It fueled my steps and energized my morning. I gobbled down the kamut and kefir pancakes (worthy of a separate blog post) and hurried out the door to South Forsyth High School for the 10:00 event.

Campaign signs lined the grass median close to the high school, and cars parked in overflow wooded areas near the street as people walked towards the buildings. Several cars before me waited as parking attendants spoke to drivers through their windows. I rolled down my window and overheard one say, “We’re at full capacity. I’m sorry you’ll have to leave.” He motioned for the cars to follow the driveway around the school, out the other side back to the main street.

Disappointment flooded me, but I thought what a great problem for our candidate to have. I followed the cars along the winding driveway marked by directionals painted on the asphalt when the term “sheeple” entered my mind. Move along, right this way. I noticed a sizable group of people standing out front of the performance arts building. I drove along the exit route where plenty of parking spaces waited near the back of the building. I was not about to let hearsay rule my day. I would go check out for myself what was going on out front.

Whipping the car into one of the spots, I parked, grabbed my iPhone, locked the door, and set out walking with a faux air of confidence. At least I’d try to look like I knew what I was doing. As I walked around the back of the building, I saw a couple young Ron Paul supporters putting fliers on car windows and could hear cheering crowds inside. I made my way to the front and joined in line with the large waiting group. Someone with the campaign, we’ll call him Big Guy, noticed my approach and said, “We’re full inside. They’re not letting anyone else in.” That’s okay, I just wanted to be part of the experience.

I could sense that everyone stood there for a similar reason, not that we expected anything more, but simply to be among other people who understand the real message that Newt Gingrich has been telling us all along. His message has not wavered, and those of us who have listened, understand. In a world of confusion, it was nice to be among other people rooting for the same real solution.

Big Guy worked the crowd, clearly missing his calling at The Punch Line, receiving smiles, laughter, and positive comments. One lady in front of me grabbed a Newt 2012 yard sign and held on to it for dear life. Another man with the campaign peeled off his Newt 2012 sticker from his shirt and gave it to me. It was a friendly group.

After about ten minutes, someone from inside relayed a message to Big Guy who turned to the crowd and said, “Your persistence paid off. They’re letting you in, but it’s standing room only.” Woot! No problem! “Don’t throw anything at me for making you stand out here and wait,” he said. I answered back, “No way. We’re not Occupiers. We’re Newt supporters. We don’t play that way.” Others in line laughed and agreed.

People filed in one door, and someone said, “There’s another door down that side if you want to go there.” So once again, I blazed a new trail and went away from the line which put me on the wings of the room about half way from where Herman Cain was addressing the crowd. I stood in an alcove next to a uniformed marshall and other on-lookers equipped with cameras thankful for my recent shower and Lysterine and for having grown to 5’10” tall. Throughout the speeches, I took pictures and kept the Twitter feed active.

Then Newt took the stage to a cheering crowd.

One high school kid with a camera bigger than he was shimmied his way through and made it inside the room. He’s probably got some super-close photos for his school newspaper this week.

Newt spoke of real solutions. No pie-in-the-sky touchy-feely nonsense, but practical answers to some of our nation’s greatest problems. Just like he did on day one of his job as Speaker of the House when he lead Congress to cut $34 million from their spending, he addressed what he will do on day one as President of the USA. Newt Gingrich is a doer and a fighter. He doesn’t care if people “like” him. He doesn’t ask anyone to be “for” him. Instead, he asks that we be “with” him, because together we can make changes to set this ship back on course before it capsizes like a recent cruise ship did off the coast of Italy.

Newt spotted me and waved. Okay, just kidding about that, but anyway, once the speech was done, he and his entourage left the stage. I assumed they’d escaped out the back and been whisked away like rockstars after a concert. Delegates to the meeting remained seated while others left wearing their new stickers and with a renewed sense of energy and hope.

I moseyed out front where I’d stood earlier and found one of the last remaining yard campaign signs. Others walked over to pick up one but instantly saw that the upside-down signs read “Santorum.” Ew, wrong sandbox, sir. Those toys remained untouched.  A local Atlanta news truck waited on scene.

