Grammy and Me

November 19, 2009 By 29 Comments

My mother and I have a unique relationship. The two of us have batted banter back and forth in a nearly endless volley ever since I was small. These days we usually pick up one week at the exact same snarky moment where we left things the previous “Grammy Night” seven days earlier. It is odd, I imagine, for my children to see me in the cut and thrust wordplay which takes place between us, as it is not the sort of exchange I share with anyone else. After twelve years, Cindy is just now getting used to the rhythm.

My mom lives just one and a half miles away, though proximity does nothing to keep her from being regularly a half hour or so late to dinner. If were I to unroll the scroll of things about her which annoy me, it would easily kiss the concrete from my house to hers. Still, I do love the old lady dearly and credit her with much of my verbal aptitude. As far back as I can recall, she’s always spoken to my sister and me in full, articulate and sometimes rather silly sentences. Whenever we had questions, her answers were thorough, and she never steered too far from the more difficult topics or acted as though we were unable to understand.

My mom stepped into the 21st century a couple of months back with the purchase of her first computer. Since then she has been one of the most frequent commenters here at Writer Dad. Her comments are often quite sweet, though she doesn’t seem to understand that answering a comment is not quite as simple as answering an email and tends to get impatient. Last week my mom left her first comment at Blogger Dad, then emailed me several hours later, a slight undercurrent of panic between the lines, “Do you think Dave got my comment?!?! It said, ‘awaiting moderation,’ but that was HOURS ago!”

“Yeah Mom, I’m sure he got it,” I said.

Wednesday’s post about the teachable moment in the library ended with a short poem. My mom’s comment was a response in rhyme. The two of us went back and forth and then back and forth again. Our exchange was fairly rapid fire and offers a rather nice snapshot of our relationship. I thought I would share.

Enjoy!

ME:
4th graders are awesome, though best when they listen
Instead of the blah-blah-ing that gets them to missing
The info the teachers are spitting and spewing
To let the kids know what they’re supposed to be doing
Writing is fun – it’s like cake and balloons
On a Saturday morning spent watching cartoons
Except writing is better because you get to choose
What things you should keep and what things you should lose
You’re the creator – the world’s yours to build
Who gets to live there and how it is filled
Unicorns, dragons and men with red eyes;
Fairies and magic, an ending surprise
Fantasy’s fun if you break every rule
Decide what is dumb and decide what is cool
Be your best writer, place pen to the page
Write the best story, then be all the rage

GRAMMY:
We all like a story, the weirder the better,
The plot can turn fast, like a change in the weather.
It’s fun to learn how to spin a great tale,
Like pinnochio trapped inside of that whale.
A good teacher can train you, just give her a chance
To guide your ideas, put your mind in a trance.
You’ll be amazed at what you can do
It’s almost as easy as tying your shoe.
It’s how they all started, those authors of fame
Playing with words, but more than a game.
Once you get going, you’ll soar and you’ll fly
but don’t waste any time or you’ll ask yourself “why”?

ME:
I like that your’e spitting your comment in rhyme
It’s really a fun way to fritter the time
The words come so quick; like “you know” from a goose
They’ll rumble around until you let loose
Obviously my verbiage was nurtured quite well
Now I lay down the rhythm like ringing a bell
Thanks for always talking to me as a kid
Even with all the obnoxious I did
It’s one of the reasons I now think so fast
The skills of my present, piled onto my past

GRAMMY:
Yep, you were a wild one, I can’t disagree,
But they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Encourage a young one with humor and praise
And it should pay off for the rest of your days.
I’m so glad you had such a great, twisted brain
Now you can write without feeling no pain 
Creativity’s fun, of that there’s no doubt
Just have the confidence to let it all out.
All this rhyming is making me dizzy and weak, I think
A big cheesburger I will go seek!!!!

