NaNoWriMo Words for day 2

Just going to start posting chapters for the novel I've been working on for sometime. Keep in mind, I write Young Adult and/or children's books, so I try to keep it at that level. I either write too high for that age group or too low - so this is all just practice. So, here is a chapter from "Liberty":

James River Tobacco Plantation, 1838

The sharp cry of a newborn followed by hushed whispers and scurrying feet was all that Thomas James could remember of the exact moment that his daughter Sarah was born. He had been holding back tears when Imari placed the tiny infant in his arms, the baby seemed so fragile and so much smaller than any of her brothers. She was merely whimpering now but he focused on looking into her beautiful face, so much like her mothers, that he tuned out the sharp voices coming from just the other side of the bedroom door.

It wasn’t until he felt the slaves hand on his arm, then the look on Imari’s face that he realized that something was terribly wrong. Clara had not yet called for him like she usually did after each baby, both to chastise him for his role in putting her through the childbirth, and to coo over the babies. The slave’s eyes told him everything, her voice barely audible.

“It was complications. She just lost too much blood. We tried Mastuh.” Imari had said. To Thomas, it was the end of life as he knew it. Clara had been his voice of reason, his friend, his beautiful wife and childhood sweetheart. His confidant. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He numbly placed the child into Imari’s arms and left the house to get away from the noise. He calmly began to smoke his pipe and shed the tears that now flowed freely down his face.

He didn’t know how he was going to make it without her; and yet, he had to go on. He had seven children now and a plantation to run and business to see to. His sons needed their education and discipline, as well as training with the horses and livestock, and he would soon have to teach Thomas William, his oldest son and namesake, all the business of running the plantation. Thomas was only twelve, but it was never too early to learn how to run the business.

Luckily, Imari had seen to the needs of the baby without him having to worry, having recently given birth to her own daughter, so he immediately buried himself with these worries and pushed his pain aside.

That was a month ago. The funeral was short; it was so cold and the ground was too hard to even dig the grave. Clara had been placed just off of the wood shed in a coffin of wet pine, covered in the snow until the ground thawed enough for digging a proper burial plot in the spring. It pained Thomas to think about it; so he didn’t. He immersed himself back into the business of running the plantation and seeing to the needs and castigations of his slaves, as well as the upbringing of his sons.

He barely noticed his new daughter at all at first. Until one day, Imari interrupted his daily Bible reading to his sons and placed Sarah in his arms.

“Mastah, I’m sorruh, but your daughter, she be needin her pa right now.” and she had walked away, leaving the bright eyed Sarah to look curiously into her papa’s eyes. That was all it took; the eyes, so much like her mothers, forming the connection he needed to drag him from his stupor. Sarah became his whole world after that moment.

When she wasn’t with Imari and Liberty, she was in a basket at her father’s feet, or playing with bobbles and toys under his desk. She was immediately wrapped around her father’s finger, as well as her brothers, and stationed in their hearts. There was almost nothing she could do that would upset anyone, particularly her father. Almost.

Sarah was only four years old the first time her father had to discipline her. She had been playing with Liberty on the floor of the busy kitchen and the two were playing a game of catch with a ball of rags.

The throws were becoming increasingly sporadic and out of control and the girls giggles, while entertaining, were irritating the kitchen slaves.

Caroline, a big robust slave with no patience for children, was just pulling a hot bread pudding from the oven when a missed toss sent the ball sailing across the kitchen, into the pudding, splattering the big round woman with burning liquid and startling her so that the pudding was then dropped, splashing the poor slave, the walls, the floors and sizzling into the belly of the oven.

When Sarah's father learned of the ruined pudding, his favorite, he had to forbid her from being in the kitchen, as well as discipline her for her defiance. Because he could not bear to spank his own daughter, she had been sent to bed without any supper; a punishment that turned out all the better for her as each of her brothers, feeling sorry for her, had each snuck food into the bedrooms that night. She was full of cold ham, biscuits with honey, a handful of fried potatoes, and molasses cookies by the time her father came to her that evening with a glass of warm milk and a piece of bread. He finished explaining to her the necessities of rules and why she was being punished when he offered her the food as a token of his pleasure at her obedience when she proclaimed

"Oh but papa, I can’t eat that!" He beamed briefly at her presumed adherence to her punishment, but quickly frowned as she went on

"I'm so full already with what Will and Libby and the boys brought me from their suppers. You go 'head an eat that papa; yous be needin sumpin for yoself’."

