What’s the deal about the chickens?

As those who’ve been keeping up with me lately know, we hosted a promotional contest for THE LOVESICK CURE.  Entrants had an opportunity to win a free copy of the book and a flock of chickens. 

The flock of chickens as a prize was a real attention getter.  Fortunately, the winners didn’t have birds arriving at their apartment, house, igloo or mobile home.  Though the auspices of Heifer, International we were able to donate 5 flocks of chickens to needy farm families.  This is one of my favorite charities.  And I especially like the chickens and ducks program because birds don’t require grazing land or feed crops. The recipients, most often widowed or abandoned women in the Third World, are able to keep chickens who eat mainly bugs and weeds.  This provides food for her family’s table (one egg provides the daily nutritional requirements of a toddler) as well as a cash crop of baby chicks to take to market. 

But for your contest, why chickens? you ask.  Well, there are some chickens in the story, including a very territorial rooster named Arthur.  But the chickens were only bit players in the farm scenes.  No actual speaking parts, you might say.  However, the gorgeous cover design that the brilliant art department at Mira Books came up with featured a half dozen baby chicks.  Four on the front and one each on the title pages. 

Now, I happen to be a great fan of chickens.  In my semi-rural upbringing there were always chickens in the neighborhood.  Granted, some were the bright plumed fighting rooster variety, but mostly chickens were fluffy, squawking pets scratching around everywhere. 

And as luck would have it, my husband, Bill and I had been doing a lot of talking about chickens.  Our family eats a lot of eggs.  And we prefer “free range” because they simply taste more like the kind we grew up with.  As part of the push to eat local and cut down on expensive transportation costs of foods, San Antonio has had a number of community meetings on “Urban Homesteading”.  Representatives from Agricultural Extension as well as local group leaders have been made available to talk about community gardening, balcony gardens, beekeeping and backyard poultry.  Amazingly, our local laws allow residents to keep up to five chickens in a city yard! 

So we are talking, thinking imagining.  It’s a big project to take on.

I’ll keep you posted…especially if the rooster crows too early in the morning. 

AND THE WINNERS ARE....

I’ve just contacted the winners of my promotional contest for THE LOVESICK CURE.  I hope you were one of them.  If not, I know how you feel.  

At my grocery store, if you bring your own bags they put your name in a hat for a $100 worth of groceries.  They do this drawing every month.  I go to the grocery store at least a couple of times a week.  Sometimes every day!  I’ve been bringing my own bags for at least two years and I have never, ever won.  Not even once.   

Still, I do get my shopping done.  And I don’t have a million plastic bags anymore that I have to recycle.  Also, I comfort myself that at least I DON’T NEED the $100 worth of groceries.  I’m sure there are plenty of families in this town that do. 

So, if you didn’t win the book, you can always buy it.  Or maybe borrow it from a friend or the library.  Or you can read the free excerpt here on my website, imagine what the rest of it is about, and make up your own story.  I don’t actually recommend the latter, but I’m okay with it. 

The contest winners were chosen randomly.  Each entrant was numbered as they signed up.  Then Leila selected the winning numbers from a bowl in our kitchen.  There was no way we could play favorites.  I had never seen the list of entrants.  And Leila doesn’t recognize numbers well enough to pick out any specific one. 

The results surprised me.  Two winners from North Texas, one from Irving, one from Arlington.  These Dallas suburbs are right next to each other.  And the winner from Arlington is actually somebody I know.   Sure I have a lot of readers in this state, but when I ask for random, I expect really, really random.  Fortunately, the other winners' locations were places I’ve never visited in California, New Mexico and Illinois.

Everybody sounded very pleased to win.  And lots of nice things were said about Heifer, International.  Which is even better. 

I know how lucky I am to get to do this.  I guess I say this all the time, but it bears repeating.  Making up stories is a dream job for me.  And I am aware how many struggling writers there are out there, many with twice my talent, who can’t get a break.  The only thing that keeps my publisher interested and these books coming out, is that my readers (you guys) keep buying them.  So thank you for your support. 

Also, another thing that I tell myself when I don’t win at the grocery store, “I’m saving my luck for something really big.” 

May something really big come your way this week.       

Ah...Nature

The last couple of weeks have been the perfect time for sleeping in Alamo Heights. It got up to 90 degrees yesterday afternoon, but it cools nicely at night and we can sleep with the windows open. Fresh air, slight breeze, those things are so good. But there’s another aspect that really buoys me. I feel at one with nature.

