have spent the day there, reconnecting, but there was an interview up ahead.

Sanctuary owner, Christina Nooner, spent four hours with us that morning introducing us to all the horses. Volunteer Chantel Owens took Jordan in a golf cart, saddled up Coconut (followed closely by new colt, Patches) and guided Jordan around the riding ring as three wild horses (in training) watched on as if to learn what they were supposed to do.

Sunshine Sanctuary gets its name from one majestic horse named Sunshine. Conceived on the Santa Cruz Island, Sunshine’s herd was evicted from the island in 1998 because the horses were no longer a fit for plans to develop the island into a tourist attraction. Nearly dispatched due to cost, the 15 horses of Sunshine’s herd were eventually relocated to the Wild Horse Sanctuary in Shingletown, California. Good thing, too, because as geneticists would soon discover, these horses were the last of the breed dubbed the Heritage Horses, or as Chistina calls them, the Heavenly Heritage Herd.

These horses are special beings. Originally hailing from the Iberian Peninsula of Spain, the horses were bred for equine therapy and are known to have a strong intuitive connection with children. Christina would use this ability to connect them with high-risk kids to create a sanctuary where kids and animals learn kindness and compassion from each other. She’s been at this for the past ten years.

“Look up in the trees. Angels are here. They watch over this sanctuary,” says Christina.

Each horse surprised me with its own distinct character, but when I met Sunshine, I was overcome with feeling. Christina says when she met Sunshine, she felt she had been touched by God. I knew what she meant. Sunshine nuzzled her face next to mine and created a space I never wanted to leave.

Known as “the magic white horse with the blue eyes,” Sunshine has teased death and won on several occasions. When she came to the Sanctuary she had only a 1% chance of survival. Today, she is the matriarch of the Sanctuary, and is the horse always chosen for new, young riders.

Money has become an issue at the sanctuary. The herd is now up to 30 and feeding thirty mouths and breeding more in recessionary times proves difficult for Christina and her husband. She is hoping to adopt out some horses under the agreement they will breed them and not let this unique breed die out. I so want to play in that game.

Christina sent me an email after I left and said the horses acted as if they knew us and were connected. I felt I knew them, too. It was as if they stepped out to heal that little girl looking out the window toward an empty corral and said, “We’re right here whenever you need us.”

Cottonwood and San Francisco: What Do They Have in Common?

The city of San Francisco and small town of Cottonwood can both be found in Northern California. Though they are one three hours apart they are different worlds, both unique and charming in what they have to offer.

As I type this from daughter’s apartment in San Francisco where I am visiting, I can see out over a breathtaking Bay. In about an hour fog will billow in, dipping in and out of pine-green Cypress trees and making the ocean in the distance invisible. It’s cool—55 degrees. When I go out, I grab a scarf and jacket.

In the sleepy small, rural town of Cottonwood at the top of the Central Valley where I live, my son is practicing soccer in 110 degree heat. The weather man is talking of the sought-after cooling trend, while the Bay Area weather people report that all regions (coast, bay and inland) are below record temps. The 55 degrees difference in weather amazes me.

The differences don’t stop with the weather. The City is packed with tons of people and tons of stuff—cool stuff, and lots of it. You can find a Whole Foods on every corner. People like to talk and are helpful. Farmers Markets are a dime a dozen. You can find Power Crunch Bars. And Gloomaway. And anything you want. You can take the BART straight into Bristol Farms at the Westfield Mall and then go to Burke Williams for a massage when you are done shopping at one of the 8 million stores there. (But just try and find a comfy pair of black sweats!) You can go to the food court and get silverware and real plates and 8 different kinds of veggie burgers at one stop. Diversity of all kinds surrounds you, a kaleidoscope of choice. People from all over the world come here as evidenced by the open tour buses flagging Union Square and singing, “Honey, Ahh, Sugar, Sugar” at the top of their lungs in varying accents. You are surrounded by the most entrepreneurial homeless people I’ve ever seen. There are six billion people on the planet and each person is unique. Here, they gather.

Cottonwood, a town of around 2,000, reflects a slower pace. You never have to struggle for a parking spot or pay for one once you’ve parked. You can count on a friendly wave as you drive by another even if you don’t know them. When you go into the store, people chat with you, and are always intrigued by another area code as there is only one area code there (and you don’t have to add a one and dial it.) Neighbors bring you cookies, or pecans, or cherries when you move in, depending on the season. And the seasons are clear. Hot summers. Colorful Autumns. Freezing winters with the occasional snow dust. Fragrant, blooming spring with its unpredictable spring showers and wonderfully predictable lilacs. There are no Whole Foods here, but the Trader Joes (the first and only 25 minutes away in Redding) caused quite a stir and people are still talking about it even though it’s been open 7 months now. The land swells with Native American heritage, rivers and lakes swell with fish, and forests offer beautiful hikes. The independent movie theater uses real butter. The public schools are supported by community pride. Our yard smells like horses.

What I find these two places have in common is that each is beautifully unique. Yet most people I speak with only like one or the other because they are so different. I often wonder why it is hard to appreciate these differences.

Similarly, I wonder what kind of world we would live in if each person could appreciate the differences in each person they meet for it is the differences that add such color and interest to our world. After all, wouldn’t life be unbearably dull if all places and all people were the same?

Steve Lopez & Nathaniel Ayers end a perfect day

Can I just say Nathaniel Ayers is an amazing person? Jordan wants to have a playdate with him and is disappointed he didn't get his number. His authograph to Jordan reads, "The San Francisco Little Symphony, Take me to your leader. Go Obama--there's more and quite a bit for Amanda & Alix who had to leave early on the other side.

The day opened with Marsha Linehan unraveling Dialectal Behavior Therapy which has proved highly effective for suicidal patients. Before Borderline Personality Disorder was even familiar to Linehan she came up with this therapeutic approach. Turns out, it symptomatically treats BPD symptoms--and other disorders--with a high success rate.