Satisfied with all that had transpired and still plenty of time before I needed to head to my niece’s bridal shower, I strolled back towards my car when I noticed two long lines of people gathered by the rear door of the building.

I approached a woman near the door and asked if they were still inside, and she confirmed in a lovely Swedish accent they hadn’t yet come out but had come to the door and waved. Well, by golly, this rally just kept getting more fun by the minute.

Surveying the line, I decided not to stand by the door where they’d likely rush out but to head towards the destination—a waiting SUV at the end. Hey, this was NOT my first rodeo.

In front of me was a group of college age young men—no backwards caps, no jeans below their rears. Khakis on a Saturday morning. Young Republicans perhaps? Refreshing.

Then the door opened, and out flowed the group, first security, then Herman Cain, and then the Gingrich family and Newt himself. Instead of dashing down the prepared lane like a bride and groom escaping to a honeymoon get-away, they stopped and shook hands, signed autographs, and took pictures with supporters along the way. When one man shouted something about common sense, Cain replied, “What we gotta do is get ‘em to stop watching MSNBC. They’re watching the wrong channels.” One lady told him she loved his message. Greeting others Cain said, “I’ve been working hard y’all. It ain’t over.”

As he neared, he was focusing on people on the other side of the railing, so I shouted out “Mr. Cain. Mr. Cain.” He knelt down to take a photo with a child, but before he got away, I shouted out the closing statement he uses on his new Cain Connections radio addresses, “Mr. Cain, we are not stupid.” That caught his ear, so he turned back, reached out to shake my hand and repeated, “We are NOT.”

Then Mr. Gingrich continued down the aisle speaking to everyone along the way. “Don’t give up,” one onlooker said. More thumbs up, autographs, and photo ops from Newt.

When he was in front of me, I said, “Mr. Speaker, can’t wait to call you Mr. President.” He shook my right hand and reached up with his left to pat my forearm with his other hand saying, “With your help.”

Mr. Gingrich finished gracefully with the crowd before boarding the big bus. We applauded, cheered, and waved. As the bus pulled out and onto its next stop, we felt a glimmer of hope and desire that all Americans would hear his message and know that the common sense solution was right here. If only they’d stop getting their news from Entertainment Tonight and their information from commercials, take the time to listen to the man who has a proven track record of accomplishing real change in Washington, then we will have a fighting chance.

I couldn’t wait to get home to plant my NEWT 2012 campaign sign in my front yard.

I got so excited while shopping at Kroger today simply by seeing the variety of green tea on the shelf. I hadn’t bought any in a while due to a pretty good selection in my pantry. But having used more than usual last week, I’d made a mental note to pick up some today. Was I ever surprised! And this was just the Lipton brand. Several other brands lined up box after box touting this fruit or that, dressed in bright colors. I had to constrain myself from grabbing one of each. I’ll work my way through the selections a week at a time.

Last week in our Healthy Living Bible study, we learned about green tea, and though I’ve had an occasional cup from time to time, I had no idea all the benefits green tea afforded me. For instance, according to Annette Reeder in Treasures of Healthy Living, the powerful antioxidants in green tea will actually kill cancer cells without harming healthy tissue. Did you hear that? Green tea will kill cancer cells. I’m in.

What is the antioxidant? Let’s call it EGCG because the real name is too long to remember for my busy brain. I’m just trusting the experts who did the research on this one. Besides the cancer-fighting benefits, green tea may be helpful in dealing with:

• high cholesterol
• cardiovascular disease
• infection
• rheumatoid arthritis

When I told my husband what I’d learned, he made a change. Instead of getting the coffee pot ready for the next morning’s brew, he declared the next day he’d try green tea instead. So did I. In the last week, we’ve only had coffee twice, replacing it with green tea the other mornings. Guess what? We didn’t implode. We didn’t explode. In fact, we might just have better attitudes knowing that we were doing something good for our cells and ourselves.

Don’t get me wrong; we’re not giving up coffee altogether, but we have cut way back and are replacing it with a hot beverage that might just make our hearts healthier. What’s not to like about that? How about you? Are you willing to replace one not-so-good-for-you habit with something better? Just one is one step closer to healthy living.

