Evan Thomas smiled at the clerk who helped him with the bouquet. “I’m glad you have tulips.”
She smiled back. “Oh, yes. They’re available pretty much all year, but May is one of the best months. What colors are you looking for?”
“Mom’s favorites – pink and white. Six of each. Right, Dad?” Evan looked up into his father’s eyes, a good three feet above Evan’s head. His father nodded first at Evan and then at the clerk.
“You can fill out the card while I wrap these up.”
“Up you go, Bud,” said the father as he reached down and hoisted Evan up to sit on the counter. “You pick out the card.”
Evan scanned the rack looking at each little card for just the right one. He saw one with cartoon characters that he watched while his mom made him breakfast. Evan pointed to it. “This one.”
His dad hesitated then said okay and set Evan back on the floor. Taking the card from the rack, he carefully wrote Love, from Evan and Charlie. He handed the card to the clerk who placed it with the bouquet then handed the bundle to Evan. Charlie reached into his back pocket for his wallet while Evan checked out the bouquet. “This is nice.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Evan watched as she and her dad traded things back and forth. When he saw his dad put the wallet back in his pocket he knew they were done.
“Let’s go, Bud.” They made their way out to the SUV where Charlie secured Evan into the booster seat. After making sure the flowers were safe on the seat next to him, Evan started looking out the window as his dad drove through town. He saw the sign for his mom’s favorite restaurant and wondered if they would be eating there tonight.
Eventually, the vehicle slowed and made a turn into a place with lots of trees and lawns everywhere you looked. There were several twists and turns to take before they came to a stop and Charlie turned off the engine. Soon, Evan stood outside the SUV holding the bouquet while his father grabbed something else from the backseat. After shutting the door and hearing the ‘beep’ of the lock, they made their way across the lawn toward a set of familiar trees with a statue nearby. They came to a stop about ten feet away from where the granite angel stood watch over all entrusted to her care.
The flowers from a couple weeks ago had fallen upon the headstone at their feet. Evan knelt down to pick up the wilted plants and put them in the plastic bag he took from his pocket. He put the fresh flowers above the stone. Charlie bent over and placed a small American flag to the left of the marker. They both stood up. Evan silently took his father’s hand and read the headstone to himself.
Michelle Thomas
PFC US Army
Wife and Mother
In remembrance of those who gave their life in the service of our country, and for the families who held them dearest.
Do you ever feel that your computer is driving you crazy? I do. Lately, every morning after I pour myself a cup of coffee and turn it on, there’s a message on the screen from my security service with an ominous black border around it. It says: “We have encountered a critical error in your files!”
“Oh no! What am I going to do? Has someone hacked into my computer while I was sleeping? Is it going to crash?”
I immediately start looking for this critical error. I try everything I can think of. Nothing works. The next morning it’s there again: the same unnerving message with the black border around it.
Three days ago, I think, “What do I have to lose?” I click on the tab that has the list of infected files and read each of their names. I don’t recognize any of them. They don’t sound like infected files. But, then, who knows what an infected file name sounds like?
“Maybe I should just delete all of them. But, what if I need them later?” A few years ago I’d almost deleted some files I didn’t understand. At the last moment I stopped when I suddenly realized they were system files. I don’t want to make that mistake again.
Then I remember my security service. I click on the tab that says it will tell me what to do. I don’t know who wrote the instructions. They might as well have been written in Mandarin Chinese pictographs for all the help they gave me. I can’t understand a thing.
Then I have a brilliant idea: “I’ll email my security service, describe the problem, and ask for help. They’re supposed to know about these things. They said they’d send me an answer overnight.”
When I wake up the next morning I can’t wait to get to my computer and check my email. There it is: a message from George at my security service.
The first paragraph gives me hope. It is all about how he is going to help me. The second paragraph is more problematic. George tells me to quarantine the infected files and send them to him.
“Quarantine the infected files! How do I quarantine files? If I knew that I probably wouldn’t need George.”
