STILL MISSING HIM

I confess I am still grieving. 

My dad passed away in June.

And I still ache for him.

I've welled up with tears, but I haven't cried.  

I'm still processing his death.  

He should be here.  I know this sounds crazy, but he was a healthy 97-year-old man.

Sure, his hearing wasn't great, but he was sharp.  He could cruise down the halls of Vitality Living with his walker at top speed.  He took painting classes, exercised, and enjoyed happy hour.  He ate well.  Dad had a caregiver who visited four days a week and took care of his laundry, tidied up his apartment, and kept him company when family couldn't be there.  

But Dad also had heart issues.  This news came to us after he died.  We didn't know until his nurse told us.  She had advised that he have testing.  He refused.  In the end, this did him in. 

On top of heart problems, he got disoriented and confused which led to hospitalization.  What made this worse was when he was admitted, his case was mis-managed.  He was released too early and did not get the proper care he needed in order to get over a cough that had developed while in the hospital. 

Granted, managing an elderly person is tricky.  You treat one ailment which can lead to other complications.  Such was his case.  After he returned to assisted living, he had to be re-admitted to the hospital.  This time, in worse shape. In two days, he was gone. 

I keep his calendar in my study.  On it, he kept track of his appointments and family member's birthdays.  The last date on his calendar was June 10, the day before he died.

I keep an envelope that he used to jot down people's name and phone numbers.  This envelope and the calendar remind me of him.  

I keep his voicemails so I can listen to him speak to me.

I keep his thick, grey sweater on the back of a chair in my study.  When I touch it, I feel like I'm giving him a hug.

I think my dad wanted to live longer and enjoy his home and friends.   

I think he should have had a few more good months.  

I think he should still be here.     

Paix

IN MEMORY OF MY DAD

Dad loved ice cream

    He used to call himself Eugene Van Gogh

Eugene Miller

a coin collector

a dancer

an avid reader

a joke-teller

a painter

stubborn but adorable

a WWII veteran

a friend

a brother

an uncle

a husband

my dad

I will miss his phone calls, that "How are you doing today?"

I will miss his sly look, that gleam in his eye. 

I will miss my dad forever.

Paix

 

                                                                                                                                                          Photo: Lukas Medvedevas

SECRET

Something that happened 50 years ago still troubles me.   

When I was in my mid-twenties, I met Rick at a party.  Sparks flew that night.  We hit it off and felt deeply connected.  It was as if we had known each other long before.  After dating for a year, we decided to move in together.  When the lease was up in November, we renewed it for another year.  But one month afterward, he broke up with me—on Christmas day.  

I was absolutely devastated.  Emotionally and financially.  Not only was it really bad timing, he left me with the responsibility of paying 11 months for a two-bedroom apartment.  And the worse thing was, he couldn't tell me why he wanted to break up.  He simply said he had to leave. 

I asked him if he was gay, but he denied it.  It didn't matter to me if his sexual preferences had changed.  I simply wanted to know for closure.  But he couldn't tell me why he needed to leave.   

And...to top it off, he sent me a letter a few months later informing me he had moved to California and how great his life was.  What was he thinking?  I wanted to tell him:  F*ck you!  You screwed me over and then gloat about how happy you are?   

Many years later, I found out that he had passed away.  His obituary was in the local paper.  It stated that he had been married, lived in Massachusetts, and had three daughters and that he died unexpectantly at home.  I sent his mother a sympathy card and placed a picture of him inside it.  I was hoping she'd write back, but she never did.  I wanted to know how he died.  Was it an accident or did he commit suicide?  

To this day, I wonder what really happened.  If I lean into my gut feelings, I suspect he killed himself. Though he would never admit it to me, I believe he was secretly gay.  I have good reason to believe that the month before we broke up, he was having an affair with another man.  

His death must have been tragic for his family.  Rick was only 50-years-old.  I suppose his wife remarried.  His daughters are now grown-up.  Once, I toyed with the idea of trying to contact her, to express my sadness about his passing and to find out how he died.  But this would have been too awkward, especially if he had died of a heart attack or an accident at home.  And then again, if he was gay and couldn't live with that fact, I would have been able to give her a reason why he took his life.  In the end, I nixed the idea.  It would have been too selfish of me, and reaching out to her could cause more harm than good. 

Over the last few years, Rick's father, then his mother, and then a brother passed away.  I had actually wanted to go to the funerals, but after all of these years, they wouldn't have remembered me.  I would have wanted to learn what really happened to Rick. 

It's been over twenty years and still, something aches inside me.  Not from the residual pain of the break-up, but from not knowing what caused the break-up.  Why couldn't he have told me?  Surely, there was a reason.  I think back to my younger self, being madly in love and then being dumped without any answers.  How did I get through that heartache?  

To this day, I live with this unknowing.  This silent and unspoken part of my past.  Somethings are never forgotten.  Somethings will remain a secret. 

À la prochaine!

                                                                                                                                                   Photo: Kyle Johnson

LIKE CLIMBING MOUNT EVEREST 

I never thought I had it in me—

I only write 500-word picture book stories. 

