Don't Call Me a 'Woman Driver'!

On the road again…How many of us women deserve a set of trucker wings from all the hauling, towing and hair-raising treks we've managed behind the wheel?  

I earned my license when I was a sophomore.  Since then I’ve driven a moving van down from British Colombia and towed motorcycles on curving mountain roads. My most harrowing (and accidental) venture was driving our diesel pickup up the Road to the Sun Highway in Glacier National Park, Montana. It was early morning with black ice in the shadows and one very scared husband hanging out the passenger window. 

I’m proof that what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.

The other day I was cruising along on the interstate, driving our Dodge Ram 2500 (for you non-rednecks, this is a 3/4 –ton diesel that I have to boost myself into with a pull-up bar.) It has a six –speed manual transmission with a stiff clutch, both of which will put on muscle. Our particular make and model has a reputation for being the noisiest truck on the road. I won’t dispute the claim. It’s loud enough that old ladies glare at us from the crosswalk.  

On top of that I was hauling a toy hauler travel trailer loaded with furniture (with the pickup loaded to the top of the camper) I had a set of extended side-view mirrors, but you know those signs on the back of semi’s? “If you can’t see my mirrors, then I can’t see you”? Trust me, all true.

So I’m easing my way down the freeway with only my brakes (this time, real trailer brakes, thank you,) and six gears between me and the car in front of me. And it’s raining. And it’s Memorial Day weekend and all of California is on the road celebrating the 20-cent drop in gas prices.

And it hits me—I’m fearless.

I learned to drive in my father’s 5-ton hay truck, when I was thirteen. He took me out to the cab, showed me how to operate the clutch and we did a couple of test runs around the yard before we headed out to the field. Then to my horror, he hooked the truck up to this cumbersome side hay loader and directed me toward the nearest bale of alfalfa hay.

Years later my brother told me that I popped the clutch and my father fell off into the field from several rows up, but he climbed back on and said nothing so I wouldn’t get discouraged.

So back to Memorial Day weekend. Driving a rig in a highway lane that is only inches wider than the truck is a full-time job. Somewhere around Weed, California, my husband cautioned me that with our 10,000 pound payload, it would take a city block to come to a complete stop, before he turned over and fell asleep.

I managed the next ten hours by myself. I managed the rain, and the cars and the slower-moving semi’s. I pulled into gas stations (twice) and refilled, and remembered to swing wide so the trailer cleared the rear gas pump.

Driving consciously is a high form of living in the moment. The heightened sense of danger creates an appreciation for the harmony of the road. As the hours pass and I fight the hypnotic lull that threatens to pull me into a trance, I use my senses to stay connected.

The dance of fast cars, slow cars, slower trucks and uphill rigs on steep mountainous grades is poetic. Especially when accompanied by the ballads of Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt and Dolly Parton on my CD player. I unroll the window to smell the rice fields and the smoke of the burning piles. I savor the scent of the mountains and the smell of downdrafts from the fields we pass.

I notice that the south-bound lane of I-5 is patched and bumpy, worn out by the weight of the semi’s. There is a temptation to drive faster than the law allows, to use the fast lane like the cars and damn the consequences. At night the glare of tail lights plays havoc on my distance judgment. I find myself counting “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two” after passing a slow tractor-trailer rig because it’s hard to judge distance with headlights in mirrors. The moment of decision, when to pull back in, is an adrenaline rush—an instant consequence for my decision

What struck me was how much I enjoyed the process--all ten hours. But that night I slept GOOD!

The next time I drove my car I found myself attending to the road with fresh eyes. The DMV is right—driving is a privilege. So is living on the edge. One of these days I plan to haul something live. (Tow a horse trailer or some cattle to market.) And take my new motorcycle out on a country road.

How about you?  Want to share your driving or other adventures in the fast lane?       

   

A Case of Computer Obsession

When does the computer become an obsession and not a career tool? A fair question, and one my husband is asking as I sit in my bathrobe on a Saturday morning, “working.”

I’ve paid the bills, checked my emails and linked my latest guest blog to my social media links. http://writersofthewest.blogspot.com/  Time to cut the cord, go outside and LIVE! But after five days of marketing, writing tie-in essays for my forthcoming novel and creating a newsletter, this computer feels more real to me than my husband’s face.

