tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45700742699608088752024-03-14T01:05:49.361-05:00SixtiesSisterUnique, often humorous take on life experiences and events from award-winning author and journalist, Jane Leder. The 60 something survivor of the 1960s (Whew!) rarely considers herself too seriously and encourages readers to "Take her advice because she's not using it."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-31772436234581854582015-04-20T20:13:00.000-05:002015-04-20T20:13:30.150-05:00Meaty Memoirs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had the great pleasure of meeting both Patricia (Patty as she likes to be called) Volk and Sonia Taitz yesterday at ORT's annual luncheon in Chicago. I arrived early, and the two authors were sitting in a corner of the large room at the Bryn Mawr Country Club where 300 women would eventually gather. </div>
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I had just finished reading <i>Shocked</i> for my book club and had been bowled over by the creative structure that Volk used to compare her mother ("the most beautiful woman in the world") and the inventive fashion maven Elsa Schiaparelli. The author had never met Schiaparelli but had read her memoir as a young girl. She was smitten and reread the book many decades later in researching her own memoir about a daughter's relationship with her mother and what set her mother apart from a woman like Schiaparelli.</div>
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So, I walked up to Patty, shook her hand, and waxed eloquent about how much the book moved me and how the structure blew me away. She seemed genuinely pleased, something I wouldn't necessary assume from an author whose book was reviewed by the <i>New York Times</i> as "a meditation on the plastic possibilities of womankind and a very special treat." </div>
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Maureen Corrigan, NPR Books, had this to say:</div>
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http://www.npr.org/2013/04/02/175585315/minks-perfume-and-beastly-beauty-in-shocked<br />
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"Did your mother read at least the galleys of the book before she died?" I asked.<br />
"No," Volk said. "I couldn't have written it while she was alive."<br />
"That's a problem <i>I'm</i> having. How do you write about family and friends when they are still around and risk offending them or ending the relationship? Maybe you can address that when you speak later today."<br />
"Yes, and if I forget, please ask me that question during the Q&A."<br />
There was no Q&A, but Volk began her talk by asking the woman who had asked her about writing memoirs to raise her hand.<br />
I proudly raised mine. She'd remembered.<br />
And even though she'd said earlier that she couldn't have written her memoir while her mother was alive, she took a very different stance this time around. "Write whatever you want. Don't care whether or not you hurt someone's feelings. Tell the truth."<br />
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Now I hadn't read Taitz's T<i>he Watchmaker's Daughter</i> but immediately plopped down my money before walking to her and Volk. I didn't want to offend her.<br />
I was honest. "I bought your book and am looking forward to reading it. Judy Levin whom I think you've met recommended that everyone in our book club pick it up."<br />
I handed her the book. <br />
"Would you please sign it for me?"<br />
Taitz picked up the pen she had at the ready and, having seen my name on my name tag, wrote "To Jane. Enjoy!"<br />
And enjoy I have. I've plowed through half of the book and didn't put it down later on Sunday when the Chicago Blackhawks played their third game against the Nashville Predators. And I'm a big Blackhawks' fan.<br />
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Like Volk, Tatiz has written a mesmerizing memoir. Her parents, both of whom are Holocaust survivors, came to the U.S. where Tatiz was born. Straddling the worlds of both the Old Country ad the New, Ziddish versus English, Tatiz manages to find her place while keeping her heritage alive.<br />
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I have a lot of work to do.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-82083214846436901042015-04-15T14:55:00.000-05:002015-04-15T14:55:36.166-05:00WHY DO I WRITE: MONEY or JOY?<div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #555555; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 1.2em; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“This is an industry that is really built on people’s hopes and dreams. Authors write books for all different kinds of reasons. In the past, we were seeing that more of the authors were talking about building their careers and telling their stories. Those were the key things that they were interested in, and fulfilling a lifelong ambition by publishing a book,” Weinberg notes. “This year, what we saw was that more of the authors were very interested in making money, and this was also one of the top priorities. People this year expressed a more career-focused kind of perspective. They were interested in publishing books and building a reputation, and of course in making money.”</div>
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<a href="http://www.digitalbookworld.com/" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; color: #006699; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Digital Book World</a> and <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #006699; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Writer’s Digest</a></em>Author Survey </div>
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Wow! More authors interested in making money! Imagine that!<br />
Hey, writers need to make a living, too. <br />
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But for those of us "retired" folks who have scraped together enough money to keep afloat, writing is no longer about the financial pay off . . . probably never was. Because, let's face it: Only a fraction of authors make it big . . . And I mean big.<br />
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Authors like J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, John Grisham rake in millions and millions.<br />
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But the rest of us? Well, it's often a struggle. How many times have you heard about the budding writer who holds down a full-time job and writes at night or early in the morning? <br />
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Plenty.<br />
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Some of those writers have miraculous stories to tell about suddenly writing a best seller.<br />
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Alas, most do not.<br />
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So, why write? Here are some of my reasons. Please share yours.<br />
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I write because I must.<br />
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I write because I have something to say about something I feel passionate about.<br />
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I write because the journey winds in miraculous ways.<br />
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I write because I want to share the stories of extraordinary people and, sometimes, my own.<br />
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I write because I hope my readers will laugh, cry, learn, and act.<br />
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I write because I learn something new every day.<br />
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I write because the challenge consumes me.<br />
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I write because it's just plain fun.<br />
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If you respond with your list, I'll publish them all over social media. <br />
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Can't wait!<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-19603021631593340722015-04-13T10:18:00.001-05:002015-04-13T10:18:36.852-05:00A Baby Boomer's LamentAt the risk of offending my younger (make that much younger) friends and family, I just don't get this selfie thing; in fact, I don't understand the whole "smart" phone deal, either.<br />
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Sure, I use a cell phone to google some important piece of information (Who is the actress who stars in "Madame Secretary?), to call folks, to get directions, even to access my emails.<br />
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But I don't use my cell while I'm walking with a companion, having dinner with friends, or to take selfies anywhere I happen to be. In fact, I don't take selfies at all. I mean, okay . . . If I ran into, say, Gloria Steinem or Mary Karr, even a hunk like Paul Newman when he was still alive, I might be inclined.<br />
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But at an intimate dinner --- indeed, an anniversary outing --- with my husband? <br />
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That's exactly what happened a while back. A young woman with long black hair and already tons of makeup, took out her mirror, combed her hair, blotted her lipstick and starting taking selfies while her husband sat there, silent. I have to wonder what he was thinking. Was this self-centered wife of his really so stuck on herself instead of him?<br />
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Call me old fashioned. But don't people spend time together so they can share stories, worries, future plans? You know, that age-old art of conversation? If not, why do they bother spending time together at all? </div>
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When we Boomers wanted to see a friend, we didn't put our phones on the table, available at a second's notice to answer a call, check an email, read a text. </div>
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Okay, so we didn't have cell phones back then in the dark ages. Ma Bell was still in business. And if we needed to make an important call, we'd go to a pay phone or phone booth, put it our change, and dial. And that we did in private, aside from those crazies who squeezed into a phone booth to set a Guinness record.</div>
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Our conversations were private to be shared with the person on the other end of the line. We didn't want strangers on a bus or train or walking down the street to hear what we had to say. And we certainly didn't want to be rude by talking on the phone when with friends or family.</div>
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Alas, I think society has gone around the bend with no chance to return. Tech companies will continue to introduce even more devices, more apps, more programs to allow users to "plug in" anytime, anywhere.</div>
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My solution? Declare a mandatory 24-hour moratorium on the use of any and all cell phones. Those who break this "Day of Rest" will face a $100 fine. Then we'll see a pause in the world of immediate gratification and maybe some face-to-face communication that encourages eye contact, a bit more privacy and, yes, a bit less invasive chatter.</div>