Last night while I was busy baking two apple pies for one of my husband’s colleagues by request, I somehow coerced my 15-year-old son to make dinner. It started with a simple, “Can you give me a hand over here for a minute?” to “Congratulations, you’re now set to be a bachelor. You have just made an entire spaghetti and meat-sauce dinner.” Go figure. He got rave reviews from his father and big brother when they got home from baseball practice. I took no credit. It all belonged to the teenaged chef.

We had gotten down to the last heel of bread, so I knew it meant time to whip out the buckets of grain. Coincidentally, it was the same day last month when the exterminator came for his monthly visit after I was pulling freshly baked loaves of honey-wheat bread out of the oven. The house smelled delicious causing the bugman’s eyes to bug out when he entered. After he completed his work and brought me papers to sign, I offered him a slice of bread (I couldn’t help but notice his salivating.), and he accepted. He pulled out a stool from under the counter and sat down. I offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted. No sugar, just cream, thanks. Sure, he’d take a second slice of bread. Christmas tunes played on the radio in the background, and the rooms tastefully decorated added to the feeling I’d hopped out of a scene from the old TV show Hazel where she would feed her milkman when he delivered bottles. The bugman was so appreciative of the mid-day snack, and I was happy to know I could serve him something nourishing.

This week I added a bit of an Ezekiel touch to baking day. I milled in two tablespoons each of black beans, lentils, and kidney beans which not only added protein to the bread but pretty speckled colors too. With the batch of dough, I formed it into three loaves of bread, four large buns, eight dinner rolls, and one cinnamon-raisin loaf for this morning’s breakfast. To save a loaf for morning, put your dough in a pan, cover it, and put in the refrigerator until early the next morning. Take it out early to let it come back to room temperature or put it in a warming drawer or low-set oven to “bread proof” setting so it can rise. About an hour later, my husband tossed it in the oven and had warm cinnamon bread for breakfast.

Now, it’s off to the fabric store to purchase material to re-cover dining room chairs. A quick-fix for big impact, because, after all, I play house.

So here it is: Dtells Dtales is taking on a healthy living angle for now. Details follow.

Getting ten women to agree on something is comparable to passing a bill in Congress. Some support it; some oppose it; indifferent ones vote “present,” while some don’t show up. Luckily for the Circle Sistas, it wasn’t quite that involved, but due to running unopposed, my suggestion passed for what would be our first study of the year.

Time couldn’t be more appropriate, with the start of a new year when so many people jump on the fitness bandwagon. Our study is quite a bit more involved than new year’s resolutions or a diet, it’s a brand new study, published in 2011, called Treasures of Healthy Living by Annette Reeder and Dr. Richard Couey.

One my Circle Sistas, Karen, and I met the author a couple months earlier when Annette visited from Virginia to teach an intro class at the Bread Beckers in Woodstock, Georgia. Pictured is Sue Becker, an expert in the field of healthy lifestyles. I’d been a pretty healthy eater and cook for a couple decades now, and Karen had lived through her share of dealing with food allergies in her family. We both agreed we could learn more and incorporate any new-found knowledge in our repertoire, so after the class our interest was piqued. Karen bought the study book, cookbook, and nutrition manual. I settled on the nutrition manual and came home to read it with highlighter in hand.

Once the group decided we’d go with this study, Karen ordered nine books from Amazon but found out they were being shipped from warehouses across the country. None had nine in stock.

The group was scheduled to meet at my house for the initial lesson, but the night before not a single book had arrived. Not quite sure how I was going to pull off the lesson empty-handed, I’ve been known to wing it before, so I braced for whatever was to come.

Ten o’clock chimed, and so did the doorbell. I looked out and saw two of the ladies arriving, and right behind them was the UPS truck. Brown sure was surprised when I told him he was delivering the Lord’s work that day. The delivery man smiled and walked a bit prouder back to his truck.

