Beginnings and Endings

Today I watched my son graduate from high school. I was in this exact same spot one year ago, when our first born made her way across the stage. And yet, just as they have been so very different in their eighteen years of growing up together, their high school finalities were also very different.

We thought we’d have an advantage this year. Last year we read all the handouts and mapquested all the locations, figuring out the graduation ceremony for the first time. It’s somewhat like throwing a sweet sixteen party, or being in charge of a bridal shower. There is much to know, that the first timers have to learn, either by reading, researching the internet, or being guided by those who have gone before. Then, once you’ve survived all the steps the first time, you feel confident, much less like a rookie. You go into the next experience feeling like you somewhat know the way.

But, just our luck, the system changed this year. It was a new venue, a new set of details to figure out. We felt like the newbies all over again. And even this year’s successful navigation won’t add to our expertise, as we are preparing to move two thousand miles away. Our last two sons will most likely graduate from high schools in Colorado.

Three years from now, we’ll start all over again.

But as much as the set up was different - the parking, the seating, the place we met up after the ceremony, the system for tracking down his actual diploma - the feelings were very much the same. The swell of emotion every time that crowd of gown-draped kids cheered, radiating the excitement of their accomplishment. The struggle to maintain my attention span, as speaker after speaker shared thoughts on the day. The pride I could hardly contain when my boy’s name, the same name his grandfather carried, ricocheted across the auditorium.

It’s all part of the graduation package.

There are times that I wonder if we’ve cheated our children somehow, by moving to different states, several times in their childhood. Many of my son’s friends have known each other from elementary school. Some even shared classrooms and playgrounds in their preschool years. My son will never know that feeling.

But just when I start to beat myself up about my son’s transient life, I hear familiar names. Kids he’s run track with for all of his high school years. Kids he’s hung out with at countless movie nights and sleepovers. Kids who’ve walked through my house, smiled their huge smiles, and answered me so politely when I’ve quizzed them about the details of their evening plans. My son has connections here.

One of the benefits of all the moves he’s made in his lifetime is adaptability. He knows how to walk into a new school, a new classroom, and soon a new college, and hold his head high. He knows that a friend is always somewhere on the other end, and that if you put yourself out there, relationships will follow. He will carry many New York friends with him, in spirit, as he ventures across the country to start his college career in a West coast school. He’s already figured out who else is going West, and planned ways that they can all find each other in the months to come.

Facebook and texting are a gift of the times. He will never have to ‘dig up’ old high school friends on Facebook. They’re already there, and will continue to be a part of his life, even two thousand miles away. As he plows his way through yet another new school, and more new classrooms, he’ll build his friend base. He’ll collect more like minded people into his orbit, and find his way into new adventures with them. They won’t replace his old friends in New York, they’ll only add depth to his already rich life.

We have a lot of transition in our life right now. We’re still knee deep in selling a house we’ve grown to love. We’ve lived in this house longer than any other since we began our cross country moves ten years ago. There are marks on the wall that show the inches (and feet!) our children have grown, since we first set up our beds in this structure. We’re very ready to make our move to a new state, but I never underestimate how hard it will be to walk away from this house.

Today I still have four children living under my roof. In two weeks my oldest will move out, into an apartment with a friend. A month after that, we drop off our newly graduated boy at his college dorm. And suddenly we will be a family of four. The last time we were a family of four was fifteen years ago. It will be a mind boggling adjustment.

But as I saw once again today, life is about beginnings and endings. This boy, who landed in New York five years ago as a tiny, timid eighth grader, marched confidently across a graduation stage today.

Life moves on. We move on. And as Helen Keller once said, “Life is nothing, if not a daring adventure.” The gown has now been tucked in the closet, the tassel packed in a box.

My boy is quickly wrapping up his experiences in New York and mentally moving on. I guess I should follow his lead.

I guess it’s time for the next adventure to begin.

Life Rewards

At the end of a busy day, we made our way through the crowded hallways and found seats in the high school auditorium. We’d received a letter in the mail, informing us that our son was to receive an award of some kind and we were invited to attend the senior awards ceremony. We had no idea which award it might be, but as we waited for the festivities to begin we made a game of narrowing down the choices.

To begin with, we crossed out all the drama/theater awards. Our boy was not involved in any variety of the performing arts, beyond attending occasional movies with his friends on a Friday night. Then we moved onto music awards. No to the drum and fife award. No to the jazz band award. No to the orchestra honors. Our boy loved playing the trumpet in fifth grade, but had not pursued it on the high school level.

