Mea Culpa. My apologies. This has been an unusual summer to say the least. However, I'm not going into detail because I would bore the reader to tears. I will just try and get into the swing of things once again.
Since I wasn't busy enough I took on an additional job recently for a good friend. You are now reading a contribution from the recently named Acquisitions Editor for Sky High Tales, the juvenile division of High Hills Press. Since I have so much luck publishing all of my own materials (tongue in cheek, here, you understand) it behooves me to help others who might be in need of some sound advice when it comes to writing for young people. So now, in my spare time, I am looking at manuscripts from aspiring authors, deciding whether something has merit enough to offer advice or to reject it outright, and then spending hours trying to determine the delicate words to say in order to explain that the arms have to be chopped off the baby in order for it to be born. We won't even go into the birth itself. For one thing the gestation period is much much longer than most beginning writers have any notion of it being. One does not learn to be a writer in six weeks.
This new position does not allow much time for creativity of my own. I have at least one short story that I know is going to be due soon and I've not even come up with an idea yet. I'm supposed to be planning a workshop and I've not started. A conference is planned for the middle of August and I keep forgetting to send off the registration (well, I made the hotel reservation at least).
I've ordered additional copies of the From Trash to Treasure: the Evolution of an Ozarks Junkyard. I've actually sold out most of the copies I had! I'm so pleased. And my editior tells me that I'm getting a royalty check. Wow! I've made the big time! ( Of course, I've not seen the size of the check yet. Please don't corner me and ask . . . it might embarrass me later.)
And the new juvenile mystery Junkyard Bones is coming out this fall. So I can't really gripe I suppose. However, it seems as if I've not really created anything for a long time.
Folks . . . something's gotta give. I've already given up on housework and cooking. What's it gonna be next? Reading?
Nah!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Getting Back Up On That Horse
How many of you have trouble starting all over again after falling down on some responsibility? I sure do. Case in point . . . this blog.
Now, I really enjoy writing it. Honestly I do. But for some reason, when I have something that gets in my way and causes me to lose the necessary momentum I just seem to fall to pieces.
Every time there is a crisis in my household I seem to stop writing and then I can't get underway again for love nor money. (Well, since money never has made much appearance when it comes to my writing anyway, perhaps I should just leave it at love.)
I'm not sure if I've mentioned that my Dear Heart has been suffering from the Shingles for the past two and a half months. In March, when he first became sick, he was mis-diagnosed and treated by a substitute doctor for the wrong thing and then ended up in the hospital where he was mis-diagnosed again for something entirely different. Therefore it was a couple of weeks before his regular doctor discovered what his condition really was and it was a little late.
I have never seen anyone suffer anymore than the poor man has done. Now, you and I have heard all sorts of horror stories concerning the Shingles and I believe every one of them at this point but until one actually observes or experiences it there is simply no real way to describe it fully. My husband has always been able to throw pain out the window and never gives in to anything. One summer he broke a tendon (!) in his right calf. There was nothing that could be given to him to help the pain so he simply strapped his boot tight and worked all summer until it healed. Once he drove a chisel through his forehead, just missing his right eye, but returned to work as soon as we returned home from the surgery in Kansas City.
Should I sprain my ankle, heaven forbid, I will be in bed for a week and someone has to carry me to the bathroom.
But the Shingles has brought him to his knees. He has spent most of the past two and a half months in bed, living on Percocet, if you can believe it. This is a man who is suspicious of multi-vitamins and refuses to take cough medicine. And even that doesn't do more than take the edge off. He does not break out . . . he merely has terrific pain through his body, as if, he says, someone is using large butcher knives on him and later crawling up and down on his back and shoulders. And as if that isn't enough, I'm watching like a hawk in case he gets too despondent. Being in this much pain just invites depression.
His doctor tells us he is using my husband as a poster boy to promote the shot that will help prevent getting the Shingles. Fortunately I had received it about six months before and we had intended for him to do the same and simply hadn't gotten around to it.
He has lived to regret it . . . hourly.
My message to my readers is to head to your doctor's office pronto and get that shot. You won't regret it.
Now, I really enjoy writing it. Honestly I do. But for some reason, when I have something that gets in my way and causes me to lose the necessary momentum I just seem to fall to pieces.
