Category Archives: Writing, the Passion and the Pain

Thoughts on being a writer

The Spirit of a Boy

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Writers obtain inspiration from a variety of sources. Mine usually come in dreams, or as I’m waking in the morning. Sometimes a character talks to me while I’m walking or driving asking to have his/her story told. It can be said to be divine, or mystical, or even crazy but it is magical. This is the true story of a spirit who guided me to write a poem.

At the tender age of sixty-two I suddenly realized that I would never be a grandmother. It had been my highest ambition, having grown up with wonderful grandparents and great-grandparents. As Polonius said, “and it must follow as the night, the day….” (totally out of context) I believed it was the natural culmination of a life well lived. I made the bold statement to my three progeny at various times that my aim in having children was so I could eventually be a grandma. I think that may have been a step too far. In hindsight, probably not a great tactic in the parent/child relationship.

By April, 2008 none of them exhibited any interest in procreation. NONE. They were happily living the lives they designed without one thought to my hopes and desires. Oh me, oh my. For several years, I had pinned baby pictures of my friends’ grandchildren and even the children of my childrens’ friends on a wall in my office cubicle. Someday, I believed, the wall would contain a load of pictures of MY grandchildren. But now all my children had exceeded their fortieth birthday and no grandchildren on the horizon. Not even a hint, a whiff, a whisper, a sign.

That evening I sat with my journal and began to jot down a poem mourning the conscious loss of something I would never have. I wrote about the little granddaughter I wished for – all the things I envisioned doing with her.

The next day I went to my computer to transcribe that story to submit to my writers’ group. As I sat at my desk, I felt the strong presence of a little boy hovering over my left shoulder. I could hear his voice. He wanted me to bake a cake for his third birthday. His spirit was so vivid, that the story of my granddaughter morphed into a poem about my grandson. I read it to my writer’s group the next week with an air of sad resignation, a kind of mourning.

My Grandson at Three
A memoir of loss

A chubby bundle of verve
Dirty knees, killer smile
A charming packet of cuddles,
Blue eyes spark with wonder
That is my grandson

Innocence and childish wisdom
Life – a fish bowl of dashing delights
A bright idea swishes past
A clever observation
The world full of marvels

At three his every thought
Becomes action
Or question to be explored
Energy and curiosity
Cascade thru our day

From awakening
Til he is tucked away
Too tired to dream
My grandson to me is
Joy, delight, a miracle

Sweet arms surround my neck
“Read it again, gramma”
Good Night Moon redux
Snuggles in my lap
Affection, a two-way road, no tolls

I know it can’t last
This rapture of childhood
If love holds when he is grown
He’ll read to me
In the afterglow of remembrance

I wished a granddaughter
Tea parties and dress up
I wanted a granddaughter
To primp and pamper
I dreamed a grandson, the light of my life

I am the mother of three
None plan children of their own
Their choice, their path
Expectation denied
A loss I mourn

He will never be born to the world
In consolation of loss
My grandson is born to my heart
A luminous vibration of life
Forever tenderly just mine.

On Mother’s Day, May 11, 2008, I received a call from our eldest daughter who was living in Hawaii. “Hi Mom,” she said, “Happy Mother’s Day. You are going to be a grandma.” I was stunned. Excited, stunned, excited, over-the-moon, amazed. It was several days before I remembered the little boy who asked me to bake his birthday cake. My daughter declared that she was not going to find out the sex of her child until it was born. I had a hard time keeping the secret – I knew a little boy was on his way. He told me so about a month earlier.

Our daughter was divorced and moved to Tucson just before her baby was born. Ken and I were privileged to be part of his childhood.  I did bake his birthday cake for his third birthday, white cake with chocolate frosting and M&M’s. He is all that I dreamed. He does have blue eyes and a killer smile. He is a bundle of energy and light. He is a blessing beyond my imagining. He taught himself to play the piano by ear at age three. He learned to play the guitar from his mama. He played little league with his grandpa as a coach. He’s a scholar at school taking honors and AP courses. He is now over six feet tall, nearly as tall as grandpa, and very much his own person. He belongs to his high school mountain biking team. He has participated in El Tour de Tucson Bike Race every year since he was four starting with the fun run, then the five mile and so on. This year he challenged himself to ride the longest run – 105 miles that he completed in five hours. Oh, the bragging can go on and on for pages.

