Posted By Linda Spear on August 30, 2010

Just an hour away from our house live my daughter’s inlaws.  A lifetime of two cultures away is the bigger divide.  They are German by birth—born in the city of Manheim and raised under the tutelage of mothers who were estranged from their men due to WW II.  The mother was the child of a sea captain; the father was the son of a German prisoner of war, held by the Russians for ten years.

Both of these people were born during the war and grew up in the shroud of confusion that followed. As children, they foraged for potatoes and oranges in order to survive.  To the victor who gathered the most, came the spoils…often spoiled food.  They arrived in this country to become pastry chefs at the age of eighteen and twenty. There they were, in a foreign country created for the sake of freedom,  yet they were so young, and yet so talented that their careers took off at lightening speed.

Jay and I were born on the east coast of the US and raised in nuclear families of Jewish descent in the very same years.  Although our parents were born here as well, they bore the coverlet of sheer terror for what happened to their extended family members in Europe and the scorn of those who blamed the Jews for the war itself. 

And yes, there were some of those.  Fortunately, not the inlaws, but the differences in the ethnicities between us is broad, yet ill defined.  All became more obvious when we sat down to dinner at midday, at their house for the very same time.  We had met on neutral territory up until then.  “It’s a more common way for Europeans to eat,” said Bridget when she laid out plates of beautiful, delicate hors d’oeuvres.  Bottles of champagne that rested in an ice cooler were proffered at the same time.  For me, a minimalist drinker, the thought of alcohol at that time was mind numbing, so I was thrilled to notice that my son in law told them that I drink water with meals. 

Probst! To your health they toasted.  I raised my water glass with the same intent. We feasted on the appetizers of smoked salmon, prosciutto wrapped around melon, pigs in blankets and Swedish meatballs. 

By that time, I was already done with my meal, but the main course had not yet appeared….When it did, I looked at the food with trepidation.  Not that I didn’t want to eat it, but my stomach told me that trouble would arrive if I dove into the delicacies.

First on the table was German potato salad, which I tasted for the first time and found it to be delicious.  I’m an American girl who loves her mayonnaise of which there is none in that dish.  Then came a bowl filled with slivers of cucumbers in sour cream which was a divine combination.  Next, the filet mignon, grilled to perfection, along with barbequed chicken wings and thighs.  Fresh corn, brought by my son in law, completed that part of the meal.

By now, I was getting bilious, but not because the food was unpalatable.  I’m just not used to eating so much at any time, especially so early in the day. 

Champagne poured continuously and water accompanied my food.

After the main course came Key Lime Pie, Banana Crème Pie and rugalach.  The last treat was in honor of Jay who loves those beautiful little pastries most of all. 

So what do you do when your favorite dessert is Key Lime Pie and there isn’t a bit of space in your digestive tract to put it?  I ate a piece, of course, and hoped that I wouldn’t regurgitate.  If that were to happen, I prayed it would be on the side of the road on the way home.

I felt like the little pig in the new Geico ad in which he blew his wind spinner out the window and went, “whee, whee, whee,” all the way home. 

After the drive home, I waddled into my house and wondered just how many pounds I gained that day.  No less that three to five, I was sure.  And it would take at least a week to shed the water weight itself. 

But it was good.  The inlaws are not outlaws; my son in law is a superb human being, the home in which his parents live is strewn with the same type of wall hangings as our house…pictures of families from generations past and those of the current bunch.

I like these people and I learned about their childhood past World War II.  I also learned about the efforts my mother in law’s own mother made on behalf of Jewish families, hiding in Manheim—some in her own house.  She told me that in some cases, children of her friends told the police that their parents where working for the underground and got them arrested for hiding Jews. My mother in law’s own mom got away clean, and so did the Jews she hid. I never thought about the plague that Hitler brought on his own people.  It’s so easy to categorize one group of people as villains and the other as victims. 

My next concern became what I will serve these magnificent chefs when I invite them to our house sometime during the holiday season.  Despite my bloated belly and discomfort over food, I made a short list of what I’d serve them, knowing it would never be as good as what they made.  But most important is that we made friends with the inlaws, and that in itself is an unusual occurrence and a lovely thought for such two disparate groups of people.