Every time there is a crisis in my household I seem to stop writing and then I can't get underway again for love nor money. (Well, since money never has made much appearance when it comes to my writing anyway, perhaps I should just leave it at love.)
I'm not sure if I've mentioned that my Dear Heart has been suffering from the Shingles for the past two and a half months. In March, when he first became sick, he was mis-diagnosed and treated by a substitute doctor for the wrong thing and then ended up in the hospital where he was mis-diagnosed again for something entirely different. Therefore it was a couple of weeks before his regular doctor discovered what his condition really was and it was a little late.
I have never seen anyone suffer anymore than the poor man has done. Now, you and I have heard all sorts of horror stories concerning the Shingles and I believe every one of them at this point but until one actually observes or experiences it there is simply no real way to describe it fully. My husband has always been able to throw pain out the window and never gives in to anything. One summer he broke a tendon (!) in his right calf. There was nothing that could be given to him to help the pain so he simply strapped his boot tight and worked all summer until it healed. Once he drove a chisel through his forehead, just missing his right eye, but returned to work as soon as we returned home from the surgery in Kansas City.
Should I sprain my ankle, heaven forbid, I will be in bed for a week and someone has to carry me to the bathroom.
But the Shingles has brought him to his knees. He has spent most of the past two and a half months in bed, living on Percocet, if you can believe it. This is a man who is suspicious of multi-vitamins and refuses to take cough medicine. And even that doesn't do more than take the edge off. He does not break out . . . he merely has terrific pain through his body, as if, he says, someone is using large butcher knives on him and later crawling up and down on his back and shoulders. And as if that isn't enough, I'm watching like a hawk in case he gets too despondent. Being in this much pain just invites depression.
His doctor tells us he is using my husband as a poster boy to promote the shot that will help prevent getting the Shingles. Fortunately I had received it about six months before and we had intended for him to do the same and simply hadn't gotten around to it.
He has lived to regret it . . . hourly.
My message to my readers is to head to your doctor's office pronto and get that shot. You won't regret it.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
WHAT TEAM ARE WE ON, ANYWAY?
This is a short (sweet?) post, so be prepared.
All I've heard for two days is hate, hate, hate. I can't bear much more of it. I realize the man must be held (more or less) ultimately responsible for world-wide death and devastation (as was Hitler in his day) but he does not bear the shame on his shoulders alone.
And we do not solve the problems that were created by him and his followers by bearing the same attitudes.
When hatred takes the place of love, mankind becomes as unfeeling as the jackal that tears apart the hare. You may say the man acted as the jackal and needs no sympathy but he was born as innocent and clean as any other child who enters this world. We all become what we allow ourselves to become.
Is mankind going to allow hatred to shape itself into the very thing it despises so heartily?
My family taught me that love was the answer, that a hand offered in friendship should be extended again and again, even if it is rejected, and that hate is never, never, never the answer.
I do not know how much more of this national shame I can bear to watch.
Can we not show compassion as the example for mankind to follow? Must we continue in the same vein that we already insist we despise? If we step over the line from love to hate may we find ourselves playing on the opposite team?
I refuse to celebrate the death of a soul, no matter how black it may be painted by time. It was once a minuscule newborn babe and I will remember the momentary joy the mother felt at its birth and send my prayers with it.
I will play on the team of love . . . not hate.
All I've heard for two days is hate, hate, hate. I can't bear much more of it. I realize the man must be held (more or less) ultimately responsible for world-wide death and devastation (as was Hitler in his day) but he does not bear the shame on his shoulders alone.
And we do not solve the problems that were created by him and his followers by bearing the same attitudes.
When hatred takes the place of love, mankind becomes as unfeeling as the jackal that tears apart the hare. You may say the man acted as the jackal and needs no sympathy but he was born as innocent and clean as any other child who enters this world. We all become what we allow ourselves to become.
Is mankind going to allow hatred to shape itself into the very thing it despises so heartily?
My family taught me that love was the answer, that a hand offered in friendship should be extended again and again, even if it is rejected, and that hate is never, never, never the answer.
I do not know how much more of this national shame I can bear to watch.
Can we not show compassion as the example for mankind to follow? Must we continue in the same vein that we already insist we despise? If we step over the line from love to hate may we find ourselves playing on the opposite team?