Following that session were discussions about metabolic issues with mental illness, and cultural variables that need to be recognized and changed. Both of those were a bit depressing.

Things brightened up with "Arts and Recovery," a colorful session presented by several artists showing their mediums of expression. The moderator was colorful herself covered in bright scarves (grandson's name Aloha Sunbeam) and introduced a singer/songwriter, writer who leads creative therapeutic writing at Stanford and a woman who dabbled in artistic trading cards, "Fat Lip Readers Theater" (created by 10 fat ladies discussing fatness in our culture) and Threshold Choir, a group of singers throughout the State who learn the same songs and sing to people who are dying or in need. I loved the creative writing as a pathway to help people through recovery and felt lead to start my own to help people in the North State once we get settled.

Jordan's own creative juices started in our next session and he wrote a touching poem he called "Hope."

The night couldn't have ended more appropriately than with Nathaniel Ayer's astounding musical talent filling the Ballroom. He opened with the violin. I don't know about Steve Lopez. His passion is more about homelessness (also one of mine so I'm good with that) and his friend Nathaniel, not exactly mental illness change. And, maybe it's just me, but he's not exactly a personable guy. I could just be holding a grudge because during his column writing I wrote on several occasions to thank him and tell him about NAMI. He never responded and tonight said 500 people from NAMI wrote so that may explain his lack of response. But you know what, Lopez? Pete Earley is busy and he always responds! If Lopez does choose to give mental illness change his focus, change will be made as he is clearly a powerful writer and force where he puts his concentration.

Nathaniel, on the other hand, was full of personality and warmth. He was kind to Jordan and took so much time with each person waiting for an autograph that at 10:45 he was still signing and really intuiting each person. He's an intuitive soul and you just feel happy when you are near him. He's so talented and we felt so proud of his performance. While we waited in line for a signature, Lopez discussed the movie and book--the accuracies and inaccuracies. He also said the trip coming from LA to San Fran was the best he'd ever had with Ayers hanging out the window playing the French Horn.

The bond between them is special. The movie captured that well. And Nathaniel. Priceless.

NAMI '09 - 30th bday in City by the Bay

NAMI had humble beginnings. It grew from a few parents who refused to let ignorance and predjudice color the lives of their children. It has grown to a movement responsible for the development of groups such as NARSAD, leading researchers of the brain and how it relates to mental illness. "When Medication Got it Wrong," a documentary to be released by Katie Cadigan in May, 2010, tells the story of those beginnings. The NAMI Conference opened Sunday eveninig with that screening, with Cadigan discussing her journey and with some of the original players making their way to the stage to receive a standing ovation.

Monday was dedicated to various leadership institute workshops which needed to be signed up for in advance and were added this year to create more NAMI leaders. Dr. Caitlin Ryan of San Francisco State spoke to GLBT issues in her cutting-edge research known as the Family Acceptance Project. She has interviewed families in both urban and rural areas (from a variety of religious backgrounds) who have had a child come out. Not exactly surprising, a family's rejection has high correlations to suicide, drug abuse and mental illness as the stress of such rejection can trigger a break. Conversely, the family's level of acceptance which meets the child where they are can result in the child's possibility of a happy and mentally healthy life.

Convention orientation was necessary on this day just to understand the whacky escalator system in the Hilton. Breaks are important because so much goes on--Jordan, Amanda, Alix and Robyn had a feast and sleepover and Mike and I had another bonus date night in San Fran. (Amber India and "Yes, Man" at the hotel. I know. We live a wild life.)

Tuesday morning gave many choices, but the sessions were too long for our taste (3 hours!) We opted for Child and Adolescent issues, under which transitional youth (18 -25 years) fall. It was exciting to hear what many states are doing to educate teachers, administrators, school counselors and nurses about mental illness and suicide prevention/postvention. The National office is working on a social networking site for transitional youth with mental illnesses so that they can ask peers about issues they struggle with. That's an exciting project. We were interested in what was happening on college campuses across the country to try and educate students. Apparently MIT (following their suicide after which they paid a handsome price) has become a model campus in the way they educate their students.

After some pretty awesome clam chowder and seafood lunch, we listened to the official "opening," which came off a bit rough due to some technical problems with the audio visual. Michael Fitzpatrick, NAMI executive director, gave a historical sketch of the past 30 years. National NAMI President Anan Pandya spoke to the issue of parity, treating mental health issues the same as other medical health issues which until last October had been a 30 year struggle. Fred Frese echoed this, both emphasizing the biggest struggle is yet to come. Frese, who has schizophrenia himself, gave an animated and entertaining presentation about the last 30 year's struggle (his and NAMIs). Catch him in "Minds on the Edge" with Pete Earley and others role playing various scenarios, such as how to handle a college student that's showing manic behavior, as you probably know the subject of my YA novel work in progress.

Always an awesome speaker, Pete Earley, former Washington Post reporter and author of Crazy, passionately wrapped up the session speaking of the importance of speaking out to stamp out stigma. People so often are afraid of the repercussions of speaking out against the shameful way our culture treats the mentally ill and/or their own relationship with mental illness, but Earley emphasizes this is essential. Earley became a tireless advocate for changing how our culture treats the mentally ill when his son had a psychotic break at 18, broke into someone's house to take a bubblebath and was subsequently introduced to incarcertation. (Read Crazy. It's powerful.)

We wanted to go see Joyce Cooling, jazz artist, but we ate Greek food then had a little basketball game in the park (parents won but don't tell Jordan!)... and then everybody got really sleepy which is why I have time to write this.