If this computer screen were a slot machine, I’d feed it nickels just to have a reason to stay. (And judging by the funny cartoons and posts on my FB home page, I’m not alone.) It’s a little frightening.  This morning, faced with a decision whether to turn right and head out the door to my Body Pump class at the gym—or left toward my computer (for just the quickest check), my legs chose for me.

Needless to say, we did no body pumping today!

Husband just tucked his head in the door with a plan to run a measuring tape around our ten acres so he can map the fence line. I wanted to say, “What a dumb idea!” but I recognize an intervention when one is staged.

It’s a gloriously clear day in Southern Oregon. The sky is clear, the geese are honking and the incense cypress are infusing the meadow with sweet smells. I’m fresh out of nickels and my eyes are bloodshot from the glare of the screen. I suspect the geese are honking at me because I'm sitting at a crossroads. Like all addictions, it's time to get honest with myself. Shut down the computer, grab a tablet and make a list of things I want to accomplish next week. Take Sunday off. Start again Monday with fresh enthusiasm.   

Got to run now—nature’s calling.    

Looking for Fame in All the Wrong Places

Wow. I’m so happy to be writing this. The event I have been working toward for the past five years is finally happening. I signed a contract with Oak Tree Press for my first historical Western novel. It has a name—Cholama Moon.

Lucky me, right? Actually, the trail has been long and convoluted. One, I suspect, not unlike a lot of other writers.

Several years ago (too shamed to admit how many,) I started writing short stories and submitting them to magazines, way back before there was much in the way of e-pubs. I entered a few contests. Won a number of firsts, seconds and honorable mentions. Plastered my office with these atta-boys to inspire me in the dark hours. (Which I have since taken down because they were about the past, not the future.)   

One of the contests I entered was a San Joaquin Valley Sisters in Crime competition. I don’t write mystery, but the judge liked my story so much that she awarded it an honorary Coveted Dead Bird award.

I continued to write memoir. First, Branches on the Conejo, then Ordinary Aphrodite, about the Baby Boomer experience sans the drug, sex and rock and roll. Through it all, I wrote novels.

If asked to define what I wrote, I would say, “I write mainstream women’s inspirational novels with elements of romance, set in the West.” Agents' eyes would glaze over, but I had a vision.

 One year I pitched a manuscript at the Mount Herman Christian Writers conference. The agent asked a fair question: Did I read Christian genre? Um, not really. Francine Rivers, Karen Kingsbury, Mary Connealy—but, then, who doesn’t? A couple of Amish romances. He was not impressed and I had to face the truth that I was never in the game.     

So, ummm, what do you write? (asked the next agent at another conference.) Well, I write women’s fiction. Ahh…(with an encouraging nod,) Romance.

Well, not exactly. That is to say, true love triumphs in the end, but my books are more than two people running towards each other, gauzy shirts flying. I write mainstream women’s inspirational fiction with elements of romance, set in the American West.

Old habits die hard. But I was starting to wonder, what is so hard about this concept?     

Because I love to read them (hmmm, where had I heard that before?) I began writing plain, old-fashioned western stories with strong female protagonists. Bingo! Historical westerns. Nothing more. Implied in the term are the things I didn’t need to say—inspiration, old-fashioned values, a ton of research, a compelling story. A boy and a girl.

Long story short, the mother of the judge who awarded me the Coveted Dead Bird award was now working for Oak Tree Press, who was (happily for me,) bringing out a line of historical westerns. I queried. She remembered my name (and the story.) She fast-tracked me through the submission process. And the rest, as they say, is history.

But since good luck runs in threes, there’s even more!

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I am a member of Women Writing the West. At one of their conferences I won an audio book contract from Books in Motion. At another conference, I entered a short story in the LAURA Short Fiction competition. A few months ago a screenwriter read it and asked for a script. We worked on it together—emailed it back and forth until it shone. Now my little short story, Last Dance, is the script that two mock production companies are developing at a film school in Santa Fe.    

Suddenly all the unconnected moves I have made in the past several years turn out to be the right moves. Pretty lucky, you think? But every fiction writer has a mantra posted on their computer: “Publication is a Process, not an event.”  