I refuse to celebrate the death of a soul, no matter how black it may be painted by time. It was once a minuscule newborn babe and I will remember the momentary joy the mother felt at its birth and send my prayers with it.
I will play on the team of love . . . not hate.
Monday, April 25, 2011
HOMEMAKER OF THE YEAR
My family will tell you (in unison and at the top of their lungs) that I am not a domestic person. I despise housework...I am not married to a house, thank you very much; I do not enjoy cooking; floors do not look dirty to me unless there is actually mud on them and dishes piled to the rafters look sort of artistic if they are piled neatly on all available counters.
It is ironic that the only award I ever won when I attended high school was when I entered and won the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year award for 1956. Actually the only reason I won was that it was a written competition and not one that involved cooking, sewing or anything physical. All I had to do was memorize a few lines, write them down and then throw them out, never to be remembered anymore.
What I was good at was reading, writing and painting.
In short, I'm a lazy cuss.
When my kids were little, each Sunday we would load up the car and grace one or the other of our parents' home with our presence for dinner. Since we were each the oldest of several children, we were welcomed. It seemed the natural thing to do and the babies were heartily hugged by each grandma and grandpa and lugged around by aunts and uncles not much older than themselves. It never occurred to me that actual cooking might be involved and I got by with drying the dishes after dinner each week. I would jokingly tell my children to enjoy themselves because, I assured them, I was never planning to cook Sunday dinners for them when they were grown.
And I've carried through with my promise. I do not cook Sunday dinners. I don't even cook holiday dinners if I can get out of it. Nor not often birthday dinners.
I hate cooking. I would go out to eat in a restaurant or a fast-food joint three times a day if I could get by with it.
It isn't that I'm not a good cook. I can cook well if I put my mind and my back to it. Of course it takes me days to recover and I moan and groan for weeks afterward.
Anyway, to make a long long story a bit shorter, I will admit that now and then I do cook. On Thanksgiving. On Christmas (in fact I have an e-nor-mous dinner at Christmas time with all of my very very large family as guests spread all over my very very large house over a very very loooonnnnng day), on Easter, and sometimes around Independence Day. Not often but now and then. The food is wonderful, the camaraderie is better, I feel virtuous for three days and I hurt for a week but by golly I've earned my Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year Award all over again.
My family heads toward home, bearing gifts of leftover homemade hot rolls, hams and salads, sliced berries and pies, shaking their collective heads in relief that it is all over (its hard on them all too).
And so, since I couldn't very well weasel out of it (and really, I didn't want to after all) we came together in the dining room of the old home place. Several extras were gathered there also with only three missing and one of those came in later. Two were about 6000 miles away but, thanks to Skype, and holding hands by holding onto the computer, they were included in the blessing on this rainy Easter afternoon.
We had a wonderful day, even if I did have to cook.
And I didn't burn a single roll.
It is ironic that the only award I ever won when I attended high school was when I entered and won the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year award for 1956. Actually the only reason I won was that it was a written competition and not one that involved cooking, sewing or anything physical. All I had to do was memorize a few lines, write them down and then throw them out, never to be remembered anymore.
What I was good at was reading, writing and painting.
In short, I'm a lazy cuss.
When my kids were little, each Sunday we would load up the car and grace one or the other of our parents' home with our presence for dinner. Since we were each the oldest of several children, we were welcomed. It seemed the natural thing to do and the babies were heartily hugged by each grandma and grandpa and lugged around by aunts and uncles not much older than themselves. It never occurred to me that actual cooking might be involved and I got by with drying the dishes after dinner each week. I would jokingly tell my children to enjoy themselves because, I assured them, I was never planning to cook Sunday dinners for them when they were grown.
And I've carried through with my promise. I do not cook Sunday dinners. I don't even cook holiday dinners if I can get out of it. Nor not often birthday dinners.
I hate cooking. I would go out to eat in a restaurant or a fast-food joint three times a day if I could get by with it.
It isn't that I'm not a good cook. I can cook well if I put my mind and my back to it. Of course it takes me days to recover and I moan and groan for weeks afterward.
Anyway, to make a long long story a bit shorter, I will admit that now and then I do cook. On Thanksgiving. On Christmas (in fact I have an e-nor-mous dinner at Christmas time with all of my very very large family as guests spread all over my very very large house over a very very loooonnnnng day), on Easter, and sometimes around Independence Day. Not often but now and then. The food is wonderful, the camaraderie is better, I feel virtuous for three days and I hurt for a week but by golly I've earned my Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year Award all over again.