We're excited about tomorrow. The day opens with Marsha Linehan who develeoped Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, a therapeutic process which has shown a high success rate with chronically suicidal patients. We're also leaning towards attending "Cultural Issues in recovery" and "arts in recovery" in the morning. Tomorrow night Nathaniel Ayers is planning to play the cello and Steve Lopez will speak at a screening of "The Soloist," which of course we've seen, but not with Nathaniel's introduction. How cool is that?! Ayers is the recipient of Rona and Ken Purdy Award to end discrimination for his openness with reporter Lopez in sharing his story on which the film was based. When Lopez wrote these columns for The Times, I read Sunday mornings in the LA Times with fascination as the story unfolded. This feels like full circle in a relatively short period of time in the publishing world.

There's still one last day after tomorrow. I'll let you know what happens. (It's really cold here! Summer? What summer?)

On your Mark!

If you've never had the pleasure of attending your child's first swim meet, please--join me.

The weekend started with a hike. I'm not sure they all start like that.

"It's going to be a fairly, flat, easy hike," says Coach Soares. I learned on that hike Coach Soares has penned and published 7 hiking books over the years and, while writing those, would hike 25 miles a day. Are you kidding me?

The driving road to the hiking location gradually became more and more narrow, which meant two cars could not pass at the same time. Occasional bike riders made that even more exciting. When we got to the hiking location, Coach announced the "Cliff Lake" hike was off and this new hike was on. (We'd somehow missed the turn.)

This hike was anything but flat. I exercise daily, but my hair was wet with sweat and I was panting like I'd just ran 10 miles (not that I do that.) We started at 11 and ended at 5:30 and moved at a fairly fast clip without rests, excepting our final Lake Helen destination. Nobody knew where we were, but drilling our hiking author masquerading as a swim coach I discovered this to be called the Trinity Divide. We were on the Seven Lake Trail (and we passed about 4 of those lakes) which crossed the Pacific Rim Crest and dropped down (and I do mean dropped) to Lake Helen. The lake was isolated and serene, the pine trees reflecting in the glass water to create a double forest. Some team members swam. Some wandered. Some practiced skipping rocks. I took great shots, but in an uncanny incident, my camera card cracked the third morning of our trip, especially unfortunate since I was writing an article for the Valley Post and supposed to provide photos. (A little scrambling around Sunday gave us the few shots we got.)

It was phenomenally picturesque all around to be sure and I only fell on my butt once while trying to scale a manzanita sort-of path thing. I felt misled--but I'd go again...even though my legs still hurt three days later. And talk about dirt. I had nasty, dirt ankle rings.

As we arrived at the High School football field, the sun was setting. We'd eaten with the team at Bob's Ranch House (pretty much all man first names for all things in this town like Ray's Food Place, Ed's trucks, Scott Valley...you get the idea). We decided it was fate that the place closest to our truck was open and that must be ours. Close transport of all that stuff.

Remember "Friday Night Lights?" As night came, those were the lights shining straight into our tent and lighting it up like a Walmart! We seriously had to move the shade dome in back of the tent to block the glare. It became obvious why nobody had taken the spot as this was the passageway for all activity.

Our blessing, though, was our kind neighbors. They were campers. Good campers. Good neighbors. They had a stove. They percolated coffee. They were like real live campers...and they liked it. The Streges made our camping trip fun.

The other good news is that we were sort of close to the girl's locker room. You did need to walk by three really loud snoring tents and a motorhome with puke rolling down the side, but running water was right on the other side. There was toilet paper the first two days.

You really have two choices on personal hygienne: shower in the open high school style showers or don't shower. I tried to sneak mine in after the morning rush, before the evening rush while nobody was looking. And only one in 3 days which was disgusting.

The meet itself was quite a deal. The kids head over at 7:30 a.m. and get their events written on their hand in sharpie so they don't forget. (Just when I thought I'd broke my son of that habit, too.) The swimmers are in the pool by 8 a.m. warming up. Parents are getting in timer chairs, or officiating, or working in snack bars, or sitting at the timers who-check-the-timers table or just hanging around under "First Up" shade covers, which line the pool like LA condos.

For first timers, there is a lot to learn. I, of course, filled out the meet sheet on the light side so our son had only one race the first day. This did not stop him from sitting pool side the entire time both days, never to leave a sporting event while people are still there.

Swimmers start oldest to youngest in each type of event. Events are divided by stroke and distance. There is a whole posting system where the heats, lanes and events are put up on a wall and all the kids and parents hover about like ants on watermelon trying to figure out where everyone is going. Next to that hangs the results of who is winning and what their times are.

Meanwhile, there is a huge barbecue going in the background. It starts at 9:00. Cookies the size of a small planet and all kinds of snack bar food abound. Parents flank the pool cheering on (sometimes obnoxiously) their kids.

The little kids have a variety of reactions. Some, as young as 6, go like heck. Others cry and want to get out. Others swim two strokes then hold onto the lane line and stop. And repeat. The big kids swim with such beautifully-tuned strokes you feel like you're at the Olympics.

You have lots of time between races (especially if you are only doing one) to eat planet sized cookies and get to know people. It's a very social thing for such an individual sport and I loved the families more than any other sport we've ever played. Friendly, inclusive and fun.

After the races, people do a variety of things. Jordan just wanted to play with the kids: soccer, slip and slide, ultimate frisbee, whatever. The parents wandered to such find Etna establishments as the brewery or old fashioned drug store. Some stayed behind and watched the kids. I felt like I was living in a kibbutz.

I don't really get camping. Planning for days, unpacking, setting up, packing again, unpacking--all while we're packing to move our home. But Jordan's words when we got home summed up why we went, and why we enjoyed it, "I miss the Scott Valley meet."

Yeah, bud. I know how you feel. We'll always fondly remember our first meet.


Note: Despite the fact my camera card has proved non-recoverable, you can read the article (and my scrambling shots) in the Anderson Valley Post either this Wednesday or next: http://www.andersonvalleypost.com/

Celebrating Love in Mt. Shasta

Mt. Shasta was our Big Island this year. One mountain rivals the other with the added bonus that we didn’t have to fly five hours each way. And we got to stay at our new favorite Shasta MountINN B&B again.