ME:
How long can you do this, ’cause I’ve got all day
And you know I never run out of new things to say
I’ll rhyme in the morning and then rhyme at lunch
I’ll rhyme during dinner and I have a hunch
That I can keep going even when I am dreaming
The words in my head are all twisted and teeming
Foaming and frothing, all set to explode
Syllables spilling – I’m cracking the code
Chew on your cheeseburger, swallow your shake
Feast on your french fries and dream about steak
If you wanna keep going, you know I’m right here
I’ll keep this thread running till the end of the year

GRAMMY:
Oh, pshaw, boy, of that there’s no doubt
You have talent like a tile store has grout.
We could keep going like this, you and I
But you’re right, I would rather go eat some pie.
While this is great fun,I could go all day
I have things to do and places to play
Laundry to do, dishes to wash
Cats to feed , perhaps a roach to squash.
I’ll cut it short now and bid you adieu
See you at grammy nite with cookies or stew.

ME:
I’ll look forward to Grammy Night, as I always do
But please, there’s no need for your cookies or stew
I’d rather you knock on the door right on time
A Thursday on schedule would be so sublime
While we’re on the subject, my mother so dear
Can you please not bring any chotskys ’round here?
Seriously, we’re swimming in a sea of detritus
And I’m afraid the navigation will give me arthritis
Please bring your smile, your wit and your charm
Do it on time and we’ll ring the alarm
We’ll call in the media so they too can witness
Your attempt at finding some on the dot fitness

Writer Dad

My daughter has been sitting beside me for the last half hour while I edit this piece. She has her second post up over at Children Write the Future this morning, yet has been loathe to edit. She loves to write, but does not have the same feelings about the revision process and is under the false impression that her father does not need to edit. I pulled a Stephen King book from the shelf, the fattest I could find, and told her that even King, author of over 50 books, doesn’t ever get it right the first time. If you have a moment, either in the comments below or over at her post, “How to Know if Someone is a Good Friend,” please let her know that her Daddy is right.    : > ) THANKS!

Filed Under: Family

Questions and Answers – Vegas Edition

October 26, 2009 By 22 Comments

I‘ve been back from Vegas for a week and still feel like I’m barely catching my breath.

Last week flew by like a mad swath of cool and unexpected wind, wrapping my world in disarray and excitement. This week I’m heading to a quickie two day conference on the future of communication. A giant THANKS to Maya of the wonderful MemeTales who has given me the tickets for the conference. She will be speaking at the Publishing Gets Collaborative panel, which will explore the role of Twitter in bringing together writers, illustrators, editors and publishers to create the new publishing ecosystem.

As you can imagine, it is a panel I’m eagerly looking forward to.

So last Thursday Cindy came home and shut the door to our Sienna on the top of her head, the metal corner carving a zig zag ravine down the middle of her skull. Stubborn and rather Rambo like as my lady is, she refused to head to the emergency room. “It’ll knit itself,” she said. She was right – it’s been three days and it’s swollen and crusty, but healing. It was scary at first though, because in case you’ve never read a book or seen a movie – head wounds bleed. Like a lot. Two minutes after it happened she looked like an extra from True Blood.

I couldn’t be more proud of Mia, who ran upstairs and calmly delivered the news. “Mommy cut her head and it’s really really bad. There’s blood everywhere. It’s at least three times as bad as the worst time when I hurt my head. Mommy needs you RIGHT NOW.” Her words were silk whipping in wind, lost in flight but perfectly smooth.

Because I’ve been playing lots of catch up, haven’t sat down to really write, but I would love to connect and share my adventures. The best way to do this, I believe, is too rap out in my best conversational style. Go ahead and ask whatever you’d like to know in the comments and I’ll write a post that answers any question that comes in either Monday or Tuesday. I’m doing the same thing over at the Inkwell, so if there’s a question that’s more professional than personal, you’re welcome to drop it over there.

While we’re at it, I’m planning to do another video interview with each of my children soon. If there are any questions you would like to suggest, I would love to add them to the list.

Lastly, there is a new comment system downstairs. It isn’t terribly attractive and do I apologize for that, but it has a feature that I can’t argue with.

It allows me to answer comments through email.

