By now many of you have had a chance to read One Mountain Away. If you haven’t, an important element of the novel involves Charlotte Hale, the principal character, who is looking back at her life. Charlotte isolates three things she did in the past that she wishes she could change, then she sets about making amends for each of them, doing something in each instance to help make up for the damage she caused.

Do you have situations in your past that you wish you could redo? If you answer no, I worry about you. Because I believe we all have those situations, and facing them and admitting we screwed up is an important part of being human. Of course dwelling on our mistakes isn’t particularly helpful unless doing so helps us find a way to ask forgiveness or take a step to fix the situation. If that’s impossible, than the next step is to head off a similar situation for somebody else.

I have more than a few things I wish I had done differently. But one of them has nagged at me since I wrote Somewhere Between Luck and Trust, the book which follows One Mountain Away, which will be at bookstores in June. (more…)

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about the ways we help each other.  One Mountain Away, coming in August, explores that question among many others, and it will come up again and again as the series progresses.  Do we give money?  Do we bring casseroles?  Do we hold hands and provide a listening ear?  Do we give someone who needs it a kick in the pants?  Do we intervene in a dangerous situation by alerting authorities who might be able to help?

A man in Baltimore County, Maryland, made the news this week with his own unique twist.  With absolutely no fanfare Lenny B. Robinson, 48, wealthy and self-made, dresses up in a Batman costume, hops in his Lamborghini and visits sick children.  What better job for the Caped Crusader?

Mr. Robinson doesn’t don his cape for publicity.  When the police stopped him recently for having a license plate with the bat symbol instead of the more usual numbers and letters, he got out of his car dressed in full bat regalia and for the first time the world was aware something odd was afoot in Gotham.  But Robinson doesn’t extol his own virtues.  Today’s Washington Post published a front page story about him, written by a family friend with insight and sentiment, but only because bits and pieces of the story were already filtering out after the police encounter.

Picture a cancer ward filled with little children fighting for their lives.  In strides Batman, sweating beneath a specially made mask–he sweats away five or six pounds of water weight at each engagement.  Batman doesn’t come empty-handed, of course.  Robinson spends $25,000 a year on Batman toys and memorabilia, and he gives it–autographed when he can–to every child who needs cheering.  And which of these children wouldn’t?

Imagine the excitement, the hope, the joy that a real live Superhero is there to hold your hand and ask how you’re feeling, when that’s exactly what you need most?  Imagine the healing?

Our world can be unspeakably sad and lonely.  But people like Lenny B. (for Batman?) Robinson remind me that no matter who we are, we can reach out in myriad ways to change it.   

I’ve never been a big fan of Batman, but today I changed my mind.  Thank you, Caped Crusader, and all the other superheroes out there, in whatever disguise you wear, for reminding us that in our own way, we can always make a difference.

I’ll confess these days I wince when I hear mother-in-law jokes.  I wince because I am a mother-in-law times three.  I have three wonderful in-law kids, and our family is enriched three-fold by their addition.  I’m hoping to be a completely different kind of punchline at the end of my life.  As goals go, that’s not so trivial, is it?

My husband’s mother Lillian passed on years ago.  She was beloved by her children, a constant optimistic presence in their lives no matter what was really happening.  We used to say that if Lillian’s house burned down, she would hold out her hands and tell us how toasty a good fire felt on a cool winter evening.  Had it burned down in summer, she would have run out to the store for marshmallows.  Since my husband’s father was ready and willing to spot the dark cloud in every silver lining, Lillian’s optimism was particularly well received by her children.

Lillian had a wild streak, although by the time I knew her, that streak had been tamed by five children, a full-time job and a crushing burden of housework and cooking that she allowed no help with.  I watched her march daughters and daughters-in-law out of her kitchen whenever assistance was offered.  Even more horrifying, I watched her stand between the stove and the kitchen table as the rest of the family ate, so she could better serve them.  Although I made certain never to repeat this tradition in my own home, I now understand that Lillian loved to serve, and her meals, no cookbook in evidence, were her pride, examples of the best of southern country cuisine.