This past weekend we celebrated his 15th birthday. I baked a German Chocolate birthday cake for him.

And at nap time when he was little, we did read Goodnight Moon – many times.

Granpa and Henry
El Tour de Tucson 2023

300 Word Challenge

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This is a story I submitted to our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum. The story had to be 300 words or less. This is based on a real “character” in our family. Names were changed even though Lila is totally recognizable by those who know her. This story would make her smile with a wink.

The Coquette

Lila knew how to get attention. First, she always wore a hat. She liked to make a statement even when she went to the grocery store. Her closet was full of hat boxes. Lila also loved men. She was expert at catching the eye of a male. She was petite and moved like a dancer on tiny feet. Her large blue eyes cast about for prey when she entered a room. Then her lashes would lower like a butterfly folding its wings as soon as she secured the attention of a particular fellow.

One day my husband and I picked Lila up to go meet my in-laws at a favorite local restaurant. Lila wore a yellow straw hat with red cherries decorating the brim. My father-in-law set his baseball cap on the ledge at the end of the row of tables where several others had placed their hats. We ordered lunch.  I watched Lila, out of the corner of my eye, scouting the room. A tall lanky man in his mid-forties came in and was seated at a table nearby. He placed his ballcap on the ledge also. His eyes drifted to our table and Lila gave him a nod. He smiled and went about his lunch. When it was time to leave, Lila quickly got up and went to the ledge where the hats lay and, snatching up the stranger’s ballcap, announced in a loud voice, “Oh Walt, don’t forget your hat.”

“That’s not mine,” my father-in-law replied picking up his own hat.

The stranger looked up and stood. “a – that’s my hat, Miss,” he said.

“Oh I’m sorry. I could have sworn it was my friend’s,” she said, smiling sweetly. Objective met. Lila was 92 and had buried three husbands.

A Terrific Day – The Green Valley Writers’ Book Fair

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Saturday, November 25th Sally and I attended the Green Valley Book Fair sponsored by the Society of Southwest Authors to promote Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets. There were forty-four authors there, some had as many as nine different books to sell.  It was a very good turnout of book lovers/readers. Sales of our book went well but the most fun we had was talking with other writers and the readers. We connected our stories with their stories in many ways thus making our community of book lovers even larger. The three hours went like ten minutes, then we packed up and left, glowing from the experience.

I’ve listed some of the books that I saw there that really interested me and, of course, I bought a few (there go the profits). Their authors had great stories to tell.

Out of the Fog by Sandra CH Smith – a bigger-than-life adventure story. Too big for one book, she is writing a second. I wish there were pictures in it. Every page is another ah-ha or oh! my goodness. This is definitely a true adventure that should be made into a movie – but who would believe it?

One Mile at a Time by Marie (Midge) Lemay and Suzanne Poirier. This book is a synopsis of the travels of two sisters who left everything behind to travel the continental U.S. in 2009 in a Honda CRV named Gypsy. They planned to travel for 12-18 months but ended up continuing for 21 months with the mantra “One Mile at a Time”. This story is dear to my heart because they traveled the “blue roads” just as our family did in our 14-month journey around the U.S. in 1984-85. Those are the roads less traveled, through small towns instead of freeways through major cities. Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon is one of my very favorite books and inspired our travels.

A series of John Santana Mysteries by Christopher Valen. I love mysteries. I have not read this series, but I peeked into a few of Chris’ books and they look like they will be interesting reads. They are on my TBR shelf.

My compatriots at the Oro Valley Writers’ Forum cannot be forgotten. Wonderful authors all. I’ve read many of their books and highly recommend them.

Karen Admussen – Moon of Many Names. A year of poems

Wes Choc – four titles- his true life adventures in the world, and a fascinating biography of a spy from WWII whom he personally interviewed.

David R. Davis – six books of short stories and poetry

Brad D’Emidio – Sometimes the Turn. The story of a woman who emerges from the shadows of a difficult past.