This does everything for my workflow. Email is a natural rhythm of conversation for me. Whenever a comment is posted, I get an email. It is often when reading this email that I have my most natural response. It’s different when I come back to the site to answer them later. Being able to answer and post the reply into the comments by email is a wonderful option that I’m eager to explore.

I’m not married to it yet though, so feel free to let me know your thoughts. That troublemaker George Roper already gave me an earful.

See you tomorrow.

Writer Dad

Filed Under: Family

Happy Birthday, Megan!

September 18, 2009 By 18 Comments

IMG_1459Today is my sister Megan’s birthday. It isn’t as big a deal as it was last year when I had to surrender the $20 I’d wagered a decade earlier that she would be obese by her thirtieth birthday. This year merely added a digit and maybe a few lines to her face (note: as first born it is my job to gently torment. Besides, the relationship is reciprocal).

This past summer has been the best of my life. I’ve spent the last three months absorbed in nudging my dreams to truth and, for the first time ever, enjoying the freedom of the year’s longest days alongside my wife and children.

One of the best things about summer was our frequent adventuring. Each day, somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, I would step away from the desk and the four of us would head out for our scheduled activity. Several times this summer our trips included Megan.

From our handful of expeditions, I think I enjoyed our trip to the tide pools the most. We crossed the Vincent Thomas Bridge out of Long Beach and into one of my favorite drives in the world, winding along the edge of the Pacific, just beneath the bluffs of Palos Verdes, where I have vowed to dock my ship when it eventually comes in.

Though a recent oil spill had swallowed nearly all the usual sea life – it was still fun to hop from rock to rock and see how far out to sea I could go. I hopped as far as I could, which turned out to be where the rocks stopped and the liquid road to Hawaii started. I stood parallel to a fishing boat and stared back at the shore, watching my sister strolling along with Cindy and the children.

Memories of my childhood rolled and crashed like waves upon the beach.

Though Megan is endlessly hysterical and breezy to be with, I believe it was those moments of fractured reflection that truly meant the most to me. Max and Mia LOVE their aunt. They respect her and appreciate that she speaks to them, not as small children who do not understand the world around them, but as developing people who are trying to breathe it all in, one experience at a time.

My sister and I did not always get along as children, mostly by my design, and I think we both look on Max and Mia in wonder. They truly are the best of friends and it is remarkable to see in them already what it took the two of us a couple of decades to find.

Both children tend to show their best side around her and I love to see the admiration dancing in her eyes. Megan has no children, nor does she plan to. She is one of those rare, intelligent creatures who is fairly sure of what she wants from life and is unwilling to drag an innocent child into even the slightest bit of indecision.

Her wonder makes me aware, gently reminding me to never fade in or out and to always see my children as others do. Though she may not ever be a mother, I’m quite certain she would make a wonderful one.

Megan is also wonderfully artistic. Creativity sank its teeth into me just recently, but Megan has been harvesting artifacts from the right side of her brain for most of her life. We spent many years working side by side in our family flower shop where I saw her skills move from, “That’s so beautiful I want to cry,” to “Will someone please get me a tissue?”

IMG_1678

Our family store has closed and Megan has opened her own Long Beach wedding flowers studio. Her work is stunning and she did all the web design herself. Like her brother, she prefers lots on her plate and also has her own line of rather amazing hand printed greeting cards. Unlike her brother, who desires a system to streamline everything, she is quite content to do things the old fashioned way, taking the time to make sure that everything is as beautiful as she is.

Happy Birthday, Megan. I love you and am looking forward to our donuts this morning!

Writer Bro

Filed Under: Family

How to Easily Keep Your Family Connected in 20 Minutes a Day

May 25, 2009 By 37 Comments

How to Keep Your Family Connected

“I don’t care how poor a man is; if he has family, he’s rich.”
~Dan Wilcox, M*A*S*H

the best part of the dayWhat if I told you about an easy to manage method for keeping you and your children so connected, they will be far less likely to unplug, even when settled beneath the stormiest clouds of childhood.

