LONELY LANDSCAPE - REDUX

[This was a post I did right after some research on a key crime scene in the manuscript I just completed. There is now a lot of water in all these dry spots in the photos below, but our years-long drought played perfectly into the plot of the story I was telling.]

The other day I took a trip out to one of the "crime scenes" from the manuscript on which I'm currently working. There was a surprise in the trip for me in that I did not expect to see so much lonely landscape still in existence so close to where I live.

First I think I should clarify to all the non-Texans reading this:  Texas is not all flat terrain with tumbleweeds rolling across the road. In fact, I was an adult before I ever saw such a landscape in this State and I was born here.

Texas is a big place with a "transitional" geography:  plains, desert, mountains, piney woods, hill country and coastal plains all exist within this State, and all of those areas abut our Central Texas hill country. Texas is roughly 830 miles west to east and roughly 850 miles north to south. Big place. Lots of different terrain here.

To the west are very flat lands with the tumbleweed you would expect. That moves on further west into the southernmost part of the Rocky Mountains.

To our east are piney woods - thick (think Louisiana). To our south are the coastal plains and sub-tropical areas along the Gulf of Mexico. To our north are the tail end of the Great Plains, but these are not completely flat and they are cut by rivers and covered with grasses and trees - no desert or tumbleweeds in any of these places.

Austin and the surrounding Central Texas area is a beautiful landscape of rolling tree-covered hills, rivers, lakes and generally breathtaking views. There are limestone washes along some of the rivers and steep limestone cliffs that speak of a time when this area was a shallow sea bed (Cretaceous period). It's reminiscent of certain landscapes along the Med in Italy and Greece. My paternal grandfather (a Greek from the old country) said that was why he settled here. It reminded him of home.

I had lamented for some time (including on this blog) that there was so much development here in Central Texas "they" were destroying all of our natural spaces. I'm happy to report I was wrong.

My journey was to the north shore of Lake Travis.

I had resisted going back out there and exploring because I knew there had been a development that sprang up in this one location and I was afraid I was going to see high-end houses all along the lake front and none of the beautiful natural space I so loved.

That's not what I found. Thank God.

There were miles of lonely space - natural landscape. The housing development I knew of hadn't progressed beyond what I had seen several years ago - and not just because of the economy. Along the north shore of Lake Travis, there is also a limit to the types of utilities we have in town and near town. Most people who live out there depend on propane for gas, electricity is sparse in some locations, and water is frequently provided by drilling wells, waste water is disposed of in septic tanks. With a drought on, the water table is down and many wells have run dry. This probably curtailed some of the development out there. Also, the sheer near empty appearance of our lake is probably also part of the deterrent to development.

Through a navigation mistake of mine - well, not really a "mistake" - I admit I like to "wander" with the car while driving through the hill country - anyway, I found this certain lakeside park, a certain Travis County park. I didn't know it was there.

Along the road on my way down to this park and in the park itself, it was utterly deserted. There was no park ranger there because the boat ramp had been closed - again, a result of our drought. It's not possible to launch a boat onto a limestone wash. You really need water for that. :)

There is a beauty to this kind of lonely space to me. I've included some photos below to give you an idea of the desolation of the place.

It's cold here right now, and this weekend with the front that came through it was also quite breezy. The wintry cold added to the feeling of isolation.

I walked along deeply rutted and graveled roads in the park and along the cove that cut from the lake alongside the park itself. Limestone washes ran up to the water's edge - washes that had been covered by water in a better time a few years ago. Wheat-colored grasses covered the damp earth from the rain we just had last week. Cedars and live oaks made a dense cover between the gravel roads.  It was silent as the grave out there. The only sound was the bitter breeze that blew off the water that day.

All of sudden, the roaring of a large pickup echoed up the now-closed boat ramp. It blasted, with heavy-duty shocks and mud tires, up over the lip of the ramp and into the parking lot of the park. A man inside "whooped" through his open window. He was followed by another truck, just as large and outfitted the same way - this one driven by a girl with a large black Lab hanging out of the window of her double cab. She laughed and waved as she passed and they sped across the parking lot and then off deeper into the park. I saw them later, parked way down on the wash nearest the lake itself.