Debra VanDeventer – Out of the Crayon Box. A memoir of a lifetime as an educator and the transition to retirement

Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets

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Our writers’ group published a book a year ago, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, about the fun and challenges of being a writers’ group. It is a collaborative memoir that spans two-plus decades of friendship and writing. Besides being a memoir, our book includes prompt ideas, tips to keep a group together, stories, poems, and essays by the three of us. This coming Saturday, November 25, Sally and I will be at the Society of Southwest Authors Book Fair to meet and greet, sell, and autograph books. Previously we were invited to participate in the Tucson Festival of Books last March 2023. It was fun talking with folks who read our book, learning how they used our tips with their groups. We get a big kick out of sharing our story and encouraging other writers to start support groups like ours that will further their writing goals. The third member of our writing trio lives in Colorado and is not able to be with us this time. If you are in the Tucson vicinity, please come join us at Desert Hills Lutheran Church in Green Valley between 9 am and noon. There will be other local writers with a variety of books to sell. Below is a link to our book on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It can be purchased digitally or in paperback.

Book: Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets – Amazon

Book: Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets – Barnes and Noble

Effie’s Trinket

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When writing, to clear your mind, it is sometimes fun to find a prompt that stretches your imagination, gets you out of a rut, and lets your brain breathe. This story is what came to me instantly from a prompt to write a one-page story, poem, or essay about a trinket, a twenty-minute write. Now there are endless possibilities in that direction. What is a trinket? Is it a treasured bobble given you by your grandmother? Is it a fun reminder of a trip to the fair? or to Italy? Sometimes I need to be flexible about the one-page directive. Many stories are handwritten so the “one-page” doesn’t count because I transcribe them to computer. Then one–page can be fiddled by changing margins and font size unless otherwise restricted. The idea though is to be free, unloose your imagination. Let yourself go.

Effie’s Trinket

“Euphemia.  Euphemia. Come in for supper,” her mother called from the screen door into the backyard.

Effie scrunched down so she couldn’t be seen from the back porch. Old Elmer’s giant arms embraced her, fanning his huge green-gold and orange leaves to conceal the girl’s hideaway. Effie’s stomach gurgled. It had been hours since she ran away from home and maybe she was a bit hungry. She held Trinket in her two hands, cooing to him. “We don’t need food, Trinkie. We’ll live on moonlight and magic.” Trinket nuzzled his spikey head under her chin, his grey-blue eyes blinking as he stared up at her.

Effie’s mom went back into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her. “Go ahead, sit down. I’ll give her another five minutes and then we’ll eat,” she said to her husband Eustis and son Micah. The round oak kitchen table was set for four. Food waited on the stove top to be served. Glasses of honey mead, diluted by water for the children, were in place.

“Ma, I’ll go find her,” said Micah.

“You’ll stay just where you are,” Eustis proclaimed. “You’re the reason she walked out this afternoon. Why did you have to tease her again about her dragon?”

“Aww, Dad. She’s nine and too old to be carrying around a baby dragon. I’m embarrassed when my friends see her.”

“Well, son, you may be a mature fourteen-year-old now but it wasn’t all that long ago you rode your unicorn, Cool Whip, up and down the county road. I think you were about Effie’s age when you told us he took you over the moon one cloudless full-moon night.”

“Euphemia Jane. It’s time to eat. I made chicken pizza and mashed potatoes with butter and bacon bits.” Dorothy called again from the back door.

She scanned the yard for a sign of her daughter. Effie had a habit of running away when she was mad. She had never wandered beyond the boundaries of their two-acre property but there was always a first time. Dorothy looked at the shed, a common retreat. Blackberry vines that covered the building didn’t look disturbed. In summer, Effie would come in with scratches on her arms and legs from reaching for the ripest fattest berries. Her fingers, her mouth and tongue would be stained royal purple. But it was autumn, not the season for blackberries. She glanced up at Old Elmer. The tree sat halfway between the shed and the vegetable garden. There, about a quarter of the way up the seventy-foot colossus, she saw a glimmer of pink. Effie’s pale gold hair glowed pink in red rays of sunset.

“Euphemia Jane Charles, come down this instant. Bring Trinket with you. Your brother will leave him alone.”

The empty feeling in Effie’s tummy and her aching legs from being crouched for so long as well as her mother’s promise that Micah would leave Trinket alone persuaded her to shimmy down the tree with the baby dragon secured under her arm. “Thanks Elmer,” she said as her toes touched the soft cushion of fallen leaves beneath the tree and she set Trinket on the ground. She started to walk toward the house but the golden cord that tethered Trinket to her ankle became taut. Trinket cocked his head, lavender wings folded tightly against his body, refusing to follow her.

