Gardening in the Rain

Mom gave me over a hundred flower bulbs. It was time to replace her tulips, so of course she ordered enough bulbs to populate the Netherlands. My mother is a generous person. She felt I needed about a hundred of them.

Thanks, Mom.

So, there I was with a big crate of every kind of bulb I ever wanted to plant and no time to do it. My plan was to have them in the ground by mid-October. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men . . .

October came and went. As from my former post, you remember what happens when you wait too late in the state of Illinois to do an outdoor project. I still have frostbite on my ass from that one.

The problem was more than time. The summer had been hot and dry, and the ground had been baked to a brick-like consistency. So, I needed to wait for a little rain.

A little rain.

It was too cold the day I cleaned the flue on the roof. It was too cold and icy to do much at all. I needed to wait. Hey, the weather man said it would warm up. He also said it would rain almost non-stop.

Like without stopping.

But Mom had given me a crate of expensive bulbs. Before the bulbs could go in, I had to take out the tomato beds. The wood was rotting. The beds were full of fungus from the wet spring, the kind that infests tomato plants and makes them die. So no tomatoes could be planted there again. So they had to come out.

When I put them in a few years back, I put in a potent mix of well over 2000 lbs of organic materials to grow my lovely veggies. Each year before planting, I mixed in another 250-500 lbs. I figured, after some run-off and whatnot, there was probably still 2500 lbs of soil to move. Removing the rotting wood took little effort. One sharp whack with a hammer and the wood falls away.

Yesterday dawned drearily, but the rain had stopped. It wasn’t a heavy rain all week. It was a drippy, drizzly rain that soaked into the bones, but not the kind that fully saturates the ground. It does, however, soften it enough to actually drive a spade into it without killing oneself.

So, yesterday I started. I knocked down one box, carted the soil away—a wheelbarrow at a time—and worked the area, put in 28 bulbs in the cold wind and quit. It was too chilly, too windy to carry on.

Which meant my extra day off was going to be hell. I needed to cart off another 1500 lbs of dirt, break down the box, put in two more tulip beds and a bed of annis, various hyacinth, daffodils and whatever else was in the crate.

Then get Christmas lights down from the attic, string them up, put up the deer and other display lights. So much for reading that book I have sitting on the table. Sigh.

The wheelbarrow is rickety. It’s only 30 years old. The ground is wet. No, it’s a slog of mud. The grass is wetter. The mud is slick. The shovelfuls are heavy.

I was on my fourth load in the wheelbarrow. I was moving the soil to various low spots—anywhere where I could get rid of it. That’s a lot of dirt to dispose of, but I was determined.

My muscles screamed, still sore from the day before. My back was telling me no more. My boots were soaked through and heavy with thick globs of mud and wet leaves. It was like carrying around 10 lbs of cement on my feet, and my feet were freezing.

The fourth load was especially heavy. For some reason, I failed to remember how rickety the wheelbarrow was. So, I was moving the load, moving fast because it was heavy.

The handle snapped off at the base. It sheered away under a couple hundred pounds of muddy garden mix. The other handle was intact, so the barrel immediately listed sideways, causing me to over-correct, which caused the barrel to drop to the ground at a dead stop.

I failed to stop. I failed to stop when my pelvic bone came into contact with the lip of the barrel. I failed to stop when I went down into the mud in the bowl. Ah, I just love the flavor of organic, composted shit in the morning.

So, wiped the mud from my face, spit out a mouthful of sphagnum and manure laced with vermiculite, and crippled the barrel over to my next dump spot.

Time for a break.

I hate my neighbor. He said, “Hey, why didn’t you come get me? I would have used my in-loader to move all that for you.

Yeah, I hate him and his kind offer. I guess my deer-in-the-headlights look with black mud streaking my face and hair, not to mention the copious amounts coating my clothes and boots, must have been comical. He launched into a belly laugh that would make Merry Ol’ St. Nick envious.

“Too late?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

I was done moving dirt, so it was time to plant. Bulb diggers are fabulous tools. I highly recommend them to anyone who wants to plant bulbs. You plunge them into the soil, twist, pull, and you have a perfect hole.