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The only problem: A new class of addicted citizens who will require immediate care.</div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-61905156895934352122015-04-10T17:34:00.000-05:002015-04-10T17:34:37.560-05:00Another Decade, Another Blog<div class="titlewrapper" style="background-color: #882222; color: seashell; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.7999992370605px; padding: 22px 30px;">
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SixtiesSister</h1>
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Unique, often humorous take on life experiences and events from award-winning author and journalist, Jane Leder. The 60 something survivor of the 1960s (Whew!) rarely considers herself too seriously and encourages readers to "Take her advice because she's not using it.</div>
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Get a good look at my blog name and its description. Why? Because in a matter of months, I'll no longer be a SixtiesSister.</div>
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Nope. I'll cross the proverbial line from one decade to the next and will have to either come up with a new title that has nothing to do with age (That sounds like the best idea) or create something catchy like SexySeventies or SeventySomething, or SeventyIsTheNewFifty. (Someone told me that the other day. My question to her was, "At what point can we safely admit that we're just plain old?")<br />
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Like other Boomers who are about to take the plunge, I can't believe that it was . . . (picture me covering my mouth and mumbling to myself) years since we did all that great stuff from marching against war and for civil/feminist rights, going door to door in support of Eugene McCarthy's run for President, discovering the Beatles, eating a lot of ice cream after imbibing on a Saturday night, experiencing the deaths of two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, saying "no" to just about everything our parents stood for, watching "Woodstock" and so wishing we'd been there, committing ourselves to our chosen professions but never hesitating to have a good time . . .<br />
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I often yearn for those times when everything seemed possible, when the naysayers were in the minority.</div>
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Computers, cell phones, eMail, social media hadn't yet been invented. We actually wrote letters, talked on the phone, and talked to one another. (Oh, brother! Now I'm sounding like my parents. Blah, blah, blah.)<br />
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But we were more personally connected. <br />
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We were more optimistic.<br />
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We believed in change. (Not the b.s. we hear during every local/national political campaign.)<br />
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I could go on, but you get the point: The Sixties rocked. <i> My</i> sixties rocked. <br />
If you have a suggestion for my new blog name, please send it my way.<br />
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Peace and love.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-82516866230537561922015-04-08T12:26:00.000-05:002015-04-08T12:26:02.383-05:00Forgetting How Old We Are<div class="storytitle" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: none; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 15px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline; width: auto;">
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March 4, 2014; Washington, D.C. – Carl Kasell, the famed voice of NPR News for three decades turned comedy star of <em style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!</em>, has announced he's stepping down this spring after a five-decade career in broadcasting. Kasell will record his final broadcast for <em style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!</em> this spring; celebration shows are planned in the show's home city of Chicago, and in Washington, D.C.</div>
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<span style="font-style: inherit;">Carl has been gone from "</span><i>Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!" </i>for over a month. But we were in Mexico and missed the news and his final show.</div>
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When I turned the radio dial to 91.5 Saturday morning upon our return, I was surprised to hear the voice of Bill Curtis. I would know that voice anywhere. Curtis has been a media staple in Chicago for decades.</div>
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But I was confused. Where was Carl? Ill? On vacation? He couldn't be off the show for good. His voice on a winning contestant's phone message remained the grand (and only) prize.</div>
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For several weeks, I listened to "Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!" No Carl. </div>
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Just this morning, my husband, his family from Ann Arbor, and I were hanging in the kitchen. My husband spun one of his exaggerated tales.</div>
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"You know," I said. "That reminds me of the stories on . . . the NPR show. What's the name?"</div>
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"'Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me!'" </div>
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"Right. It's the time in the program when each panelist reads a supposed news snippet about a most improbable event. It's the contestant's job to somehow guess which one is true."</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;">I turned to my husband's cousin and his wife. "So, your challenge is to decide whether what this esposo of mine says is true or not."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;">Everyone laughed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;">"Whatever happened to Carl Kasell?" I said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;">"He retired," my husband said. "I think he's ill. He's 75. What do you expect?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;">"Well, my dear," I said. "You turn 72 this year!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.70588;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I recognized the voice of Bill Curtis straight away. After all, he's been a media staple in Chicago for decades. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"Why is Curtis doing the show?" I asked. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-57454437023329023322015-04-06T19:06:00.001-05:002015-04-06T19:06:51.528-05:00Years Flying by<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zqFXfP4fIuw/VSMaj5Kk7UI/AAAAAAAAApE/S6t6TwK1h5M/s1600/Screen%2Bshot%2B2015-04-06%2Bat%2B6.42.21%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zqFXfP4fIuw/VSMaj5Kk7UI/AAAAAAAAApE/S6t6TwK1h5M/s1600/Screen%2Bshot%2B2015-04-06%2Bat%2B6.42.21%2BPM.png" height="320" width="22" /></a></div>
<br />
Every time I have to fill in my birthdate online by scrolling down the years, the exercise rudely reminds me of the years behind me and the decreasing years ahead. <br />
<br />
The whole process brings my mortality into clear focus. I realize how many folks are younger than I am and am shocked that I've gotten so old! Well, maybe not SO old but old nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Where has the time gone? Sure, we've all asked ourselves that question many times. But now I REALLY mean "Where has the time gone?" And how much do I have left?<br />
<br />
Initially, the whole business freaks me out. Then I breathe deeply, close my eyes, and say to myself, "Okay, if you stay healthy and don't get hit by a bus or die at the hands of some lunatic who flies a plane into the side of a mountain, you may have a good 20 years or so." My parents both lived into their early 90s and, so why shouldn't I?<br />
<br />
Then I choose a twenty-year period in my life, say from my 50th birthday onward or from the day I married the second time around until the publication of my second book. Wow, I think. A lot went down between those marker events. So, yippee, I've got a lot more stuff to look forward to.<br />
<br />
I guess I should think about compiling the proverbial "Bucket List" and all those things I want to do before I kick the bucket. Somehow, that seems a bit too daunting. I'd rather just let things play out as they may and take my chances. <br />
<br />
And the next time I'm asked to complete an online form by filling in my date of birth, I think I'll opt not to sign up for that online app or apply for that loan. I'll print out the damn form and actually fill in the blank by hand. Imagine that!<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-6793005305198956662015-03-27T10:24:00.002-05:002015-03-27T10:24:47.150-05:00Youth Suicide: What To Do About It?The following article appeared in the April 26, 2015 edition of <i>the Chicago Tribune.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-crystal-lake-teen-suicide-met-20150324-story.html#page=1</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<h1 class="trb_article_title_text" itemprop="name" style="display: inline; font-size: 44px; font-weight: 400;">
Officials: Crystal Lake teen suicides highlight prudence needed in response</h1>
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<figure class="trb_embed_imageContainer_figure" data-role="imgsize_item" imgheight="450" imgratio="16x9" imgwidth="750" style="background-color: black; clear: left; float: none; height: 0px; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px 0px 405px; position: relative; width: 721.4375px;"><img alt="Memorial for suicide victim" class="trb_embed_imageContainer_img" data-baseurl="http://www.trbimg.com/img-55120cc6/turbine/ct-ct-ct-mchenry-suicide-prevention13-jpg-20150324" data-content-naturalheight="1365" data-content-naturalwidth="2048" data-height="450" data-ratio="16x9" data-width="750" itemprop="image" src="http://www.trbimg.com/img-55120cc6/turbine/ct-ct-ct-mchenry-suicide-prevention13-jpg-20150324/750/750x422" style="border: none; bottom: 0px; display: block; float: none; left: 0px; margin: auto !important; max-height: 100.699996948242%; max-width: 100.699996948242%; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px !important; position: absolute; right: 0px; top: 0px; width: auto !important;" title="Memorial for suicide victim" /></figure><div class="trb_embed_related" data-role="lightbox_metadata" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;">
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Relatives of a suicide victim straighten a memorial in Canterbury Park in Crystal Lake on March 19, 2015. (Stacey Wescott, Chicago Tribune)</div>
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</aside></div>
<div class="trb_bylines" style="background-color: white; display: inline-block; float: none; font-stretch: normal; margin: 0px 20px 30px 0px; width: auto;">