Lillian’s youth was a different story.  She grew up in a small town in North Carolina but still spent time on the Navajo reservation in Arizona clerking in her brother’s store.  In her final years she still remembered a variety of Navajo phrases and the musical name someone had given her, which meant sparkling diamond–a fitting description.  Once in that wild and crazy period she pretended to be a reporter so she could snag an interview with Roy Rogers, and did. 

In her fourth year at Elon College, WWII was declared and Lillian quit to join the Waves.  She married a Chief Petty Officer and spent much of the rest of her life on Naval bases working as a secretary and raising children, but she still did handstands and cartwheels whenever she had the opportunity.  She had a beautiful smile and a fierce protective instinct that meant each in-law was under scrutiny until the day Lillian died.  She was a friend to everyone, but only a few people really knew her, and she was related by blood to each and every one of them. 

The bonds between in-laws are tentative and sometimes difficult. Inlaw jokes can be rooted in reality, but this week, devoted to motherhood, is a good time to look at the women in our lives who have “mothered” us.  I am grateful for Lillian, whose positive spirit lives on in my husband.  I’m grateful she fought to help all her children succeed and cared enormously if they did or didn’t.  I’m grateful that she never interfered in my marriage, and that I was able to witness the results of a lifetime of struggle to find the best in everybody.  Most of all, I am grateful that even at the end, when she was in the grip of dementia, her graceful, loving spirit continued to shine, and that she passed on, still knowing she was loved by everyone who had known her.

In honor of Lillian, I’ll be giving away three copies of A Mother’s Touch, which was just reissued for the holiday.  This is an anthology devoted to Mother’s Day, and my novella, A Stranger’s Son, appears there along with novellas by superstars Linda Howard and Sherryl Woods.  To enter the giveaway, comment here and tell us what you loved about your own mother-in-law.  (To comment simply click on “comment” on the top right of this post).  If you never had a mother-in-law?  Tell us about a woman who reached out to you somewhere in your life journey.  Random.org will make the final three selections for winners on May 14th.

This week some of you may have entered a Mother’s Day giveaway on my Facebook page by telling stories of your moms.  Although the prize is the same, this giveaway is separate, and you’re welcome to enter both, although there’ll only be one win per reader.  Long live mothers and mothers-in-law, and the good influences they can have on us. I hope to be counted in that number.

There I was on the telephone with my county treasurer’s office, holding in my hand the threatening letter they’d sent because my annual application for a business license had been two days late, and, according to their records, my 10% fine had not yet been paid.

I had paid it, of course, immediately after receiving the notice.  In fact, by the time I made the call, I’d paid the county a whale of a lot of money, which my bank had verified in a phone call.  Every person I spoke to had admitted that checks took days and sometimes weeks to post, and mine could well be somewhere between the vendor who collects them and county accounts. Still, the letter had gone out, regardless. 

I don’t want to rail about being forced to buy a license to sit in my pajamas and stare out the window–all too often a day’s work for a writer.  I won’t even shout that I pay the same percentage rate for my license to daydream as hotels and real estate agencies pay to do business, and more than shopping centers and restaurants.  Or even to point out that when they “threatened” to seize my property, I invited them to help themselves to all my pencil stubs, half-used legal pads, even my dog-eared thesaurus.  (My imagination?  No, I’m keeping that, thanks.)

The license snafu has ended for the year.  During phone call number six I was told my check had arrived at last, dated just as I’d told them, and all was forgiven.

Except, apparently it hasn’t been forgiven, since the episode is still on my mind.

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There are two kinds of people in the world.  Actually there are almost seven billion kinds of people in the world, but for our purposes today, I’ll simplify.  There are two kinds of people.  The kind who fall neatly into slots other people choose for them, and the kind who make their own slots.  I won’t complicate this by pointing out that at one time or another, we’ve probably all done both.  Let’s just pretend life’s easy to understand and go from there.