I shoot George an email saying, “Thanks for offering to help, but I don’t have the faintest idea how to quarantine files. Can’t you just remotely access my computer and take the files? I don’t want them.”
When I checked my computer yesterday morning, there it was again: another error message with an ominous black border around it and another email from George. “No problem,” he said, “I’ve just sent you directions.”
I read his directions carefully, all twelve of them. They are single-spaced, in ten-point font, and take up most of the page.
Right after breakfast I sit down and start working my way through the list. After two hours I feel really good. I’d finished eleven of them. “One more to go. Then this will all be George’s problem.”
I read number twelve, three times. It makes no sense to me. I haven’t the faintest idea what he is talking about or where to look.
Then I realize, “I’m really in trouble now. The first direction told me to unhook my security system. Now I can’t do number twelve and I’m exposed to every threat on the web. I have no protection. I have infected, probably very dangerous files, and I don’t know how to send them anywhere.” My head is beginning to throb!
I decide to email George. I tell him, “I’m a mere mortal. I was created before the Age of Computers. Although I have a college education, a master’s degree and a successful career, I can’t figure out number twelve. Please help me!”
This morning I get up and look at my computer. “I think I’d better fortify myself first.” So I take two aspirin and drink a big glass of water for the headache I know I’m going to have. Then I check my email.
There it is, George’s message: “Call this number.”
“Call this number! Why didn’t he tell me this in the first place? I didn’t need the twelve single-spaced directions in ten-point font. The phone number will solve everything.”
I phone and Tom answers. He asks me a few questions, gives me a few simple directions and within five minutes everything is solved.
The critical error message with the ominous black border around it is gone. My screen is clear. I have no more infected files and I don’t need the two aspirin. But, I still feel that my computer and I are a match made in hell.
On this blog, I’ve written about journal writing. I’ve written about reading books. There was a time when I did both: I read books and journaled about them. Go figure.
After last month’s journal expedition, I wandered through my bookshelf and discovered a journal wherein I reviewed books for myself as a reminder of what I read and what I thought. I forgot I had done that.
My inspiration came from those funky “record your recollections” books found in your bookstore’s gift section. The fun titles and decorative covers invite you to review wines, where you drank them and save the wine labels. You could write about the places you traveled and significant snippets of the journey. Journal titles encouraged memories of meals and restaurants, favorite songs, meaningful quotes, garden plantings, lists and more. Since my two main interests were books and movies, I decided I would chronicle my impressions of each.
Rather than pay for a fancy-schmancy, pretentious book with pages too small for a proper review, I could make my own book better than any preprinted book. Besides, I found a pair of regal spiral bound notebooks, elegant in their 8″x10″ stature. The simple black hardcover was perfect for a funky, relevant, inspirational postcard. I clipped identical, important-looking blue gel pens in the rings. I was set to write whether at home or on-the-go.
I recorded each book in the same look, manner, and design: “The Title” by Author; Month and year I finished reading, and my review.
It was the prehistoric equivalent of modern day Goodreads.
I tabbed four sections. The front main pages were reviews of the books I read. The second tabbed section I reserved for books recommended to me or that I wanted to read. The last section has some pencil scribblings on the first page; it looks like I planned a “books I borrowed or loaned.” I didn’t know enough people who read books. There is a third section tabbed off but with nothing written on those pages I have no clue what I intended.
I reviewed books from July 1999 through September 2002. My first reviewed book will remain nameless because it is so horrible. I wrote: “College life…here was my chance to see how someone else does it. I’ve learned how not to do it. I have no idea what any of the characters look like. Everyone swore, drank and got drunk. C’mon, a keg at your final? A torture to read but I had to finish it for story’s sake. I forgot that there had been a framing structure at the beginning. Events just end and everything is summed up neatly, compactly, and smoothly like the end of the stereotypical sitcom. Now writing about it, I can put it out of my mind.”