“Com’on, Trinkie, let’s give Micah one more chance. He didn’t really mean it when he said he would take you away and drop you at the end of the earth. I won’t let that happen even if I have to carry you always. You’ll be getting bigger and pretty soon he won’t be able to bully you. Your wings are almost strong enough to carry you where he can’t reach you. One of these days your fire starter will work and it will serve him right if you give him a little scorch. She bent down and picked Trinket up cuddling him close to her chest. He gave a little snort, a happy snort, waggled his pink and purple scales, and settled in her arms.

They went in for supper.

The End

I gave this story to a friend for comment, not about grammer but about the flow of the story. He is a serious writer/researcher.
His comment was, “So, is Trinket a stuffed animal? Or a cat?”
“What do you mean? Trinket is a dragon,” I replied. “It says it pretty clearly.”
“Oh,” says he, and that was the end of his comments.
It is useful to remember that a reader filters your stories through their experience. They may have a completely different interpretation of it than was your intent.

The whole idea of writing from a quick prompt is to exercise a separate part of your brain and give yourself the freedom to explore topics from different, hopefully, fresh angles. You may find a nugget of something useful to your main project in those musings.

I am blessed with dozens of people who live in my head. They are generally unobtrusive unless called upon to inhabit a story. I also don’t know where their names come from. I don’t recall ever hearing the name Euphemia or Effie before. Once these people have been let out, they become a part of my mind-family. I’m never lonely. I know them all so well. For instance, Eustis, in this story is a very real character to me. He has tomato-soup-red, short, curly hair, black-framed glasses, and is a scientist who works for a small chemical company in the mid-west. He always has a slight grin on his face as though he is observing life through bubble glass. He hums a little song frequently with part of the chorus “I got Memphis blues, right down to my shoes.” I don’t know if that is a real song or not. It just popped into his head. Although he is a minor character in this story, he may reappear in a different story at a different time with his unusual family. That is unless they all expire from his wife’s cooking. I cannot imagine serving such a meal to my family.

Another person I wrote a story about is Hannah, a black woman born in the late 1890s who is a baker in Wickenberg Arizona in the 1920s – 30s. I know all about her childhood and her family who were sharecroppers in Mississippi, and slaves, a generation before that. I know her journey to independence as a businesswoman. I’ve seen (in my imagination) the headstones of the family in the county cemetery. She has an amazing story to tell. One day I may put it on the blog. These people are very real to me but they are all born from my imagination. Sometimes I think I should put a disclaimer on my stories like the old TV shows that says, “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental”.

When Will the World Be Finished?

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I find a three-year-old to be the most interesting companion. They are full of curiosity and have learned the art of conversation. One morning my son and I were running errands around town, we passed through a construction zone with a crew of men digging a trench on the side of the road.

Casey asked, “What are those men doing?”

We had been through several areas with large machines and workers, and I had gone through explanations about making a ditch to put in sewage pipes, and preparing a new place to build houses for people. Each answer elicited another barrage of questions. What is sewage? Why do we need sewers? Why do people poop? Why do roads need to be fixed? How many houses are going to be built? Who will live in them? Can we meet them sometime? Do those men put their machines in their garage at night? Can we live in one of the new houses? Can Glenny and Johnny come live next door? Each question led to another. Most I could answer easily. We passed a new high-rise being constructed and a bridge being reinforced. Now we were detoured through lanes as a road was under repair. 

“Mommy, when will the world be finished?” That question put a pause on the talk, talk, talk.

What a concept – a finished world, a static world, a world without change. This was not a throwaway answer. I always welcomed his curiosity as he learned about the world around him. This question required more thought. Never – is the easy answer. But to a three-year-old that doesn’t cut it. Why? Why? Why? Are the follow-ups. As we paused in our journey delayed by the construction, we discussed how things like roads have a purpose and, when they are used, they wear out just like his beloved blanket that was now in shreds, even after many rebindings, but still a constant companion at bedtime. Sometimes buildings are made and then need to be changed for bigger or better buildings. We discussed the nature of change as the seasons change. How flowers bloom sometimes but not always, and leaves change colors. He was only old enough at that time to really have memory of one complete year of seasons. We talked about how he changed, learning to walk, learning to use the toilet, learning new songs and words. As a person he will change as he gets older. Someday he will be big like Daddy and have his own family. Because of all those things, the world will never be finished. It is always evolving/revolving.