Other than that one sign of human life, the place was utterly deserted. I thought if those had been "bad" people I would have been in some deep trouble. There was no "civilization" for miles. No park ranger on duty. I had my cell phone, but who would reach me in time if I needed help from someone dangerous?

Then I knew - what a great location for a crime scene!!! Woo-hoo! :) It was perfect - complete with dumpster for a convenient body dump. Yes, people, I write crime novels and this was a crime novelist's dream.

In my book I will locate the park in a slightly different spot on the river/lake, and I'll give it another name; but, it will essentially "be" that place I visited this past weekend. I will go back again soon for more notes and photos.

There is a paradox between beautiful desolation and dangerous isolation, and I love to study that and write in that place. I hope to transport you there so you can enjoy it and be thrilled by it as much as I am.

Writing is, for me, all about sharing the experience - whatever that experience may be.

Polla filia,
J.F.

The Parking Lot

The now closed boat ramp-treeline is where the water used to be

One of the roads in the park

Another park road

The "woods" around and in the park

  

A deserted picnic area

The "dump site"

 

MERCY TO LIGHT THE DARKNESS

I wept out loud when I read this (see the link at "Final Chapter" below).

I have been following this case several years - since before the killer died (earlier this week). It was a notorious and tragic story, and being a crime fiction writer I had read about it and kept certain articles from NYT because things like this inform my work.

Then this week the obit came for the killer of the poor girl.

Now, today, the open letter from her brother on the death of her killer.

We should all be this good, this compassionate, this wise.

I pray for such a man who lost so much, and somehow manages to maintain his integrity and sense of mercy. Now I also pray for the soul of Kitty’s killer, Winston, and for his family.

Truly William Genovese’s mother was good. May her memory, Kitty’s and Winston’s be eternal, and may her good brother have many, many years. God bless him.


The Final Chapter

 

THE NORTH STAR

Today is the anniversary of the day I lost my North Star -
My Daddy, who was my bright light;
In whose footsteps I have endeavored to follow;
To whom I looked for guidance.

So many years ago today he went to the other side of life.
The Angels would not wait any longer for him to be there.

Now I can only trace the path of that North Star -
Looking upward and seeing the trail it left for me to follow.

I love you, Daddy!

May his memory be eternal!

Polla Filia,
J. F.

DAVE GROHL, THE FOO FIGHTERS, SONIC HIGHWAYS AND THE DREAMWORLD WAVE

"What lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."
     - Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Dare to dream big dreams. You're worthy of greatness. You're capable of greatness."
     - Ralph Marston
                   
"Save some time to dream, 'cause your dream might save us all."
     - John Mellencamp

A few facts before we "paddle out" to our wave.

First, the great songwriters and performers Dave Grohl and the other members of the Foo Fighters, have a special series on HBO that has been fantastic. If you aren't watching it, then I encourage you to find it and start watching. It's  a great exploration of the American Musical Landscape. It's called "Sonic Highways".

Each episode is a journey by Dave and the Foo Fighters in a great American musical city. A few weeks ago they did an episode on my home town of Austin, Texas. I was a bit afraid the true spirit of the City might not come through, but I think they did an amazing job. I loved it.

The thing is, it was the episode on Nashville that most surprised me. I honestly expected to be lukewarm about it. My expectations couldn't have been further from the experience I had with them there. We'll get to more on that in a moment.

The next bit of information you need to understand is that I do not drink much or often (in spite of all my talk about wine, beer and scotch). My talk is largely jest. I am also the anti-drug and always have been - lest anyone think I was drunk, or otherwise intoxicated during this, or any similar experience.

Yet, I have a euphoric creative experience from time to time that feels as if I'm under the influence of something - it's a real high, a strong euphoria. I can stoke it myself, or it can come to me unbidden, and unexpected.

My metaphor for that experience is the title of this blog - the Dreamworld Wave. What is paradoxical about this metaphor is that I have a severe phobia of deep water. It takes all I have, and a lot of specific prep, for me to get on a boat and go out on an enclosed, or semi-enclosed body of water - like Lake Travis near where I live, or San Francisco Bay. I do not go swimming (I can swim, and swim well in water where I can stand, but why bother?). I would never go out on a boat on the ocean.

Yeah.

It's that bad - and I've had help with it or I couldn't get on a ferry in San Francisco or a boat in our own Lake Travis.