Northern California exudes beauty. We caught some of it and added some firsts to our lives keeping in theme with our 2009. (You know, like moving from a city of two million to a town of two thousand—stuff like that.)

Mossbrae Falls was a destination mismatched by its journey. The Falls are water veils that spray out of the side of the mountain covering lush, green ferns and moss with sheer, delicate waterfalls that pour into the blue-green pool below. A peaceful and serene, meditative space, the Falls line about 300 feet of the cliff. In a gracious moment, the sun reflects off the water to create a rainbow that stretches to the creek below. This is a vision straight off the Island and much like the ginger-lined pool we ride horse-back to reach for four hours. Breathtaking.

The hike to get there is also breathtaking—but in a different way. We moved methodically down railroad ties like toy soldiers on a mission. This is necessary because the path is so rocky and narrow and the best way to travel is on the 1.5 foot spaced ties. Not such a big deal? But wait, there’s more.

Trains are constantly using these tracks and we had to get out of the way of three during our mile hike in and out, running once to get to a large enough clearing not to get hit.

From a more relaxed perspective, we saw train tracks again on our sunset dinner train dinner, a smooth ride through the forest while enjoying a four course meal on china and silver. From the prosciutto-wrapped, date-covered almond start to the turtle cheesecake end we savored our meals. The most interesting part was trying to walk down the train after drinking a nice Syrah and not fall into fellow passenger’s meals.

Another first was the Mt. Shasta Lavender Farm. Picture rows of full Lavender thriving on the lap of majestic Mt. Shasta. In the middle of the fields is a Lavender labyrinth which you can walk while drinking lavender lemonade, which mainly tastes like lemonade but looks purple and has a nice fresh piece of lavender in it. We brought gluten-free crackers and almond butter and sat in the middle of the field surrounded by Lavender. Purple, purple everywhere. We picked fresh bundles of Lavender to take home and learned you do not put it in water if you plan to dry it. Just hang it upside down.

We soaked up the hippie culture of the mineral springs and arrived during the sweat lodge ritual so took our baths to the beat of Native American drumming. I’m pretty sure every toxin that dared to reside inside us took off.

We also met a gracious woman who taught us what Feng Shui can do for a home.

Filled with gratitude for our twelve years together blessed by the mountain, we returned home restored and ready for the pre-moving extravaganza.

Grassroots--not astroturf.

Next month, the NAMI National Conference will be held in San Francisco.

Things will be happening. Steve Lopez will be cruising the hallways. Pete Earley will give his always dynamic speech while accepting his most recent--and well-deserved--award for mental health activism. And on July 5th, the first evening, there will be a screening of how this 50,000 strong grassroots organization all began.

Back in the day (and sadly, not so many days ago) the docs were pretty sure children who "caught" schizophrenia had really "cold" mothers. It wasn't about brain chemistry. It was about faulty parenting. Just another strand of prejudice to claim as our heritage.

There were a few families, however, who bravely stood up and said two things. The first thing was, "We have mentally ill people we love." Still today, some people are afraid to tell anyone if they have a child, sister or parent with a mental illness. Yet, I find as soon as I start speaking about the novel I am working on with a young mentally ill protagonist based on our own family story, I consistently and unintentionally solicit stories that have never been shared. It makes me wonder just how inaccurate the statistics truly are.

The second thing this group of heroes said was "Docs, you're wrong." They challenged the notion that mothers who don't breastfeed their children long enough cause them to have schizophrenia. (As ignorant as this comment seems, and despite years of research to the contrary, there are still some old docs out there who believe it.)

These people--these roots--dug their heals into the ground and challenged the medical community. In the documentary to be released Fall '09 called "When Medicine Got it Wrong," NAMI goers will see what advocacy is all about. This is not the astroturf activism we so often see where advocates just advocate to look good. This is the kind of activism that needs to spread to all areas of predjudice and discrimination to truly form a more peaceful planet.

Wouldn't that be cool?

Chestnut Ridge Farm

This year has been about exploring different lifestyles. This weekend we soaked up Boonville, CA.

Boonville, located in the Anderson Valley about 50 miles east of Fort Bragg in Mendocino County, is a short collection of quaint stores with a Restoration Hardware feel (but smaller) and an assortment of whole grain, organic spun eateries without a happy meal to be found. Refreshing, really.

The Farmers' Market, held Saturday mornings, houses a few stands of plants, fruits and leafy greens, a folksy trio playing background music and a group of people who all seemed to know each other chatting about a small plot adjacent to the Boonville Hotel where, rumor had it, John Scharffenberger had stayed over, possibly in town to check on his former winery--or is it still his winery?--down the street.

I think the story goes he sold the winery to make chocolate instead and now does something else. We were really interested in seeing it mainly because the other Scharffenberger delivered Jordan and we felt somehow connected that way.

We did take a trip by Scharffenberger Cellars and the nice tasting man gave Jordan some organic juice so he would feel included in the tasting experience. (He then proceeded to skewer the juice bag and juice went squirting everywhere which somehow just added some down home fun to the champagne tasting.) We also stopped by our oh so fave Roderer Estate Vineyards and discovered that when you bottle the same vintage in a regular champagne bottle and a magnum, the results are wholly different, with the magnum rounding and mellowing the sparkling wine. Who knew? (After two vineyards, Jordan was pretty sure we were alcoholics so we decided to go hunt down Scharffenberger chocolate instead.)

Our main purpose for going to Boonville, however, was to visit my Uncle Tom's and Aunt Pam's Chestnut Ridge Ranch, a pastoral 160 acres atop a hill via dirt road which overlooks the Anderson Valley. When you start on the dirt road, you have 30 minutes straight up with lots of blind turns on the one way dirt road before you reach the ranch. You're committed once you're there. There's no "running out" for milk in these parts.