I can liken that to my writing. When is a story finished? I spend hours writing only to find, after review, it needs to be changed. Even a short essay requires review and editing. I usually write something then put it away for a day or two and revisit. I wake from sleep with a brand new line for a story that was born in my unconscious. Many of my stories remain in my computer or, if handwritten, in my file cabinet. If they are to be published, they will be revised and revised before other eyes see them. I always think of different ways of saying something or other words to use to reveal a character or action.  I don’t believe I have ever reread a piece of my writing that I haven’t wanted to change something. Even in the book we published last year, I go back and find so many lines that need to be rewritten. I’ve talked to other writers who feel the same. There is a point when “it is good enough” is the only way to actually produce a “finished” story or poem.

Just like the world, my stories are never really finished. What you read is just the latest iteration.

Six Sentences

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Our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum recently challenged the members to write a story in six sentences. I took up the challenge. It is fun to practice writing in a variety of ways. There were no restrictions as to genre or topic. Below is my story.

In the darkness of the midnight hour, the lines clang against the main mast as the little sloop, Step Two, is released from anchor and begins to float out of the cove in a rising tide. The jib unfurls in the freshening wind from starboard. She sets the wheel aiming toward open waters, then bends to her task. Her back and shoulder muscles strain as she heaves the body overboard, head first, and watches it slice through the inky waters into the deep along with the bloody knife. She exhales a deep sigh of freedom realizing he’ll terrorize no more. Light from the quarter moon creeps from between clouds casting shadows across her scarred face.

A few months ago I wrote another six sentence story for an on-line challenge. This is that story. It is titled Bi-polar. I feel I must add that it is not auto-biographical. I shared it with some in my writing group and they immediately expressed sympathy for me. I had to explain it was made up but comes from observation, reading, and listening to other people’s stories.

It comes without warning, unexpected, expected, furious, fierce, brittle, hateful. It goes the same, expected, unexpected as sweetness returns. calm consideration and laughter. My lover is possessed by a djinn called by many names, bi-cycles, bi-polar cycles, stealthily stealing love. I am thrown as from a swiftly moving car into brambles of pain, reason unknown, known, unknowable. My heart is calloused, trust gone an unbridgeable distance, leaving shredded tatters of love with only a gossamer thread remaining. The darkness of her despair, unreachable, unclaimed grasps my helpless heart building an unbreachable wall between.

Fiction is based on so many things from a writer’s experiences, reading, and research. While there may be tiny pieces of me in my fiction writing, it is mostly made up in my head. It is the inhabiting of other realities that makes writing fun for me. Some of them are dark. Some are ridiculous and some are funny. These two examples are on the dark side. I don’t think anyone thought the first story was autobiographical…but you never know. I have owned a sailboat.

Change * My Last Post on A Way with Words blog

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As my dear husband reminds me whenever I am flummoxed by events that modify my circumstances, “The only constant is change”. The world is always in flux. Change is life. We are not the same, day in and day out, because our lives are not static. We live in an ever-modifying world, shifting conditions and changing views. As we get older our bodies transform as do our wants and needs. Change brings growth even when we don’t immediately realize it. Change is a catalyst for learning about ourselves, others, and our world.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.

What I’m getting at is there is a change on the horizon with me and the A Way with Words blog. This is my last post as a regular blogger. With the permission of Sally and Jackie, I will occasionally be a contributor. Our friendship remains intact. I will always be grateful for their generous friendship and their mentorship. We spent many years learning to write together and now we are going separate ways as writers.

I established my own blog site Wonkagranny, a grandmother’s perceptions of the universe through stories, poems, and life observations. I will write posts on that site beginning September 1st.  I do not feel that I can maintain an effective presence on two blogging sites at the same time. I am writing short stories and essays that may or may not ever be published. Publication has never been a goal for me, but some of those stories and poems will be linked on my Wonkagranny site. My past posts from A Way with Words are archived on Wonkagranny.

I deeply appreciate all those who read and comment on our mutual website and I hope you will join me on my personal journey with words.

We Must Risk Delight

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I read a lot, usually two or three books at a time. I’m now reading the Collected Poems of Jack Gilbert, The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World by Laura Imai Messina, and The Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett. I’m also rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles for book club. Prompted by the poetry of Jack Gilbert, I am finding much needed messages in each book. Our world is in turmoil. Human beings are being cheated, chained and tortured, enslaved and murdered, and there is still good in the world. We must celebrate those pockets of delight. It is not about denying the strife of living, it is about acknowledging the wonder of life. I am alive. I have pain, I am alive. I have problems, I am alive. There will always be human suffering, but even the poorest barefoot women at the public fountain in a war-torn country find occasion for laughter. Celebrate the wonder of being alive.