So I’m busy with the marketing process. My next novel is ready for submission. With luck (there’s that word again,) Maria Ines should be released six months after Cholama Moon. I’m working through Oak Tree Press’s 58-page marketing guide and I’m glad that I have done the basics. Luckily, now I can concentrate on the nuances.

Please share how your process has evolved. If only as a cautionary tale, like mine.      

Love, Hate and Everything In-between

Sometimes holiday get togethers can be a bit sticky. Siblings and children arrive from far corners. Logs burn. Alcohol soothes. A lethargic atmosphere loosens the tongue and memories flow.   

I used to cringe in my corner while I waited to hear what the new batch of memories unearthed. But no more. Because now I’m armed with the wisdom of Hippocrotes. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_temperaments . I’ve been re-reading a couple of books that discuss his theory of personality types. One of them, an out-of-print copy of Tim LaHaye’s Transformed Temperaments  (and his wife Beverly’s The Spirit Driven Women) invite a Christian introspection that for me has been life-changing.    

I was first introduced to Meyers Briggs and Hippocrates in Psych 101-- the Sanguine, Choleric, Melancholy and Phlegmatic personalities. Another book, The Delicate Art of Dancing with Porcupines calls them the Expressive, Driver, Analytical and Amiable.

What I love about studying the personality types are the charts and wheels that show the negatives. Since I’m not so good at changing, it’s important to understand how my negatives grate on other people. And how they can be less difficult for me to handle!  

Give you an example. I’m a Sanguine-Phlegmatic. According to Rev LaHaye, that means I’m happy, outgoing, honest and quick to jump into the fray. But I’m also egotistical, given to exaggeration, undisciplined and think before I speak. Apparently a great story teller, which is a good thing for a fiction writer. I’m saved from doom by the Phlegmatic part that provides my calm, loyal and tenacious side (if someone can prod me to action.) Apparently some behavioral specialists feel this combination is a winner. Oh, did I mention that  Sanguines tend to be chubby?   

Detail oriented and analytic, I am not. But then neither do I possess a tendency toward negativity—that would be my husband, the Melancholy-Choleric. He’s the jet fuel for my engine, the inventive, romantic doer (unless I disagree with him and then he’s pushy and cranky.)   

This year instead of a second (or third) glass of champagne, I analyzed my kids and siblings. It was a bit like putting together a huge fruit salad—there was something in the bowl for everyone.

 

Knowledge is Power. I wish I had understood that my mother-in-law was a full-blown Choleric and that her reaction to me was textbook. Maybe I wouldn’t have taken her criticism so personally. God grant me the strength to accept what I cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference. Or in my case, the strength to shut my mouth before I speak.

I recently spoke with a Phlegmatic woman who raised five stepchildren and five of her own on a tight budget. She was a stay-at-home mother who ran the books on her husband’s construction company and to my knowledge, never indulged in the luxury of pedicure or facial. She mentioned that one of her stepsons recently threw out the complaint that she never attended his ballgames. Of course the kid felt unloved (and of course he exaggerated and feels terrible about blurting this out forty years after the fact.) He is a total Sanguine who craved her attention while she showed her love by staying home, cooking dinner and tending to the household chaos while her husband represented them at the ballpark.     

Mistakes are made. But they don't have to be. We owe it to everyone to be better versions of ourselves. Not to be bossy, but go on-- Google Hippocrates or Myers-Briggs and take a personality test. Make your mate take the test and start the New Year with a better foundation.

And please share your personality combinations with us.    

A Fireside Chat

                                    

The fog enshrouded woods outside my window brings a melancholy reminder of my own mortality. I respond by drawing the drapes and sitting in front of the fire, mug in hand, staring out past the empty porch swing where I spent most summer evenings. The wintery day calls for reflection. 

People my age complain that life has passed too quickly, but I don’t agree. That’s what I’m thinking about today—how full the years have been. No speeding flight, it’s taken me a lifetime to arrive. I recall past decades by their main accomplishments—the twenties, mothering years of little sleep, trying to fit the responsibilities of Mate, Mother and Material Girl into Career and Spiritual Life—in that order, I confess.

The thirties were more of the same, except that Mother took precedence over Mate. My husband was a periphery object I fitted in when our schedules and inclinations allowed. “Living single” is a phrase that comes to mind. I read a lot of romance novels and wondered where mine had gone.

