The Problem with Numbers

I once read that Albert Einstein didn't know his own phone number. He said it was a waste to crowd his brain by memorizing information that could easily be found in a book. I'm pretty sure that is an urban rumor. But I use it a lot to cover my own ineptitude with numbers. For instance, I never remember the exact ages of our grown children. I mean, I know what year they were born (most of the time) and if I have a calculator handy, I can figure it out.

I realize some people do not suffer with this problem. My friend Barb once had the entire church phone directory memorized - home, work, and cell! Nobody bothered looking anything up; we just asked Barb. I, on the other hand, inevitably transpose two random digits in every phone number I jot down from the answering machine.

This is a great occupational hazard for the part of one's job that entails returning phone calls.

So, after I blogged about Charity's birthday, people kept asking me how old she was, and I'd just mutter, "twenty-something." Finally, in the evening, I decided to figure it out. Fortunately my sister was in the room at the time, and two of her children bookend Charity in age. Unfortunately, she never remembers how old her children are either.

And that is the great thing about sisters. They can always make you believe your wackiness is actually normal. So, here's to sisters. Mine just drove across the country for the birth of her fourth grandchild following the engagement party for her youngest son. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember how old anyone is today, and I doubt she even cares.

Next Year in Jerusalem

That is the working title of the novel which consumed much of my trip out of town. I actually sent off a query to an agent last week, so I wanted to get the book proposal in shape, just in case. Writing is a business for a patient person. Response time for queries of any sort range from weeks to months. So, one must develop the magical ability to forget the projects dangling out there in cyber space somewhere and move on to other things once the query (or manuscript) has been sent.

That is a little like forgetting you gave birth to a child who now lives 1000 miles away and arrests bad guys for a living. 

Forgetting may not be completely possible, but getting on with other things can be done. For instance, last weekend I outline a calendar for myself of writing projects. I have about a dozen of them crowding my brain at all times like noisy children. So, I ordered them to stand still in a straight line while I assigned each of them a little square box on my writing calendar. Now, they must each wait quietly for their turn while I give attention to the appropriate matter at hand. And, once they leave my in-box, I vow to forget about them for at least six weeks. Unless they happen to call home before then to say they arrived safely. Which would be lovely, and much appreciated.

My Posse

We are blessed with a passel of grandchildren. Until recently, they all lived within an hour of our house, which was a miracle we held as lightly as a soap bubble in summertime. Now three of the granddaughters live in different states and we are learning the art of distance relationships. We aren't very good at it yet, but we will get better.

One of our goals as the children grow is to host Cousin's Camp every year. I have been planning it since the summer we added two grandsons in three weeks. I had a glimpse of what our clan might become, and I wanted to make the most of it. Last summer we gave it our first shot. The oldest camper was eight, and the youngest was still in diapers. Day One was all about the boys. They are pictured here in the attire they wore for most of their stay. The hats once belonged to their great-grandfather, and I'm pretty sure he never expected to see them used this way.

The Camp coincided with the olympics that year, and we let the big boys spread their sleeping bags in the living room. They all stayed up late and held their breath with Grandpa until Michael Phelps' fingertips made that amazing brush against the pool and set a world record.

I hope I'll remember forever the sight of those gangly arms and legs in our living room as they leaped and shouted and high-fived one another. And I hope the posse will keep coming to Cousin's Camp at least until they are old enough to break some world records of their own.

Our Easter Tradition

One of my favorite traditions involves otherwise sensible grown-ups clawing through the tall grass of my father's sheep pasture looking for little plastic ovals filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chickens. We've followed this particular tradition for at least three decades. Before that, Easter Sunday was marked by a picnic somewhere in my great-grandparent's woods. I think we had a brief lull in the fun back when my siblings and I were too teenage-cool for such things.