In the interest of full disclosure: I do not yet have two teenagers. You may call me starry eyed, but it is my emphatic belief that though the bonds in our house will certainly mature, they will never lose the core of what we have built from the beginning; I find it impossible to imagine that concrete poured deep into consistent habits will crumble, even when shoved up against the inevitable earthquakes of adolescence that can so easily tear families asunder.

The many minutes of our lives are often only loyal subjects to the whims of our daily schedules. Yet no matter the flurry or fury of a calendar week, it is rare to not find our family breaking bread and passing it across the table during our day’s final meal.

Every day needs an anchor – a dividing line to distinguish one sunset from the next; a manner to measure that breath that exists only between exhale and inhale. In our family it is never enough to simply parse our table into four sections and allow the seconds to elapse while dinner music does the heavy lifting. We listen to dinner music, but only as percussion. The melody of our future dinnertime memories drifts through the air alongside the shared details of our day.

It is there amid the easy comfort of automatic eye contact where the notes of our days harmonize into their singular song.

We rotate around the table, each of us in turn reciting the best and worst parts of our day – those moments that for better or worse drew distinction from that day’s light. Best and worst are given equal billing, as we teach our children that only by experiencing the sour of life can they truly savor its sweet. There are few better avenues for getting to know your child then giving them a stage to stand on, then fading into the background as they articulate those things that are most meaningful to them.

We model honesty. If one of my children has done something to cast a shadow across my day, I have no difficulty letting them know it was my worst part. We expect the same candor from them. I like hearing my four or seven year say things such as, “the worst part of my day was my behavior before rest time. I could have done better,” while never once shattering the fix of their gaze.

I enjoy this not because I like to revel in the shortcomings of my offspring, but because I feel as though this type of honest self reflection is rare. Catching it in childhood is like catching a caterpillar, not near as difficult as catching it once emerged from the chrysalis of adolescence.

Cindy and I were recently wondering out loud whether the best part/worst part tradition was one we passed to our children with intention. Neither of us could honestly commit. It was something we have done together since always. We can’t put too fine a point on it, but we know we’ve been doing it since sometime before we started living together but after we knew we always would.

By the time Mia was two, the best part and worst part had three even slices. Max, who looks to his sister to learn just about everything, was cooing on cue before his answers were whistling through a freshly cut set of teeth. We love how they’ve embraced the habit and hope to see it spread to the next generation. So far so good.

The other day I was absent for dinner, my presence required at an orientation for the parents of incoming kindergartners at Max’s new school. I returned home late, but Max wasn’t quite ready to bid farewell to the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” I could hear his rat-a-tat-tat as I ascended the stairs. “We did not do the best and worst part of our day,” he declared, fingers in the air and eyebrows crawling together.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said, grabbing three of his digits and leading him toward the bedroom. “What was the worst part of your day?”

“That you weren’t here for dinner,” he looked down.

“How about your best part?”

“That you’re home now and I get to tell you.” His smile spread and I tucked him in with a sigh.

Writer Dad

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Filed Under: Family Tagged With: , , , ,

Today I Felt Indebted

April 15, 2009 By 20 Comments

“If you don’t think every day is a good day, just try missing one.”
~Cavett Robert

2787499964_4feaf741c5Today will one day gild my memory in bold type, sprinkled as it was with moments of gratitude, justifying our family’s direction, rewarded our patience and promised to pull us toward a truly awesome mañana.

There was no singular bolt of lightning to pierce our sky, the day instead flocked with flashes and rays. It is spring break for the children and the loss of shuffling through hours of our day is not one I will spare a minute to mourn. My non working moments over the last three days have been instead spent on adventures; playing with Max and Mia while making eyes at Cindy.

Even amid all the helter skelter, our lives are often filled with such moments; even the worst of days can burn with brilliance if you take the time to gaze, at least with a passing glance, at a bit of what is both above and below you. Yesterday was one of those where those moments seemed to arrive in multiplicity and then arrange themselves with the wonder of a constellation.