But I decided to write a middle grade novel in verse 

after composing a 50-word story about a girl named Shelby

for Vivian Kirkfield's 50 Precious Words Contest.

This very short story inspired me to go in depth 

and tell Shelby's story while using 

the 50 words as a chapter in the book.

Surprisingly, this novel flowed out quickly

and in no time I had 2000 words.

If you do the math, that's as many words as 

four picture books.

After comparing it to the multi-prize-winning Love That Dog, 

a 4,000-word middle-grade novel in verse by Sharon Creech, 

I realized my story needed to be developed more. So, I 

created subplots and new characters, reached 6,000 words, 

and thought that was long enough for this genre.

But wanting to be sure, I reached out 

to an agent to find out if this 6000 story

would be long enough for a middle grade novel in verse 

and she said try to flesh out the story more

and aim for 20,00 words. 

Which freaked me out. 

How could I expand my story that much?  

To me, that seemed excessive.

So, I researched again and found the 

sweet spot for middle grade novel in verse

for ages 8 - 12 was between 10, 000 - 15,000 words. 

This was still daunting. 

For me, this was like climbing Mount Everest.

But, maybe doable.

I developed a plot twist, added more tension,

and delivered all of this in an imaginative and creative format 

which managed to move the plot forward 

and in the end, me, a picture book writer used to writing only 

500-word stories 

finally reached 14,000 words.  

Is it enough for a middle grade novel in verse?

I won't know until I submit this work to agents.

But if I have to reach 20,000 words, 

it would feel like padding this story.

As is, the book feels complete.  

There are character arcs—

every character changes and grows.

I won't know if my word count will work against me.

Agents may expect a middle grade book to run longer.

(And I would argue, this is a novel in verse, and these run shorter.)

I have asked beta readers to help me out

and let me know if the story is captivating 

and to mark places that may need more attention. 

After this step?  I have an opportunity to submit

to agents interested in middle grade novels with

a unique format and strong voice.  

Why put myself through writing a piece with

so much effort and time invested?  With no guarantee it will be published?

That's kind of hard to answer. 

But I think it's because this story was brewing inside me.

I had to tell Shelby's story. 

I was driven to put it in words, 

every bit of this mysterious, sad and uplifting story, 

all of it in 14,000 words. 

À la prochaine!

 

                                                                                                                                                              Photo: lookstudio

FINDING JOY 

I have to admit I was getting fed up with my French class.  

Don't get me wrong, I love taking French.  I began studying in 2013 with a very good, very strict French woman who taught at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning in Lexington, Kentucky.  Luckily, I learned the basics (present, past, and imperfect verb tenses, a decent amount of vocabulary, and basic grammar rules) before she moved to Denver. 

Another teacher stepped in to teach, and I've taken classes with her for over eight years.  One would think I'd be fluent by now, but it doesn't work that way.  Living in France is the best way to pick up the language.  Some people choose to go on retreat workshops for several weeks.  These options don't work for me.  

I stuck with class and learned more grammar and vocabulary.  However, during the 2025 summer session, I discovered something.  The class wasn't meeting my needs.  Believing the fall class might be better, I registered for the French again.  After taking three classes, it hit me again.  My gut was telling me this class wasn't right for me.  I didn't want to memorize French vocab words.  It's odd it took so long to realize this, but when it did, it resonated with me.  I wanted to speak more fluently, understand the spoken word better, and translate correctly.  None of this was happening for me.

It wasn't until I had the opportunity to take an online survey about Carnegie Center classes that I realized I wasn't happy.  And I hadn't been happy for a long time.  Our class spent too much time chatting at the beginning of class.  While speaking in French is good practice, people exceeded the five minute limit and this took up valuable time in which we could have meaningful conversations as a class or review much neglected grammar.  

I had to take action.  

I decided to drop this class even though the semester had been paid for.  The class wasn't bringing me joy.  Think about the word joy.  That happy giddy feeling that brings a smile to your face, makes you feel so good that you glow.  It is a lightness that feels like freedom.  I missed feeling this way in class.

I'm 70 years old.  Life is too short to be unhappy.  I want more joy in my life.  When I made the painful decision to drop the class, I struggled with this decision.  I could be burning bridges.  That might be the case and I'll have to live with that, but I feel immensely better, lighter, and more joyful.  

I needed some validation, so I discussed it with my daughter and husband.  They understood my position and supported me.  I even asked IA and it responded:  

If the task is truly optional:

• Avoid the task: 

  The simplest solution is to simply not do something you don't enjoy, especially if it's not a requirement. 
• Make the choice to not do it: 

  Acknowledge that you have the choice and make the decision to prioritize your well-being by disengaging from the unenjoyable activity. 

Deciding to quit class was not easy.  Over the years, I've made good friends with the other students.  But the class wasn't living up to my expectations.  

Putting a pause on French class didn't mean I'd give up learning French.  There are plenty of websites to learn French such as:  https://www.youtube.com/c/Commeunefrancaise, French Lawless, and C'est pas sorcie . I can listen to fairytales, read French books, and watch podcasts, travel vlogs and cooking shows.  I can even review my grammar books or return to class if the teaching method changes. 