My family heads toward home, bearing gifts of leftover homemade hot rolls, hams and salads, sliced berries and pies, shaking their collective heads in relief that it is all over (its hard on them all too).
And so, since I couldn't very well weasel out of it (and really, I didn't want to after all) we came together in the dining room of the old home place. Several extras were gathered there also with only three missing and one of those came in later. Two were about 6000 miles away but, thanks to Skype, and holding hands by holding onto the computer, they were included in the blessing on this rainy Easter afternoon.
We had a wonderful day, even if I did have to cook.
And I didn't burn a single roll.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
BOOK WORK, ETC.
Send up fireworks! The first thing I did this morning was send off a short story ms that is due by the end of the week. So I'm feeling very professional. Congratulations, me.
Actually, I did have a bit more time than that. The editor had one copy but had asked me to add a couple of little things so it had been easy to put it aside . . . not professional . . . and I simply hadn't done it. Anyway, it's finished now, so onward and upward.
I'm putting the final touches on the juvenile novel now. Junkyard Bones is finished and the editor is waiting for it but I had problems with my word processing programs and it has screwed things up royally. I originally wrote the book in Word Perfect and when I got ready to submit the finished ms (after final approval) I decided to transcribe it to Word 7. It was a good thing because Word Perfect decided to give up the ghost and die completely.
Guess what? Each letter 'b' in the ms turned into quotation marks. Well, fine. I started to manually correct them. (I haven't mastered Word 7 at this point. No, don't try and tell me . . . I only get more messed up.) That was bad. So I tried 'find and replace'. That really changed the whole ms around. On top of that it didn't allow me to change my mind. Ooooooo!!!!! I'm gnashing my teeth and stomping my feet and tearing my hair.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I hauled the whole computer to MWG and got help and now things are good again. I've gone over half the ms to make sure everything is good and I have half of it to go and then I'll e-mail it to my editor (also a good helpful friend) and it will be good to go. I'm really glad because I'd sure like to have it in time for the school year. Well, we'll see.
Made arrangements for another writer's conference today (first of June). I'm entering the Trash to Treasure book in several contests (it won an Honorable Mention in the Best Book Award at MWG last week) so I've got to get that done. I have a list of probably twenty things writer-related to do over the next week or so and it is over-whelming . . . a suggested article for a quite well-known periodical, a script to study for a local cookie-cutter conference (they're putting on a mystery and I'm the star!), book signings to arrange . . . yeek.
And my poor dear husband still has the shingles. He hurts so much and there isn't a thing I can do for him. He decided yesterday and today that he HAD to do some work (first mowing of our e-nor-mous yard . . . not lawn, yard) and three hours just about killed him. I think it proved to him that he just has to wait it out even if it takes a month. Daughter came over and mowed and mowed and mowed and one of the teen-agers did a lot of trimming. Tomorrow I should be able to find time to finish up (I hope) and maybe he will stay indoors and take it easy, even it it about kills him.
I finally get the chance to boss him around a little and I can't even enjoy it. Dern.
Actually, I did have a bit more time than that. The editor had one copy but had asked me to add a couple of little things so it had been easy to put it aside . . . not professional . . . and I simply hadn't done it. Anyway, it's finished now, so onward and upward.
I'm putting the final touches on the juvenile novel now. Junkyard Bones is finished and the editor is waiting for it but I had problems with my word processing programs and it has screwed things up royally. I originally wrote the book in Word Perfect and when I got ready to submit the finished ms (after final approval) I decided to transcribe it to Word 7. It was a good thing because Word Perfect decided to give up the ghost and die completely.
Guess what? Each letter 'b' in the ms turned into quotation marks. Well, fine. I started to manually correct them. (I haven't mastered Word 7 at this point. No, don't try and tell me . . . I only get more messed up.) That was bad. So I tried 'find and replace'. That really changed the whole ms around. On top of that it didn't allow me to change my mind. Ooooooo!!!!! I'm gnashing my teeth and stomping my feet and tearing my hair.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I hauled the whole computer to MWG and got help and now things are good again. I've gone over half the ms to make sure everything is good and I have half of it to go and then I'll e-mail it to my editor (also a good helpful friend) and it will be good to go. I'm really glad because I'd sure like to have it in time for the school year. Well, we'll see.