So I say to them:

L’Chaim!   To Life!

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Posted By Linda Spear on August 26, 2010

What do you do, or can you do when you notice that one of your oldest friends has become a drunk? Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.  It’s hard to see someone who had a fine education, great mind and wicked sense of humor until the past few years when booze flooded her brain synapses. 

Now the bottle has circumvented any substance in the person I knew and valued so much.  It’s not that I haven’t attempted to steer her away from drinking when I’m at her home.  When I’ve been at her house and I have to drive home, I make sure she understands that I will not be drinking with her.  When we go out to eat, I deliberately do not have a glass or two of wine because somebody has to be sober enough to drive home.  When she’s at my house, I don’t offer any alcohol.  That’s why we spend most of our time together at her house.

She takes all of this in but doesn’t equate my lack of drinking to her excess consumption of the stuff.  I have to admit, there was a time when I didn’t pay as much attention to what alcohol could do to my own brain.  But when my work suffered from my inability to put words together fast enough to meet deadlines, I stopped cold. 

Didn’t need AA, but if I thought I couldn’t stop myself, I would have attended those meetings.  Where I live there are plenty of churches that host meetings for the over abundance of drunks in the area.  I easily could have been one of them.

Please don’t take this discourse as a rant against those who drink.  Almost all the people I know drink occasionally and it doesn’t affect their work or their relationships.  But what’s happened to Margie is different.  When we go to the movies together, she frequently whispers in my ear, “What just happened?  I don’t get it.” And when we return to our homes, she almost always calls to have me “explain” the movie to her.

I met this woman when I was a journalist and she was the vice president of communications for a major service organization.  She would frequently serve as my liaison to the experts I needed to interview.

Now she’s retired, stays “whip thin” and spends a good deal of time shopping, making starvation salads to accompany her vodka, and going to the theater.  I’m sure the people she attends the shows with are barraged with questions at the end, as well.

She and her husband are retired, and with great luck, they are well fixed with cash.  But money is not going to get her head straight.  Nobody in her family—none of her three children who are afraid to tell her anything—will stop her.  I know there is nothing I can do to stop her drinking as she waits patiently every day to continue to drink when her husband comes home from his golf game. 

So, another one of my dear ones bites the dust.  Illness happens with age and takes some of the best of them before their time. But I’m so desperately sad to see her disintegrate before my eyes from something that didn’t have to take her down in the first place.

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Posted By Linda Spear on August 23, 2010

I once read that it’s best to handle every stressful situation like a dog – If you can’t eat it, or play with it… pee on it and walk away!

Wish I knew those words when I scuffled with people who did unkind,  unfathomable  and even unlawful things to me during my life. 

I remember the anti-semitism I experienced in childhood as I lived in a community with a scarcity of Jews.  Those of us who managed to get by it were protected by loving gentiles who recognized the harm done by others who just didn’t understand that I was just one of them with a different religion, not a reprehensible cause.

I remember those in first jobs who made efforts to undercut “newbies” who showed promise and might be around longer than the others, as a result. 

 I’ll never forget or forgive a writing partner who was a doctor.  We worked on a book about her area of expertise in medicine. I have always worked in true partnership with my doctor colleagues, but this one got greedy and cut me down and practically out of the publishing deal when she felt she deserved more as the “listed” writer, even though I did all the work. 

 Since we didn’t have a written contract (my fault), it was not hard for her to achieve her goal.  But I got a cut—a small one—but the cut she took out of my hide was not worth the small amount of cash I received. 

 I was not recognized for my work on that project, which was the way I worked on so many books that I ghostwrote.  For most of them, I was paid well without being named and that was fine.  But this one cut me to the core.  I had done this work with a friend of six years. I wanted this book to succeed because it was a beauty in its  timeliness and relevance.  To this day, I admire the work, not the woman.