Our neighborhood is about 100 years old. Reputed to have been the first suburb of San Antonio, it was at the end of the trolley line. These days one of the things it’s known for is its tree canopy. And although there are natives among us; anaqua, live oak and mesquite, most of the trees here were planted by somebody. They’ve grown tall and spread their branches until it’s almost as if they hold hands with each other across the fences or even the streets.

All this “urban forest” creates a tremendous habitat for wildlife. Which seems pretty surprising. We’re barely four miles from the center of the city, which has grown up beyond us for thirty miles. Our critters don’t know that they live in town and that they are not supposed to be here. They continue to go about their lives as if this were a park preserve and it’s right outside my window.

There are the coyotes, which worry the neighbors. They are rumored to make a midnight snack of wandering cats and tiny pooches left in backyards. Mostly you never see them, except when the drought gets so bad they come looking for water in broad daylight.

Likewise the armadillos are pretty cagey, but you see evidence of their digging adventures. Who would believe such little paws could move so much dirt?

There are the raccoons who aren’t afraid of anything and the possums that are afraid of everything. Skunks, keep your distance. The little babies are so cute, but cute is not everything. One year we had a family nest under the house near our front door. Every day one of those little guys made a stink about something.

We have more that our share of squirrels, of course. And they are annoying. They are not content with allowing us to garden our way. They must add an acorn or a pecan to every flower bed or potted plant. We have little trees coming up everywhere. Bill gets especially threatening towards them when they root in the orchards.

Birds are abundant. We have little houses everywhere for wrens and titmice and sparrows. We’re not as fond of the big ugly grackles. But the mockingbirds are very much a part of the family. We also have some very large owls. They are mostly night creatures roosting in the limbs of the huge red oak out back. On rare occasions they show themselves in daylight. I heard a grackle screeching to high heaven about something. I walked out on the front porch to investigate. A huge gray screech-owl was perched on my mailbox. I scared him, of course, and he spread his wings and flew down and up and over my neighbor’s house across the street. I felt like Harry Potter.

I watched a funny little movie last night called Radiant City. It was certainly no blockbuster, but it gave me a few new things to think about life in the suburbs.

One of the things described was people walking into their garage and climbing into the SUV. Then they drive to work, enclosed in their vehicle, pull into the underground parking of their office building and take the elevator up to their cubicle. At no point does that person interact with anything or anyone outside the little box that contains them.

It’s spring, my friends! Let us open the windows, step out of the front door, get our hands in the dirt, be in touch with our more natural self.

For my part, I’m going to go without bathing and see how long it takes to build up smelly bacteria on my body. April Fool!

The Theory of Author's Husbands

I was recently asked to expound upon my theory of author's husbands, aka the male spouses of female writers. Typically, they are not writers themselves. They are as varied as the human race allows and do not easily lend themselves to being stereotyped, but I have never let anything like that stop me when voicing a stupid opinion.

I refer to this as a “stupid opinion” to differentiate it from more fact based observations and because I still recall its origin. Like most of my "stupid opinions", it came to existence in a book conference hotel room, late at night, surrounded by my fellow writers, all of us a little worse for the chocolate and wine. Though many have heard me voice these words, I hesitate to put them into print as I will undoubtedly be required to eat them later.

Disclaimers to start: I have been extremely fortunate in my life to have two of the best author husbands imaginable. Without Mr. Morsi, Pamela Morsi, would have never existed. I think I have duly credited him in my bio and elsewhere for everything he did in his too-short lifetime. And my new husband, Bill, is perfect…not perfect in general, but perfect for me. And in honor of yesterday and our 11^th anniversary, I think I shall no longer call him my “new” husband. He definitely now fits into the category of “used”.

With that said: My theory of author's husbands has been honed over the last twenty-two years in this business. I have been fortunate to meet and become friends with so many writers. The ones I've come to know best have been women. And most of the women are married. Many husbands have been met, but even more have been spoken of, confessed upon and gossiped about.

These, I have divided in four distinct groups.

THE ROAD BLOCK: This husband will do everything he can to make sure that your writing dream never becomes a reality.

Amazingly, this particular guy often comes as a complete surprise to his spouse. They have gone along for years with nothing beyond everyday annoyances. But on the day the would-be writer shares her dream, it’s like a switch has been thrown. He is going to do everything that he possibly can to keep you from achieving your goal. Not limited to, but frequently including incredulity, derision and shaming.