Made arrangements for another writer's conference today (first of June). I'm entering the Trash to Treasure book in several contests (it won an Honorable Mention in the Best Book Award at MWG last week) so I've got to get that done. I have a list of probably twenty things writer-related to do over the next week or so and it is over-whelming . . . a suggested article for a quite well-known periodical, a script to study for a local cookie-cutter conference (they're putting on a mystery and I'm the star!), book signings to arrange . . . yeek.
And my poor dear husband still has the shingles. He hurts so much and there isn't a thing I can do for him. He decided yesterday and today that he HAD to do some work (first mowing of our e-nor-mous yard . . . not lawn, yard) and three hours just about killed him. I think it proved to him that he just has to wait it out even if it takes a month. Daughter came over and mowed and mowed and mowed and one of the teen-agers did a lot of trimming. Tomorrow I should be able to find time to finish up (I hope) and maybe he will stay indoors and take it easy, even it it about kills him.
I finally get the chance to boss him around a little and I can't even enjoy it. Dern.
Monday, April 11, 2011
In the Groove Again? Hmmm...
I'm hopeful that my readers get a bit of enjoyment out of reading about my chaotic life...when I finally get around to sharing bits and pieces of it! My apologies, but that's the only way I manage things lately.
Sometimes I think I need a camera anchored on the top of my head documenting my day-to-day existence. No one can believe the reality of my life. If I were to write an on-going story listing all the things that go on in this household, every editor I've ever encountered would laugh herself/himself silly and throw me out in the street so fast it would make my head spin. Of course, there are those who believe I'm dizzy anyway but I pay them no mind.
I've no intention of going over everything that's happened since the last post. Suffice it to say that I'm still waiting on the last piece of income tax info (damn the poky US government...and you don't want to know what I think of them) to come in. How many days do I have left? Yeah, that's what I thought. And I was told (automated, natch) that it would be here by the 7th of April. That should certainly leave plenty of time, right? Well, tonight is the bottom of the 11th and I've not seen hide nor hair of any documentation. GRRRR.
Darling Life Mate has been in and out of the hospital and is suffering (and I don't use the word lightly) from a severe case of the shingles. This has been ongoing for most of the past month and shows no sign of letting up. This man is the one who never gives in to pain of any sort, the person who once snapped a tendon in his calf completely in two and simply strapped his boots tight and kept on working through the summer as it repaired itself (there was nothing that would ease the pain at all). But this one has just about done him in.
My advice is: if you can afford it at all, go and get the inoculation to protect yourself. Shingles is a horrific problem. Anything that can bring my husband to his knees would kill a lesser person.
The yard (and I use the term loosely) has reverted to pasture and we've not yet pick up trash and sticks from the winter. We live in the country, forty acres, and there are trees and bushes everywhere. I've not raked the fallen walnuts or hickory nuts for the past couple of years due to the knee problem, so with all the trash everywhere there is no taking a mower over it without something being done about it first.
Oh, yeah, I can just see that happening, the two of us out there bending and picking up. Now and then I actually do feel like I'm more than a youngster these days.
The tax and the shingles were enough to ruin the month, without even mentioning a dozen other family issues, so I've been a wee bit busy, I'll admit. Then I turned over the calendar page and realized I had committed to a major writer's conference and it was almost on top of me.
Well, by golly, I decided, I wasn't missing it. And DLM insisted it would be all right if I went away and left him at home to suffer alone.
So, off I sped all the way to the other side of the state for three action-packed days of learning more about writing and net-working, only to discover that, even though I've been at it for quite a number of years, I'm doing everything wrong...well, at least the net-working.
For instance, this blog. Evidently, I'm really being a little too personal here and not showing my professional side to my readers. Urk. And all along I was hoping to pick up an editor here or there.
Oh, well, for the time being, until you are all caught up, I'm going to keep right on writing in manner I'm doing. I've got umpteen chapters to relate to my loyal readers before I can retire and go on to another subject, don't I? I haven't even got back to the trip to Paris and to the Czech Republic and that was waaaayyyy back in February! (Where does the time go? And I'm having so much fun!)