<span class="trb_bylines_name_primary" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold;"><span class="trb_bylines_name_author" style="color: #666666; display: inline-block;"><span class="trb_bylines_name_author_by" style="padding-right: 3px;">By </span><span itemprop="author">Amanda Marrazzo</span> and <a class="trb_bylines_name_author_a" href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/chi-lisa-black-staff.html" itemprop="author" style="color: #144a7c; text-decoration: none;">Lisa Black</a></span></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400;">Chicago Tribune</span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400;"><br /></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;">http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-crystal-lake-teen-suicide-met-20150324-story.html#page=1</i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;"><br /></i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400; text-align: center;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;">As the author of a book about youth suicide that I wrote many years ago and recently reissued as an eBook on Amazon and Bublish.com, I didn't know how to respond. Should I call the designated staff at the Crystal Lake Schools and share my book and the possibility of making it available to interested teens, teachers, and parents? </i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400; text-align: center;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;">Or is that a tacky way to "sell" copies of my book?</i></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l7gl0fqaMc0/VRV1uzyAA_I/AAAAAAAAAoU/xEAHD6uO8Hc/s1600/51RmD4KHrfL._BO2%2C204%2C203%2C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%2CTopRight%2C0%2C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%2CBottomRight%2C1%2C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l7gl0fqaMc0/VRV1uzyAA_I/AAAAAAAAAoU/xEAHD6uO8Hc/s1600/51RmD4KHrfL._BO2%2C204%2C203%2C200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big%2CTopRight%2C0%2C-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4%2CBottomRight%2C1%2C22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400; text-align: center;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;"><br /></i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="color: #999999; display: block; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: 400;"><i style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium;"><br /></i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="display: block; text-align: center;"><i>https://www.bublish.com/bubble/stream/3579?share=</i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="display: block; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></span><span class="trb_bylines_name_publication" itemprop="publisher" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Organization" style="display: block; text-align: center;"><i>I'm still debating.</i></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-27044183234787875642015-03-19T11:20:00.001-05:002015-03-19T11:20:18.415-05:00The Mythologized Story of Our Births - Part One<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">All children mythologize their birth. It
is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him
to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be
a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Diane
Sutterfield,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Thirteenth
Tale</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141413;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="color: #141413; font-size: 11.0pt;">The story of my birth on July 25, 1945,
a few weeks before the Americans dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and six
months before the official start of the “Baby Boom,” has morphed into a drama
of heroic proportions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, maybe
not heroic but courageous, gallant, determined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was, after all, a time of war when ordinary people lived
extraordinary lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no
doubt that over the years the details have been exaggerated, even modified to
provoke suspicion in the minds of the most trusting of souls. What if the story
has been mythologized?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not
the truth that matters but the persistent memories that count. Memories are
like the whispered words in a game of “Telephone.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the last player repeats the words out loud, they
are nothing like the original.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fluidity of the game mimics the ever-changing stories of our lives—stories that
create reflections of the past and decisions in the future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141413; font-size: 11.0pt;">STAY TUNED FOR PART 2</span></div>
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<span style="color: #141413; font-size: 11.0pt;">And do share your birth story with me below.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-46302704625072529902015-03-11T15:38:00.000-05:002015-03-11T15:38:05.834-05:00The Little Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Maybe I'm trying to rationalize my return from two months in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. <br />
Perhaps it's the leave taking of delightful weather, speaking Spanish, taking yoga from the best instructor I've ever had. <br />
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Or maybe it's the festivity of the place. The fiestas left and right. The chance to just let it rip.<br />
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But there are the little things I won't miss . . . the things one has to put up with when traveling in a foreign country like Mexico:<br />
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* The cobblestone streets that look charming (see above photo) but that make walking a challenge. Sturdy shoes and head down required.<br />
* The lack of central heating. January and February mornings and evenings can be rather chilly. The temperature can drop into the 30s. But there's no thermostat to dial up. Nope. It's a gas fireplace(s), small electric heaters, piles of blankets, multiple layers of clothing . . . Still, with all of these accoutrements, there's no guarantee that you'll be warm.<br />
* The water, when sipped from the tap or accidentally used to wash fruits and vegetables, that often leads to "Montezuma's Revenge." Bacteria. A parasite. Who knows? But gulping down a cool glass of tap water is a no-no. Eating fruits and vegetables that have not been washed in aqua purificado is also a big no-no. And, dear me. Don't dare swishing water after brushing your teeth or you risk spending a good deal of your vacation on the toilet.<br />
* The signs in most bathrooms, public and private, plead for you not to flush toilet paper but to put it in the available can or waste paper basket. Now, I don't know about you, but the idea of putting used toilet paper in an often open container doesn't smell right. <br />
* Ah, and speaking of smells, it's the polluted canal that runs through the city that sends visitors and locals alike for cover, or, at least, a pair of hands over nose and mouth. I've actually seen those in the know wear those face masks that are most appropriate for working in a hospital, not walking down a charming but smelly street.<br />
* While I'm at it, I have to mention the casa-shaking noise after every toilet flush (okay, we cheat and flush), every hand wash and definitely after bath or shower. One night someone forgot to release the toilet handle, and we were bombarded all night long until my husband dragged himself out of bed, followed the noise, and lifted the handle. <br />
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My friends will kill me if they ever read this blog (They won't!) and all of my complaints. After all, they were stuck in Chicago and suffered bone-chilling temperatures, dark, gloomy days, and piles of snow that required shoveling from morning until night. <br />
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What right do I have to complain about minor inconveniences? I guess it all depends on your perspective.<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-84017146670437336172015-03-01T09:42:00.000-06:002015-03-01T09:42:09.426-06:00Friendship Here I am in beautiful San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, consumed by finding a vacation rental for 2016 and what I see as the end of a friendship.<br />
I met Alice (I'll call her that) and her husband in a Spanish class five years ago. We became fast buddies and shared not only our desire to learn a second language but art, travel, food, and a love for the Mexican culture. She and her husband were finishing the renovation of their casa in San Miguel and already talking about sending more time away from their home in the frozen tundra of the north.<br />
The next year, Alice and I became Spanish buddies and helped each other learn irregular verbs, direct and indirect objects, expressions not found in any Spanish books.<br />
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I looked forward to our classes and to the social time we spent together --- enjoying Mexican restaurants, sipping wine on their terrace with a view of all of San Miguel, traveling to Lake Patzcuaro and beyond. Alice and her husband were two of the most laid back, take-it-as-it-comes people we'd met in a long time. We appreciated their patience and apparent lack of major stress.<br />
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Then things changed. We remained Spanish buddies but spent less and less time together socially. I was hurt. Confused. Didn't understand why our friendship had changed. <br />
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When I asked her about this and why, for example after bumping into them with another couple at the cine but not invited to join them for dinner, she became stiff, distant. "I refuse to play the high school game." I took that to mean that she was uninterested, annoyed at having to consider my feelings and unwilling to have me or anyone else suggest that she ought to be loyal or cage herself with one group or another. <br />
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No matter the "I" statements I gave, she didn't budge. No matter the "I" statements about how we valued her friendship, she wasn't moved. Never once did she acknowledge my feelings. <br />
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And this year during our two months in Mexico, nothing has changed. Alice seems to see our time together working with a Spanish tutor as the extent of our friendship. There have been no dinners, no drinks on the terrace, no jaunts outside of town. Oh, there have been empty invitations from both Alice and her husband. "We really should get together." "We bought a new case of wine. You should share some of it with us." And so it goes. We have one week left before returning to the frozen tundra and have not once spent any time outside of class.<br />