Often, after a spate of kindly pointing out how much smarter or more educated you would need to be to pursue a writing career, he will offer you up as the butt of the joke at a family dinner where your mother-in-law can ask, “What on earth has gotten into you?” And the whole clan (his clan, of course, because they are probably a lot like him) can have a great laugh at your crazy idea. If that doesn’t work, he’ll expand to including friends and neighbors into the “you’ll not believe how silly my wife is” narrative. If you persist, he is sure to double-down with lectures about neglecting your children and your duty to your family by attempting to follow a selfish pipe dream.

“He just worries about me,” the writer will rationalize to her friends. “He couldn’t bear to see me hurt and disappointed.”

Apparently he is likewise loathe to see you happy and successful. Without highs and lows, there is no life, only existence.

I would never suggest that someone bug out on her marriage, and I won’t here. The truth about all of us is that we mellow in time. If you can hold out for a couple of decades, he might well come around. Just promise me that you’ll never believe of yourself what he believes of you.

THE GOLF SHIRT: This is the happy, easy going guy who is completely delighted for you to pursue any goal that you choose…as long as it doesn’t inconvenience him in any way.

I picked the term Golf Shirt for this guy mostly because it conjures up a certain image for me of a man who takes his own leisure as seriously as he does his life. This is a spectrum, of course. And a whole lot of fellows show up someplace on it. You probably had him pegged the day that you married him. But you married him anyway. A spectrum is something you can work with.

He may be a wonderful cheerleader. He’s happy that you’re happy. He’s excited that you’re excited. He’s ready to quietly listen though weeks of dinners about the upcoming conference and the pitch you’ve planned to make to the intimidating NY publishing house editor. He’ll be nodding and smiling as you try it out on him. Assuring you with absolute sincerity that the red suit does look powerful and does not seem to make your butt bigger.

Be prepared. On the morning of your pitch, as you’re puttering in front of the bathroom mirror, he’ll come walking in dressed in camo and orange.

“Why are you wearing that?”

“It’s the first day of quail season.”

“This is my conference day. This is when I pitch my book. You're supposed to keep L’il Buddy.”

He will turn to look at you as if you’ve completely lost your mind.

“Honey, the baby is way too young to take hunting.”

Suffice to say, it takes a firm hand to steer the ship of matrimony and sometimes it’s going to have to be yours.

THE MANAGER: This guy believes whole-heartedly in your writing talent and potential for success (I mean, really, how hard can it be) and he’s going to “help” you with the “business side of things”.

Now as a writer who really just wants to write, this guy can be very tempting. Does it not sound like heaven on earth to simply write stories and have them magically appear in the hands of readers worldwide? To give out your self-promotion bling at the Walmart without ever worrying what the stuff costs and how well it is translating into sales. To be able, after the niceties with your agent, to hand him the phone and let them hash out the inequities of the next contract.

Don’t. Like castor oil or the elliptical machine, there are things in life that are not pleasant but have to be done. You are as capable of learning “the business side” of things as anyone else. If your math is bad, use a calculator. If you’re shy, refer to yourself in the third person. If you don’t know anything, find stuff out.

This is your career and you must take responsibility for it. Giving over half is the same as setting up a scapegoat. This is not good for your self-esteem and it can be really hard on your happily-ever-after.

I mean, honestly, it is not as if being a husband automatically makes him better at this than you. Nothing in his background as doctor, lawyer or Native American CEO is anything like the book business. He’s faking it until he finds his way. You can do exactly the same.

THE BEST: This author's husband is the ideal. He’s a magical creature, but not a mythical one. Somehow he knows when to let you cry on his shoulder and when to tell you to shut up and get back to work.

This man has figured out how to paraphrase the golden rule into the marriage rule. He does for his wife, what he would expect his wife to do for him. He appreciates your talent. He also respects your time. He may put his foot down about you working on vacation. But he’ll unpack and do the laundry when you get home so you can get right into it.

Writing is not a 9 to 5 day job. In truth it doesn’t lend itself to a timeclock at all. It’s almost a calling. It requires cooperation and sacrifice from the whole family. Whether that pays off financially or merely in life satisfaction is always in question. Creativity, by its very nature, is hard to bottle and harder to sell. But the writing life can be lonely as well as fulfilling. Finding a helpmate that understands that sometimes it is going to be all about you, can be a bulwark in a world of stormy weather. And that is what marriage is supposed to be about.

Years ago Mr. Morsi and I went to talk to another couple who were having trouble. The man’s award winning, top-selling wife was something he hadn’t counted on.