We are over that now. In fact, we are so over it that a few years ago both my brothers climbed to the top of a tall tree in search of an egg peeking from the top of a squirrel's nest. It was sleeting at the time. But, the hunt has two rules: If you find someone else's egg, you are sworn to silence and cannot tell where it is. Rule Number Two: No one goes to the house until everyone finds their egg.  

We were all rooting for that second brother.

My parents have pretty much perfected the art of family traditions, in general. We still hunt the eggs pretty much the same way we did when all of today's young parents were toddlers. But this year we will hunt on Saturday instead of Sunday so everyone can be in their own church Easter morning. 

I know my parents would love to have the whole bunch of us crowding into pews and singing "Up from the Grave He Arose" with them on Resurrection morning. Instead, they will send us each back to our congregations where we will teach Sunday school, lead worship, serve as ushers, welcome guests, and be faithful members of the congregation. 

And that is the best part about strong families with great traditions. We multiply.

The Sweet Spot

I started writing my first novel more than two decades ago. We were driving by a life-sized Nativity scene, and one of our children said, "I wonder what happened to the shepherds after that?" A little shepherd boy popped immediately into my head, and I was pretty sure he would answer the question if I just gave him some time. 

The first draft was done on a manual typewriter between laundry loads when our children were young. After the first revision, an editor friend agreed to read the book. He worked for a tiny publishing house, and his advice to me was like manna. After the next revision, we started talking about contracts. Fortunately for the reading public, the project died. The publishing house went out of business, and the immature novel went into a drawer. It stayed there years at a time. Every now and then, I would pull it out, refresh my research, and write again.

Last fall, I finished the book. The child who asked the original question was now a parent, and the little shepherd boy had reached adulthood almost in real-time. I sent the book off to a highly-competitive first novel contest where it received absolutely no attention. The "Nice Try" letter praised my achievement for actually writing a book, and it noted the judges' comment that the book "had POV problems and awkward interjections of exposition." (Not that I memorized the phrase or anything.) Even though the words stung, I understood what they meant, and I knew the book needed a little more tweaking.

All writers know books are like children. We conceive them, labor over them, birth them, guide them through awkward adolesence, and then polish them up so we can present them to the world in their adult form. But, I found myself loathe to do so. I did not want to send my first child out into the cold, hard world of publishing to be rejected yet again. I put it back in the drawer and moved on to something else.

Then, our son left home. He was a grown man, of course, with a wife and two children of his own. But he had never lived more than three blocks away when he decided to move his family 900 miles cross-country to launch a career in law enforcement. As we helped them pack, I remembered something Joe taught me several years ago.

He was target shooting with a compound bow at the time. I have never understood exactly how that works, but evidently on the first stage of the pull, one feels the full weight of the sixty pounds of resistance. It is hard work. Then the taut string reaches a point where the pulleys take over. Sudenlly, the pulling is easy. "It's the sweet point," Joe told me. "You feel like you could hold that position forever. But, you can't. If you wait even a few seconds too long, you will waver just a little. You may not even notice it, but when you finally let go, the shot will be off. The arrow won't hit the center."

Joe was only sixteen at the time, but he went on to tell me he supposed child-rearing was the same. Parents must reach a point where their children become their friends, where their efforts pay off and the task is pretty much pure pleasure. I told him that was true. We were reaching such a point even then. "Well," he said, "Make sure you let go of us at the right time so we'll fly straight."

Right. 

Letting go was easy when none of our children moved more than a few hours away from home. Joe and Chelle have spent the past five years literally living in our back yard. I came home almost every evening to find their little girls in my kitchen waiting for a snack. Joe's prophetic picture had come true. Our kids really were our best friends, and watching a couple of them move across the country was pretty hard to take.

When I was contemplating the change one night, I said to my husband, "What am I going to do when those little girls don't drop in every night anymore?" 

He didn't even look up when he answered. "Write."

And so I shall. The arrow who is our only son among three daughters has flown straight and strong. We are bursting with pride and planning our next vacation in the wild west. In the meantime, I'm savoring the silent nights. And, if you will please excuse me now, I have a novel to tweak.