We haven’t had much of a summer so far in the Pacific Northwest, but today warmed to about 80 and this evening it feels good to sit on the deck as I write and feel the pleasant breeze that rustles through the trees. Mount Adams is still covered in snow and is majestic standing against the blue sky with forest and fields in the foreground. As the sun dips, I pull the white sweater that belonged to Grandmother Horton around me and feel a connection that goes way beyond Grandmother.
I began my first novel a year ago last September. I visited Southold, Long Island, with my mother in 1999 when we traveled from the west coast to the east coast to see the lighthouse that was named after her grandfather, eleven times removed. The widower, Barnabas Horton, was one of the founding fathers of Southold and the story goes that he traveled to the New World in about 1635 with his wife, Mary, and two sons by his first wife. He built the first timber-framed home in Eastern Long Island and although his occupation is listed as baker, he was also a magistrate. My mother passed away in 2005, but I was drawn by the romance of his story to return to Long Island time after time. I brought my dad with me. I brought my new husband (several times!). I brought my dad and my husband (a couple of times!) and finally, I brought my sisters in the fall of 2008. I worked for a literary agent and on this trip, as I looked out at Founder’s Landing, gazed across the Long Island Sound, or studied the blue slate grave stone of Barnabas, an overwhelming curiosity about his second wife, Mary, was born. What kind of a woman would marry a man with two young boys, then follow him over an ocean to a wild, new land? She was my grandmother, twelve times removed, but there was something else that made me feel a part of her. My new husband, a widower, lived in the wilds of the Columbia Gorge, and I left my home to be with him. His children were grown, but it was not easy. I came home and announced to my employer that I would write a novel. Besides, how can you work for one of the top literary agents in the country and not be so inspired?
In March of 2007 I went through one of those major life-changing events when I retired from United Airlines. That was preceded by another major life-changing event in 2006: my marriage to Tom. The commute was horrendous and I was retirement eligible! I wanted to continue working, but there were not many opportunities out in the gorge. Then came the day I happened to pick up a newspaper folded to the classified ads. A very small ad caught my eye: “Office Manager. Tell me what you read.” Followed by an email address. Didn’t know what kind of office. Didn’t even know much about offices. But I did know what I like to read. Oh, did I. My book collection well over 800, (not to mention the books I loved but did not own) I responded to the email address with a very long page of my favorite books and my favorite authors. I received a very nice reply, thanking me for applying, but, she explained, the ad I read was already a couple of weeks old and she had filled the position. She said she did very much like my list of books and authors, however, and perhaps we might run into each other and have the chance to talk. Imagine my disappointment when I pulled up her website and found out who I COULD have worked for! Natasha Kern. One of the most successful agents in the industry. Sigh. It was God looking over me when a few months later she called and asked would I still be interested in the job. Would I? YES! And I ask you, could one sit in her office and not be motivated to write? I think not.
What, you may ask, did she say to me when I finally blurted out that I planned to write a novel? She gave me the best advice of my writing career. She told me to first read, at the very minimum, twenty books in the genre I wanted to write in. Secondly, to study the craft. She recommended her favorite craft books and suggested looking online as well as in the community for classes. And thirdly – mind you, last, but absolutely not least – join ACFW. She told me of the wealth of resources and the overwhelming support and genuine caring found in this fantastic writer’s community. And so my journey began. It was a bit scarey, but with God obviously watching over me, what was there to fear?
And about Dad&Me;? When I was very little I feared the dark. I’m not sure exactly what monsters I thought lurked about, but I do remember dashing into my parent’s room, night after night. Finally, when I turned five, my parents bought a bunkbed and put me in the top bunk. I think they thought it would slow me down, and I think they were right. At least my father, upon hearing my whimpers, could make it to my room before I would climb out of that bunk. My memories are of Dad watching over me. He would soothe me by telling me to think of Disneyland, Candyland . . . any land that sounded fun. Birthdays were a good one, too, (the thought of birthday cake – make it white and sugary – still will calm me!) as well as Christmas morning. Finally I would settle, and lay my head down on the pillow. My last thoughts before slumber would be of Jesus and how he loves little children. I felt protected. I could sleep.
Dad is now at the Rehabilitation Institute of Oregon – RIO – as he recovers from the two strokes that have slowed his recovery from open heart surgery for an aortic valve replacement, and I know he is in good hands. Still, as I prepare to leave and give him a kiss goodnight, I wish I could stay there. I wish I could watch over him. I would tell him think of home. Think of all the people that love you. Think of God who protects us. And sleep, my sweet Dad, sleep.