“She wasn’t like this when I married her,” the husband complained.

In his very quiet, very wise way, Mr. Morsi replied, “Yes, but you did promise ‘for better’ as well as ‘worse’.”

As I said in the beginning, I came up with these husband types years and years ago now. From my observation, husbands generally seem to be improving. Maybe all those sons we raised are doing a better job at this than their fathers did. Those fathers, after all, grew up in a different world with different expectations for their wives. Or maybe we’re all learning as we go along.

I hope that somebody found this helpful…or at least entertaining. As for the wives of male authors, hey you’ll have to write your own blog. I look forward to reading it.

LET THERE BE (this little) LIGHT (of mine)

We're getting to that time of year when the morning sun is north enough on the horizon to shine directly into the east window of my office. Sunshine is a good thing. It provides light and heat. It helps our mood. And it's necessary to make the flowers grow. In college I arranged my summer schedule so that classes were early in the morning and work was at night. I spent every afternoon at the university's pool, greased up with Coppertone or Banana Boat. I got browner than a white girl ever should. Today the solar panels on my roof provide a third to half of all our energy our household consumes. Sunshine is good. So very good.

However, like most good things, even very good things, it is possible to get too much.

Between 8 a.m. and 10:30, I cannot read anything on my computer screen. It is one giant, shiny glare. This room, my refuge from the distractions of the world outside, takes on a temperature only experienced in Hades. And with my overhead fan running on high, all the papers on my desk have to be anchored down. Heaven forbid that I have to actually look through my notes, everything starts flying. Of course I could probably stick it all together with my own sweat. It's like a planned hot flash. I would strip down to my underwear, but the other window faces the street and I'm afraid of sending my neighbors into therapy.

So instead I completely close the blinds, trying to blot out the effects. It doesn't do much for the heat, but it does cut down on the light. Cut down, as in narrow. It now comes inside the room in a series of pencil thin strips, making my office look like a film noir set.

I guess this proves, in this time of national austerity, it's still possible to get too much of a good thing.

I mean like, fast food. Everybody likes it. Sure it's great to not cook all the time. And how convenient to simply drive through and have some stranger hand you dinner. But it costs a lot of money, wastes a lot in packaging and limits the family palate. Not to mention upping your salt and fat intake.

Or coffee. There is nothing that I like better. Most days I have my first cup before I even get out of bed. But if I'm still drinking it late into the morning, I start to get a little jittery.

One really good thing that I've had WAY too much of lately, is politics in my church.

I am a Baptist and I am very proud of that heritage. I am not a member of the Southern Baptist Convention, which I believe has misinterpreted Baptist history and practice. I'm an adherent of a much older tradition in our church as being the haven of free-thinkers. The "priesthood of the believer" and the concept of "working out your own salvation with fear and trembling" are tenets I am not willing to give up. I've written about this in more detail elsewhere, so I won't bore you here. But suffice to say, when Baptists and other members of "evangelical" churches were a poor, powerless backwater in national politics, we had to count on the separation of church and state to keep us from being swept up and disenfranchised by larger and more influential religious constituencies. These were ardent believers who were convinced that because our worship lacked creed and ritual it was not a religion.

Which is worse being "not a religion" or being "part of a cult"?

I am very disappointed in Pastor Jeffress up in Dallas, on a lot of levels. I am not aware of God giving him the power to decide who is a Christian and who is not. In fact, the Bible expressly forbids us from making those kind of judgements. But somehow the righteous can never seem to stop themselves from pointing fingers at somebody else.

Not that I am guiltless here. My sister has been an Episcopalian for decades and holds a high position in her church. She would love for me to be a part of it. But when I'm sitting in that pew and the processional comes in dressed in robes and swinging those smoky containers full of incense, I know, without question that this is not the worship for me. But who am I to say there is something wrong with it? Let me answer that question. I am only human, and humans are narrow, tribal and suspicious of everything that is foreign to them. We are not meant to be the arbiter of such decisions.

These days it looks like we evangelicals have the ear of government. Candidates are PTL-ing all over the place and hearing burning bushes under every tree. They try to one-up each other in the whose-a-better-Christian game.

UGH.

A lot of people think that the influence of religion in politics is not good. And other people, like me, think having politics show up in the middle of my worship service is a very, very bad.

We know from history that political power is transitory. Those who are up today will be down tomorrow. And having the sun beat down on us, day after day, glaring our screen, heating up the room and causing us to fan up the papers we need to be working on, is too much of a good thing.