My instructor and classmates may not understand why I've left class.  But my family supports me and understands my decision.  I want to do things that make me happy.  I want to pursue my interests, creativity, and learning.  Time is precious.  I want more joy in my life.

À la prochaine! 

  

                                                                                                                                                                         Photo: kieferpix

HELP  

I hate rejection.  Though I've gotten used to it with querying, rejection feels so personal when it comes from friends, family and associates.  How does this EVEN happen when all I do is ask for help?    

An editor (to whom I paid to critique my picture book) told me that she'd help with the revision.   

A writer friend said she'd help review one of my manuscripts.  

I never heard back from either one of them.   

You might think this would disappoint me, but if you read my previous blog, you'd know I'm learning to deal with disappointment by lowering my expectations.  And that's working to some degree.  But I had hoped that when someone says they'll do something, they would follow through.

In a different case, I have a sibling who for the past thirty years has never lent a helping hand no matter the situation.  Years ago, while I worked a weekend day shift, my husband came down with a migraine while caring for our infant daughter.  He needed to go to bed to sleep off the pain, but when I asked my brother if he could help out for a couple of hours until I got home, he told me no and he literally lives five minutes from us.  

And more recently, he wouldn't help our daughter who have flown from the states to attend his son's wedding in France.  Her plane was delayed, and while she managed to catch the train to Avignon, he wouldn't hold the bus to the venue for ten minutes to allow her join us. WTF?   

Maybe these individuals are too busy to help or don't want to be hassled.    

But I want to believe if someone tells me they'll do something for me, they'll do it.  I want to believe that blood is thicker than water, and relatives are there for their families.  My requests fell on deaf ears.  With hindsight, I have a clearer picture of who I'm dealing with.  All three lack of empathy.   

For a while, I felt angry and hurt.  But now I know—don't ask for help because most likely, it ain't gonna happen.  So, what now?  

1. Accept the reality of the situations 

2. Detach emotionally 

3. Strengthen boundaries, if necessary

4. Redefine the relationships

These people have taught me a lesson:  don't wallow in despair—learn and grow.  

Moving forward, I will accept them for who they are.  I will manage how I engage with them.  I protect my peace and my goals.  And I will avoid situations that will ultimately lead to disappointment and rejection. 

À la prochaine! 

 

                                                                                                                   photo: Milada Vigerova

DISAPPOINTED 

I confess I am easily disappointed.    

My husband says the reason I get disappointed is because my expectations are too high.  

Even still...  

I expect some thoughtfulness: 

I critiqued a friend's manuscript and she agreed to critique my work.  It's been weeks and I'm still waiting.  Maybe she forgot about it.  Maybe she'll get around to it.  Maybe she's at a loss about how to critique it and doesn't know what to make of it.  Who knows?  But it seems like my manuscript is the last thing on her mind.  It hurts I haven't heard back.  I was hoping for a little kindness and respect.   

BEFORE
(I haven't the heart to show you AFTER)

I expect some follow through:  

My elderly father has some mobility issues, so I gave him cucumber, squash and tomatoes plants that could be easily cared for on his patio.  My father has always enjoyed gardening and he was excited to have a more convenient way to appreciate plants.  I had raised from the vegetables from seeds, nurtured them as they grew in pots and drove 70 miles to deliver them to his home.  Unfortunately, he didn't water them.  My efforts literally died.

I expect some courtesy:

My dad's sister, my only aunt, preferred to listen to a television show rather than talk with me on the phone.  The program 60 Minutes was on and she wanted to tune in.  I had called to wish her happy birthday and to have a short chat about her health and the family.  I felt shunned and was disappointed that she never called me back. 

Sometimes, people let me down.  However after doing a little research, I found that there are some ways to handle disappointment.  

According to tinybuddha.com: https://tinybuddha.com/blog/cope-people-disappoint/ You have the right to feel what you feel. 

• Don’t ignore your feelings of disappointment. But try to obtain a renewed sense of the other person’s perspective.

• We all have different expectations. Most people are inherently good. They are on their own journey, and although disappointment can feel personal, it’s often not. The other person’s expectations are simply different to yours.

• Disappointments aren’t always all bad. What may seem like a challenge may be a blessing in disguise—or a blessing in waiting; it may only be a matter of time before you recognize that your disappointment is actually the universe working its magic for you. 

• It helps to shift your focus. Resolve to do things that bring you joy. Focus on what is new and good, start manifesting, and leave those disappointing thoughts behind. 

• It will pass. No matter how deeply you are disappointed, in time you will move through the feeling. Weed out the people who consistently disappoint you.

• Be mindful of people who regularly disappoint you and make more time for those who don’t. Maintain a positive sense of yourself through happy relationships with people who are uplifting and energizing.

The last tip speaks volumes to me.  I need to remember some people will let me down.  It's in their nature.  It's just who they are.  They don't intentionally mean to hurt, but they put themselves first without thinking about how others feel.  Therefore, it's kind of a no-brainer:  I'll limit contact with these folks and spend more time with people who care.  And if I pair this action with lowering my expectations, I may just feel less disappointed.   

À la prochaine!