600 Something...

600 is the total of my latest scrapbooking endeavor but before you judge me, I really wish you’d hear me out.

So what am I talking about...  Pictures?  Pages?  Types of albums?  Dollars?

part of my stash

Yes, I mean dollars.  The answer is definitely dollars.  600 of them.  And before you ask, I’ll just tell you how this whole debacle came to be…  I’m an avid scrapbooker who has always been up to date with my photos and albums.  ALWAYS.  I used to start scrapping an event before the hubster had all of the SD cards unloaded.  I’ve been caught up with our albums since before the kiddo was born and I’ve even gone back and worked on the eight years the hubster and I were married before our duo became a trio—that honeymoon time in our lives we refer to as b.k. (before kiddo).  Done.  I was always done.  And boy was I ever proud of myself as I scrapped my heart out and chronicled our lives and kept my photos out of tubs and totes and digital shoeboxes. 

Then one day I looked up and realized I was behind.  Way behind.  Like several months behind.  Somewhere between the time I’d worked my last page and the moment I realized I’d fallen off the pace, the entire scrapbook industry had changed.  Gone were simple pages that told a story and in were multi-layered works of art that barely left room for a picture on the page, let alone a double page spread featuring six to eight pictures.  Gone was the company (and the pages and albums) I’d always used.  My son had fourteen custom made, perfectly matched albums at this point.  How was I supposed to just run to the craft store and cobble something together? I’m a planner.  Things match in my world, especially when they decorate a shelf in my living room, which is where our albums live. 

Lo and behold my despair was quickly remedied when said company announced they were moving into digital scrapbooking and creating new software and albums for we loyal few.  So I migrated and learned a new way to create pages and albums and I loved it.  These weren’t your photos on paper bound books like you can create at Shutterfly or Snapfish.  While those make great gifts and I utilize that product every holiday season, they aren’t what I want to sit and sift through with my grandkids.  I want archival quality memory albums and digital scrapbooking met my need.  So I got caught up a bit and felt pretty good about the state of scrapbook affairs in my world.

our albums

Until I got behind again and the next time I looked up from life, I realized while I’d been looking through our pictures each year to make those grandparent albums, I hadn’t actually been doing much scrapbooking of my own.  It was then it hit me that I was farther behind with chronicling the story of our lives than I’d ever been and I was so mad at myself for falling off the pace, I carved out a few hours the next day to get caught up.  You can imagine my surprise when I plopped in front of my computer only to learn the company had gone bankrupt and taken their software with them.

At the start of 2016, I was thousands of pictures away from being able to catch up with my photo life.  There were more questions than answers and I couldn’t see a path forward.  What system would I use?  What albums would ever match what I already had?  How would I just pick up in the middle of a year in progress and blend in new pages?  How much was this going to cost?   How far behind was I really?  Was it even possible to get caught up?  Would the hard drive fail?  Would it still work?  Did I save all of the pics on my phone through numerous device upgrades?  What would I do with all of the phone pics the hubster takes?  The more I thought about the task at hand, the more I wanted to abort the mission.  Who needs these ridiculous creative goals, anyway?

more of our albums

But I stayed the course and found my answers.  Many of them I didn’t like, but they were there waiting for me and now I’m ready to share them with you.  It turned out I was seven years behind by the time I decided to do something about the problem.  I would try several systems before finally settling on Project Life only to learn I didn’t care for their traditional scrapbooking as much as I like the app driven digital Project Life version (LOVE is a better word).  My pages don’t blend like I wish they did.  They don’t match at all, actually, which is something that drives my OCD up the wall.  I did have a hard drive fail but I was able to get the photos I needed before it had to be trashed.  I’m pretty diligent about backing up my phone so those pics were present and accounted for.  I even managed to snag numerous pics from the hubster’s phone.  To date I’ve spent just over $600 between printing pictures, printing 12x12 digital pages, procuring albums and pages, and other needed supplies, like Project Life kits and the Project Life app (LOVE this app)!  

Now before you freak out—yes, I know $600 is a lot of money.  But that’s truly only $86 a year to preserve our family memories had I been keeping up with things.  Some might ask if it’s worth it and the only way I can answer that is to say this…

today's bone pile

Just this afternoon as I was putting the finishing touches on the last album, our 2016 album, the kiddo came in and grabbed the newly minted 2012 album.  “I remember that haircut,” he said with a huge grin on his face as he stared at a picture of himself taken during his long-haired, aka Bieber, days.  “What in the world was I thinking?”  We had a good laugh and as I hugged his shoulders and watched as he walked down memory lane, I think I landed on the biggest answer of all.  It is entirely possible to get caught up with that thing you’ve been putting off and as of three hours ago—I’m caught up with my scrapbooking. 