That book was my first exposure to self-published books, often called vanity press back then. This book had to be good. After all, it was a hardback book, with a colorful cover, I discovered at an independent book fair in New York City. That gave it validation. Ever since I read it, this is the book I refer to anytime I need an example of poor writing and the desperate need for an editor.
The General’s Daughter by Nelson DeMille. July 1999
“Print from this ‘old style’ trade paperback dirties my fingers. I like the movie better than the book. Narrator often sounded like the author, not the character.” The ending was given away too soon. Very few ‘he said’ in text and was often confused by who was speaking. Movie was more coherent, flowed better.”
The House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. November 5, 1999
“Never was I so glad to finish a book!”
I developed a fascination about writing the true story of a real person. I moved away from fiction and desperately sought solid nonfiction. I read a series of disappointing memoirs after that. One review included my insightful comment: “In the last two memoirs, the struggle is established at the beginning but then the readers never reap the benefits of success.”
Good advice to remember as I finish my memoir.
Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. November 25, 1999
“This book made me uncomfy [uncomfortable]. That was wonderful! I want to read it again.” In January 2000, I did just that. “The second reading as powerful as the first. Real writing, honest and true yet not sappy. There’s a reason this has been on the best seller list for over 100 weeks.”
Falling Leaves by Adeline Yen Mah. Saturday, March 4, 2000
“A tragic memoir wonderfully told. Her words: simple, and I got so caught up in her storytelling I didn’t notice.”
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. June 2000
“Good example of a story told through many smaller, seemingly unrelated stories. I’d like to see how the movie translated this fine book.”
As of this writing, I have not yet seen the movie.
The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank. August 13, 2000
“What a quick read! Recommended by Jane, I echo her thoughts: I wish I’d written this book.”
Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden. March 2001
“It has been so long since a book snagged me so completely. I was up nights swallowing every word until way past my practical bedtime.”
I wrote about the Harry Potter series from December 1999 to 2002. Interesting how my opinion has changed since those initial readings.
My last entry is Diary of a Mad Bride by Laura Wolf. September 2002
“B-day gift from Dawn, I read it in about one week. Funny, and a lot more truth in there than any bride would care to admit. Written in short journal entries, it’s easy to read. I must read this closer to my wedding 🙂 again!”
I never did read that book again, but maybe I will now, especially since I am married. One part of my New Year’s Non-Resolutions is to revisit and reread an old favorite book. I’m faced with a dilemma: which one do I choose?
Do you have any recommendations of good books to read, or ones to avoid?
(Photograph by: Greg Bixby) The 141st Kentucky Derby drew an all-time record number of attendees: 170,513.
Arriving for the 141stKentucky Derby, I caught a glimpse of Millionaires Row. I wasn’t at Churchill Downs, however. My commercial flight had just landed at Louisville International Airport and was taxiing to its gate. I peered out the window and saw row upon row of private jets that had been lined up and left by their affluent owners to taunt us commoners, and even the slightly more privileged first class passengers onboard. Impressive in number, there were roughly a hundred planes that I could see from my carefully selected exit row seat. Having paid extra for Delta Comfort+, I gained more legroom and a free alcoholic beverage. Not a bad way to start my first trip to watch the greatest, fastest, most exciting two minutes in sports, complete with Thoroughbred horses, mint juleps, live entertainment, and photo ops.
In preparing for my experience at Derby, I read pages of online information regarding the race’s history and traditions, betting tips, security procedures, and recommendations on attire. The official Derby website offered a host of pictures that supported the importance of hats for ladies and proper clothing for all. I looked through photos from last year’s event to learn what was acceptable amongst the crowd of spectators, which included highly successful celebrities and businesspeople, as well as ordinary women, like me. I wanted to dress appropriately enough to blend in.
Beyond the advice I garnered from the internet, my greatest ally was one of my friends. She’s a perfect southern belle–Maria knows Kentucky; she’s from Louisville; she’s passionate about Derby. Relying upon her expertise and guidance, I gained comfort in my evolving plans, which heavily focused on exactly what to wear, what to expect, and how to fit in.