I recommend you spend more than a two dollars like I did. On my second row of bulbs, the digger split down the middle, flew apart and sent me face first into the freshly turned mud.

Yummy.

This time, it went up my nose. Not to worry. I always carry tissues when digging in the mud on cold, rainy days.

Yes, it started raining again. Lovely. Four tissues later, I pieced the cheap POS back together and went back to planting. The dog was howling. She hates rain. She wanted in the house, her little body shivering while her cute button eyes looked at me with an expression pure hatred. On my feet again, over to the door, let the dog in.

I noticed every time I knelt and climbed back up; it was becoming more difficult. Each movement elicited old lady grunts from my throat; each reach, a groan.

I sneezed out another load of mud.

When the large tulip bed was finally finished, the neighbor yelled over to ask if I wanted him to send over his boys to help. These are great boys. They are everything true boys should be, but I couldn’t stand the thought of mud balls decorating my siding, so I declined.

On to the next flower bed. It was on the south side of the house, so I figured I would catch less of the breeze. I was soaked to the skin, my hair clinging to my muddy face and neck. It kept getting into my eyes, so I brushed it back with muddy gloves.

Oh, hell. Who cares at this point?

The drizzle stopped. For like a minute. Then it rained. It really rained. Like a downpour. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing was going to stop me from planting all those daffodils, tulips, annis, crocuses and hyacinths. I shall be victorious!

The neighbor on the south side pulled in. Upon seeing the broken wheelbarrow lying on its side like a beached whale, he offered me his. His response was my turning my mud-covered face in his general direction and offering him a sneer.

I can still hear him laughing. He started laughing as he walked away. He laughed as he entered his garage and closed the door. He was still laughing so loudly when he entered his house that I could hear him in my yard. He’s still chuckling. I hear it now.

Finally, with all the daffodils, hyacinth and crocuses in, it was time to move to the big garden in the front yard. I’d dumped a lot of dirt there. So, off I trudged with my crate of bulbs, my mud-caked cell phone, and equally muddy mini-speaker, and headed that way. On the wet, muddy oak leaves scattered over the wet, muddy grass. I’m not sure I even managed to find all the bulbs that flew through the air with the greatest of ease when my feet took wing and escaped from gravity. The back of my head landed in the freshly turned mud, causing four bulbs to squeeze out of the ground like toothpaste from a tube.

Come to think of it, that might be why the neighbor is still laughing.

Anyway, I hauled my wet, muddy ass up, picked up the crate, hurled into the driveway with all my failing strength, threw the spade like a javelin, embedding it in the ground more than 40 feet away, kicked the crippled wheelbarrow, possibly broke a toe and set a new record in colorful curses that ranged in the realm of multilingual. My Cherokee grandmother would be so mortified.

With renewed hatred for the task I had taken on, like a woman possessed, I dug what I could find of the numerous bulbs from the wet grass and leaves, marched to the last of the flowerbeds, dug so hard mud was slung into the street and shoved those accursed bulbs into place. I was done.

I also managed to get one lighted decoration from the attic when I discovered I could no longer climb the ladder or pull any heavy boxes down. It was all I had to give. I was so far past done.

Now there’s a trail of mud—and a little blood—blazed through the house, and the water heater is out of hot water, I feel like I was trampled by a herd of moose. It’s not an ache, exactly. It’s more like a burning, blazing fire through every fiber of muscles in my body. My joints won’t bend properly, and there’s a distinct possibly I may have cracked my coccyx.

Those blessed flowers had better be worth it, and spring had better bring plenty of colors.

In Today’s Episode of the Joys of Home Ownership . . .

The writing partner chose this time to go away on a much-needed vacation. My husband cringed.

Why cringe, you ask? Because when I’m not spending my weekends writing, editing and working on publishing projects, I have The List. And because I spend so many weekends on my writing projects, The List grows long.

Partner JJ, the husband is gunning for you.