Our group has grown accustomed to noshing on breakfast goodies for a half hour before we begin anything, so breaking that habit was our first challenge. Armed with a whip and a chair, I corralled the gals into one room to begin the formal lesson. I had a handout for them to complete which got them digging into their Bibles to find verses. One commented she was embarrassed not to know the order of the books of the Bible, (Don’t we love those little tabs?), but that is the best part—this study isn’t just about our diet—it’s getting us into God’s word to find the treasure He already laid out for us.

Each week’s lesson has suggestions of foods for the participants to try. I’d made carrot cookies and loaded oatmeal chocolate cherry cookies, and Karen brought a Calypso fruit salad. While some of the ladies were eager and ready to have me lead them around a grocery store, others were skeptical and resistant. I challenged them to keep an open mind about the study—this isn’t a diet we are doing—to see how their opinions may change as we dig further into it. We are learning together as we go.

More about that later as I tell you about how my friends are learning about beverages, freshly milled grains, and healthier choices for meal times. We’ll check in from time to time to see what’s cooking. Come on and follow us on our treasure hunt. What changes have you made for 2012 so far? I’d love to hear your positive comments and any questions you might have.

I had one of those days last week when God plunged them down on my heart with a jackhammer. I called and had a conversation with my aunt. Though somewhat scattered, she told me Uncle W was going to have a root canal. Now with Alzheimer’s affecting her, it was likely she was remembering an event from a long time ago, but I wanted to believe that she was indeed about to ride with him to the dentist for the procedure.

The jackhammer began pounding again. I knew I had to go see them in person. The night before I had cooked a huge pot of vegetable soup, and before breakfast I found myself baking an unexplained fresh pone of cornbread. Through my kids’ odd glances at my unusual morning choice, I packaged up whatever leftovers I could scrounge and reported that I was headed off to my aunt and uncle’s house. I didn’t call ahead. I wanted to deliver my olive branch in person at best or leave it by their door if they weren’t home. The soup would be easy for him to eat, I thought.

I’m one of those drivers who would rather take a country road than the fast-paced multi-lane expressways in Atlanta, but theirs is one of those “you can’t get there from here” kind of destinations otherwise. As luck would have it, the gray day turned to liquid sunshine while I was on the expressway. It poured down so hard I could barely see. As I exited the ramp, the deep, fast-fallen water splashed up on the windshield and sprayed out like a motorboat on a lake. I just prayed that no one was near me and that my car would drive forward rather than hydroplaning off the bank. Of all days for me to decide to make the trek. I knew it was God pushing me there. At his age, my uncle did not need to be driving in this mess to go get food for themselves. “Yes, Lord, I feel your speaking to me.” I paddled onward.

The rain had come down so fast the roads could barely handle all the water as it covered the curbs. An old man used a golf-size orange and white umbrella as a shield as he moved down the sidewalk, when a too-fast-moving car sped down the street and barely missed drenching him with a huge spray. I finally reached their house and saw they were arriving from the opposite direction at the same time. “Here goes,” I said, not knowing what kind of reception would follow. The last time I’d been in this driveway, I’d been snubbed. It had to be different this time.

I went first to my aunt’s car door and wondered if Alzheimer’s would allow her to recognize me. She did. I helped her out of the car. My uncle got out of the car, and the moment was about to happen. Would he be cold and flippant? Would he be callous or snide? My arms full of food, I walked around the front of the car to greet him with a big smile on my face. “What are you doing out in this mess?” he asked me. “I brought you some dinner so you wouldn’t have to be out in this mess, sir. I figured you’d be able to eat it with a sore mouth.” Somehow I maneuvered the food out of the way so that I could be ready if a hug ensued. “You brought us some food? Well, you didn’t have to get out in this mess, Squirt.” Squirt! I was Squirt again. Next came the hug. A big, wrap-your-arms-around-me great big uncle bear hug kind of hug. Rejoice! I’d waited all year for this moment. “Let’s get in out of this rain.”

We went inside and put the food in the refrigerator. They had gone to the pharmacy to get Epsom salts at his dentist’s recommendations. Ah, my aunt had been right. I visited with them for about an hour, hearing the same stories I’d heard a hundred times before but with the interest as if it were the first. Again, I invited them to our house for Christmas Day. Uncle W’s 88th birthday. “Well, I don’t know”, he told me. “We may want to go visit my sister and brother-in-law. They’re 95 and 92, and they’re getting on up there.” I’ll say. I reiterated the invitation was open, and I’d set the table for them if they’d like to come to our house.