Now we were down to academics and sports. We both knew which category we should be alert for. Our son studies hard, and he’s very diligent about disappearing up to his room every school night, to plug away at assignments and projects. He has good grades. But we all know that good grades don’t win awards. Wonderful, perfect, top of the line grades do. So we were down to the one category. Sports.

My son has always loved to run. As a six year old, he and his father used to take a one mile run together every morning. He looked forward to it every day. He was born into a track and field heritage. A handful of his uncles set records in high school, and one even attended UVM on a track scholarship. It didn’t surprise me that one of my boys took to running not long after he’d learned to walk.

He was thrilled to have the chance to join the high school track team, the first year we lived in New York. He was just an eighth grader, but the older guys and coaches accepted him with open arms and boosted his confidence with endless encouragement. Five years later, he’s the one who takes the little kids, full of spirit but not so much muscle, under his wing, and encourages them to do their best, in every race. It did not surprise us that the award he received had nothing to do with theater, or music, or proficiency in a specific subject, but rather was a testament to his first love - running.

He walked away from that night with a plaque honoring him for having the most varsity letters. Five seasons of track, three seasons a year, slowly adds up.

But as I sat through the ceremony, clapping for many other deserving award recipients, I had conflicting thoughts and emotions. A lot of the awards were handed out for truly amazing accomplishments. As the lists were read, outlining the reasons a specific student received a specific award, it almost didn’t seem real. Was it even possible that one student could be in so many clubs, volunteer at so many charities, participate in so many school activities, and still get perfect grades? I had to fight the twinge of inadequacy that snuck in. And to be honest, the feeling of a shortfall had nothing to do with my son.

I was taken back to my own high school years. I attended a very large high school in Missouri and served as a student council officer for several years. But I was far from the star students who got the top awards. I plugged away and got good (not great) grades. I spent my after school hours working at a retail store, to save money for college. There was no time for volunteering, or clubs, or theater productions. But I’m okay with that.

I found myself, and my purpose, in those after high school years.

I think a lot of people do. I know many people who did marginally in high school and then found really great lives in their adulthood. I have the greatest respect for those kids who walked across the stage last week to receive their much deserved honors. But I couldn’t help but think there should be other types of awards too.

Awards for kids who helped their families through a life crisis.

Awards for kids who worked several jobs so they could eventually attend some kind of college.

And kids who have been solid, trustworthy members of their families - taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and doing what’s expected of them (most of the time) without complaining.

Here’s the one my son would have been a shoe in for:

“The All Around Good Kid Award:

This award will be given to a student who has proven himself in character and trustworthiness. He has been an upstanding brother to his younger siblings and an important part of a strong family unit. He has adapted exceedingly well to three cross country moves. He has been compassionate to a brother in need, giving much needed hugs in the form of living room wrestling matches. He’s graciously handed down countless cool clothes and toys, including millions of Lego pieces and remote control vehicles. He can always be counted on to be polite to adult friends and relatives and his smile and companionship keep his mother inspired. His tender heart (which he doesn’t like to talk about) and sturdy nature (including many survivalist skills)will take him far in life.”

I know that no such award exists. At least in the real world. But I also know that my son will leave high school as a solid citizen of the world. He’ll make a difference to the people around him and find his own path to a good life. That means more to me than any award he could ever receive.

What's in a Name

I’ve always liked my name. The older I got, the more I realized that it really fit me. Until the day I walked down that long aisle, I introduced myself as ‘Judy Johnson’. It was very sing-song and alliterate. It was easy to remember. It was unique, and yet not strange. It was just what I desired to be, as a person. The day we said our vows, I lost my sing song ending, but hung onto it as a middle name, because I never wanted to forget the person I was before two became one.

Having named four babies in my lifetime, I can appreciate how tricky the task can be. We’ve all met people who don’t seem to fit their name. A Bob who looks more like a Steve. And we’ve met people who seem to perfectly fit the name their parents so wisely bestowed upon them. My son Isaac, has a name that means ‘laughter’, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his quick wit makes me laugh every single day.

But in the last few years I’ve started to notice that no one uses my name anymore, when they’re picking out just the right title for their newborn daughter. It never shows up on popular baby name lists. In fact, it hasn’t for decades. I think working at the library increased my curiosity. I started to notice the names of the little patrons who showed up for story time every week. There were many Sarahs, and Owens, and Emmas, but not a single Judy.