Now I work for myself.  I don’t write with anyone else because it’s much simpler this way.  But raw memories still bring me back to the one thing I wish I could have done if I was a canine.  Even then, I’m not sure it would have been my style.  I should have peed on those troublesome people and walked away!

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Posted By Linda Spear on August 22, 2010

When I walk into a shoe store the only number I usually have in mind is eight and a half inches—my shoe size.  And so that’s where I go.  I know what styles I wear, the colors I love and the shapes that don’t suit me at all. 

But this time, I looked to my side and spotted a pair of Cardinal red satin pumps, decked in crystal, with high, high spiky heels.  I estimated the height of the heels to be about six inches…far longer and taller than I ever imagined on my own feet. 

Like everyone, I’ve watched models struggle to look sexy and “on board” while strutting the cat walk.  More than once I’ve watched the six foot Amazon women struggle to stay upright, and more often than once fall in a heap in front of hundreds in the room and millions on TV.

What I want to know is why heels that are unable to be worn by almost every woman are displayed and bought by those who think they look good on their feet.  Do the women who buy them even try walking in them before they take them home? 

Beats me.

So I decided to give them a try.  I have never worn heels higher than three inches in my adult life.  After all, in my world, comfort rules.  But this was an opportunity to try out my assumption.  After all, how did I know for sure that women could never be comfortable in these shoes unless I tried them on and found out why they were made and sold.

I sat on a chair next to the shoe rack, took the red glittering beauties out of the wrapping and the stuffing out of the toe, and glided my toes into the tip.  No problem.  I then slipped the heel into the back of the shoe and marveled at how pretty these shoes looked on my feet. 

I’m lucky to have feet that look good with or without a pedicure and I wondered why I had never tried these shoes on before.  Next, I slid the second shoe on and stuck my feet out in front of my face to admire the gorgeous “redness’ in front of me.  Now I understood what others saw.

Then I stood.

Yeowch!

My ankles buckled immediately and pain shot through my entire foot while my calves went into deep spasm.  And I understood once more.  This was an entirely different feeling than just looking at pretty shoes.  Feeling them on my feet was excruciating.

As I stood in them for approximately 10 seconds and I knew that I could not and would not attempt to walk.  If I did, I would absolutely fall on my face as I believed when I watched the models of the runways.  Those six inch heels are medieval devices of torture, however, I don’t think the mad men of those times considered shoes a device of cruelty.

So here we are in the twenty-first century, watching women destroy their feet and their legs while attempting to look attractive in spikes.

Six inches of heel…that ain’t me babe.  

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Posted By Linda Spear on July 25, 2010

My shower is my best friend.  I’m in there at least twice a day, and it’s not just to be clean.  Water is salvation for me.  I get under the gently streaming water to think, to dream and to gather my thoughts to write.

Picture me in front of my computer, unable to begin a proper sentence.  It happens to all writers, sometimes. When nothing draws me into the story, I run toward the shower, stripping off clothing and turn on the faucets.  By the time the water has reached the proper temp, I’m back in the work in progress, with sentences streaming down my back in rivulets.

I hop out of the tub and wrap a big towel around me, run back to the computer and with damp fingers, I get started on the sentences that were stopped between my soul and my brain.  Perhaps they are not connected there all the time.

But water is my soul, my friend, my living compass.  Of course my body needs it to live, but my talent needs it to thrive. 

My dreams are filled with jaunts to the ocean and the relaxation of bobbing on waves until I’ve lost my footing. 

The only time that water is not my friend is when I try to bathe my dog. She doesn’t write or need water to fill her soul, only her body.  She also needs water and soap to keep her smelling pleasant.  It’s water that allows her to sleep on my bed. She doesn’t know that water entitles her to the comfort of the pack.

Water—it keeps my lawn green; it washes every surface in my house.  It keeps me whole.

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Posted By Linda Spear on July 17, 2010

 Just when I think I have it all figured out and I’m  either licking my wounds because of the hurt I received, or I feel a wave of goodness pass through.