In my forties I began a preoccupation with health and body issues. My weight started to climb. Mammograms and root canals entered my vernacular. For the first time I felt my life had reached a plateau—mid-life—and the rest would be down hill. I doubled my efforts. In came the gym, hair color, daily walks, self-awareness groups, massage sessions.

The fifties surprised me—a renaissance of physical and emotional energy driven by pheromones and testosterone bloom that created in me a fearless and productive period of writing. I wrote two memoirs, including Ordinary Aphrodite, my boomer woman’s journey of small steps. I will be forever grateful for the surge of energy that produced this work.

My sixties are a surprise, too. At forty I thought the party would be over by now. I’m grateful that it’s not. My husband still looks at me “that way.” We tackle projects that would probably kill off younger people—including this past year, three months of tearing out and burning blackberries, taking down old fences and restringing new ones along half of our ten acres. We cleaned up a can and bottle dump in a ravine and filled it with dirt.

We travel and explore and hike to the end of the road and back.

But there was a moment last year. One of our Dexter calves, a 250-pounder, broke into the garden and managed to impale its horn nubs in a deer basket from one of the roses. We penned it and roped it, and soon it was whipping us around the pasture, spewing snot and foaming with thirst. We managed to free it without harm to calf or human, but it was a moment if reckoning. Time to rethink my priorities.

So here I am, contemplating my life. So much left to do, so little time. This morning I signed a publishing contract for a historical western novel I penned over the last three years. I will serve as President Elect of Women Writing the West next year. I bought my Christmas gifts in local shops this year, cut a Christmas tree from our woodlot. I sport a really bad haircut from a new stylist who didn’t notice the shape of my Norwegian blockhead and I hardly even care. It will grow out and we’ll try again in a few months. No worries. (Wish I could have said that in my forties.)

So the fire crackles (actually, it pings. It’s a pellet stove.) The mug grows tepid. I find myself grateful for everything—the past and what is yet to come. And this surprises me because at thirty, I would have expected to be sad. Instead, I’m sort of sad about my thirties.        

 Thoughts? Please share yours. I'd love to hear from you.          

God in the Details-- Random Apologies and the Soul

What is it there about an apology? 

Today  I opened my email and there it was, a totally random note of apology for a long-ago slight. Did I mention it was wholly unexpected? I started reading and felt the awesomeness of the writer's words soothing my injured places. Some of what she wrote, I agreed with (the part where she said she’d been snotty,) but upon second reading, what struck me most was realizing that she felt worse about the event than I did. I read her note to the end and I was smiling. My heart was smiling. My blood pressure lowered and my body felt at peace.

My next thought was, Nice lady. Followed by the suspicion that she was being too hard on herself.   

I didn’t need an apology, but reading her words, I realized she did. The note was for her more than for me. She had offended her standards and her conscience had given her a niggling kick in the butt because that’s what consciences do. She needed to forgive herself, and writing to me was the best way.

Mea culpa, mea maximus culpa—arguably the most healing syllables man (or woman) can utter. Only eleven syllables, but trust God to do it in ten; You are forgiven. Go and sin no more.

If God forgives with such grace, would we not want to do the same?  

I wrote a quick, heartfelt reply because our casual friendship had survived a bump in the road. I told her how I admire the strength in her voice, the conviction of her beliefs. I let her know I was bothered by our rift, too, and that it should have been me who wrote the first note, but I’m glad she did.

And now we're friends.  

Ten Ways to Stay Married That Don't Involve Dieting or Dressing Up

My swimming coach said something today that made me think. “What we’re doing here is The Impossible and making it Fun!”

I got what she was saying because sometime this month (I’m being coy here), my husband and I will celebrate our 45^th Anniversary. Hard to believe! Up to this point I thought this particular wedding anniversary was celebrated by people with white hair and character marks on their wrinkled little faces.  

But, apparently not, because here the two of us, barely out of college and certainly not old enough to have a daughter who is technically a baby boomer herself (tail end), are celebrating forty-five years together—and a lot of those were quite good, indeed.

So what has kept us together—Love? Yeah, that’s part of it. But, we all know it’s more than that. In honor of the occasion, I’ve made a list of the TEN things I think are most important.

