Category: Jackie’s Posts

Jackie Collins

River-walking

Last fall, I tore my hamstring. I have no real idea how I accomplished that, but I do know when I was walking our dog one afternoon, the hurt kicked in and I headed for home, walking slowly and limping like Chester from Gunsmoke (some of you may remember this show). After that, I hobbled a week, gave up after inhaling Advil, and went to my doctor. She referred me for an MRI, and it verified what my hamstring was trying to tell me all along…INJURY! INJURY!

Of course, the first step to recovery was to rest my leg for a week or so, which wasn’t so bad because my husband became my nurse on call, and I called him a lot. The next step was to see a physical therapist. Who out there in this vast world enjoys that? But I did and saw him twice a week for six weeks. I made myself do his prescribed exercises and eventually was able to walk pain-free once more. During my exciting release from therapy, I tried to impress him with my exercise commitment. “I’ll go to the gym so I can strengthen my leg. Should I do the bicycle? The treadmill?” I used a questioning lilt in my voice to assure him I was sincere. I’m sure he’d heard the same fib before and his ears had grown weary hearing the same promise from other clients – that being to exercise into forever.

He said, “You don’t even need to do that. One of the best things you can do is go to your rec pool and swim.” I told him I didn’t know how to swim. Darn. He then said, “That’s okay. You can walk laps in the water instead. It’ll strengthen your legs.” Now, that did sound fun. Better than riding an exercise bike that takes you nowhere. I nodded my head yes and scurried away.

My promise to exercise my leg took place six months ago. I consistently did my physical therapy exercises for close to a week and after that, moved on to more interesting things, like watching a PBS cooking show. Besides, I hadn’t noticed any pain in my hamstring. I was healed! Three weeks ago, I sat at my daughter’s kitchen table for about an hour, visiting. When I stood up, I yelped with pain that shot down my leg and to the bottom of my heel. I couldn’t move and ended up having my husband and son-in-law help me hobble to our car. As I walked out the door, my daughter, who loves exercising as much as I love blue corn enchiladas loaded with cheese, reprimanded me. She followed me to the car. As I swung my butt around on the car seat to sit, my leg hanging like dead weight, she said, “Mom, you need to do your exercises, strengthen your legs.” I will, I will, I promised. I went home and spent the next two days sitting in a recliner, my leg elevated and Advil, my best friend. 

I saw my daughter a couple days later. She asked two questions: How are you feeling and what are you going to do about your leg? Before I even thought, I burst out, “Yup! I’ve signed up for the riverwalk.” She smiled proudly. “Good for you, Mom!” I was trapped by my own demise. I had to go now. I knew she’d be keeping track of me as much as my husband and I keep track of neighbors, watching through our window and saying, “What in the heck are they DOING?”

My daughter isn’t a task master. She herself struggles with injuries and has learned exercising is a must to ward off getting more. She’s my best cheerleader and since you can’t let your team nor your hamstring down, I go to the recreation center, wrap me and my swimsuit in a very large towel and slip into the water area that is shaped like a river and moves like one. I actually enjoy it, except on the mornings when children have swimming lessons and rush by me like speed boats. I move like a pontoon, but if my hamstring likes it, then so do I. 

Good-bye Buzzy

Last October, I wrote a blog about Beanie and Buzzy, two dogs I babysit quite often. On April 11th, Buzzy died. His owner said he “literally went to sleep on my shoulder.” She texted me right away, and as I write this, I still cry. Deaf and blind, almost nineteen years old, I loved that little old man, a long-haired grumpy chihuahua. It’s hard to describe why. He was difficult to take for a walk, following his sibling guide Beanie, who could be ornery to him sometimes, like stealing his bed on the couch or ignoring him when he barked in the middle of the dining room, calling to her to lead the way.

I found Buzzy cute despite the fact he had no teeth and his tongue hung out the side of his mouth. He chewed it quite often and it made me laugh. His little stick legs shook when he walked and yet, he was able to keep up with Beanie and me as we walked the block. A few times, he stopped to smell new pee on the grass or a tree. He fell behind and became so disoriented, I had to pick him up to set him in the correct direction while he gnawed on my arm the entire time, hoping against hope to bite me good and hard in protest. No teeth meant no luck for him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give it a good effort.