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So, how have I juggled my hurt and frustration? I left our class together and am working alone with our tutor. I wait to respond to her emails and make them short and sweet. Even when she "vented" (her word) in a recent email about all the decisions she has to make to expand a second home with gardens the size of a small botanical and the apparent stress between her and her husband, I didn't respond. Yes, I thought about it. I even penned a draft. But it's remained unsent.<br />
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It pains me that I have been so disappointed, so hurt. I'm almost 70 years old and should be spending my time on more important things. But good friendships are hard to make the older I get, and I sure thought mine with Alice would last and grow.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-35516115945093687722015-02-27T08:42:00.001-06:002015-02-27T08:42:57.782-06:00San Miguel de Allende, Mexico<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Getting out of Chicago's winter for two months has saved me from Seasonal Affective Depression and made my life so much richer. If only I could stay another month and avoid what is turning out to be one of the coldest and snowiest Februarys in the Windy City. But no such luck. </div>
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This is our fifth consecutive year in San Miguel de Allende. What a treat! I've learned Spanish, met other Gringos and engaging Mexicans, traveled to several other cities, attended the annual writers' conference, and just plain hung out in what is now the glorious sun.</div>
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Yesterday, my husband, son, and I took a day-long trip to Canada de la Virgen, pyramids occupied between 540 A.D. and 1050 A.D. and opened to the public just a few years back. With Albert, our engaging guide, we walked the same path the Otomi walked all those years ago up to the currently excavated site. The climb was a breeze in comparison to many of the hikes up streets in San Miguel, but the steps leading to and from the center vortex of one of the pyramids were narrow and steep. Like many of the others in our group, I clung for dear life on the way down. But I'm here to tell the tale.</div>
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After three hours of touring, we returned to the bus that took us to a nearby ranch where we were served a hearty lunch of rice, beans, potatoes with cheese, chili rellenos, quesadillas, a homemade cheese, corn and flour tortillas. Delicious but not the best for a dairy intolerant woman like me.</div>
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Today I'm off to Spanish class and to meet a friend who quite unexpectedly showed up in town. We haven't seen other for probably 30 years!</div>
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We're in the midst of a hunt for a place to rent for next year. It's not easy. Ever since Conde Nast named San Miguel one of the best cities to live on the entire planet, folks are flocking here and making us "regulars" search high and lo. Keep your fingers crossed. The last thing on my wish list is to weather a Chicago winter!</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-58764070338899729142014-12-12T15:34:00.001-06:002014-12-12T15:34:51.311-06:00A Day To Remember<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I opened my calendar this morning and stared at the date. December 11. There was something I was supposed to remember or do or start. Why hadn't I added it to my Spanish class at 9 a.m. and my physical therapy appointment at 11:30 a.m.? That wasn't like me to forget items on my daily "To Do" list.<br />
I sat at my desk, staring at the calendar. I don't know: Maybe I thought this book of reminders would jog my memory. Power up those synapses which, I must admit, have been a bit unreliable lately. (Soon, I'll have to change the name of my blog.)<br />
Gracias a Dios! I remembered how to say "Thank God" in Spanish AND why this day rang a bell: My parents' wedding anniversary. Married in 1940, they would have sealed the vows they made to each other seventy-four years ago. The Great Depression had just ended. World War II was just around the bend.<br />
Now I can be forgiven for the lapse in memory. My parents have been dead for more than six years. First, my mother, then my father three weeks later. (Check out my post on August 21, 2008 for more details. Or hold your breath for my memoir still under construction.) Just like that, no more anniversaries or birthdays to celebrate. No longer necessary to buy a card, a present, or to pull out the worm scrapbook with the faded wedding photos.<br />
Still, the memory persists and so does the emptiness of losing both parents in such a short time. <br />
Around their wedding anniversary, my husband and I would pack our bags and head to sunny Florida where my parents lived, first in a Gulf-side condo on Longboat Key, then in a state-of-the-art senior high rise in Sarasota. ("Now, I can't predict the weather," my mom learned to say. She didn't want me to be disappointed. We were coming from the Midwest where winter had most likely already descended.) <br />
The four of us would toast with a glass of sherry before dining at an exclusive restaurant my parents were excited to share. Their anniversary was a ritual, one that provided a sense of continuity and a meaningful past and hopeful future.<br />
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For their 44th, my mom and dad took the entire family to the Galapagos Islands, then up into the Ecuadorian Andes. My son, then eleven, can still mimic the whistle of the blue-footed Boobies and the huff hisses of the largest, most colorful iguanas in the world.<br />
In advance of their 65th wedding anniversary, our family traveled to France where my younger brother owned and ran a gites in the village of Villeferry, 90 minutes out of Paris by fast train. If my mother had had her way, she and my dad might have retired there. But by then, my dad's traveling days were over, and my mother had to settle for a part-time move to Ohio to be closer to my sister and me.<br />
Today, I booted up my iPhoto and savored every saved photo of my parents. Photos taken in France. Scanned photos of my mother and me when I was a newborn. Photos of my dad and my son riding a tractor and cutting the lawn. Shots of my mother giving a toast at my first of two engagement parties. Images of family gatherings, three generations casually enjoying a summer day on Walnut Lake . . . And the last photos. My mom lying in bed with oxygen tubes in each nostril . . . My dad sitting outside on a bench, old and defeated. He wanted to die first, but it didn't work out that way.<br />
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Here's to you, mom and dad. I raise a glass of sherry and sure as hell wish you were here.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-62443356666134855052014-11-30T09:03:00.001-06:002014-11-30T09:06:01.810-06:00What A Difference A Wig Makes<br />
I have a friend (I'll call her Sabrina) who is no slouch. She earned an BS in Mathematics and a PhD in Biological Psychology at the University of Chicago. Sabrina is one of the country's leading experts on shift work, human circadian jet lag, sleep, and circadian rhythms. She may know more about circadian rhythms than the majority of us combined, but her knowledge of rhythms in general has proved sorely lacking.<br />
Until last night.<br />
As a guest at an annual Thanksgiving dinner that traditionally progresses into a raucous dance party, Sabrina shocked us all when she donned a long, black wig that had been plopped on top of an African sculpture, and bounded onto the dance floor. There, she pranced and shimmied and shook to the music like she'd been dancing with abandon her entire life.<br />
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Her husband of some 32 years had never seen her shake her booty in the over three decades they'd been a married couple. He's a quiet, undemonstrative kind of guy who sat there with a slight grin on his face, the only sign of his approving amusement.<br />
"Grab your camera," I yelled to my husband. "Sabrina is wearing a wig and dancing!"<br />
Alan did as he was told, grabbed his cell phone, and stood in amazement. Sabrina was an academic who liked her alcohol on the week ends but had never once gotten off her duff to dance, not even a little boogie down the hallway when she was sure no one was watching.<br />
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The wig was magic. It gave her cover. Like an actress assuming a role very different from her natural personality, Sabrina became a newly-invented person Whatever fear she'd had about displaying this playful, rhythmic part of herself melted like the ice cream on top of the pumpkin pie. For over an hour, Sabrina danced in the living room, sashayed around the dining room table, returned to the make-shift dance area to sometimes partner with another dancer or to boogie by herself.<br />
Several times, she tired, removed the wig, and sat back down.<br />
After a brief rest during which we encouraged her to get up and back on the dance floor, she jumped out her chair, replaced the long, black wig or chose instead a white out-of-control Afro, and hit the dance floor.<br />
"Alan," I yelled. "She's at it again."<br />
Alan ran back to the living room, and the two of us stood there mesmerized as we watched our friend whom we thought we knew emerge from her self-imposed cocoon. <br />
Sabrina held onto the Afro wig throughout the rest of the evening. She carried it everywhere.<br />
At the end of the evening when Sabrina and her husband bundled up in their winter coats and hats, our host and owner of the wig offered it to Sabrina. "I'd like you to have the wig."<br />
"No, that's okay," said Sabrina. "Save it for next Thanksgiving."<br />
Was she going to wait a whole year before letting go? Was she going to retreat to her studious life in which she spent hours and hours researching and writing grants? Would she travel the world to speak at conferences and never show her love of other kinds of rhythms?<br />
It seemed so.<br />
And while I honored her decision, it seemed a damn shame.<br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-43934807981766910632014-11-23T16:10:00.000-06:002014-11-23T16:10:08.298-06:00Seeing Purple<br />
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Rhoda,
her white fluffy bangs covering the top rims of her glasses, bent over me and
tweaked the arrangement of my bolsters, blocks, and blanket. It was a somewhat complicated design—
one I’d not seen before. The one
bolster I’d put horizontally across my yoga mat wasn’t quite low enough to
support the bolster that balanced on top and ran parallel to my spine. The two blocks on either side of the
mat on which I was to place my hands as I might on the arms of a lounge chair
failed to (support) my wrists, an apparent essential in the pose. Once the props and I were resituated,
Rhoda walked to the prop room and returned with an eye mask filled with
malleable flax seed that, once placed, molded over my forehead, eyes, and upper
cheek bones like one of those bean bag chairs so trendy in the 1970s. <span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
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guide you through to begin,” Rhoda said.