In the past week, I felt them both..  About two weeks ago, I met a so called “promoter” of people’s novels on Facebook.  He assured that he was looking for only the very best emerging novelists to promote at this website.  His slogan reads: “Over one million books were published last year, many a result of the explosion of print-on-demand (POD) and electronic books (ebooks). This is great news for readers who can find the gems buried in the mountain of self-published books. Unfortunately, most self-published books are expensive and many are supremely disappointing.”

And that had been my own experience.  If one doesn’t have an agent and a resolute publishing company, anxious to help you sell well, you must resort to your own aptitude to market and sell.

Unfortunately, most writers I know are not salespeople.  They write beautifully and can even put together a brilliant press release, but talking to those who could sell the books directly is not a talent that most of us possess.

 Such is my problem.  I am shy.  I love to talk to friends, but strangers concern me.  I give book talks, but I’m only relaxed when I’m one on one with people, or signing the books bought at the end. So as an author with books to sell, I am always looking for people or ways to market my work far better than me.

 Such was the case two weeks ago when a marketer with a startup indie business claimed to be able to sell well written books in a broad based way. Sounded good to me! We decided that I would put him in touch with my writer friends for his help in marketing my book.  So I spent hours gathering the names of my writer friends from Facebook and other sources—all totaled 962 men and women—and sent the names to him. 

Needless to say, I sent my own book to him via snail mail and expected the response I’ve gotten from others I know, who read the book.  People really love it and some have said it was hard to put down.  And people whom I don’t know have no reason to lie to me.

And what did Mr. Indie Promoter say?  The story had its “definition,” but he didn’t like its style.  And what did that mean?  You tell me. The bottom line is he wouldn’t promote it.

So it came down to dollars and cents in the end, and perhaps more.  The book does have an ethnic twist and several thoughts about that occurred to me.  But he now had the names of my contacts and I had nothing…not even the cost of snail mail to send the book his way.

How would this affect you?  I’ll tell you how what it did to me. I got angry, vengeful and ready to retaliate.  But wait!  That’s not my style; I don’t know how to respond to a common thief.  I’ve often thought that if someone harmed a loved one, I’d respond as only one should do at a time like that.  With REAL vengeance.  But thievery did not fall into that category.

So that night, I went to bed in tears. After all, I had been ripped off by the creep who doesn’t even show his face on his website.  And my circle of writer friends could now become the unknowing recipients of his hustle.  Damn!

Bythe next morning, before I even thought about what else was required of me that day, I wrote the following on my Facebook age:  “Well, I can tell you that I’m not taking over the world in the business of writing, but I helped a stupid schmuck of a man to bolster his book marketing business by sending him the names of 962 FB friends who are writers to consider his marketing skills. What I didn’t know was since I bartered with him for my book to be promoted in exchange for all of those with whom he could connect. I got nothing in return by a cold comment about the book needing a good edit.

”Funny thing is the book sells well as you know and no one complains about its edit. The thing was that I didn’t pay him for his “efforts” and he essentially stole the names from me.

”So am a I smart, edgy woman? NO. I am an innocent. But those of you who know me, already know that. I am, however, honorable, and kept my end of the bargain.  So I hope those of my Facebook friends who decide to work with him and spend good money, gain substantially from the experience.  So if you are considering his pitch, think twice.  I do care about you.”

I immediately felt better.  I had done the right thing.  And on that very same day, this is what happened:  Over two hundred books were sold from my website and Amazon.com.  And every day since then, more people are buying and sending me notes of grace, thanking me for telling them what and who to avoid.  They know that I orginally thought I was helping them, but when I found out that his scam might hurt, they heard the truth straight from me.

 I know there are dispicable people out in the world, but fortunately my experience has been to move through life with the best of best.

 Thanks, gang!

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Posted By Linda Spear on July 14, 2010

It always amazes me when I think of the lengths that some people will go to be in the limelight.  That’s not me. 

Different?  I don’t think so.  I’ve never been known for being unusual in any way except that I don’t compete. 

Born at seven pounds and standing not so tall at 20 inches, I started with an unremarkable childhood.  I grew up in a lovely suburb where I studied as much or as little as any ordinary child, and only excelled in English and languages.