On the way up you pass an "intentional community" where people build homes from strawbales and live in a self-sustaining commune type fashion. Kind of an organic, Haight Ashbury meets the woods feel.

You drive through forest, past vineyards, cross a creek and through meadows and eventually roost on top of the world, or at least that's how it feels.

The farm is filled with flowers late this year due to weird weather patterns. Landscape roses cascade over lattice in every color you can imagine. The Georgia rose stands about six foot high with deep red blooms and tells the story of a lady who brought the cutting from someone else right before she died. The Dogwood tree out behind the bass-filled pond was planted when my grandmother passed and stands tall to commemorate what would have been her 100th birthday this past May. The Lorraine Lee rose in bright pink is showy and fragrant, with no thorns on the stems. Every plant has a story. Amazingly, Uncle Tom and Aunt Pam know every plant like parents do children, reminiscing about them the way parents remember their child's first steps. It's too much work for two people so WOOFers (World Wide Opportunity for Organic Farmers) come and help work the land. These are people from all over the world who trade room and board for an agreed upon work schedule. Two girls from Estonia recently came and shared with Uncle Tom great music. (So many Woofers have turned him on to music he actually burned a CD called 'Woofers'.) Then there was the Vegan who taught them how to make a really awesome chocolate cake. Everybody brings something different and they help each other in unique ways.

The Brewers have taken time to build 15 sitting spots fully equipped with footstools and tables across the property so that you may get different perspectives of the valley, a grouping of flowers, the forest, the chestnut orchard. The perch's call to you, "Sit here. See things from this perspective. Smell the sweet rosemary waft by from the herb garden. Feast your eyes on the bright reds and purples where the butterflies dance. Sit here." And we did. Sitting with my family, laughing and talking while overlooking the Valley--priceless.

This morning I took Bailey out on a walk through the forest loop just after dawn. It was a bit spontaneous. First, we were just out for our morning poop (her, not me) and then we headed down the first part of the path to check it out. After starting down it, it was so steep I didn't want to walk back up.

Off we went deep into the forest. I knew it was about a 3 mile loop. Half way through, I had to trust the masters and angels surrounding me to bring me back because I really had no idea if I was following the right road. We were on a high cliff with jack rabbits darting out of the forest and across the path, and Bailey being the city dog she is would likely have chased it right off the cliff had she seen one.

Your mind wanders in the forest. During this time, I started thinking about how life is like walking through the forest. Sometimes you can see around the bend and up the hill and sometimes you can't see anything up ahead and you feel like wild animals are watching you from the thicket. It requires that faith arm wrestle doubt--and win. It urges you to walk through what could scare you if only to experience the exhilaration at the other end.

And the forest is there to teach you. The towering Redwoods so firmly rooted in the ground reach towards the sky yet stay grounded. Multiple species of birds sing just because it's morning. Each tree seems to work with the next, knowing that they are connected, and creates such a peaceful forest because of it.

This weekend reminded me of the poignancy of the Dali Lama's annual message: go see somewhere new each year. In seeing some place new, you sit in a different seat looking out from a different perspective, and in so doing learn a deeper meaning for the seat you sit in each day.

Proud Mama!

Have you ever just felt so proud you feel like you start lifting off the ground with bright red cheeks and eventually you are going to fill up like that snotty blueberry girl on "Willy Wonka" and just pop with joy?

That's how it felt to watch my oldest daughter walk across the stage and get her college diploma at the ripe age of 21. With honors. Senior of the Year. Best Educational Series for activist training. Strongest Committment to Diversity.

It wasn't just the awards. It wasn't just the diploma.

It was what that represented. For Amanda, these represented living out loud, being who she is, touching so many lives, reaching out to those who can't reach for themselves, speaking out for those who can't speak for themselves. Being who she is...her unique self. College for this little Indigo was much more than partying and getting by. In fact, that stopped early on. College was about finding a place in the world where she belongs and where she is going to make the biggest difference. College for her was about narrowing in on her purpose on this planet and preparing herself to navigate that. What a blessing to know that so young.

Amanda has been an activist from birth. She has always had strong opinions stemming clear back to her insistence that she would not be using a bottle in this lifetime despite the fact her single mother worked full time. She held strong and never gave up, though her pediatrician assured me she would. He was just one of many doctors Amanda would go on to prove wrong.

Her activist nature, fueled by a heart of gold, is not always appreciated by people with other opinions. College was about learning the finesse to listen kindly--and then convince them they were wrong. Her final year was about learning that both sides could be heard...she not only taught others tolerance, but learned to practice it herself.

This world will not be the same after Amanda is done with it. It will be oh so much better. And I will sit back and learn from her, for she teaches me more and more each day.

Life is a Balancing Act

Balance.

It's one of my loftiest goals. It is also one I have to work at constantly to achieve.

I’m all about the yin-yang thing. But I’m also talking about "equal parts balance." Equal parts play and work. Equal parts outside and inside. Equal parts quiet and noise.

A few weeks ago I noticed my son’s Google tracks on the search line of my computer. He had typed in “colleges that teach only health.” Balance apparently is not huge in the mind of a ten year old. They like what they like and want more of that, whatever that is. Take food, for example. We feed him from 3:00 until bedtime, but have to force feed him breakfast. And right now, he’s stuck on Kent’s patties. Last year it was seaweed.

My daughter is twice his age though, and had spent at least a few months at liberal arts college when she took the above photo. In that time, she seemed to have recognize the value of balance in her own life. I used this rock while meditating, gripping it relentlessly in hopes that balance would drip out of it and into my being.

This is not my default setting. My default setting is to move hog-wild toward whatever interests me and not let anything stand in my way. Take gardening. I went through this gardening phase where I would spend countless hours in the garden, planting, weeding, picking and pruning--everything else paused. I’d dream about bulbs and read gardening manuals in bed. I knew every sale at every garden store in town, the Latin and English name of all the plants and became very selective about composting.