“Then you can continue on your own.”</div>
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I
didn’t like guided meditation. (I
still don’t). I wanted to do my
own thing which usually meant repeating the mantra I’d been given after taking
a transcendental meditation class soon after my first seizure. It didn’t matter that over the years
I’d bastardized the two supposedly sacred words chosen just for me and repeated
over and over two sounds that changed from one session to the next. Marahirsi Mahesh Yogi would not have
been pleased. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PBovRtjIhiI/VHJaLMruDxI/AAAAAAAAAj8/EQYBtd3KSg8/s1600/imgres-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PBovRtjIhiI/VHJaLMruDxI/AAAAAAAAAj8/EQYBtd3KSg8/s1600/imgres-3.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
That
day, I gave in to Rhoda’s soothing but strong guidance as she encouraged
relaxing every part of my body from my feet to my belly, from my chest to my
third eye, the spot above the forehead believed to be the link between the
physical and spiritual worlds. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Now, I’m not sure I understand exactly what the means but often when I
close my eyes, focus on my third eye, and concentrate on the in and out of my
breathing, I see vivid purple which, I’m told is a “spiritual” color and, as it
turns out, my mother’s favorite.
Whenever I “see” purple, I visualize her purple bedspread, purple
stripes in the matching sofa fabric, the purple placements on the oak table,
the purple bath towels, the bathroom rugs, and, most vividly, the purple silk
pajamas my mother wore the day she died. Now more than six years after her death, I’m convinced
that she’s still hovering about, keeping an eye on me just as I imagined she
would after noticing that half-opened eye of hers that wouldn’t close.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Enveloped
in purple and open to silence and thoughts, I flashed to the evenings long ago
when, before going to sleep, I would bury my head in my pillow and “see” all
colors, designs, and little people. All these years later, I don’t remember much about these little people. It
doesn’t matter. These special
friends were my secret and not to be shared. They made me feel special. They provided something I could count on night after
night. They lulled me to
sleep. I imagine shrinks
could have a field day analyzing what holes in my life I was trying to fill or
from what traumas I was trying to escape.
So, let them have their fun.
As far as I see it, my night visions fueled a vivid imagination that has
served me well. </div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
now all has come full circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
a sixty-nine-year-old student of yoga who lies on two purple bolsters with an eye
mask over my eyes instead of a pillow and reconnects to a peace and sense of
wonder that was me then and me now. </div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-43727610072616983912014-11-22T09:54:00.000-06:002014-11-22T09:54:11.269-06:00HGTV ADDICT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnajQY57lTY/VHCgltbyJaI/AAAAAAAAAjg/J2bUq1H_hEg/s1600/imgres-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnajQY57lTY/VHCgltbyJaI/AAAAAAAAAjg/J2bUq1H_hEg/s1600/imgres-2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Okay, with my tail between my legs, I fess up: I'm an HGTV addict. When politics get too upsetting (and there's a lot of upset these days), I flip to "The Property Brothers." When the weather is gloomy and I want to feel better, I switch to "Love It or List It" where the ground is often covered in snow (It's Canada, after all) and the hosts and homeowners are usually bundled up against the cold. If I need another escape to the promise of warmer weather, "Beachfront Bargains" gives me hope that I, too, might be able to afford digs on a sandy beach somewhere in the southern U.S. (Though as someone who overdosed on sun as a young girl, the beach thing is probably not a good idea.)<br />
<br />
My husband is ashamed that his wife is addicted. He is convinced that I've lost it and need treatment or an intervention. He catches me at all times day and night sitting in front of the TV, absorbed in the tearing out of kitchen cabinets and counters, knocking down interior walls, redoing en suite bathrooms. I've added "open concept" to my everyday vocabulary and bemoan the fact that our 1864 home doesn't quite qualify. We actually have walls and doors and can close off our kitchen from the living and dining rooms. I'm convinced that no one will want to buy our house. <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOXOZ5uP6pA/VHCkdBOahMI/AAAAAAAAAjs/bwzPRnqRY6g/s1600/imgres-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOXOZ5uP6pA/VHCkdBOahMI/AAAAAAAAAjs/bwzPRnqRY6g/s1600/imgres-1.jpg" /></a></div>
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There's something weird about my addiction to "Love It or List It." I secretly hope that the homebuyers will decide to sell their home in favor of the new one that David has shown them. (Maybe it's my penchant for rooting for the underdog. After all, who wants to go through the hassle of moving when the neighborhood is in your desired location, it's a 10-minute drive to work, and the school system is one of the best? David has an uphill battle.) Now, I do get sick of his standard patter that never seems to change: "And here we have your lovely 4-piece bathroom." "And step into your new man cave." OR "I have one more listing to show you, and it's yours." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Yes, the format can get old but, like all addictions, I'm hooked and can't stop myself from watching. Maybe it's the voyeur in me: The need to vicariously stick my nose into the homes of strangers. Perhaps the addiction stems from seeing in reality what I cannot have and doing what I can to stem the pain. I'm not sure but, for me (and, it seems for many of my closeted HDTV addicts), HDTV makes my trying times a bit more tolerable.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Oh, and did I mention that my husband is a cooking show and Anthony Bourdain addict?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-21069357116135579312014-11-22T09:53:00.002-06:002014-11-22T09:53:43.269-06:00Addicted to HDTV<div class="navbar section" id="navbar" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: center;">
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SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2014</h2>
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<a href="http://sixtiessister.blogspot.com/2014/11/hgtv-addict.html" style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none;">HGTV ADDICT</a></h3>
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<br /><br /> Okay, with my tail between my legs, I fess up: I'm an HGTV addict. When politics get too upsetting (and there's a lot of upset these days), I flip to "The Property Brothers." When the weather is gloomy and I want to feel better, I switch to "Love It or List It" where the ground is often covered in snow (It's Canada, after all) and the hosts and homeowners are usually bundled up against the cold. If I need another escape to the promise of warmer weather, "Beachfront Bargains" gives me hope that I, too, might be able to afford digs on a sandy beach somewhere in the southern U.S. (Though as someone who overdosed on sun as a young girl, the beach thing is probably not a good idea.)<br /><br /> My husband is ashamed that his wife is addicted. He is convinced that I've lost it and need treatment or an intervention. He catches me at all times day and night sitting in front of the TV, absorbed in the tearing out of kitchen cabinets and counters, knocking down interior walls, redoing en suite bathrooms. I've added "open concept" to my everyday vocabulary and bemoan the fact that our 1864 home doesn't quite qualify. We actually have walls and doors and can close off our kitchen from the living and dining rooms. I'm convinced that no one will want to buy our house.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOXOZ5uP6pA/VHCkdBOahMI/AAAAAAAAAjs/bwzPRnqRY6g/s1600/imgres-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #223344; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GOXOZ5uP6pA/VHCkdBOahMI/AAAAAAAAAjs/bwzPRnqRY6g/s1600/imgres-1.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(187, 187, 187); margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 4px;" /></a></div>
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There's something weird about my addiction to "Love It or List It." I secretly hope that the homebuyers will decide to sell their home in favor of the new one that David has shown them. (Maybe it's my penchant for rooting for the underdog. After all, who wants to go through the hassle of moving when the neighborhood is in your desired location, it's a 10-minute drive to work, and the school system is one of the best? David has an uphill battle.) Now, I do get sick of his standard patter that never seems to change: "And here we have your lovely 4-piece bathroom." "And step into your new man cave." OR "I have one more listing to show you, and it's yours." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Yes, the format can get old but, like all addictions, I'm hooked and can't stop myself from watching. Maybe it's the voyeur in me: The need to vicariously stick my nose into the homes of strangers. Perhaps the addiction stems from seeing in reality what I cannot have and doing what I can to stem the pain. I'm not sure but, for me (and, it seems for many of my closeted HDTV addicts), HDTV makes my trying times a bit more tolerable.</div>
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Oh, and did I mention that my husband is a cooking show and Anthony Bourdain addict?</div>
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<dd class="profile-textblock" style="clear: both; margin: 0px;">Award-winning journalist and author whose latest book, <span style="font-style: italic;">DEAD SERIOUS, a book about youth suicide, is now available as an Amazon Kindle.</span><br /><br /></dd></dl>
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Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-9846800335322270102014-11-18T11:55:00.000-06:002014-11-18T11:55:32.994-06:00Good-bye Facebook, Hello Twitter <br />
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How many photos of dogs licking their owners, sunsets, babies, leaves/trees/flowers, graduates, inane comments about a great meal, a "friend's" vacation, putrid writing . . . Ughs, LOLs, and any other insufferable posts can a person stand? I, for one, am done with Facebook!<br />
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I really don't care how many people give a thumb's up to one of my posts. I wouldn't have bothered posting, if I thought it wasn't worth reading. And I don't base my worth as a person on the number of "friends" who actually spend a minute of their time posting back.<br />