I adored Buzzy’s spirit. His acceptance of his vulnerability. He still ate the morning he died, attacking his bowl of food like usual. He loved to eat and when I babysat him and Beanie, he stood at my feet and barked, about the closest he would get to me. That and when I gave them their doggy treats. In truth, his owner Kathy, was the only one he wanted to be with.

An indigenous writer, a Chickasaw poet, and activist with Native spirituality, Linda Hogan wrote the book, The Radiant Lives of Animals. She said, “The animal realm, sacred waters, and the surrounding world in all its entirety is an equal to our human life.” She reminded me we are one, animals included.

We can learn so much from those walking this earth not just for us, but with us. I think that’s why I so loved Buzzy. Not only because animals are my passion, but because of his strong, little heart that continued to beat, to live his life, to walk around the block, his only guide being Beanie. He was content until the last few weeks when his will to stay grew too weary, despite Kathy’s love. Hogan reminds us we too, have much in common with animals. Like Buzzy, our desire to live runs strong inside us. It is mysterious and unexplainable.

In a couple of weeks, I will go to Kathy’s to babysit only Beanie. I ache to think Buzzy won’t follow behind her to greet me at the door and allow me to stroke his head a couple of times before he moves away, mad that I’m not Kathy.

You were so loved Buzzy. I will miss you.

(Written by Jackie and Sally posted for her)

Author Interviews

Wilkinson Public Library in Telluride, Colorado offers free online events, one being author interviews. A few weeks ago, I watched Joy Harjo and it was a wonderful hour and time well spent. Regularly receiving notification of their upcoming events, the interview today included Colum McCann’s and Diane Foley’s book, American Mother, released in early March. The description in the library’s email wrote, “From Murder to Atonement, Confronting My Son’s Killer.”

I hadn’t heard of either person and wasn’t really interested in watching an online presentation about forgiveness. I just wasn’t in the mood. However, a couple of weeks ago, I had registered for the talk and this morning’s email reminded me the discussion would take place today at noon. I was home and, on a whim, decided to click on the zoom and watch. I nearly caught my breath when the library’s interviewer explained Foley was the mother of Jim Foley, the journalist who was captured in 2012 and held hostage for two years, tortured and beheaded by ISIS in 2014. I’d followed the story intermittently on the news and was angered and saddened by his brutal killing. ISIS had videoed the entire horrendous act for the world to see. I couldn’t fathom how his mother was able to talk about it.

I’ve wondered before how a family survives a kidnapping of a member, here and especially abroad. Both the author and Jim Foley’s mother discussed the impact of the kidnapping and eventual killing. In the book, Foley describes her meetings with her son’s killer. The book continues to discuss not only that, but all matters in relation to her son’s capture—the circumstances, how the family reacted and how Diane Foley later channeled her grief into creating the Jim Foley Foundation. She said that ten years ago, when she was desperate and went to D.C. for help, the government literally had no one. Since then, with the advocacy of the foundation, the government has significantly established formal assistance so that in the past ten years, at least one hundred hostages have been released. Watching the courageous Foley and the author, Colum, discuss the book’s story was powerful and moving.

One point Foley and Colum stressed is to “tell the stories.” She said that was a reason her son became a journalist. He believed in the power of stories. He believed they had to be told. Hearing her comments and commitment, I thought of the importance of authors writing stories about ways to navigate this often tough world.

Colum, who considers himself an optimist, said that even in the darkest of events, “happiness has a pale ink.” Perhaps we all need to hear that. We need to continue writing and presenting stories (no matter what genre). They are essential. Stories educate, feed curiosity and most importantly, can change us.  

(Please note: this post is by Jackie)

Dreams

We returned from our visit to Minnesota this past week. The time spent with our son and family is always special as is our visit with close friends there. Our children grew up together. They are selling the home and acreage where they have lived for forty years. Their dream for many years has been to live near their daughter in Duluth, but for the past six years, their home has been grief. They lost their thirty nine year old son and their world crashed. They have once again picked up their dream and I couldn’t be happier for them. This past fall, they purchased an older home they’ll remodel this summer. More than anything, they wanted a view of Lake Superior. This home will.