I’ve been climbing toward a peak for some time now, and can smell the air at the top as it gently slaps the side of my face, but that doesn’t mean the climb hasn’t at times been like ascending the side of a chalkboard landscape with two handfuls of nails. Cindy and I have laid claim to high risk this past half year; a small part of the fair purchase price for promise. Climbing that mountain, today we arrived at an aperture in the side; an asylum from the altitude where the air was crisp and even the colors of our simple stew seemed to stand bold against the white of unfiltered sky.

The day itself was odd, with rolling waves of thunder punctuating the wind from midday sun to nighttime moon. Threatening rain, the sky hung pregnant but never delivered moisture or menace. Behind the ugly gray, our interior was cerulean. Taxes were paid, and thanks to our accountant Cindy and I sent every cent due, but not a nickle more. The in-box at Ghostwriter Dad wore a grin for most of the day as pleasant, appreciative people paid and praised my delivered work. The Collective Inkwell launch has been a long time coming and outstanding once here, and I love the contest David Wright and I cooked up together. It promises to be fun for the two of us and our readers alike.

Life is a constant climb, the amount of steps we choose to ascend is up to us as individuals. I want to spend my years in motion, covering as much distance as I can before before my mind will finally move me no further. Some of those steps will be difficult and I’ll feel the weight of iron chains shackling every forward inch. Other steps will see me gliding forward with the ease of a man waltzing across lunar soil.

It is impossible to fully appreciate one without sinking deep into the other. I am grateful for every struggle, for it is only the scuffles, mental or otherwise, that train me to think smarter or faster or at least more in tune with the best way forward. It is only the difficulties that allow my children to see me earning answers to the same lessons I must never forget to teach them.

I’m a writer and so appreciate the trials.  Today, surrounded by my family and momentum,  I felt indebted.

Writer Dad

The contest I mentioned earlier is awesome. Dave and I are giving away the premium WordPress theme Thesis, along with a custom header (and that’s just for starters). If there’s a writer inside you (and that means everyone!) then head to the Inkwell, read the contest details, and drop your entry.

Filed Under: Family Tagged With: , , , , ,

Nostalgically Forgotten and Sorely Missed

March 26, 2009 By 20 Comments

This is a guest post from my mom. I’ve spent the week saying farewell to a significant slice of my childhood. Today she would like to say adios to one of the threads that has woven our family together. Enjoy.

3279762705_45ae595c6dIn 1980, we were a young couple struggling to raise our children and make payments on a newly purchased home. My husband had lost his job and we had started a small courier business for overnight photo developing. I crafted gift items which I sold to local stores to supplement our income. Whatever money came in we considered a blessing.

On the east side of town there lay an ethereal lakeside shopping center. One day we found ourselves there pursuing information on leasing a small kiosk for a photo booth. Could we afford the $250 a month? Suddenly stars aligned and through some smoke and mirrors we somehow managed to come into possession of not only the kiosk, but a newly abandoned flower shop, completely empty save for a very expensive built in cooler.

We were offered 3 months free. The angels smiled and the devil dared us. Could we do it? Bet your ass we were going to try. This was the chance of a lifetime. A month of garage sales and some serious scavenging netted us about $500 and lots of salvaged materials, including lots of discarded wooden delivery boxes (similar to soda crates).

My husband was quite creative and a pretty good carpenter and I was artsy-fartsy. A store was born. What emerged was a funky, eclectic, ahead-of-its-time bucket shop. We sold houseplants and small bunches of flowers bought directly from the farm. The ladies at the next door nail parlor loved taking a bunch of posies home.

Over the next four years posies evolved into arrangements and custom dried flower decor (we wasted nothing). We worked long, hard hours and as a reward were offered an upgraded shop on the other side of the artificial lake. The two of us collaborated to create a unique shop unlike any other. We added hand crafted folk art and gift items and incorporated thrift shop finds and antiques into our designs. Word spread. We were “Martha” before “Martha” was popular.

Sean and his sister grew up and worked in our family shop. They developed their art and people skills. The store enabled us to have a comfortable lifestyle in the 90′s, but we never forgot our humble beginnings and our children learned the value of hard work.