Like cell phone messages, texts, Instagrams and, I'm sure, countless other social media platforms out there, Facebook is an addiction. While not necessarily bad for your physical health like drugs and alcohol, Facebook can be just as tempting as, say, gambling. (In fact, I know a few folks who ARE addicted to gambling apps.)<br />
The average attention span of Facebook devotees has to be less than the time it takes to click on an icon of a thumb or to write a one or two sentence post, many of which I might add, make little sense or are rife with grammatical/spelling errors.<br />
It's true that Twitter Tweets are limited to 140 characters but, in my mind, many of the potential tweeters have a message worth sending and spend a bit more time crafting their messages to fit the word limit while saying something of value. (Of course, there are many exceptions. Yesterday I gained a follower [don't ask me why] from a woman who specializes in blow jobs.)<br />
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And for marketing and PR, nothing works as well as Twitter. People actually read the links you provide, click on your links, retweet to others if they find your information worthwhile, or contact you directly. I tried my hand at promoting my new eBook about youth suicide (http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Serious-Youth-Suicide-Prevention-ebook/dp/B00KUQRCZU/ref=asap_B001HD19ZY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1416318701&sr=1-1) on Facebook. Maybe my "friends" were put off by the lengthy link. Maybe they don't read books. Maybe they don't give a damn about young people taking their own lives. Or perhaps they could care less about being "friendly" and supporting me and my work. <br />
Whatever the case, my Google Analytics and Bublish.com analytics (a great site, by the way, for promoting eBooks) proved my point: Few Facebook "friends" bothered to check out/read/buy my book. <br />
Now I know prospective book agents and publishers want writers to have what they call a "platform," a term I suppose creates an image of a diver bounding off of a diving board or platform . And from this "platform" (all these Facebook "friends," Twitter blokes, blog and web site devotees), there is surely a built-in audience for buying books, if not for ignoring books and watching them take a dive. <br />
I've resisted developing my platform. I'm a believer in the quality of a book making all the difference. And, of course, marketing and PR. There are so many online options out there that, with a little money, an author can get a heck of a lot of visibility. And despite what they say about the demise of book tours, media appearances, book signings and the like, I talk to plenty of authors who are still out there in the real versus virtual world.<br />
But if "Platform is the Thing," then I'll hold my nose and do what I can to amass as many online "friends" who might buy my books. <br />
But I'll be darned if I'll use Facebook to up the ante.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-27418793469599354542014-11-17T10:15:00.001-06:002014-11-17T10:15:35.944-06:00I Joined A Book Club<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">By some estimates, five million Americans gather every few weeks in someone’s living room or in a bar or bookstore or local library to discuss the finer points of “Middlemarch” or “The Brothers Karamazov.” (A perfect number is hard to pin down because some people belong to two or three clubs, and of course, there’s no central registry of members.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; line-height: 23px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">James Atlas, <i>New York Times Sunday Review</i></span></span></div>
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Okay, so I was rather late coming to the party. I mean, just about everyone I know (make that almost every <i>woman</i> I know) has been or is currently a member of a book club.<br />
It took until two weeks ago before I joined up.<br />
So, what's so odd about that?<br />
Well, I'm in my late 60s, earned a master's degree in American literature, taught high school English for five years (And, yes, my classes read a lot of books!), authored several books of my own, and recently reviewed books for two major publications.<br />
Still, there was something about book clubs that just didn't call my name. Maybe I pictured a gaggle of women getting together and gabbing about everything except books. <br />
Maybe joining a club harked back to high school when I pledged a sorority and got kicked out of the National Honor Society as a result. Something about being a member of a group not open to anyone who wanted to join.<br />
Or maybe I didn't think switching from teacher to student would live up to my high expectations.<br />
Now, I'm a firm believer in fortuitous events. Things happen for a reason. An example: I'd been curious about meditation but never took it up until my sister suggested it might be a good way to center myself after my first seizure. She was right.<br />
Another example: I wrote a personal piece about how my dance teacher had helped me "find" my spine. The day the piece was published in the <i>Chicago Reader, </i>I fortuitously met the features editor for the <i>Chicago Sun-Times </i>which, at the time, gave the then coveted <i>Chicago Tribune</i> a run for its money. The editor had read my article that <i>very</i> day and suggested I query her with other ideas. I went on to write several feature pieces for the <i>Sun-Times.</i><br />
<i> </i> That was fortuitous.<br />
When a woman in my yoga class mentioned that she wouldn't be in class the following Tuesday because her book club met the first Tuesday of every month, I was intrigued.<br />
"Where does the club meet?"<br />
"We switch houses every month."<br />
I'd always loved seeing the insides of other houses.<br />
"Who chooses the book?"<br />
"We have a professional leader who gives us a potential list, and the group makes the final decision."<br />
A professional leader? Hmmm . . . <br />
"And what do you pay this leader?"<br />
"I'll have to check. It's not cheap but it's worth it."<br />
So without further adieu, I went to my first book club as a visitor and then decided to sign on the dotted line.<br />
A month later, I was ready to go. I'd read Alice Monroe's <i>Dear Life: Stories </i>and labored through the seemingly unending process of taking notes on an iPad. <br />
Judy, the group leader, held up the book before beginning the discussion. The cover didn't look familiar. <br />
"So," she said. "What are your first impressions of Alice McDermott's writing?"<br />
<i> Alice McDermott? </i> <i>She must have been distracted. </i><br />
"As you know, <i>Someone</i> won the National Book Award.<br />
I felt sick to my stomach. "Alice McDermott?" I said.<br />
She pointed to the book cover.<br />
"Oh, my God. I read the wrong book!"<br />
So, I sat like one of the many guys in my high school class who never did their homework and understood for the first time how lousy it feels to sit in on a discussion when you have absolutely nothing to say.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-61785555624546299222014-10-17T13:37:00.000-05:002014-10-17T13:37:16.941-05:00Using Social Media to Market Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I first published DEAD SERIOUS in 1987 with the paper back edition out the following year. (Yikes! That does date me.) The book had a good run with excellent reviews, awards, and actual sales that made me some money. </div>
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I don't know when both versions of the book went out of print, but they did. Unless a book lingered on library shelves, potential readers were out of luck.</div>
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Earlier this year, I decided to reissue DEAD SERIOUS as an eBook. I had a new cover designed, revised the statistics, and wrote a new introduction. Initially, I issued the eBook as an Amazon Kindle. Later, I expanded to several other eBook sites.</div>
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Heck, the book cost under $10. A deal!</div>
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But no matter how inexpensive a book is or how well it did lo these many years ago, authors must do their share of marketing to get the title back out into the book-o-sphere. With no publisher support (as if they did much to begin with), books rarely get into the hands of readers save for a savvy marketing campaign.</div>
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And, boy, how things have changed since the end of the 1980s. Then, there were only big, bulky desk top computers, and social media hadn't yet been born. </div>
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Now with Twitter, Facebook, email, and a plethora of web sites, the trick is to get the word out over and over again in new ways that continue to grab potential readers' attention. </div>
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I read somewhere that Twitter was the best place for authors to promote their wares. I had had a Twitter account back in the day but didn't know how to use it and, for whatever reason, was bombarded with photos from men who used Twitter as a dating site.</div>
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So, I changed my handle and started tweeting. I also signed up for Bublish.com, a marketing site for eBooks. Oh, and I revised my web site with links to Bublish, a built-in tracking system, a new cover photo, links to the eBook, and a radio player for listeners to hear my first radio documentary, "What A Difference Differences Make" that profiles three adults with intellectual disabilities.</div>
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And wham! In only four weeks, 500 people had viewed either Bublish or Twitter, more than 200 folks had gone to my web site, and I actually received my first royalty check from Amazon. (I can't tout my horn on this last one because the check wouldn't even buy a lunch at a local health food restaurant.) Still, it was money in the bank.</div>
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I check my views daily. I tweet regularly with new information and new visuals. I have contacted suicide prevention/education groups and several have put a link to my web site on theirs. I've been interviewed for one of the sites whose director will be distributing it to organizations nationally. </div>
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I don't know whether all this marketing will translate into sales. But it's been a blast and kept me out of trouble.</div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-67816065373466754672014-10-01T16:45:00.001-05:002014-10-01T16:45:47.164-05:00No Chance to Say Good-bye It happened like this in the dream: I was thumbing through the latest issue of Vanity Fair when, after surviving all the slick ads and free pull-outs hawking everything from perfume to People Magazine, I turned a page and stared at a photo collage of my husband at various stages of his life from childhood to the present, just a week or so from celebrating (well, not exactly celebrating) his 70th birthday.