Seven years worth of photo memories in seven months of catch up isn’t for the faint of heart and it isn’t easy on the checkbook.  But is it worth it?  It only takes seeing the smile on my son’s face to know that answer.  Absolutely.

What Do We Plan to Do About It?

It’s all I can do to keep myself from coming undone when I hear people say it’s all about the shape of our country before quickly adding that they don’t plan to vote.

There are plenty of places around the globe you can live where you have no vote, thus you have no choice—the powers that be will decide for you how things will go and you’ll be forced to live with the result.  America offers each of us a different right—the right to vote.  We don’t have to love the candidates or everything they stand for because let’s face it—with hundreds of issues (such as education, medical insurance, human rights, immigration, finance, border control, welfare, equality and military might just to name a few) vying for attention, we’re all going to have a different set of issues that top our list.  But as Americans, we’re tasked with the responsibility to school ourselves on the issues and make a choice.

 

The sad fact of our time is there are numerous groups of people very vocal about their desire to kill us by any means possible; planes, trains, bombs, guns, chemicals, box cutters, women, children…  For some it’s our skin color.  For others it’s our religion.  Or who we love or where we live or how we handle our business affairs or sins of the father, or, or, or…  It’s a list that’s impossible to define because every day we continue to draw breath, we offend someone and another thing gets added to the list of things they hate about us—AMERICANS.

Which leaves us with a choice.  We can continue complaining about how much we dislike the things happening around us while praying they don’t start happening to us.  That’s one course of action. 

Or we can educate ourselves on the issues and try to make the best decision we can hope to make with what we have to work with.  If we were stranded on that proverbial desert island, I would like to think the people I love and those I rub shoulders with wouldn’t throw themselves in the sand and let us die because they didn’t want to touch a thorny plant, or study all aspects of what we were up against, or get a splinter, or consider other’s opinions about our odds, or eat coconut they didn’t like, or risk the poison sumac.  I’d like to think we’d humble ourselves and pray for rescue before teaming up despite our differences in ability and opinion.  That we'd fight against the odds, doing anything we thought would give us a chance to live one more day.

Which leaves me to wonder… Why are so many of us suddenly unwilling to do the very same thing for America?

Good morning, campers!

It's almost July, which means it's almost time for my writing colleagues and I to escape to a safe place for a few days to flex some creative muscles in a relaxed environment.  Camp NaNoWriMo (a writing event sponsored by the Office of Lights and Letters) is a fun way to get a story on paper, edits be damned (for the moment).  And it's just around the corner.

My camp project finds me working on a redo of sorts.  My first novel, Broken Together, was written at a pretty dark time in my life.  While I love the characters I created there, I've had several years to distance myself from the premise of the story and looking back, I can see I had it all wrong.  Oh the times I've sighed and said what I didn't know then...

As a young writer, I didn't know how to right the ship so I did what we all do at times, I jumped and let it sink, which is to say I abandoned my first series before I completed the third and final novel.  And you know what?  I've thought about those characters and their stories nearly every day since. 

Six years (and a boatload of experience later), I can't help but feel the time is right to step back and revisit the words on the page.  By the end of July I should have a new story well in hand.  And I won't be kicking myself for not doing the hard work of crafting a better story.

All that said, here's a sneak into my 2016 camp project--Twelve Corners...

It's not about a paycheck...

After Bryn Baxter’s world is nearly destroyed by a mortar attack while on assignment in the middle of the Afghan war, she finds herself in the grip of a soul-crushing depression so encompassing, most days it’s all she can do to leave the safety of her bedroom.  She’s shut out her friends and family, determined she can make it own her own.  But as loneliness sets in, the voices in her head don’t offer the wisest counsel. 

Desperate for anything to fill the void that’s taken up residence where her life used to live, it doesn’t take Bryn long to find comfort in the words of the men she meets online.  Unable to sleep and scared of the dark, Bryn seeks solace from the soft glow brought to her through a few strands of fiber optic cable.

It's about building a life...

Beck Reynolds would rather eat dirt than help another “lost soul,” especially the daughter of a friend.  He isn’t a therapist and he doesn’t have a degree in any of the ‘ologys.  Heck, he can barely manage to get the lid on the seat down most days. So he survived being shot by a madman intent on revenge and knows about unexpected life change firsthand.  Big deal. 

Still, when Beck reluctantly decides to help his buddy’s daughter find some inner peace, he never dreams he’ll be ignored.  Come to think of it, the woman he’s decided to help hasn’t said a word to him for nearly a month. 

As Beck tries to lift Bryn out of the shadows, she thwarts his every effort.  While his heart breaks for her on one hand, he has to admit there’s a part of him that wants to wring her neck.  Determined to end Bryn’s pitiful attempts at playing cat and mouse, Beck devises a game of his own, forcing Bryn from behind the screen and out into the open.   Every part of Beck is now focused on saving this wreck of a woman.  Question is, can he save her from herself?