Changes in the flower industry and economy have necessitated the closure of this beautiful shop. It is the end of an era. I will always have wonderful and humorous anecdotes of Rainbows. The store is gone, but never the memories. I painfully say goodbye to a place that brought happiness to the community for almost three decades.

It will be nostalgically remembered and sorely missed.

Margaret

(WD note: These “art” skills my mom is talking about included forcing my sister and I to make corn husk dolls. Yup, I said corn husk dolls. We both still love her anyway.)

Filed Under: Family Tagged With: , ,

To Strengthen the Character of Our Memory

March 25, 2009 By 10 Comments

2503509353_efce22b8961I could never count the hours I spent as a child running around the shopping center that housed my parent’s store, hiding and seeking with my sister as well as my own self. That shopping center was a playground that granted us clearly set boundaries alongside nearly limitless freedom.

I could never enumerate the myriad ways in which I was shaped in these millions of minutes. Though some day I may sit down and sketch some of it out, I could only hope to cover some of what I remember, and of course I can’t remember it all.

I do remember much of it, however, and here is a tiny nutshell in chronological order.

1) The bookstore that was right around the corner from my parent’s flower shop was home to nearly everything exciting I ever read prior to adolescence. School gave me plenty of functional text, but I found little of it engaging. It was the Walden Books that gave me Stephen King, Dragonlance, Anne Rice, Truly Tasteless Jokes, and a fresh stacks of comics each and every week. I would lose hours, holed up in the back of the bookstore turning pages and stopping only to check back in with my parents at the appointed time.

2) The movie theater that sat just a couple hundred yards away from the doors of the flower shop housed more cinematic memories than most childhoods could ever hope to hold. If my sister and I had saved our ticket stubs I could probably wallpaper my office. I believe it was in that theater, where I first saw E.T. and just about every Spielberg movie to follow for the next two decades, that my affection for a good flick blossomed into true love.

3) The ins and outs of that parking lot were where I learned the rules of the road. I was given both a car and driver’s license at sixteen with the understanding that I would drive directly to work at the end of each school day to take the store’s afternoon deliveries. I logged in hundreds of hours behind the wheel before I turned seventeen and knew my city so well, I rarely needed to map my deliveries.

4) The flower shop is where I grew up and learned to be me. When some unsavory souls tried to slip away in the middle of the night with a business my parents had spent my lifetime to build, shortly after I turned 18, my immediate instinct was to step into shoes that were way too big for my teenage feet. I learned to fill them quickly, and thus diverted the drift of my life for the next dozen years.

5) Working with my father and sister was a treasure. Though not every second was rainbows and roses, I loved working by their side for as long as I did, and wouldn’t exchange the experience for anything. My father is the hardest working person I’ve ever known and my sister arranges flowers in the most impossibly beautiful ways.

5) The tireless work. With few exceptions, I worked six days a week, 52 weeks a year for over a decade. My honeymoon felt long because I took a four day weekend. Though the exhausting schedule demanded by the flower business was not something I wished to carry with me well into my arthritic years, I am grateful for the life lessons learned. It was that unyielding schedule that allowed me to know I had the strength to do what has been necessary this last half year as I appeared as a ghostwriter from nowhere, attempting to move my family from A to B.

The one thing forever gone I will miss most of all is the sacred ground of the store itself.

My mother and father split when I was 17, yet even though my mother was no longer a cog within the store’s machinery, she could still be found within its walls. All four of us could, on rare occasions, still be seen together under that singular roof. Alas, this is no longer.

As time passed, finding the four of us together grew rarer and rarer, but the store was always the beacon that continued to bring us together. Now our unions will be even rarer, but perhaps that scarcity will only serve to strengthen the character of our memory.

Writer Dad

Filed Under: Family Tagged With: , , , , ,

The End of the Rainbow

March 23, 2009 By 25 Comments

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true”

~ Lyman Frank Baum quotes

3355651724_d51db41867When my parents first decided on the name Rainbows for their one of a kind boutique flower shop, one year shy of three decades back, they couldn’t have had any idea how fitting that moniker would turn out to be. The extraordinary business they built from nothing has lived through the arc of a rainbow; climbing toward the sky before descending to the other side of the horizon and disappearing into the mystery of tomorrow.