Yet, my metaphor for my euphoric creative experience is surfing a big wave. Even the psycho-analysis of that paradox leads to a Dreamworld Wave. :)

We're about to paddle out and hop on another wave. Hang on and hang a Writer's Ten with me.

I enjoyed Mr. Grohl and the Foo Fighters before this "Sonic Highways" series, but the series really woke me up to just how talented they all are, and expanded my admiration of them as wonderful songwriters.

In each city on the series, they explore its musical history and some of its most notable musicians - living and departed. The living are interviewed and contribute various stories during the episode, which also includes archival photos and wonderful clips of performances by many great musicians who perform in the genre of the subject city. During this week-long stay in each location, Dave is collecting bits of information which will inform the lyrics he will write for the song in that city. The song is performed at the end of the episode.

I found myself spellbound during the Nashville episode, as I did not expect to be. Then at the end the Foo Fighters queued up the song they had written - a song called "Congregation". As lyrics from the song flashed across the screen in white hand lettering, the culmination of the episode was clear. Mr. Grohl, in his brilliance as a lyricist, had created with the other members of the Foo Fighters a cohesive musical work that encapsulated all of the crucial bits of the interviews, performances, occurrences and other input from their week in Nashville. Their discovery.

I found myself mesmerized and then more. Immersed in the creative inspiration from all those great musicians, and letting it wash over me, I began to open my mind.

Paddling out as all of this unfolded I am unaware of any building wave. I'm not even thinking of my paddling, much less of a Dreamworld Wave. The song ends and as the last chord fades, cut to:

black screen with white titles.

The episode is over.

Wow.

I say it out loud and freeze the DVR.

Sitting there in silence a moment, and then...

I realize the wave is building behind me and I jump on as it crests. The wave curls and I ride the tube as long as I can until the wave crashes and me with it. I tumble under the water of all the ideas in my mind and right myself, to come to the surface with my head full of solutions to a story I had been working on for a future book.

I grab a piece of paper and begin making notes furiously - the euphoria hanging on as I solve one of the major problems with that work. It is a game changer.

Break. Through.

Fear-facing Wave Beauty.

Metaphorical, yet real Euphoria.

You can ride a Dreamworld Wave. All you have to do is paddle out and hop on. It's about letting go of all the stuff on your mind, immersing yourself in something brilliant and creative - like the music of the Foo Fighters on their Sonic Highways journey. Then as you drift along with that incredible music - or whatever great creative thing you choose, you can catch that wave - the "wave" of something that you love, something for which you have a true passion. Let it take you to a place where your mind leaves the stresses of everyday life and embraces the joy of the moment - the joy of something that has real meaning for you.

Embrace your dreams and go with them. Ride the Dreamworld Wave!

Polla Filia,
J.F.

P.S. - I highly recommend the Foo Fighters new album "Sonic Highways" which you can download or buy in CD or vinyl from your favorite retailer. In any event, you need to hear the song "Congregation".

HOMAGE TO ROBIN WILLIAMS

"What is life? It is the flash of the firefly in the night. It is the breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."
-- Crowfoot 

I'm gutted. The funniest man ever is gone.

Some years ago when Mom was dying from something really awful, I came home after a particularly crap day - the kind where you sit down & cry because you can’t do anything but that.

You wonder how you're going to sleep, or anything else.

A while later I turned on TV and there was Bravo's "Inside the Actor's Studio", and you know who was on?

Robin Williams - that's who.

He proceeded to save my day and night with hilarity. It was one of his funniest and most amazing comedy performances I had ever seen, which is saying a lot, because the man was genius-level funny.

He did more than turn that one day around for me. He lifted me up to a brighter place than I had been in months. My mother didn’t have many weeks left at that point. He rescued me in a really bad time.

Luckily, the DVR was recording that episode and I saved it. From then on, I knew if I was in a real pit of a dark day, I only needed to turn on that episode of “Inside the Actor’s Studio” and it would be as fresh and funny as it was the first time I saw it.

I am stunned with disbelief that he is gone.

My prayers go out for all his family and friends.

He was brilliant and he did so much good for so many.

Thank you, Mr. Williams! We will miss you forever. We loved you so much!