Now I’m not saying gardening is a problem. It’s great. The point is in life’s garden, there are a variety of things to enjoy and variety is the key. That’s what makes it a garden. That’s what gives it its beauty.

So from time to time I need to look around and ask myself if things are in balance. And if they are not, I need to get them there.

Am I the pigeon lady?

It’s official. I’m turning into the pigeon lady.

Down in LA the type of things that got me excited were a good class at “The Path” and no traffic on the 405 (right—like that ever happened.)

So when my birthday rolled around and my mom got me a finch sock, I was a little puzzled. What was I supposed to do with this exactly? Feed the birds?

Fair enough. I could see the value in helping the country wildlife. So I hung up the sock and waited for my feathered friends to find it.

When they came, I was fairly entertained. The finches were bright yellow and tiny and fun to watch. They ate lots, too, so I found myself at Wal-Mart shortly after hanging the sock in search of finch food. When I found the 20 pound bag (I had a lot of finches showing up) it was thirty bucks. “I’m not paying thirty bucks for bird food that grows naturally,” I told my mom in a grand protest.

We searched for discount finch food and finally found some at—guess where—the tractor store…obviously. Only one thing: these finches prefer designer thistle to the discount thistle. Some came, but not as many, and, well, I missed them.

Mom and I were discussing Mother’s Day gifts and I jokingly said, “I could get you some designer finch food!” Well, her eyes lit up the stadium lights at the high school football game!

Who was I to disappoint? So back to Wal-Mart for finch food. (I know. I live a fast life.) When I got to the finch food aisle I saw these way cool finch condo things with not one but two socks and an easy loading mechanism. Feeling crazy, I just bought two along with two bags of food. (I had the same feeling I have when leaving Nordstrom’s after their half-annual women and children’s sale, which sadly I think I will be missing this year.)

I got home, hung the condo closer to the kitchen window so I could see, but the birds weren’t coming. Should I make a sign? Perhaps a trail of seed from one feeder to the next? What the hell was happening to me? Would I start asking forest creatures to sew me a dress while I hummed a tune?

Well, today, I walked into the kitchen and just started laughing. My finch condo was covered with about 30 bright-yellow little beauties. The joy I felt watching this scene surprised me. Maybe, I thought, the joy we find in the simple things is the purest joy around. Either that or I’m turning into the pigeon lady. If you see me scattering seed in a local park wearing a floppy hat, somebody stop me.

Happy "Poem in Your Pocket" Day

In honor of the last day of National Poetry Month and in recognition of “Poem in Your Pocket Day,” poetry from me to you.

(Just in case it’s not obvious, all are original works by yours truly…but I think it will be obvious.)

Grub Revisited

I know a dog named Ms. Bay
Who ate all things left in her way
When she swallowed a grub
Her tummy we did rub
And it turned out at the end of the day.

Weak limerick; true story.

* * *
Techno-limerick

There once was a blogger named Jake
Who blogged just for bloggin’s sake
Then long came the Twitter
And he didn’t get bitter
140 letters gave him a break.

Okay, you try it. I dare you.

* * *

...a Haiku for you?

Strawberry

Bright red seedy skin

Silky flesh sweetness within

Summer strawberry.

Guess what I’m eating again.

* * *
...free verse?

Life Recipe

Pray.
Wait.
Thank.
Repeat.

Bass, Ticks and Grandpa's Ranch

Jordan wanted to go fishing again. My dad’s birthday was Saturday. These seemingly two separate events collided on Sunday when we decided to head to my dad’s ranch in Corning to fish on the lakes there.

Mind you, my dad had been fishing all week with his buddy Roy on Lake Shasta, not deterred a bit by the full sun despite his Stage 4 Melanoma, which, for those of you following that, has resurfaced on his adrenal gland and requires asap surgery. We’ll know more Thursday.

“Come fish here,” he said. “They’re biting like crazy.” That’s fisher-talk.

So off we go in the fully packed SUV with Bailey in tow, not really knowing what size line, hooks or bait we were supposed to use (because we just learned they differ) or, for that matter, even what we would be fishing for because it never seemed to matter.

“If we go to Grandpa’s lake, I want to keep them and eat them,” said Jordan.

Oh, good. So now we get to learn how to catch, clean, and eat yet a new (I think) fish. And, now, it definitely matters what kind they are.

After lining up the pole, which involved lots of commentary surrounding themes like, “I remember when I could tie that knot without my glasses before my arthritis” and “Are you going to use the blood knot?” The blood knot?

Slight breeze with bright sun shimmering off the lake, we set forth, fish whisperers all. I cast out first cast with my newly lined invisible line straight from the fly shop with swanky bobber and dry fly attached. I cast gracefully out by the reeds. A bite!

“I got one!” I yell.

I knew I could do it. I reeled it in, head held high. Clearly it was my malfunctioning line last time and not the user as the dancing fly fisherman had rudely pointed out. I’d just proved my fishing prowess. I was one step away from joining a professional fishing association. This was the joy those men on the fishing channel had that I never got before.

“Ah, that’s WAY too small to keep,” says my dad throwing it back. “Small bait, small fish.”

Come on! Where’s the big bait then?

Rethinking the whole thing I cut off my swanky bobber and little dry fly get up. I get the huge hook with no bait, just the little plastic fluorescent green grub thingy which I expect to find out back any day now because half way through the day, Bailey swallowed it when I wasn’t looking. I do a lot of reorganizing when I fish it seems. (Bailey did not, by the way, swallow the hook, but at one point it did get hooked on her nose when she was trying to “help” me reel in a big one which consequently got away.)

We fished from shore, we took the boat out (and Bailey swam out and around the boat several times which tends to scare the fish I think). We caught about ten bass and a blue gil on the first lake. For the afternoon trip we headed up riding in the back of the pick up old school style to the “really nice fish” lake.