They created a market where one didn’t exist before, bringing a European bucket shop into the city. Rainbows carried the high end flowers found in the chic shops of Santa Monica, Pasadena, and West Hollywood and sold them for next to nothing in Long Beach. Their business model was based on volume and it worked well for a wide width of time.

After three amazing decades, the brick and mortar mercantile has fallen subject to the iron law of diminishing returns. That picture you see was shot by my sister. It shows the final shrunken display that will ever sit beneath that particular rainbow. Trends have shifted and the business of buying budget bundles of flowers has drifted to the wider aisles of the local grocer. The particular cocktail of tapered margins and reduced foot traffic has left it imprudent to fritter long days idle inside the store, awaiting the echo of footsteps while a multiplicity of eager commerce is lingering online.

The store is now closed, its final satisfied customer leaving with a smile just two weeks ago. The store has been run by my father for the last fifteen years, my sister and I standing by his side during the majority of that time. He is now moving the business to a studio space that will be closed to foot traffic, but still open to online and telephone orders. My father is now thirty years older than he was on that sunny September day when my parents first threw open their doors and crossed their fingers.

There is no sadness beget by the closing of Rainbows’ doors. The business of running a flower shop is exhausting and the overhead extortionate. By removing a single avenue, my pop will effectively, and exponentially, widen his potential. Our family is proud of the store’s storied history and the legacy it leaves behind. Our only sadness comes from the countless faces who have crossed the threshold to order flowers for family gatherings, weddings, and parties, or simply because there are fewer ways to more precisely say, “I Love You.”

The store must close its physical doors because it is an appropriate time to do so, but the memories shall swirl inside our minds forever. The end of this arc has led to a new sunset, every sunset precedes a new tomorrow.

Writer Dad

Sean Platt is a ghostwriter, creative blogger, and occasional potty training expert.

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A More Spontaneous Holiday

December 22, 2008 By 23 Comments

“The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak.”

~Hans Hofmann

Happy Holidays everyone.  Vacation has started.  I will be online sporadically for the rest of the year as I tidy up this one and prepare for the next.  I will drop in with a couple of important messages, and the pages will be kept fresh by friends of Writer dad.  Please enjoy the first in a series of guest posts, as Dave Fowler tells us what the holidays this year mean to him.

2104624897_6758fbf5b8This is my first Christmas as a stay at home dad, so it’s going to be different.  This year is going to be better than any Christmas before.  It will be more joyous and there will be more merriment.

Not because I have some meticulous plan set in place to execute with military like precision – but because I don’t.

I have no plan, other than to go with the flow.

Except for the purchase of a few gifts and a major round of early grocery shopping, I’ve done nothing else to prepare.

It feels brilliant and liberating.  “So what,” shall be my motto.

There is not much that can’t be fixed by the careful application of personal attention, and who better to give it than someone not tied to a rigid agenda and steeped in the ludicrous expectations of a perfect Christmas Holiday?

I have fallen foul of this too many times before.

Whenever I’ve planned to design an event to perfection, it always misses the mark and finds its bulls-eye in disappointment instead.

Always aspiring to something greater, I find  my mind is often elsewhere, thinking of something that has already happened or is yet too, but I am usually missing out on what’s transpiring right before my very eyes.

Not this year.

This year I’m going to be in the moment as much as I possibly can.  Aside from the obligations I’ve made to getting fit, I have set no rules for myself.

The countless conventions normally set in place have been sidelined in favour of spontaneous fun and frequent dashes of hilarity.  All my children have reached an age where they can fully experience the delight of the holidays, and I want to be present for them.

We are financially challenged this year, owing to the loss of my earning, but I can still give my young family the most wonderful gift I have.

The gift of a father’s time.

Being with them, playing with them, talking to them, and loving them, will make this a Christmas I will never forget.