The more the idea turned over in my brain, the more I started to do some research. Every famous Judy I could find was over the age of 50. I started to think I might be the youngest Judy on the planet, as I currently hang out in the mid 40s. I found a name database online, designed by a parenting website. It’s a pretty nifty thing to play with. You punch in any name and it will tell you how popular it was, in any given year, from the turn of the century until today.

It was no surprise, I guess, that Judy hit its peak in the fifties. In the mid sixties, when I showed up, it was beginning to tank in popularity. Which explains why every character named Judy in a movie or on a TV show is nearing retirement age. It’s not a name given to the perky, beautiful teen character.

Which is why I got a bit excited when a new kid’s movie hit theaters recently. I’d been aware of the children’s book series named “Judy Moody”, and was very pleased that my name finally claimed a young character. But it was doubly thrilling when Hollywood grabbed onto it and put it on the big screen - ‘Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer’. My name, in the big lights!

Then a popular singer, someone who’s on the radio all the time (and my teens even have on their ipods!) gave birth to a baby girl last week. I almost missed the news of the baby’s name, since celebrity babies are not really on my daily radar. But flipping through a magazine I stumbled upon it. This music artist named her daughter Jude. Now I know…my kids have already told me, it’s not the same. But I’m going to claim this one. You can’t tell me that at no time in this child’s life, will someone slip, and in a moment of sweetness, call her Jude-ey. Which comes out of the mouth in the same way my name does. The name that hasn’t been popular since the fifties.

It’s coming back. I just know it. My sisters and I were all given names (Mary, Nancy, and Judy) that were popular at our births, but never seemed to be popular again. I’ve been pretty happy with mine. I’ve got a broad imagination. I can imagine that ‘Hey Jude’ was about a Judy, not John Lennon’s son, Julian. And I can ignore the fact that the other famous song to include my name, ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want to’, was released the year before I was born. I think it’s still a great name, worthy of a little more use.

So I’m starting to lobby friends and relatives who are of child bearing age. Are you looking for a great name, that’s widely recognized, but not yet trendy? Are you brave enough to start the trend to bring Judy back? There’s been a recent surge of old names that have become new again.

All of those Emmas and Margarets need some playmates with classic names too. It’s time to call their friend Judy for a play date.

Hair Cut

Today I cut their hair. It’s one of those family rituals that seems like it will last forever, like trimming fingernails and nagging about teeth brushing. Every month or so I start noticing stray hairs shooting out from behind their ears. The son with the shaggy cut starts looking more shaggy than usual. So I start warning them about what’s to come.

“Someday soon I’m cutting everyone’s hair,” I’ll warn at dinner one night. There will be groans all around. No one enjoys it, including me, but it’s a necessary evil if I want to continue seeing their eyes. Everyone gets to pick how long or short they want their particular style. Runner boy complains that his is too long when it’s long enough to pinch between his fingers. Guitar loving son wants it long, but not anything close to a mullet. Little guy goes back and forth between super short and long, curly and unruly.

Finally the afternoon arrives when it’s time. No more putting it off. No more ‘I’m too tired tonight’ or ‘but my friend is on his way over…’. We pull out the token stool and dig out the yard and a half of silk that we fasten with a safety pin around the first subject’s neck. We get set up in front of the TV, because it keeps my victim distracted and buys me some extra time.

Every once in a while there will be fussing, and squirming and enough complaining that I have to pull out my standard line, “Okay, if you don’t want to cooperate, I’ll have to take you to the lady…”

This line has worked since they were small. They have no idea who the lady is. I don’t either, for that matter. But when they were young we’d see hairdressers on television and I’d say, “See, that’s where some kids go to get their hair cut.” It all looked very fru fru and feminine to my rough and tumble boys. They really didn’t have any desire to go to that place where women sat with foil sticking out of their heads. So ‘the lady’ line continues to work.

As I was cutting my oldest son’s hair yesterday, just hours before he’d leave for his senior prom, it occurred to me that I might only have a few more opportunities to perform this service for him. He goes off to college in just a couple of months, and there are no guarantees that he’ll be home on a regular basis.

We are moving to Colorado, but he’ll be going to college in Utah. So close, but also a mountain range away. There could easily be times that he needs a haircut and has no imminent plans to travel home. Someday soon, my boy may indeed have his hair cut by ‘the lady’ (and discover she’s not so scary after all).

This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s exactly how I came to cut his hair in the first place. I started by learning to cut hair on his daddy, when we were both in college. We lived in the same dorm and shared a circle of friends. He was two thousand miles away from home and had never had anyone but his mother cut his hair (sounds familiar). So one day I offered. I had no idea what I was doing. This was back in the stone age, before the option of googling or youtubing existed.