In Jack Gilbert’s poem A Brief for the Defense, he says, “We must risk delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”

I finished reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I was reluctant to start reading it after learning the topic, thinking it would be a complete downer. But it was for our book club, so I dove in. What made a story about the downtrodden and drug-addicted in Appalachia an enjoyable read was the resilience of Damon, the main character. No matter what life threw at him, he found a way to make lemonade from lemons – to survive, even thrive. A victory of the soul over circumstance.

The Phone Booth at the Edge of the World explores grief, seemingly unrelenting sorrow without being overly sentimental or self-pitying. It is about two survivors of the tsunami of March 2011 in Japan who lost their dearest loves and find hope and laughter in their memories and in their survival.

I finished rereading Rules of Civility by Amor Towles. In it the storyteller, Kate sees two photos of a former lover in a gallery. The first shows Tinker dressed in a suit looking very dapper and successful; the second is of Tinker in rags but with a light in his eyes. A glow that the first photo did not show. It was a riches-to-rags story. Kate explains to her husband that the second photo, taken years after the first, was of Tinker happy without the chains of society’s expectations dampening his spirit. Tinker’s character is summed up later by his brother Hank. “Wonder. Anyone can buy a car or a night on the town. Most of us shell our days like peanuts. One in a thousand can look at the world with amazement. I don’t mean gawking at the Chrysler Building. I’m talking about the wing of a dragonfly. The tale of the shoeshine. Walking through an unsullied hour with an unsullied heart.” Tinker rediscovered delight. I love Amor Towles’s way with words.

Another poem Falling and Failing by Jack Gilbert is about divorce. He opines that divorce should not be considered a failure. It is the memories of the love and time together that are celebrated in his poem. The first line reads, “Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.” The last line is, “I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.”

“Life is just a bowl of cherries” as the song says. Some are sweet, some sour, and some have pits. “Don’t take it serious, life’s too mysterious.” Stubborn gladness is more than happiness. It is a choice, the decision to see the juicy wonder in life and toss the pits.

July in the Desert

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Originally posted on A Way with Words

Saturday started in the usual way, up at 5 am as dawn cracked the horizon, then a walk through Vistoso Trails Nature Preserve, a 202-acre former golf course that backs to our property and connects with other open spaces in our town.

A rambling six-mile trail (former cart path) winds through open areas and trees offering beautiful vistas of the Catalina Mountains as well as local wildlife. Birds of all kinds chatter in the trees declaring the news of the day as we walk along. Roadrunners and rabbits skitter across the paths in a hurry to go to breakfast. Animals and humans stay a respectful distance from one another. The wildlife does not seem frightened or threatened by people passing through their home.

Yes, it is hot in southern Arizona in July, but not so hot that nature cannot be enjoyed in the early hours. We are lucky to live in this amazing environment. The trails are busy with walkers and a few bikers until about 9 am when temps start to climb and everyone retreats to air conditions homes. Monsoons are on the agenda for this month yet none have arrived. They will certainly be welcomed when they do. They bring drama to our Sonoran Desert and much needed rain.

Later in the morning, Sally and I met at our town’s newest bookshop, Stacks Book Club, a long-awaited addition to the Oro Valley Marketplace. Wow! We were impressed. The owners, Crispin and Lizzy, have done a great job creating a comfy ambiance, a gathering place. They are open from 7 am to 8 pm every day and offer a variety of coffee drinks, teas, energy drinks, beer, and wine – something for every time of day – plus an assortment of pastries and sandwiches, and BOOKS. Their opening weekend drew over 1,000 people. Crispin said it seriously reduced their inventory of books which they are busy upgrading. The bookshop is a real bonus for our community.  I’m sure they will do very well. We plan to visit often. It is a great place for a writers’ group to meet to discuss individual projects and have a cuppa.

Check out Stacks website: Stacks Book Club.

That was my day – from bobcats to books to baseball (on TV). Dodgers beat the Mets, Angels beat the Astros, and Tigers beat the Mariners. Then a happy hour hosted by our neighbors, Joyce and Rick. Perfect!