This weekend’s list was grueling, but since Saturday brought snow and ice, the chores outside had to wait. The day was spent pursuing a level of cleanliness this home has not experienced during the very busy summer months. When I hit the ground running, the family had better hop-to, because Mama ain’t kiddin’.

So, each member of the household was assigned chores. Mama said, “No grumbling, or life as you know it is over.” The grumbling went on, of course, but by the time the dust had settled, I was almost satisfied with the shininess.

Almost.

Hey, I’m a woman. Nothing is ever clean enough—but we were close, and we were tired. I called a halt. You’d think the husband had been released on early furlough. Never mind that in the middle of the cleaning frenzy, he suddenly decided it was time to take a gallon of loose change to the bank to find out how much cash he could get. The kid acted like she’d been worked to death, never mind that while she spent much of her time cleaning her room; somehow the rest of the house was magically finished without her. Mama was done for the day.

That brings us to Sunday—and back to The List. Now, there are few things that frighten a husband more (at least in this household) than roof work. Yes, that’s right. Work needed to be done on the roof. Being a self-sufficient DIY-type gal, I feel small projects do not require a phone call to some handy-dandy repair dude that’s going to charge a hunny just to look at something.

No, this type of work could be handled by us—and by us, I mean me. This involves the man standing at ground level, holding the ladder, cringing constantly, spouting needless words of caution, running for tools I don’t have in hand, sighing constantly at having his Sunday disrupted, whining on occasion about how cold it is standing under the shelter of the house’s eaves, and generally driving me to the point of distraction. I have to point out that I’m on top of the roof, which is wet and slick, and the more he distracts me, the more danger I’m in.

He grumbles more, which makes me wonder if he wants me to fall and break my neck. It’s possible. After all, if I’m in the hospital or the bone yard, he wouldn’t be out in the cold watching me working on the roof.

Nah, he wouldn’t do that. That’s more my M.O.

Anyway, the work on the roof included clearing autumn from the gutter caps and cleaning the chimney. Ditch your romantic images of a Dickens chimney sweep. There’s nothing nostalgic or even competent about my abilities as a chimney sweep. It’s just something that has to be done and I fumble my way through it.

The flue cap has to be loosened and removed, the long chimney brush must be inserted and the flue scrubbed until I feel as if my arms will come off. Think really big butter churn that must be pumped about a hundred times while one is perched precariously on the apex of steep roof.

So, up the ladder I went. “Be careful,” he said before my foot was on the second rung. The long steel brush in my hand almost fell on his head while I thought, Actually, I was thinking of doing a swan dive when I get to the top. Do you think you can catch me?

I didn’t say the words—or the oh-so-vicious other things that came to mind—but it boiled down to: well, duh. Once at the top, I laid the brush on the shingles and pulled myself over the edge.

“Don’t kneel on the gutters,” he said.

Seriously? How stupid does this guy think I am? Of course, I asked him as much. Of course, he reminded me that I had married him. Point taken.

As I said, it had snowed the day before. As with most early snows in this part of Illinois, it was gone by the time I decided to embark on the miserable project. It didn’t mean the roof was dry, or that the wind wasn’t cold. It just meant no snow and ice on the roof. It was still slick. It was still wet. It was still freezing cold.

Now, normally, I do this chore a month earlier, but time had gotten away from me. I wanted to light a fire, but didn’t dare. The child whined for a cozy fire, so there I was, in the chilling wind, staring at a flue cap that was higher than my waist. With a morbid sigh, I looked the situation over.

There are layers of skirts that are held with tension over the top of the chimney. Think large Christmas tree with a table-like flat top. I’ve often thought it would be a good place for a picnic, but . . .

The tension comes in the form of two sets of brackets held together with screws, washers and nuts. The bottom skirt has to be loosened and lowered. The next layer has to loosened and the assembly can be lifted away.

As luck would have it, the bottom piece fell away easily. On to the next. The next was not such a sure thing. Now, don’t tell the husband this part, but while I was working on it, my foot slipped on the wet shingles and—just for the briefest of moments—I almost saw the ground coming up to meet me. Believe me, friends, this is not something anyone wants to experience. I righted myself, wiped my suddenly sweaty brow in the freezing wind, and took a deep, steadying breath.