I had to actually walk all the way over to the college library, pull out long drawers from a tall wooden cabinet, and flip through a series of yellowing 3x5 cards, to find a single book on the art of cutting a man’s hair. But, as it turns out, one book was enough.

There were bumps along the way. One memorable afternoon I was cutting his hair while three friends of ours sat on a bunk bed across from us. In the midst of the joking and laughing my scissors slipped. In an instant a huge chunk of hair was missing from the side of his head. He couldn’t see the shock on my face, since I was standing behind him. But all three friends saw. With our eyes we agreed to not say a word. One of them continued with the conversation and we moved forward.

Ten minutes later he was standing at the small mirror that hung above my roommates dresser. He took a quick look at the final product, then paused, and went back to inspect one side again. He moved closer to the mirror. The rest of us held our breath. “Hmmmm….what’s going on here?” he asked, innocently. The four of us burst into fits of laughter. We couldn’t help it. He was just so cute, trying to be polite about the fact that I’d carved a bald spot on the side of his head.

Maybe that’s one of the millions of small moments that I knew he’d be a keeper for life.

I continued to cut his hair, through college, in the week before our wedding, and then year after year as we moved through life together. It only seemed natural that I’d tackle our daughter’s hair, since all she wanted was long and straight. I could do straight lines. Then three little brothers followed, and having inherited their daddy’s hair, it seemed only logical that I’d cut their hair too. When the toddler wisp turned into shaggy preschooler locks, they joined in the line up on hair cutting night.

And now we’re at the other end of that line. I may be losing one of my best clients soon. Someday soon, in a sweet smelling salon in Utah, my oldest son may put on another woman’s silk cape and hand over his loyalties.

Or maybe it will be a pretty classmate who lives in the next dorm who offers to do the job.

Either way, it’s almost time to hand over my scissors. And I’m not so sure I’m ready.

Colorado

We arrived home from our house hunting trip several weeks ago. The minute we hit the road for home, with the mountain ranges in our rearview mirror, I knew that the fun part was over. Somehow the long roads home were mile after mile of mental lists, while the long roads out to Colorado had been mile after mile of excited anticipation.

On the drive west we came to appreciate living in states that have beautiful scenery. I give full credit to the farmers who keep our grocery stores stocked with foods, but I have to say I’d have trouble living in the land of wide open fields. Acres of scrubby grassland stretched on for miles, occasionally dotted with cows. We passed a few large corporate feed lots, making comments about the origins of our last McDonald’s hamburger. But there were also plenty of smaller farms, and many fuzzy dots curled up in the shadows of mama cows, indicating that spring breeding had been successful.

We took the northern route, not having time to stop along I-70, where most of our friends and family live. Across Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska, the roads go on forever. It was common to see turkeys on the side of the road, who seemed unaware of the inherent risk of hanging out next to a path of zooming vehicles. Signs for the Pony Express popped up along the way. Rest areas were way too far apart to be entertaining and we counted it as a personal victory when we could find a small Subway sandwich store tucked into the back of a truck stop.

Then suddenly, after three long days in the car, we were there. We rounded a corner and there was civilization. First a smattering of houses, then a full fledged town, on the east side of Denver. Before we knew it we were in the middle of the city, practically giddy with relief that we’d actually survived the trip. A quick stop for drinks, then it was back in the car, to keep driving west. Denver’s great and all, but our sites are set on some mountain towns outside of the big city.

We oohed and ahhed at the wide highway that took us up in altitude, toward white capped mountain peaks. We teased my husband, that he’d have such a ‘horrible’ commute every day, up and down this strikingly beautiful corridor. We soon went into full camera mode, meaning the cameras and cell phones with cameras were never again put away. Around every bend was something new to capture.

We began to notice some themes. Every vehicle seemed to have a dog riding along. Every stoplight had at least one vehicle with the word Jeep on it. Neighborhood after neighborhood had wildlife running rampant. Elk, foxes and deer were as common as squirrels and chipmunks in my neighborhood. Early on, my boys started a game where each animal got a number of points assigned, depending on how rare they were. Deer were low points. Porcupine and skunks got higher points. I was impressed with their game until I realized that points actually translated into punches. If the animal ended up in our grill, there were even bonus punches to be given. Did I mention how much I missed my daughter?