Yesterday Bill constructed a new screen for my window. It's the same design he used for the ones on the front of the house, but on this particular one he used a special, heavy solar protective mesh. It works great. It allowed me to use this morning to write this blog.

Love's Laborer Lost

Happy Labor Day everyone! According to Wikipedia, who as we all know is just south of God in authority, this holiday came into existence to celebrate the American worker and their family. At the time, 1894, the term American worker, meant laborer.

I've written lots of stories about working class people. Truth is, I've always found them interesting. Moreso than those from a more privileged background. I guess this goes back to the adage of "write what you know". I know nothing about elite private education or vacation homes. I am more familiar with the school of hard knocks and summer jobs.

I grew up in the working class. My father was a pumper and gang pusher in the oil patch. My mom was a practical nurse. They worked hard for wages. They scrimped and saved and invested where they could. Ultimately, they did well. They were able to live comfortably, provide for their family and have a pension in their old age. That was their American Dream.

My dad was a great believer in education. He never went to college, but from the moment I was born there was never a suggestion that I might not go. During my high school years, when Oklahoma was trying to put more money into education, a bumper sticker began showing up on cars that read: Only Ignorance is Free. I remember Dad jokingly stated his disagreement. "Ignorance is not free. I pay for mine every day."

So Dad not only paid for his ignorance, but he and Mom paid dearly to rid me of mine. My older sister and I both went to Oklahoma State at the same time. My parents made that happen through buying "shacks" and fixing them up into rent houses. My mother finished her work week at the hospital by pulling 12 hour shifts every Saturday and Sunday for years. My sister and I worked, too. But without the sacrifice of my parents, I'd probably have taken that job as a "table braider" at the hose factory right out of high school. Maybe I would have ended up as a writer anyway, but I'm sure it would have been harder.

Another quote from my dad, "What you learn, nobody can ever take that away from you."

I got a Humanities degree at OSU and then went to grad school at University of Missouri. I often joke that becoming a Professional Librarian is like taking a vow of poverty, but it did provide me with a modest income and an interesting work day.

I also married well. Well, not well as in novels of "marrying well" where the impoverished governess charms the dashing Duke whose inheritance is "forty thousand a year!" But "well" in the sense of a guy that I loved and who loved me. Who took responsibility seriously and was unashamed of being thrifty. Or as my mother once said of him, "He could squeeze the manure out of a buffalo nickel."

Our squashed nickels managed to secure us a place among the middle class. The folks who, at least to some extent, can use their heads instead of their hands to make a living. That's very good for me, since my brain was always stronger than my back. I feel proud and blessed.

But I also feel very, very lucky. Luck has a lot to do with it.

Among the working class men and women in this country, and a lot of folks in middle class as well, luck seems lately to be in short supply. In fact, a holiday to celebrate the workers seems a bit out of sinc with the way things are. Technology and mechanization have increased productivity, allowing factories to pare down the staff. And companies have repeatedly relocated manufacturing overseas where labor is cheaper. With 9.1% out of a job, there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of holiday mood.

My dad grew up during the Great Depression. My grandfather had been partially blinded in a refinery accident at The Magnolia and was told that if he'd sign a paper absolving the company of blame, he'd always have a job. He signed and when hard times hit, he was the first man let go. There was one long winter when they had nothing to eat but black-eyed peas. They'd grown the crop to feed the cow, but skimmed off the peas to feed the children instead.

A sad story like this is not meant to say to folks who are out of work and struggling, "hey, you don't have it so bad." I would not diminish your crisis in any way. Your fears, your Plan B and Plan C and Plan D42 are as scary as any bread line.

What I hope this story reminds you, reminds us, is that while life is short, it is also long. The outlook today, the challenges we see, they are today's troubles. Tomorrow is the unknown. Forecasters, soothsayers, prophets may tell the truth or not have a clue.

Ten years after the middle of the Depression, with two sons in harm's way fighting Hitler and Japan, that cold scary winter of the black-eyed peas must have seemed like the good old days. And by the time I knew them, all of them, it was as if only the happy memories floated to the top. In later life Dad was not averse to a big bowl of black-eyed peas. And my Uncle Bob, in his last days, would ask me to make him "mustard sandwiches" like his mama made him as a kid.

What's happening to working people today, whether you make your living on the line or in a cubicle, is just plain crappy. If you've lost your job, you will never really forget that feeling. If you've lost your savings, you may never be as well-heeled again. But the thing about life is that it's always changing. The everyday people who feel overlooked today, are going to be the ones looking over the future tomorrow. Good times and bad, we must keep putting one foot in front of the other. A hard lesson for all of us.

