Ants are Vengeful Creatures

Southern California is home to an army the size of which makes the national debt look like pocket change. Deep below the sandy surface, in a warren of tunnels modern human engineering could never accomplish, this army plots against us. Like a mighty terrorist faction they rise from their subterranean compound in the dark of night to wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting masses.
Their hierarchy is simple, the queen rules. Everyone else lives so that she may live. Male generals command the army of female soldiers whose blind allegiance knows no bounds. No weapon of mass destruction has yet to be manufactured that will conquer this invading hoard.
Who are these sinister, havoc wreaking hoards? Ants. Gazillions of ants. You chuckle, unsuspecting human. The ants are coming to get you. How do I know this? I have seen their army. They are on the march in my neighborhood, more specifically, my house.
We’ve known they were plotting beneath our home for years. We’ve had many skirmishes with them. Just yesterday they launched a sneak attack on our living room while we slept. In retaliation my husband took up arms against them. Wielding a spray bottle filled with toxins he slaughtered hundreds of thousands of tiny six legged soldiers around the perimeter of our yard. With a self satisfied smirk he declared himself the winner of the battle. I was hopeful that we had seen the last of them for a while, but alas it was not to be.
Ants are vengeful creatures. They plotted. They called up the reserves. Under cover of darkness they mounted a counter offensive straight into our kitchen. With unerring accuracy they marched from the depths of hell, across our lawn to the foundation of our home. In a brazen attack, assured that their victims slept, they marched along the foundation to the back door and stormed the house.
Like a living river the army filed through the door and straight to the bowl of dog food on the kitchen floor. There they set up a sophisticated supply line designed to carry off as much plunder as their little bodies could carry.
In the light of day their perfidy was discovered. I once again resorted to chemical warfare in my rage against the invading army. I killed unmercifully, pulling the trigger on my container of lethal chemicals over and over. No six legged creature was exempt from my wrath. I killed the little buggers inside my castle and followed their supply line, slaughtering as I went. I sprayed. I stomped. I killed.
Am I ashamed? Do I feel remorse? No, and no. The skirmish lasted nearly an hour before I valiantly declared myself the winner. Millions died. My rage gave me super human strength against such formidable odds. I am human. I am an American. It is my right to keep and bear arms.
I chugged orange juice in celebration of my victory. I placed my weapons back on the shelf in the garage where I can reach them at a moment’s notice. I have dealt the invaders a mighty blow, but they will be back. Right now they are procreating at a dizzying rate, fueled by the food they looted from my larder while I slept the sleep of the innocent.
I must rest. I must check my weapons and replenish as necessary. I can feel the rumble of their mighty fighting machine as it rumbles beneath my feet. I will not sleep until they are defeated.

Friends

I had the pleasure of spending the previous weekend with about one hundred people who I share a minimum of one thing in common with. It seems we all graduated from the same high school on the same day almost 35 years ago. This get together was dubbed the AOWWBOSY, or The Anniversary of the Week We Began Our Senior Year. I have had a lot of fun times since I last saw or spoke with most of these folks, but I can't remember anything that has been more satisfying.

No, I don't mean that my ego or self esteem was boosted by the current status of anyone there. I mean that after all these years, none of that matters any longer. I vaguely remember attending our tenth reunion and my overwhelming memory of that event is getting home and wondering why I went in the first place. Just a decade out of high school and we were all still posturing. I have more of this than you. I went to this school. I have this kind of car. I live in this neighborhood, city, state...

After 34+ years we've finally grown out of that kind of thinking. The result was a wonderful weekend getting to know each other again, laughing over stories told and retold, dredging up memories long since buried and finding that others share those same memories. We laughed until tears flowed and smiled until our cheeks hurt. We took enough photos to keep Kodak in business for another decade had film still been in use. We talked until our vocal chords shut down in protest. Plates of food grew cold as we jumped up to greet another familiar face and forgot about our need for food.