There was nothing for it but to sit on the cold, wet surface so I could better see what I was doing and approach from an improved angle. My butt will never be warm again—even with a fire in the fireplace. Seriously, you could freeze ice on my ass.

So, now sitting beyond my husband’s view as he stepped backwards to look, he thought I’d fallen and yelled. Of course this freaked me out, so I dropped my screwdriver and it rolled off the opposite side of the roof. At that moment, I kind of wished it had dropped the other way and landed on his head.

Oh, come on. You all know I have a vindictive side.

So, there was a fair amount of cursing under my breath and a responding yell that I was fine. And not to worry, being my daddy’s daughter, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the spare screwdriver, muttered a few things about how I hoped he’d keep his mouth shut and went back to work. The screw wouldn’t budge. The nut was frozen tight. I reached for the wrench in my other pocket, but realized I’d left it on the work bench in the garage.

On my feet again, I climbed over the peak and down toward the waiting man. I told him what I needed. He answered by telling me to be careful and went to get the tool. He came back, handed it up to me and told me to be careful.

Back up over the top of the roof and back to work. But it didn’t work. I struggled, cursed, struggled some more. Back to the edge of the roof. “I need the W-D.”

He went for the spray lube and told me to be careful. When he brought it back, and I stood to go back up, he told me to be careful. I almost dropped the can on his head, and smiled at him.

I sprayed and worked, sprayed and fought. I hit the nut with the wrench a few times, sprayed it again and tried once more. (Hey, smacking it around works on the threads of pickle jar, so I thought it couldn’t hurt.) The head of the screw wallowed out to the point there was no way it was going anywhere.

He asked what was wrong. When I told him, he told me to be careful. Peeling my frozen posterior from the shingles, I made my way back to the ladder. He told me to be careful. I told him to shut up and hold the ladder.

So, it was off to the hardware store for new screws, nuts and washers, then to Harbor Freight to see what tools they had which might cut through the mess.   

Now, my husband likes tools. It’s a guy thing, I suppose. He has a nice, small array of tools. He’s proud of them and likes to show them off from time to time, but I’m the one who uses them most. The husband is brilliant at his job, is much-respected by those in the printing industry because he’s a true artist and craftsman.

What he’s not is handy around the house. Most repair work is done by his wife who isn’t afraid of it and has no qualms about possibly screwing it up. I do minor plumbing and electrical work, can drive a nail straight, operate power tools with a fair amount of proficiency and truly enjoy working with my hands. That’s my thing.

But his tools did not yield anything with the capacity to cut through a stubborn screw. At Harbor Freight we found a lovely oscillating multifunction power tool. I bought the cutting attachment and back to the house we went.

In the scant hour we were gone, the temperature must have dropped ten degrees. The wind had a real bite to it and I was not looking forward to getting back on the roof. The sun was lower, the breeze higher, and somehow, the shingles looked wetter. Bummer.

After assembling the tool and finding a bucket to put all the tools in I’d left on the roof, I started in on the squirming mass of extension cords kept so precariously piled in a corner of the garage. I think there were five of them tangled up together. This is where knowing how to curse properly really comes in handy. I cursed, I snarled, I slapped the husband’s hand when he reached in to help.

Poor guy.

Once done, I climbed back up, pulled up the cord and the bucket with my new power tool nestled in it. He told me to be careful and I whipped the cord out just hard enough to strike the side of his head. With a smiling apology, I walked up over the top of the slick roof and realized it was starting to ice over. Fabulous.

I sat my already-wet butt down and it froze to the ice on the shingles. Now, this new tool is a jim-dandy. When I turned it on, it sounded as if it would cut through a diamond. With a grin, I went to work, but the grin soon fell away. No matter how hard the thing oscillated, it wouldn’t cut through the screw.

He must have heard me drop the mother of all curses because he yelled up, demanded to know what was up. When I told him, he said he’d hire someone in the morning to come do it. Oh, hell, no. There was no way this thing was going to beat me—and no way I’m paying someone to do something I can do.