And I have to tell you all the wonderful stuff about the new book, Junkyard Bones. Oh, yeah, and try and get you to buy the old ones, too! Uh-oh, I forgot...I'm supposed to be more subtle about sales and not hit prospective customers over the head with it.
Sheesh...I try and try to learn. Oh, well, I get a little of it now and then.
I'm gonna do better soon, though. I swear it.
Sometimes I think I need a camera anchored on the top of my head documenting my day-to-day existence. No one can believe the reality of my life. If I were to write an on-going story listing all the things that go on in this household, every editor I've ever encountered would laugh herself/himself silly and throw me out in the street so fast it would make my head spin. Of course, there are those who believe I'm dizzy anyway but I pay them no mind.
I've no intention of going over everything that's happened since the last post. Suffice it to say that I'm still waiting on the last piece of income tax info (damn the poky US government...and you don't want to know what I think of them) to come in. How many days do I have left? Yeah, that's what I thought. And I was told (automated, natch) that it would be here by the 7th of April. That should certainly leave plenty of time, right? Well, tonight is the bottom of the 11th and I've not seen hide nor hair of any documentation. GRRRR.
Darling Life Mate has been in and out of the hospital and is suffering (and I don't use the word lightly) from a severe case of the shingles. This has been ongoing for most of the past month and shows no sign of letting up. This man is the one who never gives in to pain of any sort, the person who once snapped a tendon in his calf completely in two and simply strapped his boots tight and kept on working through the summer as it repaired itself (there was nothing that would ease the pain at all). But this one has just about done him in.
My advice is: if you can afford it at all, go and get the inoculation to protect yourself. Shingles is a horrific problem. Anything that can bring my husband to his knees would kill a lesser person.
The yard (and I use the term loosely) has reverted to pasture and we've not yet pick up trash and sticks from the winter. We live in the country, forty acres, and there are trees and bushes everywhere. I've not raked the fallen walnuts or hickory nuts for the past couple of years due to the knee problem, so with all the trash everywhere there is no taking a mower over it without something being done about it first.
Oh, yeah, I can just see that happening, the two of us out there bending and picking up. Now and then I actually do feel like I'm more than a youngster these days.
The tax and the shingles were enough to ruin the month, without even mentioning a dozen other family issues, so I've been a wee bit busy, I'll admit. Then I turned over the calendar page and realized I had committed to a major writer's conference and it was almost on top of me.
Well, by golly, I decided, I wasn't missing it. And DLM insisted it would be all right if I went away and left him at home to suffer alone.
So, off I sped all the way to the other side of the state for three action-packed days of learning more about writing and net-working, only to discover that, even though I've been at it for quite a number of years, I'm doing everything wrong...well, at least the net-working.
For instance, this blog. Evidently, I'm really being a little too personal here and not showing my professional side to my readers. Urk. And all along I was hoping to pick up an editor here or there.
Oh, well, for the time being, until you are all caught up, I'm going to keep right on writing in manner I'm doing. I've got umpteen chapters to relate to my loyal readers before I can retire and go on to another subject, don't I? I haven't even got back to the trip to Paris and to the Czech Republic and that was waaaayyyy back in February! (Where does the time go? And I'm having so much fun!)
And I have to tell you all the wonderful stuff about the new book, Junkyard Bones. Oh, yeah, and try and get you to buy the old ones, too! Uh-oh, I forgot...I'm supposed to be more subtle about sales and not hit prospective customers over the head with it.
Sheesh...I try and try to learn. Oh, well, I get a little of it now and then.
I'm gonna do better soon, though. I swear it.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Getting There Was the Worst
I promised to tell you about the trip overseas and I truly will. I've just not had time up to now. And now I'm coming down with a sore throat and I have income tax to do this week.
Suppose I can come up with any more excuses?
Here goes on the first lap anyway...
The day my granddaughter and I took off was the fifth of February, my (mmmmmmth) birthday...and NO, I'm not telling. I will say, though, that on February 27 she would turn 21 and that is substantially younger than myself . The fifth of February, 2011, was also in the middle of one of the worst blizzards we've had across the US in the past few years, effectively shutting down airports all over the place.
Fortunately, Springfield was not one of them.
Unfortunately, other connections were.