The Last Day...

What did I do with the precious minutes I had today before the kiddo stepped from the school building a freshman turned sophomore?  Procurement!  I learned a long time ago that a success summer for my family means activities with the kiddo as well as me staying on track with projects and goals, even though I'll no longer have an alarm clock as my boss for the next two months.  There isn't much sleeping in or lazy days to be found in our house.

So today I stocked up on scrapbook pages and threads for upcoming summer projects, snagged 273 photos from the printer and scored cookies from our favorite bakery so we can celebrate when the hubster gets home.  

Then I find a sweet little flower resting perfectly on my window ledge as I go to step in the car.  I’m taking it as a sign.  #igotthis #bestsummerever

And the Oscar goes to...

We’re blessed that on top of being a good kid, our kiddo is a good student. So when a letter addressed to the Parents of the Kiddo came in the mail stating he was to be at an academic awards ceremony at the high school last evening, we were pretty pumped. What was weird was that the letter didn’t say the first thing about what the award was for. So we did what all well-meaning parents do—we quizzed the kiddo, who knew nothing about any award, and we started having fun with the process.

For the last two weeks we’ve spent time guessing what award the kiddo was going to receive, which is funny since he’s a freshman and this awards ceremony is new to us and we don’t even know the categories. One night at dinner I very casually said I thought he’d been nominated for Best Original Score, wondering if my guys would get the joke. It seemed appropriate given we blast music for an hour and a half every morning before school. They both smiled and that was that. A few nights later the hubster came home from work and announced offhandedly he thought the kiddo had been nominated for Best Actor in a Supporting Role. Seriously, when this kid decides to argue with us, he could win an Oscar hands down. A few days later still, the kiddo said he thought he was up for Sound Editing. Ha! We went on like this the entire time we waited for the night to arrive, sticking with our categories while secretly wondering if the award was for debate--the kiddo had a great season and loved the class. Or maybe history? That’s his area of serious expertise. 

It turns out we were all wrong. Last night we clapped and beamed like the proud, embarrassing parents we are as the kiddo received the award for Best Foreign Language Film (outstanding achievements in French).

Things Break...

Have you ever been so mad you wanted to break something?  That happened to me on Sunday and you know what I did?  After standing in my driveway arguing with the kiddo about yard work, I went in to my house and grabbed a small porcelain saucer then I marched right back outside and smashed it against the concrete of my front walkway. 

“What did you do that for?” the kiddo snapped, a look of confusion crossing his face as he stared at me.  Then he watched as I frantically scrambled to pick up all of the pieces I could.  It was some of my finest acting.  When I turned and asked him to hold out his hands, he looked at me as if I’d finally lost the last of my marbles.

“I'm so sorry I broke this plate,” I offered half-heartedly in my best whining-like-my-teenage-does voice.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it!” he responded.

“No, it doesn't. So when you're rude and condescending and you glare at me and roll your eyes and bark one word answers and look at me with a face that says please stop talking and just leave me alone, a quick and easy sorry doesn't fix it.”

We were fighting over chores that should've been done on Friday but the kiddo had better things to do that afternoon so he put off his work until Sunday.  When I reminded him of my expectations Saturday night, I got a smile and a no problem and I knew right then this would be war.  No problem coming from my kiddo is always, in fact, a problem.  It came as little surprise when he snarled at me after church when I asked him to tackle his chores before he got involved in other things.

Yet it wasn’t until he flounced around huffing and sighing for nearly half an hour before doing what turned out to be a barely passable job that I lost it.  So I smashed the plate and gave my speech about half hearted work and weak I’m sorry’s before heading back inside and leaving him to redo all of his work for the second time. 

Fast-forward three hours.  The yard work was done and the kiddo was milling about the house somewhere.  I’d moved on from trying to make huge parenting leaps and worrying about raising a responsible human to decorating the house for May--the Indy 500.  I knew I was carrying too much in my arms when I gathered the box of ornaments destined for the tree in the foyer, but I thought I could handle it.  Until I stumbled over the stupid gate we keep up in the hall to help corral our four small terriers.  So down they went.  The entire box.  My special order miniature checkered flags I waited half a year to receive hit the hardwood with gusto, shattering into a million pieces while their black and white counterparts, miniature glass balls that won't come around again until December, joined the party.  As I knelt in the floor of my entryway and sucked in enough air to stave off crying, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“I didn't mean to be such a brat about my chores. I shouldn’t have put it off.  I’m not mad at you.  I’m mad at me and I’m really sorry.  And I’m sorry about your ornaments,” my kiddo added, patting my back just like I’d done for him so many times in the past fifteen years.  “You didn’t mean to drop them.  Right?” he added softly.

“Right, sweetie.  This was an accident,” I laughed.  “Apology accepted, by the way,” I added.  “Now will you please go get me the broom and dustpan?”

I