As loyal blog followers know, I spent most of the past two weeks in New Zealand watching one of my earliest novels being made into a film for the German television station, ZDF.  We won’t take up the question of why an American author flew to New Zealand to watch a German production company make a film of a novel originally set in Georgia.  Suffice it to say that the transition works well, and that New Zealand has enough gorgeous and diverse locations to make a gazillion movies, as well as a flourishing film industry eager to help.  What I really want to talk about is how often I noted people doing what they loved. 

Take Terri and Jim, for instance.  Terri and Jim are originally from the UK–although Jim spent time in Jamaica along the way.  After a trip to New Zealand’s South Island, they went home and began to work toward the goal of moving back permanently to run a charter boat service.  It took more than a decade to make the dream happen, but now Jim and Terri ARE Kaiteriteri Boat Charters, offering spectacular cruises through the Abel Tasman National Park.  Their joy in what they do is catching.  Every detail is performed with enthusiasm and care, plus they serve the best picnic lunch I’ve ever had, which permanently endeared them to all on board.

Then there was James.  James is a runner, at least I think that’s what he’s called in filmspeak.  James does everything.  I noted him on the first day and the last, a young, energetic man who seemed to know exactly what to do and how to do it on time and with courtesy.  On the last day I overheard him in conversation with another member of the crew.  He talked about how his job was simply to do whatever needed to be done with no excuses.  Not ever.  Can you imagine a world in which everyone had that attitude?  I have a strong feeling we’ll be hearing from James again.  All of us.  Because I’m sure James has plans to move on in the world of film, and I’m sure he will. James isn’t afraid to try.

How many of us can say that?  I’m one of the lucky ones.  I “fell” into writing when the opportunity presented itself.  I adore what I do.  But I was never told to follow my dream.  I was told to be practical, to shoot for security, and not to step over boundaries because that wasn’t sensible.

I did step over boundaries, of course, and became a writer, even though I had a nagging feeling–and still do sometimes–that my typing skills might best be used for clerical work.  Still, had I not found a publishing niche so quickly, would I have continued working toward my goal?  I’d like to think I would have worked a decade for my dream, the way Jim and Terri did, but I’m not sure it’s true.

Do you have a dream you’re trying to fulfill? Go for it, and tell your children to do the same.  We’ll all be better off because you did.  After all, happiness and enthusiasm are catching.  I know it’s true.  I came home with both.    

Sometimes all you have to do is look around.  Last night I did, and see what I found? 2010 in shells laid down by an invisible hand.  Not only that, but the light was exactly right for a photo, and my husband had his camera.  With this kind of divine prodding, how could I NOT think about what 2010 will mean to me and you?

For most people, a new year means resolutions. This year, before the stroke of midnight on the 31st, I decided against resolutions once again.  I’ve learned if I tell myself I can’t do something, I want to do it even more.  Too many “I will not” statements in my head, and I know everything will go straight downhill.  So why set myself up?  I don’t want to fail.  I may even give up “failing” for Lent when it comes around this year–or maybe I’ll give up abstaining for Lent, since that’s a discipline that goes downhill pretty fast, as well. 

The biggest problem with resolutions is that they often have the word “not” in them.  I will not eat dessert after dinner.  I will not forget to exercise.  I will not let myself get swamped at work.  This year I’ve decided on a different approach. It’s not a resolution.  And it’s not a negative.  It’s a Happiness List.

Since I titled my summer book Happiness Key, I’ve loudly beat the drum about happiness here on Southern Exposure   After all, I was writing about the key to happiness (you got that, right?)  Of course, I was thinking about happiness, reading about happiness, talking to anyone who would listen about happiness.  

All that investigation had to result in something, and here’s what I’ve taken away.  My insight isn’t profound or anything you don’t already know.  It’s simple enough.  The universe doesn’t make us happy.  We do that ourselves.  If we wait for lightning to strike, it might, in a cataclysmic burst of white light, send us somewhere we’re not quite ready to go.