Robin Williams has gone to the other side of life. May his memory be eternal.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

GRATITUDE

Every day I remind myself of all that I have been given.
    - - Luciano Pavarotti

This is something I scribbled on a note pad one cold morning at the beginning of March, when Winter's persistence was wearing on me, and I was aching for Spring.

Just some girl struggling with her dreams on a cold, early morning - tired from the struggle.

Then thanking God for everything as she makes her coffee, stretches to wake up, and pats the kitty on his head.

Thanking God for that kitty, the house, the yard, the birds, the trees. Thanking God for every little thing, even if it might seem insignificant - the list expanding to smaller and smaller things - a litany of thanks.

Then thanking God for the old heater that still runs and is warming her house and herself - and thanking Henry and Luke for fixing the heater and keeping it going - not realizing they were supporting some girl struggling with too many cold mornings - and her dreams.

Then thanking God for the dreams, and the struggle, because it makes it all better, stronger, more worthwhile - and because it makes her grateful.

Polla Filia,
J.F.

HOMAGE TO STEINBECK ON THE OCCASION OF HIS BIRTHDAY

"In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable."

"The profession of book-writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business."

"Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard."

    - John Steinbeck

In honor of Mr. Steinbeck, and for the edification of us all, here is his 1962 Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech. Enjoy!

Nobel Prize acceptance speech (1962)

Speech at the Nobel Banquet (10 December 1962)

"In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence — but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.

"It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.

"Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.

"Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches — nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.

"Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.

"The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.

"Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.

"Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.

"This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.

"The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit — for gallantry in defeat — for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.

"I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

"With humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.

"We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.

"Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world — of all living things.

"The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand.

"Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.

"Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.

"So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man — and the Word is with Men." - John Steinbeck

Happy birthday, sir!

Polla filia,
J.F.

THE ONLY WAY TO FAIL

I’ve been reading some interesting information lately - some of it on fitness and some on writing, but the same theme has been coming through. I would sum up this theme as this:

The only way to fail is to give up, to quit. As long as you don’t quit, you have not failed.

Think about that.
                                   
You’re working on a manuscript, you get discouraged at some point along the way. We all do - this is normal. It’s part of the struggle. Instead of working through that difficult period (which may include days of doing nothing but moaning and pacing) - instead of working through it, you say “Screw it, I’m not finishing this manuscript.” You throw the printout in the trash and delete the files from your computer.

There will be no book now, because you have elected not to continue. Furthermore, you may have quit right before your big break through - your “AHA” moment. What if, only a few days after that you had the “aha” moment and went furiously back to work on that manuscript and wrote a bestseller!

No bestseller, though, because you didn’t wait it out and go back to work on it. You quit.

You have just FAILED.

Yep. You did.

Failure is easy on the front end. You give up and that’s it. No effort required.

Except it’s not easy - because that failure will follow you around all the length of your days. It will kick you in your backside FOREVER.

It’s like a workout program. You workout and “try” to eat right for months and one day you get on the scale and it’s been weeks since you lost a single pound. You throw in the towel and say “I’m not doing this anymore” and you go back to eating three-cheese pizzas at 10:00 at night.

You failed. Not because you didn’t lose weight for weeks, but because you gave up.

That lack of weight loss was just FEEDBACK. The feedback doesn’t constitute failure. The feedback is data -information. It’s information you can use - that is, if you don’t give up.

While you struggle through that manuscript (or whatever goal you’re pursuing) you will suffer (just as you will with weeks of no weight loss on your fitness campaign), but if you look at that data you can instead ask yourself:

“What is this telling me? What can I learn from this?”

There is always something to learn from an experience, be it bad or good. So, look at the feedback and find the positive takeaway from it. It’s there.

Don’t give up. Don’t quit.

As long as you keep going, keep learning, keep working on your goal, whatever it may be, no matter how slow the progress, you have not failed.

When you persevere, YOU ARE A SUCCESS!!

Polla filia,
J.F.

FEAR AND DOUBT

Quick post, but very important. Heed it.

Doubt is fear.

Fear is the dream killer.
       
The Dream is your Purpose.

You must fulfill your Purpose.

Fear and doubt exist only in your mind.

Fill your mind with other things!

Dream on, people! Never give up on your dreams!

Polla filia,
J.F.