“They’re hungry up there,” said my dad, which seemed kind of unfair. You know, unlevel playing field and all.

Sure enough, it was. There we were, reeling in fish after fish until we had about ten nice bass. Jordan landed his first fish all by himself, from cast to putting it in the bucket. This is what they’re talking about, I thought. Geese flying over head. Dove cooing in the distance. Sun sparkling on the water ripples. Feeling the cool lake water on your feet, happy lab on standby to help land the big one.

“Maybe we can make this a tradition every Sunday,” said Jordan with an enthusiastic I-caught-a-fish-all-by-myself smile.

Fast forward to last night. We’ve just finished our delicious fish fry, proving ourselves once and for all, Native American users of the land. I lean over to spend some time with Bailey and scratch behind her ears. What’s this? A big, FAT black tick! I call my dad, panicked.

“How do you get the ticks off?!” I ask.

“Ah, don’t worry. I saw one on myself this morning in the shower. You just put your fingernails down by the skin and pull it off,” he says calmly. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t have cancer. Maybe he has Lyme Disease.

“I have to touch it?” I ask.

“Don’t be a wimp,” he says all rancher style.

All things equal, I’d rather be a wimp without Lyme Disease then a wimp with Lyme Disease.

Well, the one tick turned into an Easter egg hunt. Under Bay’s thick coat, Mike and I found 20 ticks in the course of two hours, a midnight shower and blow dry and new dose of Frontline.

Bottom line: if you don’t hear from us, it’s possible we all caught Lyme Disease and died.

But wait the good news. When I got home from my writing session, Mike said, “You’ll be happy to know, I found the grub.”

I’m a little sad.

Do you ever have somebody sweep into your life that is filled with positive light energy and they just start your day off right? That’s Rebecca, my Boogie Boxing teacher. Mistress of Movement there to your right.

Except for she’s not anymore. Today, she announced, was her last day.

Now I’ve taken lots of classes: yoga, step, advanced step, major advanced step, ballet, salsa, ballroom, hula, line dancing, hip-hop, strip-hop, two-stepping, pole dancing, Tai Chi, Tae Kwon Do—you name it. If it’s a movement class, I’ve done it. But Rebecca’s class was different. It was one of the best classes I’ve ever taken. One minute you’re grooving to Fergie and the next your “calypsoing” to the Fathers of Latin and cooling down to “Lady in Red.” (I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to that again without standing in the first position.)

Rebecca’s hybrid class mixed boxing with salsa, rumba, hip-hop, ballet, yoga, weights, the ball—a potpourri of movement mania all packed into one hopping little hour on Friday mornings. It was just what I needed to launch the weekend, and when we were in town, I never missed it. I know I am not the only one who is sad to see her go.

But, alas, her little gymnasts await, and they need her light, too.

Farewell, Rebecca. My Fridays won’t be the same without you, and “Guts and Butts” will have nothing on your “Boogie Box”!

Cottonwood.
They call it that because come late spring God drops down buckets of cotton from the April skies that pass through the branches of the trees and cover the newly awakened grass with millions of Whoville cotton pluffs.
It’s a town where Front Street is the main street and Main Street is just a path to Front Street and where, come next Friday, there will be a Farmer’s Market on Main Street…or is it Front Street?
It’s a town where the sidewalks on Front Street are raised and accented by welded rings, horse-tying rings, and a proud wooden Chieftain salutes passersby in front of where the old courthouse used to be. And the Old Town Eatery.
It’s a town where my old next door neighbor owns the Holiday market, and the checker remembers who we are when we stop by for freshly baked sourdough flutes.
It’s a town with one area code—and a town where you don’t have to dial 1 and put it in when you call people around town.
It’s a town with cowboys, and ranchers and those who rebel against all that that stands for.
It’s a town that plays country music proudly in almost every store—guaranteed.

It's a proud town.
It’s a town that loves its schools and holds a mean Education Foundation fundraiser with the auctioneer straight off the Friday Auction Yard sale who handles the live auction in fine style, auctioning off hay, gravel, fly fishing trips and a pig mount to earn over $100,000 for local schools.
It’s a town where my son’s first teacher is the best teacher he’s ever had, better than the private school teachers we paid thousands and thousands of dollars for.
It’s a town committed to seasons; in Fall leaves fall, in Spring wild Red Bud shows off big time, in Winter you dare not pour water on your frost-laden windshield and in summer the relentless sun reaches down and pushes you toward the local lakes.

It's a town where Spring brings fresh stawberries, picked that morning that sit in local stands where you leave your money in the basket.

It's a town where my mom drops by with fresh strawberries, fresh bread from Moore's or fresh Lilacs from her garden.
It’s a town where the Little League Park fills full in the Spring and looks like a Ford Dealership.
It’s a town where neighbors bring you fruits and nuts when you move in, and welcome you to the neighborhood with a smile and a nod.
It’s a town where neighbors look out for each other.
It’s a town where you can go for a walk and be back in the woods with wildflowers galore and ponds that spring up from winter’s rain.
It’s a town I’ve missed.
Cottonwood.

I’m happy to be home.

On Rewriting

The thing about rewriting is nobody really shows you how to do it.

All through school, you write a paper, you turn it in, you get a grade. If it’s a good grade, no rewrite.

Then you get to be a big kid and you go to classes, and conferences and you read and you read and you read and you learn “All good writing is really rewriting” or something really close to that.

Then your aunt says, “I love rewriting. It’s my favorite part.” And you feel really annoyed at your aunt.

Then you hear an editor say at a conference, “The only manuscript ever in the history of all rewrites that didn’t need to be rewritten in the history of all manuscripts was E.B. White,” and you think…

“Right. So first I write which can take anywhere from 1 year to 15, then I rewrite on my own, reading theories from the handful of authors out there who talk about rewriting, taking out my “is”, adverbs, cutting most if not all, then I agent it, and rewrite again, and get to an editor and rewrite again.”