I didn’t hear from them the rest of the week. Family members asked if they were coming for dinner, but I didn’t know the answer. Finally, Christmas morning my family of four gathered around the phone to call Uncle W to sing a glorious rendition of Happy Birthday to him. Not half bad, really, and it brought a chuckle and the question, “Do you still want us to come up for dinner?”

Oh yes, the table was already set for six people.

They arrived. A rainy Christmas Day this time, my uncle declared, “You wouldn’t believe those drivers on the expressway. Horrible. They were driving 70 mph in this rain. I almost turned around three times to go back home.” My husband and I looked at each other and choked back our “SEE?”

We visited, laughed, ate, talked, heard the same stories again for the hundred and first time as if it were the first. It was as if this last year had never happened—the proverbial hatchet buried and forgotten. That statement is probably truer than I realize at this moment. And as they raced daylight, my uncle resumed his tried and true words as he gave me that giant uncle-bear-hug that only he can do, “You’re my baby. You’re my little baby. I love you, kid.” I felt safe, loved, always his child on Christmas Day. “I’m not going to let you go,” I answered back.

“You have to; This old man has to get home before it gets dark.” He kissed me and looked right in my eyes. His were glistening. My precious aunt hugged me and said, “I love you more than anything.” My heart almost exploded.

“I appreciate your invitation up here,” my uncle said as they walked towards their car.

“Happy Birthday!” we shouted to him.

We watched from the front door as they backed down the driveway. And up the driveway. And down the driveway. My husband said, “I’m not sure he didn’t just tear up the yard.”  We shrugged our shoulders and knew if any damage were done to the yard, it would be worth every inch of it.

Is it the spirit of the season? Maybe. Whatever it is I feel like rejoicing today. HOORAY!

Some of you may remember my post from September called “I Wish it Were Fiction” when I told you about the phone conversation when my uncle denied me. I never explained, and many people read it as though he had memory lapses. That was not the case. What he had was a stubborn streak of grand proportion capped off with an unforgiving spirit all based on a misunderstanding.

Here’s the quick background version. He and my aunt were invited over for Christmas dinner last year at my house, which was also his 87th birthday. They live about 40 miles away, but the majority of it is expressway driving. Atlanta expressway driving. If you’re not familiar with Atlanta expressways, let me tell you that they’re training grounds for NASCAR and keep the undertakers in business. Dangerous even on a clear day, but add to it “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” was taken to heart last year as we were blessed with a white snowfall, and we shut down.

It’s not just us; it’s common in our area that when the snow falls, everything closes. That day it came fast, and it came heavy. Our neighborhood is one steep hill after another (appropriately named Heights), and cars simply don’t drive here when snow or ice is prevalent. So with much dismay, I phoned my uncle to tell him the conditions we were facing (along with the constant radio reports compounding the snowy outlook), and I told him that I was afraid for them to drive up here. Though he didn’t seem concerned, I couldn’t have his blood on my hands should anything happen to him along the way. Not that I don’t trust HIS driving, but those other drivers on the unfamiliar frozen roads, yada yada…

Translated to him it sounded like I did not want them at our house on Christmas Day and uninvited them. Add to it the fact that we were having remodeling done in the back hallway which left our home phone line unplugged for the entire month, when he tried to call me back but got no answer, he was convinced we were out doing BETTER things than expecting them for dinner. For the record, my cousin informed me of my uncle’s thoughts.

His feelings were hurt. He was mad. He pouted all year. My phone calls lessened as time went on, because simply it became too painful for me to have the proverbial door slammed in my face each time I phoned down there. But, I didn’t give up. My aunt, who is living with Alzheimer’s, was caught in the middle of it—somewhere between not remembering why her husband was mad at me and telling me he was outside working in the yard, though I could hear him in the background telling her what to say.