Watching their dream become reality, I began to think about my own dreams, ones never coming to fruition.

At one time, when I was eleven and growing up on the farm, we kids belonged to 4-H. Some of those in our group were raising 4-H calves to show at the county fair. The calves weren’t cheap and usually were purchased from well-known breeders. My dream was to participate and I begged my parents for a calf, but we couldn’t afford it. I was crushed. 

However, hope rang its bell. I heard there was open class. It maybe wasn’t as prestigious as 4-H, but anyone could enter this, and mine was going to be one of our own dairy calves. I was in pursuit of the highest honor—a purple ribbon. I entered. The dilemma was the calf would have to be shown before the judge. That meant it had to be trained on halter to walk in the arena and also stand still for the judge.

One summer afternoon, determined to succeed, I shut one of our calves into a large, outdoor fenced area close to our house. Sneaking up, I tossed a rope around its neck and tied it into a knot since I had no halter. Off we exploded. The calf bawled and started running full speed around the pen. I attempted to dig my tennis shoes’ heels into the dirt, but he drug me around like a small candy bar. I refused to let go, certain the stubborn calf would stop and obey me. A cloud of dirt bigger than a storm thunderhead was formed by both of our heels pulling opposite each other. My parents said they watched out the porch window and laughed. The calf won. Turning it loose, I walked to the house near tears. I nixed that dream in one short afternoon.

Another dream was to play the piano, touching the keys like a true musician. I was thirteen and my parents couldn’t take me to lessons nor afford a piano. My mother was working full-time, and my father (us kids included) had to work the fields and complete evening chores. So, at age forty-five, I decided to take lessons from the music teacher at the school where I taught. We met once a week after school and I have no idea how it fizzled, but most likely I didn’t practice enough, the excuse being we were raising teenagers and I had too many commitments, which was sort of the truth. Another dream dissolved.

I dreamt I would be an excellent swimmer. My mother consistently praised a distant cousin, saying, “She’s such a beautiful swimmer.” At age fourteen, she paid for me to take lessons from a sixteen-year-old living in the small town where she worked. My best friend went, too. The first lesson, this “instructor” laid beside the pool, sunning and slathered with baby oil. “Okay,” she said, “go to the diving board, jump in and kick to the wall.” What? My girlfriend went first and easily kicked to the side of the pool. Knots in my stomach, my throat tight as a straw, I jumped in, feet first. I sunk like an anchor at sea and desperately tried to kick as I panicked and swallowed water. The teen jumped in and pulled me out. My friend and I never returned.

Of course, there were many other unaccomplished dreams in my life. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I am so proud of our published book (completed with my co-authors). I longed to have a book in the world, to realize a long held dream.

Once Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets was released, my sister and nieces surprised me with a “book signing” at my sister’s house, a Congratulations cake and all that decorates a party, the rest of my family circling the room and some teary-eyed. My sister even included my writer’s nickname on a sign, “Doggone Writer.” I couldn’t quit crying, embarrassed I couldn’t stop. 

The sign sits proudly on my desk. Finally, finally, at age seventy-three, I completed a dream.

Writing Prompt 3.22.2024

Sheila Heti’s new book, Alphabetical Diaries, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in February, is just that—rearranged sentences in order from A to Z made up of the author’s diaries kept over the course of a decade. By placing previously composed sentences into this structure, patterns emerge, and unexpected juxtapositions reveal fresh connections that form a new kind of narrative. “Basically it’s a crazy year, that’s what Claire said, this is going to be a crazy year. Be a pro, Lemons said. Be a woman. Be an individual, he suggested. Be bald-faced and strange. Be calm,” Heti writes.

Take this idea of reordering your writing and use sentences from a story you’ve written in the past to create a new story. Experiment with different constraints, whether alphabetizing or grouping by another type of category, perhaps using recurring images or places. See where these arrangements take you.