Days after returning home I still find a silly grin on my face from time to time as I recall moments spent with people who played dolls and shared a skate key with me back when. Some were friends acquired in high school and our memories were more grown up. Football games, Prom, cruising, risks taken, classes skipped. Some were friends recently made. Thanks to Facebook I have met many of my fellow graduates who I never had the pleasure of knowing in school. Of the over 500 graduates that year it was impossible to know them all, so many of us never met. My life is enriched for knowing these wonderful people now and it was a blessing to meet many of them in person.

We have lost some of our classmates to tragedy and illness and we shared fond memories of them, proving that their memory will live on within us. I hope they heard our words and read the sorrow in our hearts at their passing.

Many thanks to the fabulous friends who coordinated the weekend events. Without them it would not have been possible. The weekend exceeded all my expectations and I look forward to seeing all of my friends again next spring when we will celebrate the actual 35th anniversary of our high school graduation.

To Plano High School, Class of 1975- You are the best! We are the best! I am so proud of all of us. We have overcome, persevered and succeeded! The Wildcat spirit is alive and well.

Summer Days

It's been way too long since I've posted anything new. So sorry about that. Life has been happening at a dizzying pace and there always seems to be something urgent that needs to be done.

June ended with a wake-up call. My oldest was laid-off from her first real job and announced she was moving back home while she decides whether to go back to school and pursue her PhD. or find another job. I hustled to put some fresh feathers in the nest and welcomed her back under my wing.

I spent a week at her apartment, boxing and cleaning so the move would be easier. While I did this, she was in CA with the rest of the family (remember my bi-coastal status) on a previously arranged vacation. The rest of the family arrived back and we all loaded up a moving truck and brought her home.

Then we all loaded up and headed to DC where I attended the Romance Writer's of America National Conference. Hubby and the girls played tourist while I attended as many workshops as I could, hoping to learn as much as possible in a few days time about this business of writing. I had a wonderful and exhausting time meeting fellow writers and learning, learning, learning.

If not for the fire alarm on Saturday, I probably wouldn't have left the hotel for the entire day! Thankfully all was well and after a short break we were allowed to return to the building.

Lest you think all I did was work, let me assure you I had a blast. Since I knew absolutely no one when I arrived I had no trouble finding a table full of new faces at every meal. It was so nice to meet all of my table mates and if you were one of them let me say now how much I enjoyed meeting you and sharing our stories over a noisy table!

I was honored to meet several well known authors and had my photo made with a few of them too! All the speakers were fabulous, and I mean the ones at the workshops too. I don't even know how to describe the conference unless it would be - controlled chaos.

The hotel staff kept everyone going in the right direction and on time with their chimes and helpful directions. The food was better than average for this type of event and my room was vintage, but charming and comfortable. Kudos to the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel for a job well done.

The case of ADD I developed while there has subsided now that I'm not bombarded on all sides with multiple stimuli. There were no less than five choices to be made every hour of every day, an exhausting undertaking for someone who spends many hours a day alone with her computer.

I did get out for a few hours on Friday evening to see the sights and spend time with the family. I do love DC and all the pompous buildings and monuments.

The awards ceremony on Saturday evening was a star studded affair (in romance writers terms). I was so happy for all those who were nominated and especially thrilled for those who won. Like the other 2000+ in attendance I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be one of the honored few. Maybe one of these days, but for now I will just shout out my congratulations to those wonderful writers and be grateful that I was able to share the special moment with them.

I'm looking forward to next years conference in Nashville, TN. It's already on my calendar. See you there!

Father's Day Tribute to my Dad, Melvin E. Wall, Sr.

My dad was a simple man. He was born Feb.2, 1916 in Anna, Texas. He was the second son, and sixth born of eleven. He had an eighth grade education and an analytical mind. Like many of his generation, he enlisted in the Army, spending much of his time in North Africa and Italy as a Motor Pool Staff Sergeant with the 88th Division, Blue Devils. When he returned to the States he married his wartime pen-pal on his 30th birthday.

As a newlywed he moved his new bride from Dallas to “the edge of nowhere”, Plano, where he had a job as a farm equipment mechanic at the Allis Chalmers dealership. They occupied the old train depot station in downtown Plano at the time. He bought a slice of property on the new freeway and built a small home and his own shop on the land. In ten years time his family had outgrown the small house he’d built by hand, so he purchased a brand new house on the edge of town, one with three bedrooms and a big yard for his children to play in. He continued to make his living as a farm equipment mechanic, and occasionally he would repair a car or pickup, or bulldozer, or whatever was brought his way.