Why were these photos in Vanity Fair? I mean, my husband is a cute guy and all but hardly a household name, except, of course, in our household where he is known as the joker, the cook, the artist, and sometimes the jerk.
And why hadn't my husband let on that he would be featured in a national magazine, best known for its coverage of scandals of the rich and famous. Yeah, there is some serious stuff, too, about war and business and start ups. Mostly, though, it's a step above the other gossip rags that pack the weekly newsstands.
Then in small print at the bottom of the second page, I noticed the byline as that of an old friend who had died over two years earlier.
Tom never liked dancing much, but, ironically, that's how he died --- dancing at a relative's wedding. According to what we were told, he collapsed, still conscious, mumbling about the pain. He was carted off in an ambulance to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead from a massive heart attack.
Tom didn't believe in doctors and cavalierly said many times that there was no sense in preventative medicine because when it was time, it was time. My husband's best (and a close friend of mine) was a smoker, an avid tennis player turned golfer in a cart, and a hardy eater who paid little attention to the food he ate. But he must have known something wasn't right because, ironically, he'd scheduled an appointment to see a cardiologist for the week after he dropped dead.
My husband and I heard all of these details from our friend's sister who called early on a Saturday morning to insist that we attend a memorial service for Tom before his body was flown back to Miami Beach for a proper burial to be officiated by one of that city's most revered rabbis. (Quite an honor because Tom, born and raised a Catholic, was a convert to Judaism in order to please his soon-to-be wife's parents who otherwise would have disowned their daughter.)
"But we haven't spoken to him in two years," I said.
"Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure," she said.
A misunderstanding? Simply ruffled feathers? Cross signals that destroyed a friendship that spanned more than five decades? And now no chance to understand what had caused the rift or to make amends. No chance to say good-bye.
We went to the memorial where we were embraced by Tom's family but all but ignored by his wife.
I had followed her into the women's room for a moment of privacy.
I hugged her, but she felt like dead weight in my arms. "I'm so sorry," I said.
"It's too late for that," she said and walked away.
Hurt, baffled and then furious, I wanted to leave immediately. But I put on my Zen robes (even though I'm Jewish), and my husband, who had gotten the same cold shoulder, and I decided to stay for the sake of Tom's brothers and sisters whom we'd known for years. The minute the service concluded, we offered our condolences to the siblings and got the hell out of there.
One of Tom's sons visited several months after the funeral. He and my husband met for lunch.
"My mother has written you off as dead," he said. "But you should write her and apologize."
My husband was stunned. "Apologize for what?"
"For saying 'No' when my father asked you to come with him to visit my uncle."
Tom's brother was dying from brain cancer, the result of Agent Orange unleashed during his stint in Viet Nam.
"Are you kidding? Every time your dad was in town, I begged him to let me meet him wherever his brother was being treated. He turned me down every time."
"Well, that's not true."
"Were you there?"
"No, but . . ."
"But what?
"That's my mother told me. My dad, too."
"Your mother is dead wrong."
"Write her and apologize. It can't hurt."
Alan stood up, tossed his share of the bill on the table. "I can't apologize for something I didn't do. And what's the point? I'm already dead as far as your mother is concerned, right along with your father."
My husband turns 70 this week. I'm convinced that his beloved but estranged friend has been hanging around. He wants to wish him a Happy 70th and wishes for a long, healthy life --- something he wasn't able to enjoy.
Why after all would he have published the photos in Vanity Fair?
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-22840532006427575722014-06-16T11:22:00.000-05:002014-06-16T11:22:24.284-05:00What A Difference Differences Make<br />
<span class="image__button sc-button sc-button-small" style="-webkit-transition: opacity 0.1s linear; -webkit-user-select: none; background-color: #fcfcfc; background-image: linear-gradient(rgba(255, 255, 255, 0), rgba(235, 235, 235, 0.298039) 60%, rgba(225, 225, 225, 0.6)); border-bottom-left-radius: 4px; border-bottom-right-radius: 4px; border-top-left-radius: 4px; border-top-right-radius: 4px; border: 1px solid rgb(229, 229, 229); bottom: 12px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0196078) 0px 1px 2px, rgb(255, 255, 255) 0px 1px 0px inset, rgb(255, 255, 255) -1px 0px 0px inset, rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.498039) 0px -1px 0px inset, rgb(255, 255, 255) 1px 0px 0px inset; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: 100; height: 22px; left: 20px; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; opacity: 0; overflow: hidden; padding: 2px 8px; position: absolute; right: 20px; text-align: center; text-shadow: rgb(255, 255, 255) 0px 1px 0px; transition: opacity 0.1s linear; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: nowrap;">Choose ne </span><br />
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<a class="sc-tag sc-tag-medium" href="https://soundcloud.com/tags/intellectual%20disabilities" style="-webkit-user-select: none; background: rgb(153, 153, 153); border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-color: rgb(153, 153, 153); border-style: solid; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border-width: 1px 1px 1px 0px; color: white; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: left; font-family: Interstate, 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 100; height: 20px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 6px 6px 0px; padding: 0px 7px; position: relative; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4) 0px 1px 1px; white-space: nowrap;"><span class="sc-truncate" style="display: inline-block; max-width: 200px; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">I</span></a></div>
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The facts are dramatic and unsettling:<br />
<br />
<ol style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: #efefef; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1d1c; counter-reset: li 0; font-family: din-web-reg, 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 21px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 16.33333px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In the U.S., roughly 6.5 million people are identified as having an intellectual disability.</li>
<li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 16.33333px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Every year, 125,000 children are born with an intellectual disability.</li>
<li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 16.33333px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Children with cognitive disabilities may develop slower than other children in terms of speaking, walking, and taking care of themselves (showering, eating, dressing).</li>
<li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 16.33333px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">10 percent of Americans have a family member with some sort of intellectual disability.</li>
<li style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 16.33333px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Intellectual disabilities are 25 times more common than blindness.</li>
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In an attempt to take a journey with a group of adults with intellectual disabilities, I wrote and produced a radio documentary about my experiences as a volunteer at Misericordia, a residence with well over 600, most adults, many with physical disabilities as well.<br />
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The link to the documentary is below. While I make a few minor tweaks, this will give you an almost complete listen to my first radio documentary after having helped produced several video documentaries and written a host of books, including the award-winning book, DEAD SERIOUS, that has just been reissued as a Kindle on Amazon.<br />
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https://soundcloud.com/j72545/what-a-difference-differences<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
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<br />
REVISED VERSION of original book first published in 1987 now available as an Amazon Kindle!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-58587669572748929642014-04-26T08:35:00.003-05:002014-04-26T08:35:47.455-05:00My Friend Daniel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Daniel is a dear friend. We met four years ago at Misericordia, a campus of about 600 folks with mild to serious intellectual disabilities. From the get go, the two of us bonded as long, lost friends who had so much to talk about.<br />
<br />
As far as Daniel sees it, I can do no wrong. I'm the "lovely Miss Jane" who is one of the funniest, most amusing (not to mention cutest) women he knows. The minute I walk in the door of Room 201, there's Daniel waltzing up to wrap his arms around me in a big bear hug while saying my name over and over again. <br />
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When I first started volunteering at Misericordia in 2010, I, along with all the other new volunteers, was advised to avoid physical contact with the residents. I guess that meant no hugging and stuff --- just a handshake would do.<br />
<br />
Well, give it up! For a time, I tried to gently push Daniel and others away. But in no time, that seemed not only silly but impossible. There are many Wednesday afternoons when I'm greeted by what I like to think of as a wedding receiving line in which six or seven residents line up to give me a hug, shake my hand, even give me a quick peck on the cheek. <br />
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The teacher in the class doesn't seem to mind; in fact, I've watched as a host of residents hug her, tease her, treat her as one of the "gals" whom they've come to love.<br />