Another common sight, which seemed sad and ironic, was the number of lost cat signs hanging on utility poles. As we roamed residential areas, through thickly wooded areas and switchback roads that led up the mountains, we saw sign after sign. Each had the familiar plea, “Lost Kitty!” and an adorable picture. Cats of all ages, all colors, seemed to have been rounded up and taken away. Considering the number of wildlife we witnessed in these same neighborhoods, many of which are carnivores, it seemed obvious to us that most of the missing felines would never make it home. It led us to believe that the people of Colorado are a very optimistic group, indeed.

After spending five days roaming the area, we really aren’t that much closer to finding the house we’ll call home next fall. We drove almost every street and road in the two towns we’re considering and have a better feel for the area, but finding a specific home is tricky. Many great homes, comfortably in our price range, with amazing views, are perched on lots that are almost impossible to access. The endless switchbacks almost make me woozy at times. Other homes, with easier access to the main roads, are in remote, rugged areas that would make a bike ride after school almost impossible for my boys. It will be a trick, once we physically arrive in Colorado, to find a place that has everything we need, and that we can afford without winning the lottery.

But I know it will be there, waiting for us, right when we need it. With every move we’ve had the same concern, finding the right house in the right location. So far we’ve done very well, and every house has felt very much like home. The long trip out to Colorado was the first step. Getting the scenes of our new town swirling around in our heads helps the process along. Now we’re back, and it’s time to wrap up this great life we’ve created in New York.

Because way off in the distance we can hear it. Colorado’s calling us back, wanting us to come home.

Tornado Terror

As I stood in the driveway last week, talking to my neighbor, the familiar sirens went off a few blocks away. I hear them often. They’re a signal to our local volunteer firefighters that their service is needed. It took me a long time to get used to these frequent alarms.

Especially on stormy days.

As my neighbor and I chatted, there were storm clouds rolling in. Big, ominous, dark clouds, full of rain and probably a bit of lightening. Then the fire house sirens went off. And my blood pressure shot up. I had to mentally coach myself that everything was okay.

Because, you see, I grew up in the Midwest. Bad weather in the spring brings lightning and thunder. And sometimes tornadoes. When you live in the Midwest you learn to live by the tornado sirens. You have tornado drills at school, where you end up crouched in a hallway with your hands cupped around the back of your head. And you never ignore a siren.

So when I hear warning sirens, as I’m standing outside watching dark clouds roll in, I’m pretty confident there’s a tornado headed my way. And my gut reaction is to gather my children and run for the safe corner in the basement. My neighbor, who was raised in tornado-free New York, and mostly concerned about the fact he wanted to get home before he got drenched by the approaching storm, had no idea the level of anxiety I was feeling.

And then, just days later, I turn on my TV on a quiet Monday morning, to see that my home state has been once again struck by a big one. Joplin is just over an hour from Springfield, where I went to college, met the love of my life, and gave birth to my first two children. I know that part of the state well.

I’ve crouched in closets and basements, waiting out similar storms, in that part of the state. I know what those people were feeling as the storm began to hit. And I’m deeply affected by the images I’m seeing on TV, of the aftermath. While riding the bike at the gym, I had to look away from the screen of the news channels that are running continuing footage of the devastation. I couldn’t afford to burst into tears in the middle of my work out.

And it seems selfish to even say it affects me, that it upsets my day. Who am I to complain? I have a safe, intact home, that will never be blown away by a tornado. I have survived a few blizzards in this house, but I’ve never dashed to the basement to take shelter from a tornado. I don’t personally know anyone in Joplin. I’m not waiting for funeral arrangements to be made for someone I love, who wasn’t safe from nature’s fury.

But my heart hurts the same.

Out of shock, and sorrow, from a weather event that I grew up fearing.

The randomness. The inconsistency. The disturbing potential for destruction. For the past decade I’ve lived in states that are not at risk for tornadoes. As a mom, it’s been a relief to take it off my list of things to worry about (at least until the next fire house siren blows).

I live in relief that I don’t ever have to try to outguess a tornado again. I don’t have to live through so many false alarms that you start to take them a bit more lightly. Then a big one hits nearby and you’re reminded once again, of its terrible unpredictability.

I’m sure the residents of Missouri, the state I still hold dear to my heart, will rally up and take care of their own. Every person I know in Missouri is the type of person who would stand in line to give blood and volunteer to clean up debris, if asked. That’s just how the Midwest works. I’d like to think that’s how America works.

So although I can’t do much more than give to the Red Cross, my money and my blood, from this long distance, I can think of my Midwest neighbors, and pray they get through this awful ordeal with a sense of peace and community. I will pray that they can bury their dead with respect, and be spared more storms that might come along this spring.