I learned a lot of things from my dad.

He taught me that intelligence isn’t measured by framed scraps of paper on the wall, or how many consonants you can string together behind your name.

He taught me that I could be anything I wanted to be, and for a southern girl, that was news to me.

He taught me how to use my hands, and the difference between a wrench, and a pair of pliers. He let me get my hands (and clothes) greasy, and slide underneath a car on a creeper. He let me look over his shoulder while he rebuilt engines and transmissions, while he ground valves, and set the timing on a internal combustion engine. The tools of his trade were recently stolen from the home he bought for his family 52 years ago. I wonder if the person who took them knew they were taking memories too.

He taught me physics by way of pulleys, levers, and inclined planes.

He taught me to drive a tractor, a combine, and a standard transmission auto (pickup truck actually).

He taught me how to swim, not the swim team style; river and military style. Head up, eyes open, so you can see where you’re going. I still swim that way.

He taught me about the bounty of the earth, letting me tag along on service calls to the middle of wheat and cotton fields. He let me dive into trailers filled with wheat, and he took me to the cotton gin in Plano and walked me through the catwalks, explaining how the machinery worked as we went along.

By example, he taught me the color of your skin doesn’t have anything to do with your worth as a human being, nor does the thickness of your wallet.

He taught me that your bank balance is not a way to keep score.

By example he showed me how to hold my head high, how to honor humble beginnings, and humble living.

He taught me Algebra where my teachers couldn’t, even though he’d never had a class in his life. My teacher’s never understood how I came up with the correct answers, since I wasn’t doing it “by the textbook.”

He taught me that History class was important because we have to understand where we’ve been, in order to see where we’re going.

He let me fix his hair in crazy hair styles while he watched television. From this I learned I have no talent to be a hair stylist.

He taught me that high expectations for children are better discipline than spanking.

He taught me that hard work is its own reward. That providing for your family to the best of your ability is a goal in life.

He taught me to love and respect the out of doors and to be kind to animals.

He taught me how to shoot a rifle (what self respecting Texas girl doesn’t need to know that) and how to build a campfire.

He taught me how to roller skate, and how to skate ‘couples’. He was always my favorite skate partner.

He taught me how to crack pecans and nap under a plum tree.

He taught me that smoking will kill you.

The only time I ever saw my father in a church was for a funeral or a wedding, but he was good man, a Godly man if there is such a thing. Did he believe in Heaven and Hell? I don’t know, but he lived a life worthy of Heaven if there is one.

He passed from this life on April 23, 1991.

Flying Machines Should Have Engines

There is a Glider Port in Blairstown, about 5 miles from our house. I just watched a small, single engine plane fly over towing a glider. A few minutes later I saw the same plane return, without the glider. I did catch a glimpse of the glider a moment later, on it's own.

To anyone who wants to go up in a glider I must ask, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR EVER LOVING MIND?"

Any flying machine that I go up in must have at the barest minimum one engine. I would prefer two or more but no less than one. It's not too much to ask.

How does one go about learning to fly a glider? Trial and error? Practice with balsa wood ones off the roof of your house first?

Do you have any control over where you are going? I somewhat understand Hot Air Balloons and following the air currents and frankly would go up in a balloon before I would a glider. At least as long as you have fuel, you have some control over the balloon, vertically speaking of course. Seems like you would have a little more say in where you would land as well. Not so with a glider. THERE IS NO FUEL. No fuel = no control.

Mother's Day

I’ve had the pleasure of spending this Mother’s Day weekend with my two grown daughters on a sort of road trip adventure which consisted of loading up a dorm room full of stuff into two SUV’s and heading home. My oldest lives in Boston and lent her new Jeep to the cause and we headed south to Virginia to bring my youngest home from college for the summer.