Blizzards

The forecast today is big-time snow, possibly a blizzard considering the wind is supposed to lead the storm at 50 mph. I’m a little embarrassed to admit I am looking forward to it although we have plans to fly to Minnesota to visit our son and family. After the severe weather prediction, my husband called the airlines to see if we could delay our trip for a day. They were amiable and announced on the news that if anyone wanted to change their scheduled flight, they were welcome to do so with the charge waivered. That information means Denver International is expecting a big snowstorm. 

We live an hour northwest of the airport. Our attempt to reach it would be foolish. In fact, there’s a good possibility the airport will not only waive flight changes, but possibly stop them if the storm arrives. The weather stations predict up to eighteen inches on the front range, even more in the mountains–feet. One never knows, but I feel they might just be correct this time. The clouds hovering over the mountains are dark blue mottled with heavy white ones. We can only see the hills leading to them. 

It’s truly a good thing if we do get a good hunker-down storm. We’ve barely had moisture this winter and fire in the mountains during summer is always lurking. It was such an unusual relief last summer when they had not one, chalking this up to receiving so much snow last Christmas and after. So, despite losing a day to spend with our son and most especially with our seven-year-old granddaughter, I welcome the storm. 

Lying awake last night, listening to the wind whistle outside, reminding a storm is in the offing, a memory tweaked. When we lived in Minnesota and I was still teaching, an upcoming heavy-duty storm was more welcome than a full day at the mall. If the weatherman predicted a blizzard might arrive, we teachers held our breath, saying a small prayer it was true. One day to sleep in, to wear pajamas all day, watch a movie on the television or eat your husband’s delectable, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Pure heaven.

Minnesota was good at tackling snowstorms. Or, I should say profoundly efficient? The cities readied their equipment to take on big storms and subsequently cleared roads faster than one could warm up the car. That was a good thing, sort of. It usually meant school would not be closed. In fact, one morning, a teacher friend of mine was driving the icy roads to school and slid off the highway into the ditch, tossing our purchased homemade cinnamon rolls around like bouncing balls, the thick vanilla frosting wiped out. 

Her brother lived nearby and when she arrived at school, I asked if she was okay? Her answer: “Yeah, our cinnamon rolls took a hit, but I was more worried if my bangs got messed up. I asked my brother how they looked.” I busted out laughing. She was in no way a vain person, but like us all, she had her glitches. Her long brown hair was beautiful, but it was her bangs she cared about. The darn snowstorm had messed with them. Her dilemma made both of us giggle the rest of the day. 

I had another friend, our elementary physical education teacher. If school was cancelled, she was the first to call me, laughing with delight. Her response was to return to bed, but not before she jumped high as she could beside it, then land on the mattress on her back, basically like the days our children loved jumping up and down on our beds. This also meant she and I could snowshoe later that week, frozen lakes included.  

Today, I’ll stay in my pajamas, and we might watch a movie after we pack to fly to Minnesota. We’re retired now and even though I still love being snowed in, the delight isn’t as strong as the years my friends and I were teachers, our eyes glued to the television, watching and hoping to see the name of our district flash across the screen, assuring us we had a weather holiday. The forecast of a possible blizzard today tugs at my heart. I miss my teacher companions. I’m happy to be retired, but the heavy storms, the shutdowns of schools even now makes me smile and return to those times, if only in my memory.

Searching for Community

Sally’s previous post, Morning Table Writing or Pens on Fire took me back to all those wonderful memories we had during the many years as a writing group. Years later, when we moved to Colorado, I sorely missed those times together, the passion for writing, our rewarding friendships. I was basically lost. Not for months, but for years.

I eventually joined a local writing organization and a children’s book  critique group. I have always wanted to write one about saving the wolves (a very tense issue amongst Coloradans) and thought this would not only encourage me to write one, but also fill the emptiness I felt. It was an excellent group of writers, but I just wasn’t feeling a connection. The other problem was working full-time at an elementary school that though rewarding in many ways, basically channeled any creativity into a small tributary. I ended up quitting both the organization and children’s writing group.

