Author Archives: Diana

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About Diana

I'm a writer

Nostalgia and THE Ironing Board

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

We are having new carpet put in our bedroom and walk-in closet in two days. This necessitates a spring cleaning of sorts as we have to relocate all the furniture and clothing before carpet can be taken out and replaced. I discovered in the dark back corner of my closet, the ironing board. Not an ironing board but THE ironing board.

I’m of the opinion that if clothing is not wash-and-wear or permanent press it should not belong to us. It is immediately put into a bag and rehomed to a place more suitable – a place where someone likes to iron. In this day when ripped and wrinkled are fashion statements, I am old school – no rips and a modicum of wrinkles. I am not old school enough, however, to iron clothes. I’m a great fan of plissé, crinkle fabrics.

I was eleven when I was pressed (pun intended) into service as the family ironer. Mother ironed Everything from our clothing to sheets and towels – even my Dad’s boxers and undershirts were pressed and folded. She taught me the fine art and it became my Saturday morning task.

THE ironing board came to my house after Mom died. I knew I would probably never use it, but it is older than I, had been in the family eighty-odd years and it felt disrespectful to toss it out. It is wooden with a faded blue gingham padded cover. Those covers were changed often because Mom didn’t like to have scorch marks on them. It is retired now as all good servants should be and has not seen the light of day since 2003.

As an adult, I would tease Mom that she lived in a Doris Day movie in her head. I swear that if you looked into the closets of Ms. Day’s movie set it would look exactly like Mom’s. Her shelves were neat with towels arranged in color-coordinated harmony and stacked from large to small. Dishes too had their own particular symmetry on their shelves.  Her clothes closet was organized in order of seasons, then by type (dresses, skirts, shirts, blouses, pants, etc.) then by color. Organize and accomplish were her favorite words.

Mind you she was a full-time career woman until she was seventy-five and she ran our household like her office – precise and orderly. She managed to work all day after making breakfast for her husband and two kids and lunches for school. When she came home, she fixed dinner for all. She laid out my outfits for the following day. Her evenings were spent paying bills, or mending, or ironing and prepping to start all over again the next day. After we bought a TV in 1952, she might spend an hour watching it with the family, but she was always doing a little chore at the same time.

Didn’t have roses for pic but you get the idea

Once THE ironing board became a prop for my dad who loved to think creatively. Mom had talked of buying a steam iron – a relatively new appliance for the modern home in the 1950s. Before the steam iron, Mom would dampen Dad’s freshly laundered shirts (they were washed in a machine, then hung on a line outside to dry), roll them like fat sausages, and put them in the fridge to await ironing. She also used a coke bottle fitted with a sprinkle top that was filled with water to dampen clothes as she ironed them. The steam iron circumvented that process. As a surprise, Dad bought one. Very early on her birthday morning, he set up THE ironing board in the dining room with a pair of his boxers over the end, a vase of two dozen red roses, and the new steam iron on it. He rarely got up before her, so he had to be very sneaky. He got me up to watch.  We waited in the kitchen, and he snapped a photo when she saw her birthday gift. She burst out laughing, a rare thing for her and a happy memory for me.

Books

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Painting by
Sally Rosenbaum

An accessory to being a writer is being a reader. The love of words, whether my own or those of others I admire, is part of the suit I inhabit in the world. I have a library of over 1,000 volumes, hardback and paperback, most in my writing room/library/cat boudoir. There are books in every room of the house. My husband claims every horizontal surface has books on it. I have read most, reread many. Some are on my To Be Read list that I acquired at too-good-to-miss sales at the library and elsewhere. I wonder at times if my library is a subliminal guarantee of eternity as in, I cannot die until I’ve read every book I own. I don’t think so, but it has crossed my mind.

My husband, a man of action not a reader, has come to terms with the love-me-love-my-books attitude and helped transport boxes and boxes from one abode to another over the years. He does not understand the obsession. “Why keep a book you already read?” is his repeated refrain. “Because I love them” is my reply. Even if I don’t reread an entire book, I go back to visit characters or scenes I like. I use books as references or inspiration when I write. My books have sticky notes and penciled notes in them.

I made a promise (lightly made but mostly kept) to stop adding to the library when I discovered Kindle and Audible. Now I have over 600 Kindle books and nearly the same number of audiobooks that don’t have to be moved in boxes. Two-for-one offers and Kindle free are my downfall. I discovered the digital checkout system, Libby, at the public library and use it for book club books I don’t have and don’t want to purchase. I read two or three books concurrently. The three most recent are Trinity by Leon Uris, Since Then by Sheila Bender, and Lessons in Chemistry (audio) by Bonnie Garmus. Love them all.