So I’m wondering—why not just skip ahead to the last step and just rewrite once with the person who is going to profit on it and go from there?

Oh, no. Then you are not a real writer.

Guess one thing is clear. One editor I worked with recently said, “Writers aren’t usually flush” (as in with cash.)

Go figure. But boy are they good rewriters.

And by the way, does James Patterson rewrite (or even write anymore for that matter)? What about Castle? Oh, wait. He’s not real.

Enough procrastination. Back to rewriting First Break.

But I’m not rewriting this. We pick our kingdoms.

The One that Got Away—but Ate my Worm First:

A Fishing Tale

When Jordan said he wanted to go fishing when we moved to the country, I enthusiastically embraced the idea. After all, thirty years had passed and I had time to forget. Forget about the tangled lines. Forget about the frustrated adults who spent much of their time fixing snags and twisted line and swearing to never take us again. Forget about the worms.

Well, maybe not the worms.

So for Valentine’s Day, everybody got fishing licenses. Not the most romantic gift, I know, but practical. When I went to get the licenses I was determined to not appear like a major rookie. I was forced to come clean when the nice man asked me if I’d be fishing for steelhead or trout and I had no idea.

So I took another approach. I told him I’d never been fishing, and asked him if he could educate me a bit. This worked better. I learned how to “dispatch” a fish and—yuck—clean it. Now it seemed I was that adult who would be fixing lines, baiting hooks and getting those poor little, doe-eyed fish off the hook and putting them on another hook called the stringer. It all seems so barbaric.

Grandma gave us all a lesson at her kitchen table. We learned how to tie that 5 loop knot to the swivel, and the hook. We found out we needed creels to carry and probably had to get our poles “lined” and we needed to know how much that line was in pounds. The leader (the part of the line past the swivel) was yet another wait and who knew hooks came in so many different sizes depending on the fish you were going to catch. But wait! How do you know if you haven’t caught them yet? I was so far behind.

Geared up, with Grandma as our guide, Jordan and I headed up to Grace Lake out of Shingletown for our big debut, a perfect event for the last day of spring break. Now, we haven’t seen 7:00 a.m. for about two weeks so we rolled out of bed into our fishing clothes (“It’s cool in the mountains,” said Grandma) and off we go with our poles and tackle.

Half way there Grandma admitted she didn’t know exactly where the lake was because she hadn’t been there for about twenty years. It was one of those country directions I love so much that goes like this: “Turn left down by the store, then right at the curve in the road and at the pine tree make another right.” So we got a little lost.

The first dirt road we thought might be the right road was really rocky and we almost got stuck. So we decided to park and walk. We walked about a mile through evergreen forest toward what we hoped was a lake. No lake. Back to the car with Jordan saying, “Are we going home?”

The next road we found was actually graded and had a tiny sign. Eureka! We headed down and there, like a vision, the lake. But something even better. The stocking man (you know, the one that puts the fish in the lake so you can catch them) was there and dropping fish in by the tank load. What luck!

We stepped out of the car and it was not cool. It was extremely hot. Felt like 200 degrees. And it was only 8 a.m. (Can’t tell we lived by the beach for the past 3 decades.)

Dragging all our stuff up a hill, we staked our claim. We gave the other fisher people friendly fishing nods and set up our chairs—which, by the way, we would never use while there. We got out our poles, ready to catch those trout jumping all over with our live bait. After taking about 30 minutes to line the poles, tie the knots and—gross—bait the hooks with squirmy little night crawlers which DO have feelings despite what they say, we were ready to go. We cast out and waited.

Then I hear a guy say, “There’s a water snake.”

Crap! I hate snakes.

Then another guy says, “What’s that thing?” followed by a muskrat-beaver-looking lake thing who swam back and forth in front of me the whole time we were there, almost smiling…I swear it.

Then I notice the man to my right snagging one fish after another with what looks like a green piece of twine and something he calls a “bugger” on the end. I hoped that wasn’t what it sounded like. Fish were jumping around his line by the dozen and he had his limit in about five minutes. Then, he just caught and released them.

I cast out. If he could do it, by God I could do it. My bobber went out really, really far, right to where I’d seen a fish jump. I gave a smug smile. This could come around yet. As I reeled in, I realized my bobber wasn’t moving. My leader had torn in half, not at the knot—mind you—but in half. Nobody could figure that one out.

After relining my pole and getting that dang worm back on, fixing Jordan’s snags about five times and applying some 55 sunscreen to my already-sunburned shoulders, I recast. This time I heard a LOUD splash. A FISH! No. Wait. My reel (you know that thing you turn) went flying into the lake. Seriously. How was I going to get that?

Only one way. I’d have to wade in to the snake-infested, muskrat-swimming lake to get it. This was my mom’s good pole she’d donated to our phase. I had to rescue it. In I went, hoping not to step on any reptilian lake creatures.

Phew. Reel retrieved, my mom mentioned how we didn’t have time to cover reel loss in our lesson, and tried to comfort me by telling me, “It happens to everybody.” Smirks from nearby fishermen indicated otherwise.

Pole re-tooled, we edged closer to Mr. Fancy Fly Fisherman and with humility my mom asked, “Do you think you could help my grandson with a fish?”

“Would he like to land one?” asked the fish whisperer.

“OH, YEAH!” So FW and Jordan landed one, then two and my mom landed one and guess who just kept losing worms? You got it. Worm after worm went on and promptly off my hook, feeding all the fish in the lake.

“Maybe my role in life is not to bring the fish in, but just to feed them,” I thought. And with that, we packed up our sun-burned bodies, our three “dispatched” and cleaned fish and headed out.

“We can tell Dad we each caught one,” said Jordan smiling.

“That’s okay. We’ll just tell him I had the one that got away.”