ONE—Inexpensive wedding. When he gave it to me I had to hold my engagement ring up to the light to see my diamond. Our wedding budget caused no drama, no wedding debt, no fights or hard feelings. No spoiled bride here. No queen-for a day, either, but that’s another story. (For the record, I think brides have gone over the top!)  

TWO—We talk nice to each other. In the first years we might have walked away and hit the wall, taken a walk, made a phone call to a sister or best friend, but we rarely said anything that jiggled the infrastructure of our marriage. IMHO, marriages fail because two members fail to honor and respect each other. No big, dramatic fights in our house. No broken dishes (although, once I threw his cell phone at him and broke the flip-top, but it wasn’t technically an anger-pitch. He wasn’t listening and I wanted him to pay attention—right now!) We give each other compliments every single day. Cute is a word we use a lot—Cute butt! Don’t you look cute! Cheesy? Maybe, but worth a try.    

We sent each other a lot of cards—cards with funny sayings when we weren’t feeling all that in love with each other, romantic ones when we were. I have a box of cards he’s written to me with such tender sentiments that I once said to him, “And I’m supposed to be the writer?”

 Here’s a fun link about marriage. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ceArY2DU2Zo

THREE —I kept my power. I made him promise that when I finished working him through college he’d do the same for me—and he did. Later on, I took a tax course so I would know what was up. I pay most of the bills. I know how to access our financial records. (You’d be surprised how many women are clueless about their family finances.) I check over everything before I sign it. I know he’s a good guy, but everyone needs someone to keep them on their toes, even me.  

I’ve had a little savings account from the time I was married, and I added to it even when we couldn’t afford to. Even having $100 made me feel like I had choices.

FOUR—get a life. He had a group of friends from before we met who rode motorcycles, hunted and backpacked. I started doing all of those things with him. That has been a lot of fun, but he also likes doing these things with his buddies, so I started to plan my own excursions. One year it was a trip to France with my daughter. Another year it was to Zihuatanejo with another daughter. Once it was to Santa Fe with a girlfriend. Writers conferences, weekends away. In forty-five years, they’ve added up to a lot of great memories for me—and no regrets over being a motorcycle or hunting widow.  

Oh yeah, a FIFTH thing—make work feel like play. We are happiest when we have projects we do together. Right now we’re fencing three acres for a cow and calf operation we’re starting. (Literally a cow and a calf (as in mama and baby make two.) My granddaughters named them Fifi and Poo-poo. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we have to eat Poo-Poo, but that’s a long way off. She’s a girl cow. Maybe we’ll just have a lot of calves.

   

Oh, I thought of another thing—SIX—Laugh a lot together. We’re not sophisticated. We’re not glamorous.  We’re just two people who find the bright spot in every situation. He boosts me up when I sag, and visa versa. It seems to get easier as we get older, so we’re getting more practice.  

The SEVENTH thing I know about staying married is –just don’t get divorced. You’d be surprised how that works. Weather one storm, another comes along. Weather that one, you start to get a rhythm. You start to know what to look out for—your trigger points.

EIGHT—Unless he’s a neat freak, don’t keep a spotless house. There’s no point in fighting about housekeeping standards. If it comes to that, drop yours. As I’m typing this, my husband came in with an inch of caked mud on his boots that dropped on the floor under his chair. He jiggled the recycling bin on the way out the door and spilled milk on the tile. He left three cabinet doors open. No problem. They’ll be there when he gets in later. To paraphrase the old adage, “A manic attack on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine.”      

NINE- Let him know early that getting fat is a hereditary thing. Who worries about a few pounds if you’re a good cook? Then stick to your resolve. There’s nothing wrong with a size 12 or even 14.

TEN- Have a spiritual component to your lives together. Play a Christian radio station, sing hymns while you vacuum, go to church, leave a Bible laying around. Say grace. Baby steps. Someone gave me a crucifix as a wedding gift and when I went to hang it in the bedroom, he complained. Not negotiable, I told him. My faith isn’t either. And the funny thing is, he rose to my level.

Bonus—In the great scheme of things, Ten Years is nothing. Have patience. Cultivate a happy attitude. Relax.   

How about it--any tips, regrets, comments?