I discovered, because of GoodReads, another place to hoard books. It is my “Want to Read” list that feels nearly as satisfactory as a TBR list. I read a review or see books my friends read and put them on the WTR list. It’s free and doesn’t take up space in my home.

a corner of the library
A corner of the library

Once, several years ago, I decided to organize my library and get rid of books I didn’t NEED. I took every volume off my shelves and put them in the middle of the room in stacks by category. My grandson, then about four, wandered into the room where dozens of stacks reached heights nearly to his shoulder. “Wow, Grandma, you must have a million books”.  I, with the coldness of a butcher, put piles of books to be discarded in a corner of the room. Then I asked my best buddies to come over to pick through and take the ones they wanted. We packed up the remainders and I had them take them to the library or Bookman’s or Good Will or wherever they chose. I knew if I took them, I’d end up bringing a few (or many) back because I’d rethink my attachment. I don’t miss them, and I don’t think I repurchased any of them. I didn’t keep a list. My library is again disorganized because I fail to put books back in their assigned place (even with the best intention). Maybe it’s time for reorganization and purge?

Truth and Facts

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Today I read a moving blog post about a friendship. The author wrote about her friend with the truth of memory, not necessarily the facts.  Raising the Dead ‹ BREVITY’s Nonfiction Blog ‹ Reader — WordPress.com.  I read another insightful blog post about current political turmoil in France. Out My Window ‹ Reader — WordPress.com. Somehow those two posts melded, although completely different in intent, and made me think about my reality and my memories.

To me facts are incontrovertible, they may be proven false later, but they are the concrete reality that can be proven at this point in time. Facts are objective, the absolute of what we know now through all our senses. Truth is subjective. It is the reality of facts filtered through our experience. We are all human and, as humans, subject to our own prejudices and emotional knowledge. Truth is facts of the heart, our day-to-day understanding of what is going on around us. As memoir writers it is important, on your journey to the truth, not to let facts be stumbling stones. While facts may be important they are not the sum total of the experience or the lessons you learn along the way.

I have a friend, a brilliant sculptor, who exhibits regularly at art shows around the country. I’ve watched her, in an hour or two, turn big lumps of clay into miniature animals – wolves, horses – so realistic that you expect them to move toward you at any moment. A magical experience. Many years ago, I traveled with her to an art exhibition in Montana that included her work. During our time there meeting artists and enjoying the art world, we had an on-and-off weeklong discussion on religion. What is the soul, what is spirit, can God be proven, etc? The discussion continued as we packed up and left Great Falls. I was driving her van. Somewhere along the highway, we passed a gas station where a large dog was sitting close to the edge of the road. We are both dog lovers.

I interrupted our discussion with “What kind of dog was that?” as we zoomed by.

“Dog?” she replied, “What dog?”

“The one we just passed,” I answered.

“We didn’t pass a dog, we just went by a Circle K,” she said.

“Ah, you didn’t see the dog, but it was there.”

“You’re making it up to change the subject.”

At the next turnable place, I maneuvered the van across lanes of the lightly traveled highway in a most illegal U-turn and headed to the gas station possibly five miles back, hoping the dog hadn’t been run over or run away. Sure enough, the dog was still sitting by the road.

“There,” says I, “that dog.”

“Oh, I guess I didn’t see it. It looks like a shepherd mix to me.”

“And that was my point,” I said returning to our discussion about belief. “Your reality is that the dog didn’t exist because you didn’t experience it.  Your truth is different from my truth. My truth could be based on an illusion or on my five senses, but it is my truth. It is what I know to be true and the same goes for you. Had I not turned the van around, we would have totally different memories of the same experience.”

What would my essay be today if the dog left, disappearing around the side of the building or into its owner’s car? It would be of a dog I swear I saw but then disappeared and her story would be of a crazy friend who made a U-turn in the middle of a highway to show her a phantom dog. Both would be true.

I write fiction primarily. Fiction contains elements of a writer’s truth. To my many memoir writing friends I want to say, write YOUR truth. There are no video or audio recordings of your day-to-day activities or relationships and the memories they engender. Your memory IS the recording and it IS filtered through your experience. Write what is in your heart because that is the truth and that is more important and much more interesting than all the facts listed in order as years evolve. Don’t let the fears of others block your truth. They cannot convey your story and should not arbitrate it. They are bit players, you are the star. What you learned is of value to those who are not able to express their story in words. Your truth may inspire or may help someone, even in your family, understand their world better. Write your story as it is for you. Don’t wait to let someone else tell it because it will then only be your story filtered through their experience, their story of you. Be Brave.