In retrospect, Maria had started training me for Derby Day many years ago when I attended a Derby party at her home. Other than neglecting to invite Josh Groban to sing “The Star- Spangled Banner,” she provided the essentials. We decorated hats, drank one too many mint juleps, ate Derby pie, and cheered for the stars: the horses.
Her party was a far greater introduction into the sport of horse racing than my husband Greg’s and my earlier attempt to figure it out on our own. We were still in college when we drove south from Michigan to Louisville Downs for harness racing. The first horse on which we placed a bet was injured during its race, went lame and settled in last place. Our next chosen hopeful literally collided with another team, quickly recovered from the accident, but was confused and ran in the opposite direction.
There were no cash winnings for us on that cloudy, gray day. I think it may have had something to do with our strategy for picking a winner. We simply relied upon dumb luck (had we won, it would have been “good luck”) to guide us in weeding through the names of the horses.
Winner or not, I remember feeling like an outsider, a northerner, a “Damn Yankee.” Nobody specific made me feel that way. I was self-aware that I didn’t fit in. Because I have a distinct, well-established, born and bred Midwest accent, I didn’t talk like I was from the South.
A few things have changed in the twenty-eight years since I whimsically bet on the horses in Kentucky.
First, there is no more Louisville Downs. As a horse racing enthusiast, writer, and blogger of Horse Racing Business, Bill Shanklin reports that, “Louisville Downs presented harness racing until 1991, when it closed. Today, the Louisville Downs site is owned by Churchill Downs and is used as a training center and occasionally as a simulcasting facility.”
(Photograph by: Kelly Bixby) Louisville Visitors Center welcomes all.
Second, I’ve learned the biggest secret to blending in: pronounce “Louisville” correctly, y’all. Thanks to Maria, I’ve had that one down pat for years. “Say Louisville as if you have marbles in your mouth,” she once told me. I’ve practiced it ever since: “Looavul.” Got it.
In addition, my betting strategy for selecting a winning horse has improved. I’ve learned that, before the big race, it’s important to take a look at the horses in the paddocks, pay attention to the trainer’s and the jockey’s reputations, and consider the odds. Ultimately, going with a hunch can settle any last minute uncertainty.
What hasn’t changed is the fanfare and excitement of Derby Day. It calls to people worldwide and becomes a bucket list item for many, the super-rich and the not-so-rich alike. As a result, people-watching has become a highly anticipated form of entertainment.
(Photograph by: Greg Bixby) Cheers to Derby hats!
As I walked around the grounds of the 141st Kentucky Derby, my eyes gravitated right to the hats. I suspect that each hat revealed something about the personality of the one wearing it. One woman wore a creative hat that replicated the Twin Spires and had two brown horse heads protruding from the base. Another hat was playfully covered in larger than life-sized pink petals and looked like a giant flower. Plastic champagne bottles and roses were popular adornments for many other expressive people. Personally, I chose a fairly modest, medium brimmed hat topped with ribbons, flowers and feathers, all of which complemented the shades of pink and green in my dress.
(Photograph by: Greg Bixby) Decisions, decisions. What do you wear to Derby?
I spotted an ensemble that I liked best on one of my male hosts. He wore a red and white checked sports coat, a white shirt and dress slacks, the latter of which he tucked into black riding boots. He completed his outfit with a hand-painted silk tie displaying the image of a winning jockey sitting upon a champion horse, blanketed in roses. The pair portrayed in the tie coincidentally resembled my favorite contender: American Pharoah.
How had I arrived at my favorite? I’d like to say that it was because American Pharoah looked powerful and intimidating; Bob Baffert trained him; Victor Espinoza would be riding him; and the odds were good at 5-2. In complement to all those strengths, I had found remnants from an interview in which five retired Hall of Fame jockeys and a retired Hall of Fame trainer admired and touted American Pharoah. But then Maria sent me a video clip of “Puppy Predictors 2015 Kentucky Derby Edition” from The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon. She pointed out that the results could jinx my horse.