College was much the same experience for me, because I chose courses in which I could do well and I avoided the math and sciences that took me down in high school. But my parents, however, told me that they would only help pay for college if I became a teacher. If that was the only way to get an undergraduate degree, it’s what I had to do.

By the time I was out of school, I taught second grade.  Although I’m certain that I didn’t ruin any child’s life, I can assure you I was not an extraordinary teacher.  Two of my close friends, however, were the best in the business.  Their care and concern for their students pointed out my inability to teach and made it clear that I was in the wrong profession. 

Teachers are judged on merit by virtue of year end test scores that teacher cannot control unless they have the test answers to illegally feed to the students.  If they do what’s right, they make every effort to address the needs of each child, but that doesn’t necessarily bring out the best test results, after all is said and done. 

I hated the competition between teachers to raise the scores of children so they would receive glowing evaluations at the end of the school year.  I preferred to be judged on what I did, not what the people I tried to teach would do on tests.

That’s when I chose to follow the path of a writer/journalist, which is what I hoped to do all along.  I didn’t have to compete with anyone to see my byline on newsprint. It took many years to develop my writing skills and hone them to work for the New York Times.  It took even longer to learn corporate communications, which I enjoyed for ten years before a huge downsize of my multinational company. But I loved doing it all.

Later on, I learned how to ghostwrite for doctors who don’t have time to write their own books about their specialties.  But I saved the best for last.  Now I’m writing fiction and my first novel, “I Know You by Heart,” published at the end of 2009, sprang from my soul and has entranced lots of readers, so far.  I’m writing my second fiction now and it’s entitled, “A Promise in the Wind.” I believe that this book will be as well respected as the first.

So does that make me different?  I don’t think so.  What makes me different is that I chose to follow my passion which many people fail to do in their lives.  If I had continued to do what my parents insisted I do, I would have been miserable all my life. 

I learned early, that life is not a competition; I do my own thing and don’t look back and forth; side to side to decide if I’m doing things right.  Does that make me different? I don’t think so. 

It just makes me happy.

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Posted By Linda Spear on July 11, 2010

Notes from friends started to pour in. “Linda, what’s this all about?” I looked at the scribble they encapsulated in their own that said, “impressiev. i’m usre ti’s you drnk on tihs vidoe.” And below it, I surmise was a video of a drunk woman.

I didn’t open it to find out.

But what I recognize was the plan of an intelligent person who had the brains to use the word, impressive, but to spell it, and everything else, incredibly wrong.

But my big question is, WHY? Why does anyone choose someone, I suspect, he or she does not know, to spread this lie and send it to all of my friends on Facebook? Why would he or she then attack all the women I know, whose names start with the letter “L” and send it to their friends?

There is surely no money to make in this venture; no fame to gain and only a personal snicker, if that, for the discomfort it causes the people framed for the stupidity of the spammer.

I’ve never been spammed before and I always thought that spammers sought to steal a source of income when they crack your password to get to your files. But in this instance, there was nothing for them, but shame for me that my name was used in this way.

Was that the purpose? Why me? Where is this idiot who wants to hurt thousands of people…not just me?

I spent a good deal of time last evening, thinking about the value of Facebook for me. Yes, I have met some extraordinary people on this social utility and some very silly ones as well. I’ve gotten to know dog lovers like me and book enthusiasts who have read my new novel and write their own stellar fiction.

There would be no other way for me to meet these people—some of whom live rather near me, and some in the United Kingdom, Australia and Canada. It doesn’t seem to matter. We grow close because of our interests and happiness we share in celebrating each other’s victories and occasions. We also share compassion for those who suffer with loss or illness.

So what shall I do? I could just talk to many of these people privately, through private email and not remain on the public forum, or I could have faith that this will never happen to me again. I’m not sure what I’ll do.

I’ll let you know when I decide.

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Posted By Linda Spear on July 9, 2010

Yes, I was a member of my high school’s Glee Club.  I also sang in a specialized group called the A Cappella Choir, where we were often singled out to do solos while the rest of the group backed us up.  I also sang in a trio we named “The Three Lindas,” as we were three of a kind, and we sang the trendy songs of our era. 