Our book Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets includes essays from each author’s truth as well as fiction short stories and poetry.

Grandma’s Cabbage Casserole or How to Cook Creatively

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I read a blog post recently about old family recipes and it reminded me of one of my favorites. My mother’s mother was a plain cook, but a good cook. She made simple things delicious. One of her recipes was published in a cookbook at the senior living community where she and my grandfather lived in the 60s. I laughed when I read it. Fortunately, I watched her make it many times, so I knew the results of the magic she employed. The recipe is “one head of cabbage, butter, milk, soda crackers, salt, pepper, bake 350 for 45 to 60 minutes”. That was the entire recipe called Cabbage Casserole. No quantities, no explanation of process. If I hadn’t observed her, I would be flummoxed by the lack of description and probably would not try it. I served it on many occasions to people who claim to hate cabbage, and all found it delicious.

I am a seat-of-the-pants or whatever’s-in-the-fridge cook. I only use recipes as inspiration to launch my own inventions. That can be really good or sensationally bad. I’ve had my husband say, ‘oh this is so good, I hope you make it again’. The answer is ‘probably not’ because I’m not actually sure how I made it in the first place. Nothing is ever made the same way twice. A little of this, a dash of that, a smidge of whatever. I don’t write it down as I create it. I’ve tried to make notes but have not been successful in the effort. On the other hand, he has looked up from the first bite or two and indicated with facial expressions that my creativity missed its mark, and it would be best to forget that experiment. He needs no words.

I’m crazy enough to serve guests my one-time-only dishes and, so far, have not poisoned anyone or had them refuse a repeat invitation. I truly know no other way to cook. I may start with the best of intentions to follow a recipe but somewhere along the way find I need to add or subtract something, usually add. It’s a compulsion I cannot deny.

Back to grandma’s cabbage. I like it BECAUSE it doesn’t have a lot of information. I know the destination and I know the road by heart. It gives me lots of room to create without feeling I’ve done an injustice to the spirit of the dish. I sometimes add cheese, sometimes ham, sometimes bacon crumbles, sometimes even chopped broccoli or shredded carrot. It all works.

If you are interested, I will give you more information. Use a well-buttered 13 x 9 baking dish. Shred a head of cabbage (or any vegetable you want to add, in whatever quantity you want – I discourage diced tomatoes or squash, however). Crush a sleeve of soda crackers (maybe two sleeves depending on your taste). Layer half of the cabbage, then a few pats of butter spaced across the cabbage, then half of the crushed soda crackers, salt (not much needed and can be eliminated because of the salted crackers), and pepper (again to taste) and repeat for two luscious layers. I have been known to add some of those French fried onions from the can to the top layer of crackers. Pour enough milk (sometimes with cream added) over the entire casserole until the level of milk is a little more than halfway up the side of the dish. Bake in 350° oven for 45 to 60 minutes – yes, that’s a big discrepancy but that’s what I do. It won’t be ruined by baking an hour and sometimes the veggies are a little crunchy at 45 minutes. If you add protein like cheese or ham, that can be a separate layer under the cracker layer. I bake it a little longer with those additions. I’ve thought of cooked chicken as a possibility, but my taste buds say no; but do it YOUR way.

I hope I’ve written all the steps.  If it works for you, let me know. If it doesn’t, I must have missed something because it always works.

Furby, in History

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Our daughter visited recently from Seattle. It has been over two years since we were together. Although we speak and see each other at least once a week via Duo, nothing replaces the warmth of a hug. Memories bubbled up as we talked of day-to-day experiences, lives in motion.

One such memory was of a trip Shari and I made in September 1999 – wow, before the turn of the century. It brought to mind the universal hubbub about the impact of Y2K. It was THE topic everywhere we went. How would it affect computer systems thereby creating chaos in finance, hospitals, governments, and on and on? Here we are twenty-three years later bumbling through totally different worldwide cataclysmic issues that will become memories in another quarter of a century. Living through history. Thousands of people worked vigorously to make the smooth transition as Shari and I blithely enjoyed our travels in Europe, occasionally pondering if the world as we knew it would still exist on January 1, 2000.

