Years ago, before I became an author of adult southern fiction, I wrote children’s books. I was living in Ft. Lauderdale at the time, and did many presentations in the schools, libraries and bookstores. When someone would invite me to give a talk, I was always asked how much time I would need.

Today was the first day of school in our county, and I can clearly imagine the bleary-eyed, sunburned-bodies rolling out of bed with a groan as their alarm clocks shrieked at some ungodly hour. I have to admit, I was really glad it was them and not me. By the time the kids were in the middle of first period, I was just pouring my first cup of coffee. Next, I had a leisurely breakfast and then did a little writing. There’s no doubt about it; there are real perks to being an adult. BUT…there’s that other side of it, too.

I was thinking today about how fear can keep us from doing those things we love.  Some of us are afraid of rejections, while others are afraid of success. Though the latter may sound odd to some folks, I happen to be one of those odd folks who have had the fear of success intimidate me enough to make me think twice about doing something.  I think part of that stems from the fact that we know that people who do well are often the targets of other people’s ridicule.  

In mid-July, in the town of Spruce Pine, NC, situated beside the rambling Estatoe River, with hundred year-old train tracks weaving between the two in perfect harmony, is the Rotary Club’s annual BBQ & Bluegrass Festival. My jobs as a Rotarian vary from selling tickets at one of the gates, to telling visitors where such-and-such is, or cleaning up tables set up under long tents where people sit to enjoy eating platters of slow-cooked BBQ ribs, chicken, and all the fixin’s that go along with them.  As a result, I get to briefly chat with scores of people who pack the tiny town’s streets and parks for two days. 

My Aunt Jane died a few weeks ago, and with her passing went the last of that generation. Both of my parents have been dead for years now, so Aunt Jane acted as a kind of surrogate mother to my sister and me. Never mind the fact that I’m 60 and my sister is 63. We all need a mama, no matter how old we are, and Aunt Jane played the part beautifully.

Yesterday, as I was driving home from having lunch out, I came around the bend and there, opening up before me like some gentle goliath sentinel, was the Black Mountain range, which is a part of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the haze of the mid-afternoon heat, they loomed, and I marveled at their ancient beauty, just as I have for most of my life.

This morning, my husband and I rolled out of bed at the ungodly (actually, God had everything to do with this) hour of 5:00 a.m. Bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and rather cranky, too, we stumbled our way into the kitchen with arms stretched out Frankenstein-style until we reached the coffee pot. Then, after several swallows, we got dressed and made it to the apple orchard in time for our church’s sunrise service. Today is Easter Sunday, and it has become tradition for us to go to that beautiful spot in order to see the sun rise.

Today is the first day of spring, and I can almost hear the Earth sighing in relief that winter is over – for most of us, at least. I was just outside and noticed that our Weeping Cherry trees have tiny pink buds waiting to open, and our Hydrangeas have small green leaves attempting to unfurl like mini flags. In this beautiful, warm March sun, I know it won’t be long.

Winter is one of those seasons people either love or hate. For some reason, there doesn’t seem to be much of a gray area in between. Perhaps it’s because it can be so extreme, and this year has shown us how very extreme it can be. With wind chills in the 60 below zero range up north, even those die hard winter fans are starting to mumble that it’ll be good to see the spring come. And as much as this native Miamian loves experiencing an honest to goodness winter, I can’t say that I disagree with them.

Christmas Eve this year was supposed to be a rather low-key event: A couple of friends were coming for an early supper before going to the candlelight service at our church. In the past, I’ve had quite a few people over on the eve of that most wonderful day, but this year, there were just four of us, and, in some ways, I was a little relieved that it would be a far less stressful affair. At least I thought it would be.

We’ve been snowed in since Saturday (four days ago), and it’s getting really old. Though my husband has tried plowing us out, the snow is the heavy, slushy type that is no match for his tiny tractor equipped with a snow blade. So, we’re staying put for the time being

It’s hard to believe that Thanksgiving is upon us once again. Where does the time go? It seems like I was just setting the table for a big Easter breakfast, and now it’s turkey time.

This year, I thought it would just be my husband and me at our little table in the family room, but now it looks like we’ll have as many as ten people sitting at our dining room table.

With Hurricane Florence heading toward the east coast, it brought back many memories of hurricanes I’ve ridden through over my lifetime in South Florida, beginning with Hurricane Donna, in 1960, and ending with Wilma, in 2005. I remember sitting in our boarded up bedroom during Wilma as the double-eye wall of the hurricane formed right over heads (that’s a very, very bad thing, folks), and telling my husband that this would be the last one I’d go through. The following spring, we packed up and headed for the Blue Ridge Mountains of N.C.

The other night, I was working out in our basement gym, just minding my own business, when my husband burst in and said there was a criminal on the loose. Apparently, deputies had blocked off the road about a half mile down from our house, blocking the criminal in with all of us on the mountain! Needless to say, I left the treadmill behind and rushed upstairs to find out what the heck was going on.

I’m often asked what inspires me. But rather than naming every person, place or thing that does, perhaps it’d just be easier to say what doesn’t. However, that would seem like a caustic response to a reasonable question, so I usually end up saying family and friends do. Though it sounds so cliché, in truth, they absolutely do, and throughout my novels are bits and pieces of real life events that family and friends were a part of.

Last week, my husband and I went back to our hometown of Coral Gables, Florida (a suburb in Miami), for his niece’s graduation from law school.  Though I’ve been back to Ft. Lauderdale to visit close friends plenty of times since I moved from there to North Carolina in 2007, I hadn’t been back to Coral Gables in over ten years.  And, my, how things have changed!  Needless to say, there’s more traffic, more buildings, more people, more…of everything, really.  Yet, somehow, it all looked smaller. 

I’m just finishing the final book in the Glory Land series, THE RIVER TO GLORY LAND, and my whole body hurts.  It’s been a non-stop writing marathon, with the first book, A CORNER IN GLORY LAND, having made its debut this past December, and the second, THE RISING OF GLORY LAND, coming out in June.  For nearly two years, I’ve been working on this trilogy, and, prior to that, I wrote the two Appalachian stories.  Needless to say, my body is paying the price.  

My husband (correction: “I”), put up all of our Christmas decorations over the weekend.  After all of the pilgrims and cornucopias, faux and real pumpkins, and the “Happy Harvest” signs were put away, I hauled out countless Santa Clauses, angels, reindeer, carolers and tree ornaments.  Wreaths went up while Indian corn came down, and as I worked away, I marveled that another year was rapidly coming to an end.  It seemed like just a few short months ago I was doing this very same thing.

My husband and I recently purchased a little get away cottage in Beaufort, South Carolina.  We call it “a practical investment”.  It’s a place to run away to when the north wind’s bite becomes a little too hard, especially as the years go by and the bones start to become more brittle.  It’s a lovely little place – far smaller than our North Carolina home – and it’s in a beautiful area.  The marshes are just down the street, and the river is just beyond.  There are all kinds of shops and restaurants in the neighborhood, and a zillion things to do, explore and get involved with.  

I believe that friends not only share the lessons we learn in life, but quite often are the greatest teachers of them.  And one of those very special teacher/friends, who I knew a very long time ago, came to mind with last week’s celebration of Rosh Hashanah.