Did this make us stand out in a crowd?  Probably. But not in any way we welcomed.  Often, despite the fact that we sounded pretty good, like the kids on “Glee,” we were mocked for our efforts to produce reasonable renditions of our favorite songs.   

So you might ask if this was the result of our efforts, why did we bother?  It’s because…we sang.  We didn’t play sports; we didn’t attempt to run the politics of student council and we didn’t party hardy.  We sang.  

While I was in high school, I never realized how nerdy I must have seemed.  My friends and I…the other two Lindas…went to classes, studied in the library, and waited with anticipation for every Glee Club practice.  There were about 50 of us all together, singled out in groups for our voice range, vibrado and power to sustain the notes to the end of a phrase.  There were no smokers in this group; we all understood the limitations that cigarettes would place on our talents.

I now watch the TV show, “Glee,” that features the derision that kids who don’t play sports or rule the councils often face.  We held no power or popularity within our class.  There wasn’t a Lady Ga Ga or Adam Lambert among us.  We just sang.  And I can tell you, there are rare moments of warmth and harmony than being surrounded by other clear and robust vocals when we merged our voices in practice or performance.

So I can say with certainty that I never wanted to be a cheerleader; I didn’t have that bendable talent or body type.  I certainly didn’t want to play field hockey because I hated the thought of a puck  flying toward my face.  And I certainly didn’t want to run for student office. I really hate to compete.  All I wanted to do was sing; so that’s what I did.

Once in college, I learned from my boyfriend how to play the guitar and I sang with him and our buddies who also must have been in Glee Club in high school.  

When I started teaching elementary school, I used the guitar and my widening index of songs to help my students learn all kinds of things.  It also calmed the class after particularly difficult days in the heat and humidity that welcomed summer.  My own children benefited from this trait of mine.  I sang to them with the guitar from the time they were infants and we continued to sing together as they got older. 

Now that they are grown, we only talk about the songs we used to sing, as the guitar rests against a wall in the living room. “You Are My Sunshine” used to make my older daughter cry.  Now, only the mention of that song makes her cry again.  Sometimes,I dust off my guitar and wax up the wood. But for some reason, it and my singing voice have been on hold, as time transferred my traits and talents to other sources for my energy.   

But I’ll never forget that time in my life when singing and playing my guitar to Peter, Paul and Mary songs took up so much of my time in that wonderful part of my life.  I wonder what it would feel like to put new strings on my guitar, tune it up and try it out again.  Is it time to put it away in a closet for good, or reconnect with music and my instrument and the best part of my past?

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Posted By Linda Spear on June 28, 2010

I’m listening to Lady Antebellum, a relatively new Country group, singing my favorite of their songs.  It brings back the memories I don’t want to revive. The thoughts are of another era; a hard time when I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening to my heart.

So it goes like this:

“Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reachin’ for the phone ’cause I can’t fight it anymore
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the time.”

There he is in my head, especially when it’s quiet and there nothing I need to think about. And he’s the last person I should think about. 

“It’s a quarter after one; I’m all alone and I need you now.

Said I wouldn’t call but I’ve lost all control and I need you now. And I don’t know how I can do without
I just need you now.”

Really want to drink; but it only makes me sick.  Only wish I could focus on something else—something good that has nothing to do with him.

”Another shot of whiskey can’t stop looking at the door
Wishing you’d come sweeping in the way you did before
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the time”

Read a book?  Maybe something light that would take my focus off of him.  Light?  What is light enough?  A children’s book because it tells tales of experience long before I met him.

It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk and I need you now. Said I wouldn’t call but I lost all control and I need you now. And I don’t know how I can do without. I just need you now.

But what I know is that the first love is the last love and one that never leaves.

”Guess I’d rather hurt than feel nothin’ at all. And it’s still
 a quarter after one I’m all alone and I need you now.
And I said I wouldn’t call but I’m a little drunk and
I just need you now; 

Summer and lifelong love walk in lock step, and I need you now.

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