Fun memories of that trip by far supersede the worries of a world in turmoil. One such memory is of our Furby. It was the sort of A-I fad of the time, an alien-looking, hamster-sized toy that spoke in its own language and “acquired” our language as you talked with it. We stayed with friends in Wiltshire, England just a few miles up the hill from Stonehenge. Yes, we visited the four-thousand-year-old Neolithic monument to man’s ingenuity and were awed by the power that emanated from there.  Who knows what historical events colored those day-to-day lives? That’s another story. It was at their home where we met the then trendy sensation, Furby. Gail and Brian introduced us. We had a lively evening of discussion with a well-trained Furby and I was smitten. Upon our return to London, I immediately went to Harrod’s to purchase our little friend. Shari and I spent an evening talking to Furby. He told us his name, but it escapes my over-stuffed file drawer of recollection. What remains, however, is the startled reaction of the Parisian cab driver when Furby spoke up spontaneously from the depths of my carry-on bag nestled next to me in the backseat of his taxi.

We were being driven from Charles de Galle airport to our small hotel on Rue Augereau near the Eiffel Tower. Shari and I both had rudimentary French from school, so we figured between us we’d get along just fine during our visit in France. We did not expect Furby to be part of any conversation. At a stop light, Furby decided to join our halting discourse with the cab driver. It uttered some words of Furbish mixed with English in its little voice. The cab driver’s head swiveled in a snap to look at us. He said (in French of course) “Who’s that? I picked up two ladies at the airport. When did we get another passenger?” I hurried to pull Furby from my bag to show him it was a toy because I couldn’t find the words in my basic vocabulary to describe it. He continued to drive but kept a close eye on us from his rear-view mirror. Furby made a few more remarks as I fumbled to turn him off. When we arrived at the hotel, I handed the toy to the driver and explained as best I could what it was. Then we laughed but I’m sure it is a memory he retained. We all survived Y2K and Furby resides on a shelf as a reminder of that trip. He hasn’t spoken a word in nearly twenty-two years.

Old Mesquite

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Outside my library window       

Nascent bright green leaves, softly wave.

An elaborate contrast against

The rugged black bark of old Mesquite

Whose arms stretch out to embrace Spring

In long feathery finery.

Rising in the near distance against

The perfect blue sky

Behind old Mesquite

Pusch Ridge presents itself.

It will disappear in a few weeks as

Mesquite becomes denser,

A screen and shade against the

Slowly increasing heat

of Summer sun.

Dwarf Chaste Tree,

Little sister to old Mesquite,

Sits under his protective arms

Shyly showing her tightly leafed buds

In tiny clumps,

Inviting Spring’s release.

Toe Compatibility

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Originally posted on A Way with Words Blog

It seems a small thing. The care of those strange-looking, very necessary appendages, feet.

It was not on our minds when, at ages eighteen and nineteen, we rushed off in the heat of lust and starry-eyed optimism to elope. Toe compatibility. Now as senior citizens, after decades of marriage, it is a point of discussion.

My husband and I indulge ourselves in the luxury of monthly pedicures. Years ago we were gifted His and Hers Pedicures by a friend.  I think it was a joke gift to see if my husband would do it. We tried it out. Oh my. The soothing feeling of having tired feet and legs massaged is like lying on a warm beach with ocean waves caressing your legs, an hour in heaven. We were hooked. It took a few appointments to find the right nail tech/massage therapist for each of us, but we came upon perfect matches and have stuck with them for years. Amy is my lady and Kathy takes excellent care of my husband’s feet. He has beautiful feet, like very large baby feet, soft and clear. Kathy points out his feet could be models. He wears socks and shoes always. My feet, in contrast, are gnarly. Because I have bunions, I go barefoot unless leaving the house and then I usually wear sandals exposing my feet to the elements. Poor Amy must use the cheese grater tool to peel the callouses off mine.

I have my nails painted but he eschews such frippery. The ladies try nearly every time to talk him into adding color causing laughter all around.  His treatment is done before mine, so he walks next door to Starbucks and buys a mocha that he brings back to share as my nails dry. After our appointment, we are relaxed and feel pampered.

It sounds perfect but…the incompatibility comes because my nails grow quickly so I’m ready for a trim every four weeks; his grow slowly and he can go seven or eight weeks. I know I could trim my nails myself as I used to do, but I’m spoiled. We compromise because we like to go together. My nails are usually long enough to climb trees by the time we go in and my heels are akin to horse hooves. My husband needs a light trim. Who would have dreamed that a simple self-care task would become an issue for monthly discussion?

Wordsmithing

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Writing. Something I am doing almost all the time. Even in my dreams. I may not be physically committing words to paper but, in my head, stories are being created, or poems, or current events noted. At some time during the day, I try to find a space to scribe those thought forms with the symbols we call words.  

Every year a new list of words is published by a variety of sources including Oxford House and Webster. Last year ‘staycation’, ‘metaverse’, and ‘shrinkflation’ were offered in the listing of new terms. They were words I understood and may use. I’m particularly fond of ‘badassery’. Other words like ‘finfluencer’ (a financial influencer), ‘crunk’ (full of energy), and ‘ASMR’ (autonomous sensory meridian response) will probably never enter my lexicon of jargon.