NINE DAYS IN DREAMWORLD

I work two jobs. A lot of people might not consider writing to be a job, but trust me it’s a job. I’ve talked about the work of writing on this blog before; but recently I had a bit of a revelation.

Here it is: I work really hard and I seem to have gotten so used to it that I’ve turned “resting” into a reason to self-flagellate. Somehow I’ve convinced myself that working two jobs, only making time for eating, working out and sleeping before going back to work again - somehow that isn’t working that hard.

Here’s what I mean.

Writing is work - hours of research, note-taking, plotting, planning, structuring, banging keys on a computer keyboard, then reading what you wrote and revising and revising and revising.

Meanwhile, I don’t make enough money (yet) writing to pay the mortgage, so I have that pesky “day job” thing (much talked about here on this blog). I groan at the thought of it. It’s a brain drain, too, because my day job is what most people would think of as a career. It’s intense and involves a high level of responsibility.

I live for the times when I can take some of my earned vacation time from the day job and spend whole days writing. One of those times is coming up for me. I have taken 4 days of vaca after Memorial Day so I can maximize my time off. Friday (when this thing will post) is my last day in the “office” until June 3rd.

I have nine days - count ‘em - 9 whole days - NINE - wherein I can write every single day without the brain drain/interference of the damn day job! Hallelujah and amen!!

Joy. Ecstasy. Euphoria.

Dreamworld.

So, the other day while lamenting to someone about how tired I was I suddenly realized something.

I realized that if I take some measly amount of time (like 2 hours) to do something in my “free time” (after the day job day has ended) - oh, such as reading a book that isn’t for research, or driving down to the Starbucks to get a frappuccino, or anything that isn’t directly associated with my writing - if I do anything like THAT, I start hearing that tape in my head that says “you’re lazy” “you’re not getting the work done” “you talk about being a writer, but you’re not writing right now” “this is why the book isn’t finished yet” “are you ever going to finish that thing?”

Yeah. I have tapes that play like that - some mean-looking chick who resembles Cruella DeVil sitting on my shoulder griping in my ear. I now refer to her as “Tape Lady”.

People, here’s why I’m tired.

Most people have a job that takes approximately 8 hours of their day - or so - and then they spend time with their family or friends, or watch TV or a movie, go to dinner or something that involves society with other people. Hell, some people do something called “relaxing”.

???

While they are doing that I spend the rest of my waking day writing, or working on something directly related to my writing (or listening to Tape Lady). A lot of writers work like this (most of them actually), but maybe they have someone in their house to buck them up and stop their version of the Tape Lady. I don’t.

I work this much, and this hard because I don’t want to do the day job anymore (not a new sentiment). I want to write full time, and if that ever happens, it won’t happen while I watch TV, or read someone else’s books, or go to dinner with family and friends.

I know that the sooner I get this first draft done, the sooner I can start revisions, and the sooner I can start those, the sooner I can finish this book and make it great, and the sooner I can do that - well, I might just finally reach my Dreamworld for real.

So, I push.

Then I wonder why in hell I’m so tired.

That mystery is now solved, and I have told the obnoxious Tape Lady to STFU. I’m working hard enough, thank you. If I want to take a break to read or go get a frappuccino, or just drive aimlessly around the lake, then Tape Lady can go jump.

The creative brain doesn’t work without the occasional recharge.

Meanwhile, day after tomorrow I get to have 9 whole days to write, and even though I will be working, I will only be working ONE JOB - my Dream Job.

I will be working that one job while burning earned vacation days from my other job; but...

Working only one job - and having that one job be my writing?

Now THAT is a freaking vacation!!

Tonight I’m going to bed earlier than usual (before 1:00 a.m) - after I stuff a sock in Tape Lady’s mouth. Then I’m working tomorrow in the day job and after that I’m taking the phone off the hook for nine days.

I’m sure my dreams tonight will be filled with the upcoming nine days of writing bliss. Then maybe someday it won’t be just nine days. Maybe someday it will be full-time all the time in Dreamworld - with time off for goofing off with family and friends.

I hope my dreams come true, and I’m working to make that happen.

I hope all your dreams come true, too - and I hope they last for more than nine days.

Polla filia,
J. F.

THE LAST CHRISTMAS

It's Christmastime which makes me think of Daddy.