After eight years in Eaton, Colorado, we moved closer to our daughter’s family, living fifteen minutes away to help with their young children. I have never regretted the vast amount of time we have spent with our two grandchildren – picking them up from school, babysitting them and our granddogs while their parents were away at work conferences, going to our grandson’s baseball games throughout the years, along with attending our granddaughter’s plays and track meets. It’s been a gift to know them so well and has made me wish our other two grandchildren hadn’t lived so far away in Minneapolis.

As much as I loved being with my family, the loneliness and yearning to write with others never changed. Not until recently. I was at our small town’s local library and saw a notice on the announcement board regarding a writing group that met every Monday morning. I thought about attending until Jud, my judgement friend tapped me on the left shoulder and said, “Yeah, but are they good writers? I bet they don’t even take it seriously. Probably three women or so – a coffee klatch.” I never went.

It took me months, maybe a year, to finally attend a meeting. There were twelve writers that morning, a shocker to me. Some read their works of poetry, play writing, nonfiction, science fiction, memoir. I liked the leader (a young CEO of the library), but as I left, I thought, I just ain’t feelin’ it. This isn’t for me. I went home disappointed, resigned to the fact I wouldn’t try again until Annie, the advisor on my other shoulder, tapped and said, “Maybe you should give it three times. Just see.” Okay, I thought, I’ll give it two more times. I went. Months later, I still go every Monday morning. I never miss. I have once more found a writing community, my home. 

Is it similar to the group I was in for twenty-five years? No. Does it replace the bond we developed over those years. No. But, we do have seven or eight regulars that meet at the library. I’ve been exposed to poets, script writers for plays, a children’s book author, a science fiction writer and one like me, preferring nonfiction. Both men and women attend the group, a new experience for me. I like these writers, their kindness and support. I’m just beginning to know them, but somehow, this group feels right. I’ve accepted I will never again capture the years I had with my former group. I’m so glad for those many years together, but am also grateful I have somewhere to fan the flames of writing once more. I may not be “on fire,” but the embers seem to increase their glow each time I attend.

Skiing Keystone

The weekend before last, we stayed in the Keystone, Colorado mountains for a long weekend with our daughter, her husband and our two grandchildren. It’s an annual event and my husband and I sit at the base of the mountain enjoying either a beer or wine, wearing our flannel-lined jeans and down vests, which is the closest we get to skiing. Neither my husband nor I learned to ski—the mountains seemed too far from Nebraska, skiing too expensive and another reason: I’m not athletically adept and skiing a mountain is not for the faint of heart. Not mine for sure. However, we enjoy watching the four of them ski. We watch all four come down the mountain, a tradition we’ve enjoyed for at least twelve years. When we started, our grandkids were three and five. Now, they’re fourteen and seventeen. Time spun by before we had a chance to recognize it.

We usually stay three nights and just hang out. It’s especially relaxing for our daughter and family. Like most, their car motors never cool off, what with baseball, gym workouts, school plays, movies with friends and so on. Don’t forget shopping at Sephora or Scheels. One of the nights, we played Trivia, a game I’m not fond of because I seem to come up with more incorrect answers than correct. But talk of laughter. We passed around snack bowls of barbeque potato chips, cheese and jalapeno chips, and crackers and cheese with blueberries. We finally quit after more than two hours and went to bed. The next day, people either read, watched basketball or played games. It snowed, coming straight down and accumulating into more inches for skiing. The thick flakes inspired us to make a visit to Inkspot Coffee for hot chocolate and lattes.

It’s interesting when you have no expectations for an event or a get-together and it evolves into something more special than you imagined it would be. These times always catch us by surprise, and we recall them over and over, other by ourself or the those who were there. It’s one of the the good parts of life.  

Books for Sale

During the holiday season, Writing Heights Writers’ Association in Fort Collins held a Holiday Book Bazaar. Members brought books to the Loveland Museum to sell theirs. Many authors participated and tables were weighted with books of every genre. 

Sitting at a signing table, I visited with two authors next to me. We had a nice conversation and one of these authors sold six books. Six to my zero for the day! Yes, I was envious. However, I did sell one book, which only occurred because I bought one of hers. She picked one of mine to purchase and I told her because I had, I didn’t expect her to buy one of mine. “No, I want to,” she said and therefore, I sold one book during the event. I tell this story because it made me think about authors promoting their book. There are so many great books waiting to be sold. Writers and readers have books stacked on bedside stands near them, waiting to be held and devoured. 