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Two weeks ago, I attended Daniel's thirty-second (or what it his thirty-third?) birthday party at a restaurant in Northbrook, a suburb of Chicago. I was one of 18 invitees that included his family, his staff, and the five other men, or housemates, who share a one-story ranch home about 15 minutes west of Misericordia. I'd met Daniel's housemates before when I'd gone to interview him for a radio documentary, but this was the first time that I had seen them all outside of campus in a social situation.<br />
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When it was time to open his presents, Daniel stood up and remained standing while he ripped open every shred of wrapping paper and accompanying envelopes. He was deliriously happy with every DVD, every piece of sports paraphernalia (pennants, a blanket, a throw rug, hats ___ enough to open a sports bar) and thanked everyone profusely for their thoughtfulness.<br />
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Daniel can't read very well, so his mom helped him with some of the cards. But his joy at receiving, for example, a music card that, when opened, blasted an accordion practically jumping off the page was infectious. Daniel screamed and yelled and clapped and made everyone there feel like the best and most ingenious person on the planet.<br />
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For me (always the center of his attention on Wednesdays when I volunteer), it was interesting to see him relate to some of his best friends and to his staff. He lives with these folks every day (except when he's home on what is called "Home Visit") and loves them all dearly. <br />
<br />
And I love Daniel and the joy he has added to my life and the lessons he has taught me about what a difference differences make. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-40224278543971822902014-04-16T10:54:00.001-05:002014-04-16T10:54:43.711-05:00Beginning of the End?<br />
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Okay, I know aging isn't, as my dad would say, "for sisses." But, so far, I think I've done quite well. My body parts are in tact and, as best as I know, not diseased. Sure, my headaches are a pain but usually controllable by medication. I still hear well, have strong teeth, have good eyesight (with my glasses), and so on down the line.<br />
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But Sunday changed my "Gee, you're in great shape" list.<br />
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I had a busy schedule. First, a dance class, then an art opening, and, finally, a birthday party out in the burbs. I drove my rental car (mine is in the shop) to dance and enjoyed a rousing class, even if the humidity signalling a rain storm caused a more pronounced sweat than usual. I zipped home, bathed, changed, and drove down to Chicago's Old Town, an area of quaint, older homes and winding streets that seem to snake in multiple directions making confusion an operative word. The photo show held in what is really a community center didn't show the photographer's work in the best light, but he's a friend and I stayed longer than what I had determined was enough time to drive all the way to a northern suburb.<br />
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Prior to the gallery opening, I'd parked my car on one of the main streets in Old Town. I also looked up at the intersecting street signs to make sure I could find my car upon my return.<br />
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No such luck. When I reached the spot, the car was nowhere to be seen. Now, mind you: The four-door, silver car looks like about 50 per cent of other cars on the road today and an overly abundant number of cars in Old Town, at least on this particular day. Panicked, I raced up and down the adjoining streets, squeezing my key door opener every few minutes. Nothing. No rear light flashes. No sound alarm. Not a damn thing.<br />
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It started to rain. Harder and harder. Even my umbrella wasn't keeping me dry. Baffled then extremely stressed, I must have looked completely lost because not one but two strangers stopped to ask if they could help.<br />
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It was useless. My car was gone. I didn't know the license plate number, and the amount of time I had left to make it to the birthday party was quickly elapsing. <br />
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I was in big trouble and, by this time, near tears.<br />
<br />
So, this is what it's like to lose one's mind? Was I on the verge of dementia? Had all my enthusiasm about the state of my body and mind been a charade?<br />
<br />
I had no alternative but to walk back to the gallery in shame where I would tell my husband that I'd lost the rental car and desperately needed his help to find it.<br />
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As I headed up the street, I pushed my key one last time. Lights flashed. And on a silver, 4-door that looked like "mine." Quickly, I ran to the front door and peeked in. I'd never been so happy to see a recognizable water bottle and a few paper wrappers. <br />
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Soaked but relieved, I unlocked the door and jumped in. Of course, I'd be at least 30 minutes late to the birthday party, but my host would understand. And if she didn't, well there was nothing I could do about it.<br />
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I won't go in to detail about how I almost lost "my" car later in the evening after the party or how it took me extra time to find the correct exit out of the shopping court. I'll leave that to your imagination and to my chagrin.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
Blogging Fusion <a href="http://www.bloggingfusion.com/" title="Blogging Fusion Blog Directory">Blog Directory</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15502749435848988228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4570074269960808875.post-62836463152281979022014-01-18T08:46:00.001-06:002014-01-18T08:46:30.459-06:00Maladies I couldn't catch my breath as I climbed the eight cement stairs leading to the second floor of our rented casa in San Miguel de Allende. I'd accidentally left my cell phone in the bedroom and needed to catch the call before the ringing stopped and what was labeled caller ID read UNIDENTIFIED. I caught the call but couldn't breathe. So, this is what it's like to have a heart attack? I'd read many times that women suffer attacks differently from men, that the pain is less acute and often feels like the flu with extreme fatigue (check), pressure in the heart area (check), even faintness (check.)<br />
I grabbed the phone, pushed "answer," and, in a breathless voice nothing like that of Marilyn Monroe, told the caller (our house sitter) that he'd have to wait. I lay the phone on my chest -- maybe that would calm things down -- and waited until my breath slowed before talking. But I had trouble, mumbled "just a minute," and again laid the phone of my chest. So, this was what it felt like to have the old heart go wacky? What hospital in this small colonial town would be able to save me? Were there ambulances in Mexico or just the ominous looking black police vans, sometimes with men in fatigues and guns bringing up the rear? What about my Spanish class later the next day? <br />
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Maybe it was the stress that did me in. The temperature in Chicago had plummeted again to the single digits, and the gas forced air heat in the back of our home was blowing cold air. Our house sitter couldn't work in the kitchen without a small electric fan running up a bill only the electric company could love. We'd been warned that our 20-year-old heater had already outrun its lifetime and that it was only a matter of time before we'd have to replace it to a tune of close to $20,000. It was a no brainer: Keep the damn thing running through the winter. We needed to save money or take out a home equity loan before even considering a replacement.<br />
But nobody imagined one of the coldest winters on record with some polar something or other from Alaska and north sweeping with a vengeance down into the lower forty-eight and turning state after sate into a frigid and snowy nightmare only an Eskimo could love. We midwesterners (at least some of us) are a hearty lot, but the unending single-digit and lower temps had caused intolerable cabin fever, a loss of retail revenue, outrageous heating bills, and a slow but steady universal case of Seasonal Affective Depression. <br />
So, back to my "heart attack." In time, my heart rate returned to normal, my breath calmed, and I realized that most likely it had been a mini panic attack instead. It was 9:30 p.m. and I hadn't heard back from the heating and cooling outfit in the States that would ostensibly make an emergency call to fix the heating problem. Thank god I'd purchased some kind of deal that provided after-hour and weekend service calls at no additional charge. This was one time when additional "insurance" might pay off.<br />
I won't know until I call the house sitter in another hour (It's 7:30 a.m.) whether or not the furnace was fixed or whether he'll have to suffer a very cold kitchen and my husband I will face the expense of replacing the furnace, rendering our two-month stay in Mexico a fool hearty decision and my plans for redoing that same kitchen a deferred dream. (At least, we'd get the new wood floors because I already paid a 60% downpayment.)<br />
Just before falling asleep, I ticked off a list of my current maladies: sleep apnea, migraines, medically-controlled epilepsy, and SADD that I'd thought had been erased by getaway stays in warm climes but now replaced by panic attacks when things go awry back home. <br />
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I am getting old after all. But several of my friends have already gone to those Pearly Gates way before their time, and I'm still standing, holding down the fort. <div class="blogger-post-footer">Check out Jane's web site at www.janeleder.com
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