The other day one of my sisters called and told me that she and her kids had gone out and bought a real Christmas tree. Hallelujah and Amen!

You see, for years they had been using an artificial one. Now, if you have an artificial tree, please don't take offense, but me - I'm a real tree kind of a gal. She was so happy about it, and it smelled so good, and the kids had so much fun at the tree lot helping to pick it out - and all the things which I, too, cherish about a real Christmas tree.

Then we began to reminisce about Daddy and how he used to go with us to the tree lot. Daddy was very particular about picking out the tree. We would take it home and Daddy would make a fresh cut on the bottom and put it in the stand and make sure the water was done just right. Then we decorated that thing with lights and ornaments and tinsel - the works. It was a blast. It was a blast because it was a family activity. We were together.

Then I said "Remember that last Christmas we had? Remember that tree?" Which led to more reminisces and the two of us crying on the phone.

The three of us girls were all moved out of the house and living on our own. I had moved to Dallas and was working in The Big Law Firm. I used to drive home (Austin) from time to time and visit (it's 200 miles and it's The Most Boring Drive in Texas). I drove home every year for Thanksgiving, and then I would come home again for about 3 days at Christmas.

Mama got some hare brained idea that she didn't need to get a big tree and do Christmas with the same flourish anymore (because we girls weren't living at home anymore). Don't know how she came across this idea, but I never liked it. I rolled with it because I didn't live there and she was the one doing the decorating. She started buying these "table top" trees. They were real trees, but they were dinky. It just didn't have the wonder and majesty of our childhood trees.

Mostly, though, there was no family decorating going on. It was just this little tree where she hung some of those lifeless, meaningless, satin colored balls on it. That was it. No lights. The tree ceremony (family time) wasn't there.

One year, not too long after the "table top" tree era began, I had all I could stand and I insisted to my mother that we have a big tree, decorate it with all the lights and ornaments and put up all the other decorations, too. I said I would help with the putting up and the taking down. She wasn't too game for this suggestion. I pushed. My two sisters gave their second and third to the motion, and at last, it carried.

So at Thanksgiving time, we went to the tree lot, Daddy helped us pick it out and put it up. Three of our cousins popped in that night because they were in town, and their mother (my Dad's sister) wanted to drop something by the house. So, there we all were, Mom, Dad, me and my two sisters, my aunt and three cousins. We were all decorating the tree, drinking apple cider and hot chocolate, laughing and talking. It was awesome!

I came back at Christmas and it was so great to see that tree there, and all the other decorations. We were having one of the best Christmases we had in a long time. It wasn't just the tree, of course, it was what putting up that tree had represented for us - our Christmas spirit and the joy of all that wonderful Family Time.

On Christmas day, we opened presents, and later in the day I drove us all down to San Antonio and we went to this cool old historic place in Castroville, and then drove around some more and back to Austin. Daddy loved that driving tour. My grandfather had lived in San Antonio at the end of his life (there were more Greeks down there), and so the driving tour was filled with Daddy's memories of things Granpa said and did.

The day after Christmas I stood in the driveway getting ready to drive back to Big D. I had to be back at work in the sweat shop (that's just law firm life). Daddy asked when I would be back next. I told him maybe in January, but definitely for his birthday (mid-February). He said okay.

He said, with a big smile "Well, it sure was fun!" He'd had a great Christmas, and so had we all. I gave him a big hug and said "It was fun, Daddy." Then I said, "I'll see you next time."

We waved at each other, and I drove away.

Three weeks later my father got out of the shower, had a massive heart attack and died.

That great Christmas was my last Christmas with him.

More importantly, it was his last Christmas - ever.

Thank God we had made it so special. Thank God I was there. Thank God I had that time with him.

Thank God I have no regrets - because you can never unring those bells.

My Grandfather was a Greek from the old country and he said "Family is number one."

My friends, family is everything.

For me, the day after Christmas is always the last day I ever saw my Dad in person. I remember it in a special way every year. I remember what I said to him before I drove away.

"I'll see you next time."

And I will - someday.
                                               
Have a great Family Christmas like it's the last one you'll ever have. Make Christmas like that every year. Hug every single member of your family, because we only have now. We only have today. You don't know when "next time" will be.

Merry Christmas!!!

Polla filia,
J.F.