I love to play with words, so welcome the expansion. However, I’ve noticed that some old words are being abandoned or profoundly changed. Some very nice old words at that. As our culture changes so do the words to describe it. One prime example is ‘gay’ used today to indicate a homosexual male and in the past to describe a happy, carefree feeling. ‘Literally’ used to mean something actually happening now but has been converted to a word of emphasis such as a ‘literal’ smash hit.

I believe the world is a sadder place without ‘nizzled’ (slightly intoxicated), ‘chuffy’ (haughty, puffed up), and ‘quixotic’ (absurdly romantic). I made myself a promise to discover some great old words and apply them in my next story.

A book I discovered last year is Dreyer’s English, an Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style by Benjamin Dreyer. Great word ‘utterly’. Mr. Dreyer has taken Strunk and White, the absolute bible of English grammar, to a whole new level. While the little tome of Misters Strunk and White is in my portable writing folder at all times, I prefer to look things up in Dreyer’s bigger book that sits on my desk. He always has a good story to go along with the lesson. Anytime I can laugh as I learn, I learn much better.

Happy wordsmithing to all.

Mental Feng Shui for a Peaceful Orderly Mind

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I was given this reminder in 2008 and I refer to it often. I hope you find it helpful.


 1. Exceed expectations and do it cheerfully.

 2. Remember the three R’s: Respect for self; Respect for others; Responsibility for all your actions.

3. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk.

 4. When you lose, DON’T lose the lesson.

5. When you say ‘I love you’ mean it.

 6. When you say ‘I’m sorry’ look the person in the eye.

 7. Believe in love at first sight.

 8. Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it’s the only way to live life completely.

 9. Be engaged at least a year before you get married – know the person through all seasons.

10. Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.

11. Never laugh at anyone’s dreams. People who don’t have dreams don’t have much.


12. In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling. Speak your truth without rancor.


13. When someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, smile and ask, ‘Why do you want to know?’


14. When you realize you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.

15. Talk slowly but think quickly.

16. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great friendship.

17. Remember memories are made with people, not things. When all is said and done, it will be the experiences you have and people you love that will be important – not the car or jewelry.


18. Don’t judge people by their relatives.


19. Don’t believe all you hear, use your common sense; don’t spend all you have, give some away; don’t sleep all you want, just all you need. Life is short – be part of it.


20. Smile when you answer the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.

21. Be kind to animals, we share their planet.

22. Say ‘bless you’ when you hear someone sneeze.


23. Daily – Spend some time alone. Spend time with God.

A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.

A Very Successful Weekend

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Jackie flew to Tucson from Colorado on Wednesday to join Sally and me for the Tucson Festival of Books. She brought a snowstorm with her. Fortunately, we live in a high desert where snow can stomp in and wrap us in a big downy blanket in the morning and by afternoon the snow disappears under the gentle smile of the sun, and all is clear. Snow lingers in the mountains to remind us it is still winter, but we can go about our tasks with no restrictions of weather.  

Our weekend began Friday with our appearance at the author’s table at Barnes and Noble on Broadway. We greeted customers and introduced them to our book, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, a collaborative memoir of twenty-five years of writing and being friends.  We sold some books and had great conversations with readers, other authors, and would-be authors. Our book is designed to encourage writers to create critique groups to enhance their skills and help them toward publication. We share stories we wrote throughout our time together, so the book is also an anthology of fiction and non-fiction, short stories, essays, and poems. Something for everyone. It was hard for the store to put us in just one genre because we fit in many so they call us “Local Authors”.

Saturday was our turn in the independent authors’ tent at the Tucson Festival of Books. The Festival attracts thousands of people from all over the world for the two-day event. We met dozens of readers and writers who came to our tent to learn about and buy our book. We made new friends and met new readers. Some old friends stopped by too. We were invited to do a podcast in the near future. Stay tuned for more information on that.

The third day, Sunday, of our marathon was at the Barnes and Noble store on the northwest side of town at the Foothills Mall. Again, dozens of old friends, new friends, and readers surrounded us. The two hours sped by in a blink. Sally and Jackie will add more pictures to our story in their blogs this week. Even better than the book sales engendered we were filled with the excitement of people learning about our journey as writers. Some readers shared their opinions of our stories and said it was the kind of book they would read over again because the stories are so varied, and they get something new out of each reading.

At the end of the weekend, we were exhausted and exhilarated, but ready to put pen to paper and start a new journey of words.