With a savage and barbarous battle cry, I went after the rusted nut. I drove the tool into it over and over until it disintegrated and dissolved away.

He heard my cry of victory and told me to be careful. I muttered something under my breath about where he could bite me and lifted the cap away. By this time, I was worn out. Fighting cold wind and frozen hands, I retrieved the heavy brush and started scrubbing the flue. He yelled at me to be careful. I almost kicked the bucket of heavy tools over to drop on his head.

He disappeared, but before he left, told me to be careful. When he came back out, he told me he didn’t see any soot falling into the fireplace. The glass doors over the hearth had been sealed with masking tape, so the soot wouldn’t leak out. I knew he wouldn’t be able to see it. Soot is blacker than midnight under a skillet, to quote a friend of mine from Texas, so falling into a blackened hearth would be nearly invisible. I knew the thing was getting clean, from the copious amounts of sooty dust flying out in the wind.

He told me to be careful.

I finished scrubbing, laid the brush aside and reassembled the cap. I had yet to do the gutters. There is only one area where the gutters have an issue. It’s a corner of the roof right over the door. When it clogs up, rain pours down over the stoop. It was next of my hit list.

After unplugging the multi-tool, I let go of the extension cord and let it slide down over the roof. Apparently, the husband thought it was me falling, whipped his head around and stared up at the top of the roof. I smiled down and told him, “Heads up.”

He was not amused. He told me to be careful.

As I handed the brush down to him, he told me to be careful. I let it fall and it almost landed on his head. He accused me of doing it on purpose. I smiled innocently.

He held the ladder, but I didn’t climb down. I went to work on the gutters. He told me to be careful. I growled at him as I sat down. My butt stuck to the frozen shingles as I worked. A large glob of sludge hit his glasses.

“Oops, sorry, honey.”

“Don’t step on the gutter,” he said. “You’ll break it. Be careful.”

Another glob landed on his head. Then the chore was done. I lowered a foot to the ladder and he stared at me. I put my foot on the ladder and gave it a shake. He stared at me.

“Are you going to hold the ladder?” I asked.

“Nope.” He grinned at me while picking the last of rotting leaves from his hair.

I cocked a brow at him and reached for the ladder. When he saw I meant to climb down without his help, he jumped at the ladder and held it steady. I handed him the bucket of tools and down I went.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket with a heating pad under my frost-bitten ass, I’m wondering which of us will cook dinner. You know it’s going to be me. Sigh.

I need tequila.

Censorship in the Land of the Free

Constitution of the United States of America

BILL OF RIGHTS

AMENDMENT I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

It’s been a while since my last post.  I apologize for it.  I’ve been very remiss.  For those of you who visit here looking for something pithy, something that gives you a moment to relish someone else’s domestic miseries, I apologize again.  This is not that post.

Let’s be serious for a moment.  Allow me to discuss something horrifying that is happening more and more often of late in our beloved homeland: Censorship.

To be fair, I’m not talking so much about what the government does daily to silence people.  That may be a topic for another day.  The subject of this post is censorship imposed by corporate entities.  The latest attack has been imposed by such banking corporations as PayPal.

PayPal, as well as other on-line banking services have taken it upon themselves to tell publishers just what kind of stories they may sell to the poor, misguided public.  That’s right, my friends, they’ve decided to ban any seller of certain types of . . . dare I say it?  EROTICA!  ThereIsaidit.  Whew.

This is not a ban on all erotic stories, mind you . . . at least not yet.  It’s only certain types.  These semi-taboo and taboo subjects are not exactly my cup of tea, but to paraphrase the words of Evelyn Beatrice Hall who wrote under the pseudonym S.G. Tallentyre when she summed up the beliefs of Voltaire, I may not like what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. 

The thing is I shouldn’t have to defend it to the death.  I live in the “Land of the Free”.  This freedom of speech is written in stone.  No, really.  There are plaques and monuments all over the country where these words are inscribed in stone.  And they should be in every country, every land, every culture.  The free exchange of ideas, creative expression and bawdy jokes is a freedom every single human being should enjoy, but many don’t.  Here in America, the line is being drawn.