So here we are a couple weeks away from what has become a tradition of their spending his and Jesus’ birthday with us. Time to bury the hatchet? Or would I get the same dead-end outcome? I punched the number (they’re on my favorites), and my aunt answered but not before I heard him in the background say something like “if you want to talk to her.” We had a somewhat disjointed conversation, and then I said—not asked this time—“Let me speak to Uncle W.” She lapsed into her story about how she thinks he’s in bed or something, and I said (again, never having been brazen with either of them before), “No, he’s not. He’s right beside you. I hear him.”

Busted! She handed the phone over to him, and we talked. Really for the first time all year. Visually the conversation would look like a cat and mouse chasing each other around a butcher’s block island. I’d say something, and he’d deny it. I decided not to hold back but to get to the root of the issue asking him why he’d avoided me all year long. Again the denial. You see, this man LOVES to quarrel. He’s a scrapper from the get-go. Me, not so much. But enough was enough. I decided it was time to forge through with my infantry taking no prisoners.

He couldn’t deny it any longer. When I threw in his face that I missed my uncle, (no you don’t…yes, I do…no, you don’t…yes, I do) and that I needed a great big uncle bear hug (no, you don’t…yes, I do…no, you don’t…yes, I do) and that I was going to jump up in his lap and comb his hair and put curlers in it (one of his favorite stories of my childhood days), he couldn’t deny it any longer.

I heard his voice change from the disgruntled angry man who you’d expect to hear talking to an annoying telemarketer to my favorite uncle. He even laughed his laugh—twice!

Little did I know that approach is probably what I should have done months ago. Maybe he finally realized that my phone calls were not going to stop. (I often leave messages on their answering machine just checking on them.) But only when I got confrontational with Uncle Scrapper, did the nut crack, and he began to soften.

I invited them to have Christmas Day dinner and to celebrate his 88th birthday with us and hoped we wouldn’t have a white Christmas. He said he’d check with my aunt. As always I told him I loved him. Though he didn’t respond to that, I think that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to set two extra seats at the dining room table in a couple weeks.

I look to my dear friends next door; their house is dark. It’s been a tough week for them. One of their dearest friends took a sudden turn for the worse in her fight with pancreatic cancer and lost the fight yesterday. A funeral in December is especially tough. I know. I went to my father’s in December one year. Merry Christmas. Right.

The rain is picking up. The volume increases, and the temperature drops. The dog keeps my feet warm. I reflect on the day and wonder what, if anything, I accomplished. Yesterday was easy to workout hard, in honor of the one who’d lost her battle. Today I fell back into the routine that amounts to nothingness. Or does it?

I loved my family. I teared up with emotion when I watched one son sleeping. I bowed up with pride when I got news that my other son was voted Most Athletic of his senior class. I giggled and rejoiced when my husband flirted with me over and over. And I made some delicious soup from organic butternut squash. For all of that I am grateful, yet I still judge myself on my productivity, and for that I didn’t do so well: one load of clothes, a few sentences on my WIP (work in progress), and that’s about it.

I guess it’s a constant struggle, living on purpose, not wasting time, since these days are numbered. I won’t beat myself up over today. It’s done. I’ll just work harder at living on purpose tomorrow, and I’ll start at 8 AM with an intense workout—on purpose.

Maybe it was the Italian Roast from Starbucks this morning that kicked me into fifth gear, having skipped over second through fourth, but whatever it is, I’m feeling like I could take no prisoners today. WooHoo! Maybe it was getting up at dark-thirty, dressing, and leaving the house with headlights on low beam scouting for deer (actually, I think Bambi and friends were still sleeping) to get a big jump on the day that has put me ahead of the eight ball today. Regardless, I hope I won’t be too obnoxious for this writing group.

It’s been a week now since I submitted my manuscript, and it’s such a freeing feeling. I’ve had a birthday, lots of celebrations, and lots of ideas bouncing around my noggin. I’m excited about possibilities. I’m excited about friends. I’m excited about the season. I’m excited about life. What are you excited about today?

I remember having a meal with my husband three years ago at Greenwoods on Green Street in the setting of my novel when he looked at me and said, “Whatever you do, just promise me you’ll finish this book.”