It’s a tough way to live, waiting for the next big one. I’d guess it’s not unlike the earthquake weary in Japan. Except the Japanese people don’t get anxiety every time they see a dark cloud in the distance.

My fellow Missourians in Joplin have a long haul ahead of them. Heart wrenching clean up and thoughtful rebuilding. It won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. But I know they’ll do it. It’s really all they can do at this point.

Pick up and move on with life. Salvage what you can, of your belongings and your emotional fortitude, and plow forward.

And wait, wait, wait, for the next forecast.

Making sure the safe corner of the basement is stocked and ready. Knowing that if the big one hits, and you survive to walk out into the chaos of its aftermath, your friend, neighbors, and countrymen will be there to help you start again.

Becoming Myself

Living in New York has changed me. Every season of my life, and every state I’ve lived in, has contributed to the person I am today, but New York has caused some of the biggest changes of all. When I moved to this state, almost five years ago, I knew I loved to write, but I didn’t yet think of myself as a writer. This is the place that changed all that.

When the moving truck arrived at this address, I had a quiet project tucked into the hard drive on our family computer. Right after I had my amputation surgery, I began writing about it. I had lots of sitting time, as my residual limb healed, and I decided to write out the journey that led me to this new title of amputee. By the time I got to New York I had pecked out a significant manuscript. Significant in size, not necessarily in quality. I knew it needed a lot of tweaking but it was nice to have a starting point. But because it wasn’t even close to being published, it didn’t even cross my mind that I might be a ‘writer’.

Sure, I’d always kept a journal, even when I was a ten year old and had little to say beyond ‘cleaned my room today…’. Then, when the kids were small, I pecked out essays about what they were doing, what we were doing, and how I felt about it all. After my mom died I wrote more, trying to hash out my grief with words on a screen. But I was always fully aware that to be a real writer, you had to have a book on the shelves of Barnes and Noble.

Then one day, early on in our time in New York, my son got off the bus bubbling with news about an author who had visited his school.“She was just like you, mama! She loves to write and she loves kids!” I looked her up and found a website. Something in her presentation had lit a spark in my boy and I wanted her to know it. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a reply to my email, just a few days later.

The author, Coleen Paratore, was gracious and warm. She had come to Sam’s school to talk about her new book The Wedding Planner’s Daughter. But her school talks were as much about finding your own passion as they were about promoting her latest book.

She encouraged me to attend the local meeting of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). It met nearby, in Guilderland, and anyone who loved children’s books was welcome to attend. It piqued my interest. I’d never really written for children, but the idea of hanging out with writers sounded fun. The night of their next meeting I made my way to the Guilderland library and walked into a room full of strangers.

To begin the meeting, everyone went around the room and shared their connection to writing and children’s books. It was amazing to hear each person’s journey. Some were published authors, many times over, and some were still learning the craft and writing when they could find the time. Being new to the state, and knowing very few people well enough to call them ‘friend’, I felt unusually at home in that room.

These were people who didn’t think it was strange that I had files full of half finished projects. These were people who also had scraps of paper all over the house, bits and pieces of words and phrases that would later remind them of some writing idea. These were people who knew how painful it was to carve out a manuscript of heartfelt stories, then have to go back and cut it down. That night I returned home and announced to my husband, “I have found my people!”

Through that meeting, and the many meetings since, I’ve been inspired, watching these new writer friends follow their own paths. Some have become published in the four years I’ve been attending, some are still plugging away. Coleen has become a writing powerhouse, publishing a handful of books in the short time I’ve known her. Even when I’m not working on a project for kids, my friends at the SCBWI writers group remind me of how important it is to claim what’s important to me, and keep writing.

Not long after I found my people, at the SCBWI writer’s group, I landed an incredible gig, writing the parenting column for the local paper. Every week I think I’ve run out of ideas to write about and yet every week another one finds its way to my computer screen. It’s been a gift to me, tracking our life and all its ups and downs, as we’ve explored this great state of New York. It has given me a valuable deadline every week, one of a writer’s best friends.

And there you have it.

I just officially called myself a writer.

It took many years, a lot of concealed writing, and a well placed encouraging email from a published book author to help me find my path.

There’s a room full of people who will continue to meet, month after month, long after I’ve moved away. They will encourage each other and helpfully critique each other’s work. They will say good bye to members who are moving on and they’ll warmly accept the newbies who wander through the door. I’ll always be in debt to these people, my people.

They helped me to define myself as a writer.

And I’ll never forget them.






.