It’s being drawn against one of our most sacred laws.

As I indicated earlier, the types of stories under attack aren’t really my kind, but I do write stories with erotic content.  Not all my work has sex, but some of my most popular titles do. 

Okay, let’s see a show of hands.  How many of you actually read my work?  I see a lot of women, but judging by my fan mail, there are just as many men.  Come on, guys, don’t be shy.  There’s nothing wrong with indulging in an action-packed romantic escapade where the girl gets the guy, and in the end they make lots of babies and live happily ever after.  (My favorite was the ex-Marine who expressed his anger at me for bringing him to tears—you know who you are.)

How would you feel if you couldn’t buy the new title waiting in the wings because two people in the story have the audacity to engage in intercourse—which we probably all agree is the natural progression of things when two people fall in love.

PayPal hasn’t gotten around to banning such titles yet, but it’s a real danger.  What’s next?  By their reckoning, the Bible should be banned, as well as many other religious and holy books, too.  It’s an interesting—albeit frightening—course in this life.

Let’s explore other writers.  Much fine literature is rampant with sexual content.  Consider, if you will, the following authors and their titles:

Thomas Keneally, Schindler’s Arc (from which comes the massively successful movie, Schindler’s List)

Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (even in France when it was written, it was realized that the right to publish it far out-weighed the government’s authority to crush it.)

Radclyff Hall, The Well of Loneliness (Oh, wait.  That one was successfully censored by our own government in the 1928 U.S. obscenity trial, due to—heavens!—lesbian sex.  All copies of the novel were destroyed.  Of course, someone rather naughty saw to it that it was republished in recent decades.)

James Joyce, Ulysses (Holy &*^%, there’s masturbation in the story!)

Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson, And Tango Makes Three (It’s a children’s story, for crying out loud, but because it deals with two male penguins bonding together to care for an egg—you know, like in real life—people want it banned as having “gay” overtones.)

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (So darned sexual! It’s the third most challenged book.)

Many of you have read some of these exceptional titles.  Many of you have read classic and recent titles by great authors and found more than one titillating scene in them.  We read them to feel, to escape, to learn and to experience.  Should any of them be banned?

Our freedom of speech is a powerful tool—and a powerful weapon.  It was used as a weapon to free this country from oppression over two hundred years ago.  It’s still useful today.  The time is now, ladies and gentlemen.  It’s time to speak up before these revered works are no longer available. 

Let’s show these over-bearing corporations that we, the people, are not misguided, ignorant or in need of Big Brother to decide what we can read, what we experience and what we want to learn.  I, for one, will be making my stand against censorship and any other form of oppression that threatens my freedom.  

Water Under The Bridge—An Author’s Lament

My dear friend, cover artist, webmaster and spiritual guru, Joey Walnuts, had a bad day. It was May 26, 2010—an historic day in Springfield, Illinois. What made this day so spectacular (and infamous) was the record rainfall of over four and a half inches in less than two hours. Some would say, oh, that’s no big deal. If you’re one of those people, all I can say is you weren’t there.

Four and a half inches in less than two hours can shut down an entire city—especially during evening rush hour. Flash flooding closes most roads. Viaducts fill with water so fast cars are over-come and, in some instances, completely covered. It’s a time for ordinary citizens to become instant heroes when they dive into rushing waters to pull people from such vehicles, rescuing mothers and small children.

Such a deluge closes businesses and schools when sewers back up and water floods buildings. Basements and homes fill. Cars are left stranded on streets-turned-river and tow companies start paying overtime. Owners of automotive centers and dealerships start rubbing their hands together in glee over all the money they’ll make repairing and replacing vehicles. Insurance carriers moan.

Joey’s basement was one that filled. Sadly, Joey was in St. Louis on a much-needed vacation.

It was his next door neighbor who called him, told him he’d better get home quick. By the time Joey made it back to Springfield, what was once a front walk-out of a finished basement was now an empty cavern. He could not see much of the damage due to the water that was still so high, but he knew life had just changed, and not necessarily for the better. Five and a half feet of water in your home has a tendency to do that.