The weekend was special on several levels. Youngest was happy to show off her campus to her older sister, and show her sister off to her friends at school. She is quite proud of her school and her sister so for her it was special after three years to have them together, if even for a few hours. Elder sister is quite proud of her own accomplishments as well as how far her younger sister has come and was happy to lend a helping hand. It was good to see them working together and to see the love and respect that they have for each other. That alone was enough of a Mother’s Day present.

The South is a whole world apart from what my girls are used to, even though I was born and raised in Texas and my eldest was born there too. Let me say how much I love Virginia. It is a beautiful state. The Shenandoah Valley is breathtakingly beautiful in the spring and I was pleased to share this with my eldest for the first time. I’m not sure she was as impressed as I had hoped, as the great outdoors for her is best viewed from a downtown skyscraper. I for one love the rolling hills, the green pastures dotted with cattle, hip roofed barns, and rail fences. It isn’t a stretch of the imagination to see why early settlers went that far, parked the horse and wagon and decided to stay a while. I could be perfectly happy there too.

Saturday morning we sauntered into a local fast food establishment in Amherst, Virginia, two beautiful young butterflies and a moth. I noticed for the first time that my eldest was dressed from head to toe in clothing purchased entirely on her own, meaning with her own money. Not a stitch was purchased with dollars from mom and dad. I was proud. We were not over dressed for the task of packing, loading and driving that lay ahead of us, but by local standards we were as out of place as any Yankees could be. As we fluttered in, the moth and her two young butterflies, everyone in the place turned to stare. We went about ordering, etc, etc. as one does in such an establishment all the while aware that we were the most interesting thing to happen in a while. I’m not sure how we were more interesting than the man wearing overalls and waders or any of the many others in decidedly odd local attire but clearly we were. We weren’t wearing plaid. We weren’t wearing gimme caps or t-shirts. Our SUV’s in the parking lot had license plates from far off and exotic Yankee strongholds, New Jersey and Massachusetts. I guess I should be grateful all they did was stare. We may have been saved by my Texas accent that just won’t go away despite the fact I have been out of the state for the last 23 years.

We loaded up both vehicles and headed north, making it past the Mason-Dixon Line in early afternoon. The girls took turns driving one of the vehicles and I drove the other one, sometimes leading, sometimes following. It struck me as I drove on Interstate 81 that it was somewhat poetic. I took the lead as we left the school, leading my youngsters homeward. Somewhere along the way they took over and I followed, happy to let them lead me for a change. This was much like life; this lead and follow routine. As a parent I’ve done more leading, but it felt good to follow for a time, watching my grown daughters set the pace, decide when to make a move, when to hang back and let others go ahead. I found no fault with their decisions and was content to watch them fly ahead of me all the while knowing that they felt confident knowing that I was behind them all the way, ready to step up and take over the lead if they should falter.

It was a great Mother’s Day weekend. I think I learned something from spending this time with my girls. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant and flowers, but I couldn’t have asked for a better time.

P.S. – Thanks girls for the new camera! You know me too well.

Love to you all,
D.

Heading East

The time has come for me to pack up the wagon and head East for the summer. Thankfully my wagon will be a jet leaving out of LAX but the packing is just as much of a pain.

I'm sorry to be leaving Hubby, Betty(the dog) and my roses behind but my girls, swimming pool and almost six acres of lovely hardwood forest await me. You can ask me later how I'm getting along with the forest and the ongoing eradication of undergrowth. Give me a few weeks and I'm sure I'll be singing another tune!

Leaving the land of taco shops for the land of hot dog and ice cream stands. Fair trade? Maybe, maybe not.

I know I've missed seeing all of my hundreds of daffodils blooming but perhaps the dogwoods and the eastern redbud will still be in bloom, maybe some forsythia too. With some luck the azaleas survived the winter along with the butterfly bushes and rhododendrons.

I'm looking forward to lounging on the deck, watching the birds, deer, bears, turkeys, chipmunks and other assorted critters as I work on my rewrite of Over Exposed. Maybe I'll even get back on track with Ryder and Raine's story.

Happy Cinco de Mayo to all. I have to wonder about this dubious holiday which seems to have been created by Americans in order to have an excuse to eat copious amounts of Mexican food and drink Margaritas. To this I say - who needs an excuse?

Have a good one.
D.