In the beginning, when our book was released over a year ago, we were “over the moon” as they say, ready to sell book after book. Being rookies, we marketed the best way we knew, which was a learning experience and still is. I was terrified to ask someone if they would care to purchase our book. Was it worth reading? Would they sell quickly? We hoped so.

We’ve sold some of our books with many still waiting on our shelves or stored in boxes. I’ve learned much over the past eighteen months. Expectations and disappointments need to be adjusted as I remember the main goal –  capture our group’s stories written over twenty-five years together, combine them into a book, one we could hold in our hands and feel pride about an accomplishment that took a very long time to complete.

Our marketing goal is to sell many more of our books. I recently read Ann Patchett (author of great books, her first being The Patron Saint of Liars) and her experiences of selling hers. Even she, an accomplished author, wrote of being at a bookstore for a signing with the only persons present being the book staff. I was surprised. She’s written many best sellers. Even she experienced the absence of readers.

I loved her honesty. It gives encouragement.

Pure and simple, selling one’s book is not easy. My daughter (in marketing) gave me some great advice: “Mom, selling is not always quick. It can be a marathon.” I have learned that no matter how much you love your book and want the world to read it, it’s necessary to be patient and have a thick skin . I’m working on that. When I wonder if anyone would care to purchase our book, I remember what our main goal was – the deep satisfaction of capturing our stories. Of that, I am proud and hope, like all published authors, that someone will pick it up.  

Snowed In

It’s snowing today in Colorado, but that’s no surprise considering how Mother Nature decided to visit half the country with zero and below temperatures. We are on the edge of the big storm this time – one that closed highways, interstates, buried cars and all else. However, despite the fact our storm was much less severe, our schools are closed tomorrow due to the fact it’s going to be a mere -13. 

I’m dog-sitting, so decided to clear the sidewalks and patio while the two companions watched me through the glass door. Crazy as it may be, I love snow. I even love the deep cold. I don’t want anyone to be in danger due to the extremes, yet I eagerly put on my long blue down coat, pull a warm hat down over my ears, wrap a tight-knitted scarf around my neck, shove my feet into fur-lined boots and pull on thick cozy mittens. All that is visible are my eyes. 

During those times we have a heavy storm, I march outside with our dog and head for the center of the street, entrenched in zillions of snowflakes stuck together. Rusty could easily be swallowed by the snow, but he learns the depth quickly and bounds up and down through it, his red coat in stark contrast to pure white.  We are both delighted there is no traffic – not even a snowplow pushing the snow to the sides of the streets, creating cliffs to climb over. 

When we lived in Minnesota for eight years, our German shepherd and I would walk in the country over the bladed roads of packed snow. It was during the early afternoon, before the school buses and working people headed home, the snow crackling under their tires. No wonder it did. Often, the temperature was a -20 with windchill pushing the degrees lower, much lower. I followed after Roscoe as he bounded over rows of snow-covered corn stalks, frightening a rabbit or two. He would return to me, small clumps of white resting on his nose where he’d buried it sniffing for all the wonders that laid under snow cover. 

We would return home, our breaths soft transparent clouds. I opened the front door to be greeted by the warmth of the house, my cheeks red, my nose running. I loved it. Unwrapping all my coverings and removing my boots to place beside the doorway (Minnesotans always take their shoes off by the door) I began to figure out supper for the family while Roscoe curled up on the living room carpet like a baby deer to warm himself. 

There are those who would say I am out of my mind to relish walks in such cold conditions. I don’t blame them. Sometimes I wonder too. Maybe it’s because I grew up on a farm, ever aware of the weather, of the way living with nature was a requisite. It could be I relish walking my dogs in snow, smiling to myself as they almost bark a song in joy. Perhaps it’s because colors become more vivid, like the scarlet red plumage of a Cardinal resting on a bare branch. Whatever the reason and for as long as I’m able, I’ll bundle up, take my dog, and head outside to meet the white just outside our door.