To make matters worse, the under-ground pipes that carried raw sewage to the treatment facility were completely defeated. They gave under the onslaught, sending what could only be called “pooh geysers” bursting several feet straight up in the air. The filth mixed with the rainwater and mud, and flowed through Joey’s basement.

Can you say, “Yuck”?

Imagine standing in a neighbor’s yard watching all this with natural gas bubbling up through your house from broken lines, knowing there is nothing you can do. The man could not get near his home until the water receded. I’m sure the sight that greeted him when it did made him want to turn around and walk away.

There was a gaping hole in the front wall. Through that opening, much of what was once in his basement was washed out into his front yard. Among those items were walls, furniture, business suits, laundry machines, water heater, electronics and his furnace.

It wasn’t until they had bull-dozed away the wreckage out front that the true nature of the damage was learned. Everything was lost. The gas had been shut off, as had the power and the water. Everything had to be capped off before he could get the utilities turned on again. Then it was time to take inventory. Gone was his collection of vinyl, his comic books dating back to the ‘50’s, his stereo equipment and other valuables. Worst of all, he had lost all those endearing macaroni-on-paper creations from when his children were little. Photos, memories, an entire lifetime of accumulated smiles—all gone with the rush of a massive flash flood.

Yes, it was a bad day.

Okay, enough back-story. Joey has a lot of friends, a lot of people who had been helped by this wonderful man. Many of them work with him. His fellow employees, together with other friends, decided to put together a benefit for him. What a wonderful idea!

I wanted to help—beyond the obligatory selling of the tickets. I wanted to do more. The organizers had everything covered, so all I could think of was donating something for the silent bid auction and promoting it as much as possible. But what to donate…

The only logical thought was to donate a couple of novels—the very novels Joey decorated with his wonderful cover art. Thus was born “The Dark and Stormy Night Storm Preparedness Gift Package”. Yeah, I know. It’s a bad joke on poor Joey, but he has a good sense of humor.

The package was designed to have everything one needs to find solace and comfort in the midst of a storm-induced power outage: wine, chocolates, candles, matches, flashlight, book light, skin lotion to pamper, two Molly Wens novels and a teddy bear to keep one company.

Begin the anxiety.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when I finally got to the event, the only bid was from my sister. Not that I’m ungrateful, but who was next? My mom? How does one address something like this?

An hour later, there was another bid. At first I was thrilled—until I realized it was the guy who was bidding on all the items that weren’t selling well. You know the guy, the one who tries to drum up a little interest by putting down a low amount others could easily out-bid. He’s at every benefit, a friend of the recipient who knows how to play the game to the best financial advantage.

I started to feel like the proverbial red-headed step-child. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna eat a worm.”

I determined to stop looking. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Just a short time later, though, Joey approached with a big grin on his face. “Have you seen the bids on your books?” he asked.

I burned bright red. Of course I’d seen and I was mortified. He’d been introducing me around as the author all night, getting an obvious kick out of the family “celebrity”. (Did I mention that he’s my husband’s uncle?) Other celebs from local and state media and government were in attendance, but something about having an author in the family really tickled him. Yet, my basket’s showing was less than spectacular.

Laughing at the expression on my face, he said, “You should really have a look,” before snatching my hand and dragging me to the auction tables. I almost swallowed my face.

The bids were many, more than doubled since last I looked, with several of the bidders apparently in a war over the package. At that point, they were bidding beyond the actual value.

Again, I blushed, feeling a different kind of embarrassment. This one was one I could live with. But, deciding it would be best to leave before the final outcome, I beat a hasty retreat before the moment of truth. Giving Joey a hug, I got out the door and headed for a local watering hole.

He told me later how much the winner paid. The person had paid $65.00 for a couple of my novels and a few assorted items.

Of course, all this is small potatoes when one stops to ponder the actual reason for the event. Joey ended up with enough to put a good dent in the money needed to make repairs. He was more than happy and everyone had a good time. He was afforded a rare opportunity to know where he stands in life—an opportunity so few of us has. What else was there?