But remember what my dad said, "What you learn, nobody can ever take away from you."

Happy Labor Day to all those who seek to do the best you can with the tools you've got.

Pine in the Prevailing Winds

One piece of basic advice for writers of novels is to use all five senses to stage a scene. The reader needs to see it, feel it, hear it, taste it and smell it. As you can imagine, the last two of these are sometimes the most difficult to set up. And even if you can, you might not want to. Yeah, sure, it's great if the fence along the lane smells of honeysuckle vine. But I'm not so quick to say, "the odor of left-over pizza and old gym shoes waifed through her box-sized, third floor walkup apartment."

Smells are, however, very evocative. And we have a memory for them that, if calibrated like vision would be most often 20/20.

I came home the other night to a scent in the air that really brought some things back to mind. In the terrible heat and drought we're having here in Texas, a big limb from a neighbor's tree broke off and just hangs down toward the yard. Because it's not in a dangerous place and broken off pretty high, our neighbor hasn't exactly rushed out to get it down, chopped up and hauled off. He works long hours, and in this heat, who could blame him?

When I arrived home, in the darkness of an eighty-degree evening, I could smell that tree.

The scent of rotting pine is one that is not easy to get out of your nose. Once you've smelled it, it stays with you for a lifetime.

In 1989 Hurricane Hugo came through the part of South Carolina where we lived. It flattened buildings, washed away houses and either ripped the trees out of the ground or cut them off like matchsticks about 8 to 12 feet from the base.

My family was so lucky. We had a yard full of 100 ft. longleaf pines. The ones in the front fell in the first half of the storm...away from the house. When the second half came through, the winds blowing in the opposite direction took the trees in the backyard, also away from the house. Our home was safe and my family in it.

Like most survivors of natural disaster, I could write a very, very long story about what it was like. The storm itself, the immediate aftermath, the months of getting our lives back and our lingering feelings of loss and insignificance.

And I don't just know my own story. One of the things that happens in this kind of situation, is that you need to say things. It's such an overwhelming experience and you simply need to talk about it. And the only people with the patience to listen are those who went through it just like you did. I remember the stories my neighbors had to tell. I remember the words of my friends. Not only the ones who held each other for hours in the hallway as both sides of their condo blew out and everything they owned disappeared. But also the ones who packed up the kids and the dogs and evacuated to Charlotte, only to face the same storm there, while stuck in a dinky, airless motel room.

There was the guy that was barricaded under his bed, but had to pee so bad he decided to take the risk of a run to the bathroom. While he was in there, the bedroom side of the house fell down.

My friend who went out to check his shutters in the calm moments as the eye passed over could barely walk for the hundreds of birds huddled on the ground that refused to move.

And the working class hero that, tied with ropes, made his way across the roof of the hospital in the teeth of the storm to repair the emergency generator and keep the respirators running in the ICU.

One of my favorite stories was an old Charlestonian, who'd inherited a beautiful 18th century home in the oldest area of the city. He felt as if he were the guardian of this incredible piece of architectural history. So while he sent his family off to safety, he stayed to protect the house. He boarded it up and prepared it as best he could to ride out the storm. When the water started coming into the front door, he took refuge on the second story. But when the roof began tearing off, he tried to go back down. The water was already several feet deep on the ground floor. He huddled on the stairs, pondering his fate of either being washed out to sea or blown away. It was then he said, "that I realized, that I'd never really liked that house. I had never wanted it. I'd never asked for it and I didn't care what happened to it."

I think a lot of us have been there. Sometimes it takes being trapped on the stairs to make us realize what it is that we really value in our lives.

I know he repaired the house, and the last I heard, he and his family were still living there. I doubt, however, that he's changed his mind, just his perspective. Bill is always saying, "It's not where you are, it's who you're with." And people interviewed post-disaster always reiterate that as long as their family is all right, the "stuff" they lost doesn't matter.

Still, it takes time and money, hard work and sweat to get back on your feet again. And no matter how grateful you are for the second chance, there is going to be some grieving for what is gone.

I hope the people in Joplin and the other, so numerous, tornado sites of the year, the people along the Mississippi and the Missouri rivers, and the folks dealing with the devastation of the wildfires know that even after their images have left the six o'clock news, there are people out here still thinking about them, and hoping and praying for them. And if it takes the smell of rotting pine to remind us, then may a limb come down in all our neighborhoods.