(Photograph by: Kelly Bixby) Second to finish, Gary Stevens, center, reaches out to the 141st Kentucky Derby winner, Victor Espinoza, number 18
In the end, I persevered through the decision making and stood strong with my original conviction to place a winning bet on American Pharoah. I had relied on more than a hunch to help me recover losses from the day’s earlier races. Since a friend had recently starred as Pharaoh in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, I knew all along upon whom I would place my winning bet.
Like most late-1950’s American teenagers in Detroit, I fell in love with automobiles and began tinkering with our family’s grocery-getter sedan with the help of friends. My best friend’s father had a brand new 1956 “Rocket” Oldsmobile with a relatively-high 202 horsepower for the time. I couldn’t figure out why my friend’s dad bought it, knowing his son’s sometimes wayward inclinations. Does anyone buy a hundred dollars worth of steak, put a dog in the same room, and tell it not to eat it? On many a late night my friend would put it in reverse and floor it until we hit 30 mph. Then he’d shift into drive and the tires would spin in a haze of burning rubber as we screeched forward a half-block. Years later, only after receiving an engineering degree, did I realize how durable that Oldsmobile was. Amazingly, nothing ever broke but his father always complained about his lousy GM rear tires wearing out so quickly.
Michigan’s first National Hot Rod Association drag racing facility, Detroit Drag Way, opened downriver near Dix and Sibley. This was a big event; even families were talking about drag-racing as adventurous outings. One Saturday night, my Olds-friend had been granted the privilege of taking me and another guy out for hamburgers. He had a surprise for us; instead of burgers and milkshakes, we headed to the Detroit Drag Way to race the Olds without his father knowing. I couldn’t believe I was involved in something so obviously wrong, more dangerous than drinking stolen Mogen David wine at a drive-in movie. If the car was damaged in any way, we were dead meat, trust and credibility were gone.
Nearing the drag strip, the night sky was lit by roving searchlights, blaring loudspeakers, bellowing cars, and screaming race fans. It was pandemonium, with howling cars streaking away in the distance every few minutes. I ran to the grandstand area near the starting line to watch. Sure enough, there it was, the two-tone Oldsmobile in line moving up to race into the night. My friend and I cheered mightily as the car’s tires spun with a burnout perfected late at night on neighborhood streets. As the starting lights blinked down to green, Olds-friend gunned the engine and the poor sedan, never built for something like this, howled wanting to lunge forward. Lights were flashing. Race spectators were screaming. A flash of raw fuel and burning rubber flowed over the stands. Focused on the starting light, I didn’t feel a nudge in the ribs at first.
Glancing rearward, I froze. Both my parents and Oldsmobile friend’s parents were sitting two rows up in the grandstand, probably the first and last time they would be attending a family adventure together. Our totally respectable, middle-aged, mid-American parents had decided to visit the drag strip this particular night to see what everyone was talking about. My friend and I, two sets of stunned parents, and a thousand-plus spectators watched as the starting light flashed. My unknowing Olds- friend timed it perfectly, the car gathering its flanks and lurching forward, gaining speed, screaming down the quarter-mile track, loud speakers finally announcing a great run. His speed flashed on a large board at the end of the quarter-mile, a respectable 84 mph, and we ran to meet him on the return road. After excited laughter and congratulations, we told him about our parents in the stands and his wide grin became a wide-eyed grimace. There wasn’t much talking on the drive home. Later, my own parents didn’t seem to think much of the incident, assuming my Oldsmobile friend had his father’s permission.
A few days later, fearing the worst, we three met at a local soda fountain to find out what happened. Olds-friend said when his father returned that night, he thought he would be maimed for life by a sound belt-whipping. But the night’s transgression was so great, apparently, his father just asked what his elapsed time had been before telling him he should go to bed, and that it had been quite a night. I don’t recall his father ever mentioning his GM tires again.
Evan Thomas smiled at the clerk who helped him with the bouquet. “I’m glad you have tulips.”