We spent five hours plus, fifty miles away from home, waiting to make connections to fly out to Dallas (the day before the Super Bowl, of all things) where another six inches of snow had complicated things at that particular airport. Then the plane developed mechanical trouble and they sent a substitute. The Chicago airport was closed down so those passengers for overseas were re-routed to Dallas (effectively putting us at the end of the line) and we barely made it, at last connecting with a second substitute flight that carried us to Heathrow in London instead of Paris where we were actually heading. THEN we had to connect with ANOTHER flight to go on to Paris.
As for the flight, suffice it to say, I've been on bigger planes and had larger seat spaces. Also it took not quite ten hours to do the overseas trip.
At least it was through the night and one could doze since it seemed the natural time to do so.
We had intended to check into the hotel at 10:30 Sunday morning but it was 5:30 in the evening when we were met by a wonderful gentleman named Rajah who had moved to Paris from Shri Lanka about thirty years before with his family and was employed as driver by Paris Shuttle Service. Although it was late in the day, he did us a great service by pointing out all of the interesting spots as we entered the city, naming the buildings, telling us bits and pieces of the history and piquing our curiosity. Upon arriving at the Hotel Concorde Montparnasse we were welcomed by the concierge and shown to our room where we collapsed and decided to order room service (Granddaughter had a club sandwich and I had French onion soup) and leave the sight-seeing for morning.
From the window we could look out on a circular opening with a very large flat pool of water in the center and a street curving around it. On the outside of the street a bicycle path ran between the sidewalk and buildings of which our hotel was one and streets led off in several directions. Down the Rue Concorde to the right of our hotel and off in the distance the Eiffel Tower was visible but our window faced the center of the circle and the water so we were unable to see it. However , this was a striking scene at night with the lights all around and the cars and bicycles circling.
Saturday and Sunday had been stressful days so we agreed to work out our plans for the day to come, to enjoy the sight from the hotel window and go to bed early.
There is so much of Paris. One could be there for a month and never even touch all of it.
Suppose I can come up with any more excuses?
Here goes on the first lap anyway...
The day my granddaughter and I took off was the fifth of February, my (mmmmmmth) birthday...and NO, I'm not telling. I will say, though, that on February 27 she would turn 21 and that is substantially younger than myself . The fifth of February, 2011, was also in the middle of one of the worst blizzards we've had across the US in the past few years, effectively shutting down airports all over the place.
Fortunately, Springfield was not one of them.
Unfortunately, other connections were.
We spent five hours plus, fifty miles away from home, waiting to make connections to fly out to Dallas (the day before the Super Bowl, of all things) where another six inches of snow had complicated things at that particular airport. Then the plane developed mechanical trouble and they sent a substitute. The Chicago airport was closed down so those passengers for overseas were re-routed to Dallas (effectively putting us at the end of the line) and we barely made it, at last connecting with a second substitute flight that carried us to Heathrow in London instead of Paris where we were actually heading. THEN we had to connect with ANOTHER flight to go on to Paris.
As for the flight, suffice it to say, I've been on bigger planes and had larger seat spaces. Also it took not quite ten hours to do the overseas trip.
At least it was through the night and one could doze since it seemed the natural time to do so.
We had intended to check into the hotel at 10:30 Sunday morning but it was 5:30 in the evening when we were met by a wonderful gentleman named Rajah who had moved to Paris from Shri Lanka about thirty years before with his family and was employed as driver by Paris Shuttle Service. Although it was late in the day, he did us a great service by pointing out all of the interesting spots as we entered the city, naming the buildings, telling us bits and pieces of the history and piquing our curiosity. Upon arriving at the Hotel Concorde Montparnasse we were welcomed by the concierge and shown to our room where we collapsed and decided to order room service (Granddaughter had a club sandwich and I had French onion soup) and leave the sight-seeing for morning.
From the window we could look out on a circular opening with a very large flat pool of water in the center and a street curving around it. On the outside of the street a bicycle path ran between the sidewalk and buildings of which our hotel was one and streets led off in several directions. Down the Rue Concorde to the right of our hotel and off in the distance the Eiffel Tower was visible but our window faced the center of the circle and the water so we were unable to see it. However , this was a striking scene at night with the lights all around and the cars and bicycles circling.
Saturday and Sunday had been stressful days so we agreed to work out our plans for the day to come, to enjoy the sight from the hotel window and go to bed early.
There is so much of Paris. One could be there for a month and never even touch all of it.
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