So there. It has taken almost three and a half years to get from “Once upon a time” to “The End” for the second draft. That’s almost long enough to get another college degree.

A couple months ago I considered whether I should attend the annual writing conference where authors can sign up for an appointment to pitch their stories to agents and editors. Last fall I attended but was nowhere near ready to pitch. This year I finished the first draft on the last day of February and was working through the second draft but still not finished. In September I was encouraged by a GRW member to sign up. “You’re ready,” she said, though I knew I wasn’t finished. Regardless, she was right, I was ready.

The next month was busy for me, working practically non-stop on the revisions with a pivotal scene yet to be written and hanging over my head. A day before the conference I almost threw in the towel. I’m not ready. I’m not finished. I’m not going. My anti-writer was beating me down. I decided rather than to be anxious about not having a complete manuscript to present on a silver platter, to go in and meet the agent and then to work my way in to talking about my novel. As soon as I decided to approach the pitch appointment in that manner, I felt fine about it. My nerves dissolved.

A confidence booster phone call from my friend and writing critique coach, Becky Kraegel, gave me confidence to do just that. A pitch workshop that morning prior to my appointment almost played against me, but with minutes to spare, I threw out everything  we reworked and went with my gut. I’m glad I did, because my pitch appointment with my selected agent went storybook perfect, and she requested my full manuscript. I couldn’t have had a better outcome.

So for the last two weeks I have been rewriting, editing, working on edits Becky submitted, and even had a mountain get-away to work with my friend Paige who said she was honored to be among the first to read the chapters. A couple days later, it was ready to go. Today I hit send.

Just as a mother has to adjust to not being pregnant after she gives birth, I’ll have to adjust to not having to think about this manuscript any more. No longer do I have to worry about Melinda and Grammy and who knows what or why this or that happened. It’s done. I can exhale. It’s now out of my hands. If it’s in God’s plan, then this agent will call me and say, “I love it!” But if not, that’s okay. It’s just the beginning. I won’t quit there, but the most important thing is that I didn’t quit at all. Just as I promised my husband at lunch that day in 2008, I finished the book.

I pushed the programmed key that says “Dublin” on my cell phone in the list of favorites. It’s right after my husband, sons, and sisters’ phone numbers, and right before my next-door neighbor. My aunt and uncle.

Actually, I didn’t expect anyone to answer, but most likely I surprised the one who said, “Hello?” Most likely he didn’t recognize my phone number when he answered, but then maybe he did. His voice turned immediately grumpy.

“Uncle Wayne, it’s Squirt. How are you doing?” No response.

(On one recent phone call, his response was “Squirt who? I don’t know any Squirt.” Squirt is the moniker he gave me as a child and has always called me. I can’t recall any time I’ve ever heard him call me Denise, and to think of how many laughs he could have had all these years introducing me as his “niece Denise.” He favorably called me Squirt instead and has told me countless times—even well into my forties—in his giant bear-hug style, “You’re my baby. You’ve always been my baby.” Yet, on that day he didn’t know anyone called Squirt.

“Are you enjoying this beautiful day?” I tried to ease into a conversation with him.

My uncle said, “I don’t know.”

“Well, I hope you get a chance to go outside and enjoy it. It’s beautiful out.”

Then, “Here’s Lila. I’m busy.” The phone went dead.

I thought about it for a second. Did he hang up on me? Did he hand the phone to my aunt, who perhaps grabbed it the wrong way and hit the disconnect button? Were we mysteriously cut-off by some technological mishap? Most likely, the first question is the answer.

I could have left it at that and said that at least I tried to call, at least tried to make contact. But I didn’t. I’m not willing to give up on a lifetime of love and caring over some old man’s misunderstanding, so I redialed the number.

Just as I expected, no answer this time. It rang several times until the answering machine picked up. “You have reached 4-0-4…”

Here goes, I thought. I said, “Aunt Lila? It’s Denise. I was calling to see how you’re doing. *swallow* Uncle Wayne? I wish I knew why you were treating me this way. If you’re trying to hurt my heart, you’re successful. I just wanted to call and tell you that I love you. That’s all I can do.”