Merry Christmas,

Dave Fowler

For those of you who have not yet received January, I am sorry. The problem is being sorted and you shall have it by the end of the day. It’s an automated email thing and I want to make sure people aren’t getting inundated with duplicate emails. If you want it immediately, shoot me an email and I’ll send it ASAP. To all of you who sent feedback over the weekend, WOW and thanks! I’d like to especially thank Jamie Grove for his 1000 word review. Definitely awesome and one.

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Momma Meme-a

December 18, 2008 By 36 Comments

“The moment a child is born, the mother is also born.  She never existed before.  The woman existed, but the mother, never.  A mother is something absolutely new.”

~Rajneesh

Today I have a guest post of sorts from my mom.  She’s answered the six questions to last week’s meme.  Each one has a short note from yours truly.  I’ve already read them to the old lady.  If you think them unkind, I promise they’re not.  It’s just how we roll.  Enjoy.

trash_heap1)  My name is Margaret.  In Spanish, my first, middle, and maiden names translate, embarrassingly and prophetically, to “Daisy Rose Bouquets.”  This was not done on purpose, rather God’s little twisted joke.  I wear many hats.  I am a floral designer, artist, crafter, teacher and antiques peddler.  I choose to be a “starving artist” with freedom rather than working a 9 to 5 with a regular paycheck.

Editor’s note:  This often makes her reliant on the kindness of others.

2)  My addiction is thrift shops.  I am a thriftaholic, a cluttermonky of gargantuan proportions.  Recycling discards into altered art feeds my soul, much to the detriment of my surroundings.  I am a recycled soul.  When I handle vintage objects from the ’30′s and 40′s, I feel as though I was there before.  My children squabble over who will be the unfortunate one to deal with my stuff when I croak.  They pray for me to live until I’m 200.

Editor’s note:  Snort.

3) I am a product of the 50′s and 60′s and a survivor of twelve years of Catholic school.  I was raised with one foot in the “good girl – June Cleaver” world and the other foot leaping towards the rebellious “burn your bra” era.  This might explain why today I am a curious mixture of Martha Stewart, Stevie Nicks, Betsey Johnson and Mother Earth; a flower child adrift in an impersonal world of technology.

Editor’s note:  Mother Earth?  Really, Mom?  Mother Earth cries at your backyard.  Remember the trash heap from Fraggle Rock?  ‘Nuff said.

4)  I feed strays of all shapes and sizes.  I HAVE become the “crazy cat lady” of the neighborhood who puts out troughs of cat food for all the feral kittens and cats that people have abandoned.  It is not on unusual to see a lineup of cats, possums, and racoons on my porch patiently waiting their turn to chow down.  I might add I live in a bustling urban area, not in a rural woodland.

Editor’s note:  The crazy cat lady probably doesn’t feed the racoons for years on end and then wonder why they are living beneath her abode and chewing through her wires.

5)  Up until about three months ago, I had no clue how to operate a computer.  I can cook, decorate the hell out of anything, teach non creative people to explore and develop their right brain – but program a cell phone or figure out any technological thingy, yikes!  I enrolled in a computer class and can now browse E-Bay, Etsy, and my children’s websites.  I can send e-mails, and hope to expand my earning potential through my newly found skills.  A brave new world awaits.

Editor’s note:  Before she can step into the brave new world, Grammy must clear a surface in her house.  We’ve been waiting a year.

6)  I love music, mainly classic rock and current compatible tunes.  I love movies and great television, particularly quirky whimsical stuff and fun dark films.  Coen brothers and Tim Burton are favorites.  I have a wicked sense of humor, am very outspoken and liberal, sometimes without the most politically correct views in the room.  People either love me or absolutely think I’m “wacko” (a direct quote from a non-fan)  I am mostly quite happy with who I am with the exception of a few serious life style improvements needed.  I love my children to death and feel blessed with the mix the universe has given to me.

Editor’s note:  I love you and think you’re wacko.  Thanks for the words, Mom.

Writer Mom

Today belonged to my mom, but I’ll still mention you can hire me as a ghostwriter.  I specialize in custom SEO blog posts.

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