No, in order to be happy, we have to know what makes us happy and be willing to reach for it.  Unfortunately this isn’t something we’re taught.  In fact many of us have been taught that reaching for happiness is selfish, even dangerous.  If we’re happy, we aren’t thinking of others. We should put ourselves last. We should fall into bed every night with a long list of the day’s failures and all the “shoulds” we have to accomplish tomorrow.  (In Gestalt therapy, this is known as “shoulding” all over yourself.)

This year I’ve decided to fall into bed with thoughts about what made me happy that day, and what I’ll do tomorrow to be happy again.  I’m calling this my Happiness List.

Is this selfish?  Thoughtless?  Sacreligious?  Subversive?  Here’s the good news.  Being with people I love makes me happy.  Doing things for them?  Happy.  Doing whatever I can for the world in general?  Happy.  Breathing fresh air, appreciating the gifts I’ve been given, sitting quietly and just letting the world flow around and through me?  Happy.  Nothing dangerous or selfish there. Just a whole lot of happiness, which in our culture is sadly underrated.   

Over the next days, I’m going to make a 2010 Happiness List. I’m not going to resolve to do anything on it, or even to think about it too much.  I mean, if I’m not bright enough to follow through, will constantly checking a list change anything?  But I am going to put my ideas on paper, and I am going to give myself permission to be happy.  I have faith both will make a difference.

How about you?  What’s on your list?  Want to be happy with me in 2010?  

I have my own set of “commandments” to live by.  Not that I take exception with the basic ten.  These are additional commandments, and I’ll confess some of them come from a pop philosophy poster I found in a gift shop.  The poster is happily at home on my study door, and although now that I’m away, I can’t repeat most suggestions verbatim, I do remember a few of the most important.  One, never pass a child’s lemonade stand without stopping, and two, never say no thank you when someone offers a brownie.  (Also, always wave at children on school buses, but I digress.)

I chose this morning to begin my first read through on Fortunate Harbor, next summer’s novel.  Happily at home on the front porch of our vacation cottage, I noticed activity next door.  Our neighbors have had grandchildren visiting all week, and we’ve enjoyed the sounds of children, music, laughter and of course, the occasional sibling/cousin spats.  It makes our stay here more homey, but today a new element appeared.

Today the annual lemonade stand was erected.

Turns out the grandkids sell lemonade every summer, to raise money to benefit the fund that brings programming to this fabulous institution on Lake Chautauqua.  And this year was no exception.  This morning they set up just in time to catch people heading across the grounds to a host of different worship services, and stayed just long enough to catch them on the way back.  I was fortunate to watch the action.

Here’s what I learned on this cloudy Sunday morning. 

One–if you build it, they will come.  Of course Kevin Costner told us that already, but the lemonade stand was a good reminder.  Dreaming’s nothing without follow through.  I like that.

Two–take time to encourage children to help change the world.  Never tell them they can’t, because it’s a lie.  Think I’m off base?  Read about Isabelle Redford, then come back and we’ll talk.

Three–Trust the kindness of strangers even as you keep a watchful eye.    While Mom supervised from the porch, I witnessed one man who left two quarters for the children and told them to give the next two glasses of lemonade free.  Those recipients cheerfully did the same.  I stopped counting.  Paying it forward is always a joy to behold.  

Four–Assume your efforts will be rewarded.  I’m sure nobody warned my three young neighbors that it was possible no one would buy their lemonade or eat their chocolate chip cookies (which are, in my set of commandments, synonymous with brownies.)  The kids sat at their stand fully expecting to sell out, and indeed they did to a supremely grateful audience, just before the heavens opened and a cloudy day became a rainy one.

Five–Pay attention.  I’m no longer talking about the kids.  They didn’t need that lesson.  I needed it.  Again and always.  Notice all the lovely things around you, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing.  Take time to appreciate the smallest miracles.  The crunch of a homemade cookie, the tang of lemonade, the people who bought food and drink they didn’t need and left far more money than the children asked for. 

Life can be difficult, messy, unappealing, terrifying.  And sometimes life is a lemonade stand.  Maybe it’s up to us to mix the sweet with the sour, just the way my young neighbors did. Then share the result any way we can.    

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