Though he knew he could not keep her from the clutches of Imari, her only known mother, whom she adored and had taken all of his children under her careful watch and he certainly could not part her from the company of Liberty, with whom she would have shared a bed if he had allowed. No, he couldn’t help their current circumstances, but the law being the law and slaves being slaves, he would have to do something about his daughters unlikely ‘kinship’ with his slaves and the mannerisms that she was picking up on.

His first thought was boarding school, but the thought of sending Sarah away nearly broke his heart and he just couldn’t dream of it. But it was in that moment that Thomas decided what his daughter needed was a proper tutor and "white" teacher and the sooner the better. If he couldn’t send her to boarding school, he would bring one to her. (end chapter)

Okay, so that is the introduction. Hopefully it gives enough background without having to back too far, and just so much that you know the setting and hopefully some of the characters. The rest of the story will be about Sarah adjusting to her 'prim and proper' tutor, her friendship with Libby and some of the trouble that that cause, her relationship with her father. At some point, Sarah will realize what slavery actually means and that she does not adhere to that way of life. Her quest at that point will be to help Libby seek freedom via the underground railroad (after her mother, Imari's untimely and suspicious death) and together the two young girls (probably at around the age 13 mark) run away to go North, to Canada. While traveling the U G railroad with the help of abolitionists and allies I was thinking that it would be neat for them to meet the actual Harriet Tubman and other real people who are often associated with the "Freedom Train." May even change the name of the novel to Freedom Train, though the rough title is Liberty.

You can let me know what you think if you want. Good and bad, all feedback is welcome.

What's In a Name?

I'm not just made up of the Burch family genes. I have Beattie in me too. I think the luck on that side is not as bad, or maybe just not talked about. Either way, our family has some good memories of Beattie Christmases, family reunions and get togethers.

Nothing, however, is as successful at bringing a family together quite like a funeral. It's sad to think that this is sometimes what it takes, but at the same time, celebrating the life of a loved one with other loved ones is time well spent.

My Uncle Speed would have loved his own funeral. So much laughter, all the cousins together for the first time in thirty + years. Cards were played, stories were told, tears were shed, and hugs were shared all around.

The world lost a great man when Speedy left this earth. He was a great artist, a practical jokester, an architectural engineer, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother, an uncle, a friend.

At his funeral, the pastor of the church asked those who wanted to, to come forward and share a story about Speed. A memory or two. I was taken off guard to say the least. First of all, I didn't have anything prepared and as I am NOT a public speaker, this was a detriment to anything I would or could have shared anyway. Secondly, there are so many Speed stories that I can think of, that I froze. I needed to hear what others were sharing, but at the same time, I was picking through my brain for Speed memories I could possibly share with others without breaking up in front of people.

I could have talked about me spending the first few months of my life with Uncle Speed and Aunt Jo because my mom got sick with Hepatitis and couldn't care for me. How Uncle Speed wouldn't let me go to the baby sitter if Jo couldn't watch me, so he would stay home from work to be with me. But I don't really remember that, as I was only a baby.

Maybe the first time I ever caught a fish. It was in his pond, at the foot of the "mountain" that was left over after he dug it. Or, one of the many summers I spent at his farm, getting up with the roosters, gathering eggs because he told me I couldn't eat breakfast or lunch until I did "my chores."

The ole "mongoose" trap he had rigged. Feeding his pet squirrels with a baby bottle. I finally thought of one that would have fit, so I decided I would just blog it instead (what since the funeral is already over and all).

At one time, Uncle Speed raised Lhasa Opsa's. His main breeder pup was named, Angie. I remember the first time I saw her, I fell in love. She was so pretty. White, long hair. We had gone to Oolagah to spend the weekend at Speed's and the minute I walked in the door I was all over that fluffy dog. And then Speed said something like "This is Angie, and since we named her after you, you will have to pick up her dog poop if she poops in the house, so keep an eye on her."

Never have I watched a dog so closely in my life! When she did happen to poo, I must have had my back turned or left the room. Uncle Speed called me into the living room, handed me the tissue and said "Clean it up!"

I had tears in my eyes as I bent down and picked up that darn pooh and so did Speed. His, though, were from holding back his laughter and he kindly opened the lid of the trash can for me to toss Angie's pooh. He didn't make me clean it up again though. I think, in spite of the ornery side in him, he did have enough compassion that he wasn't going to put a 9 yr old through that again. To this day, I still have a problem picking up dog poop during a dogs training stages. I typically would put a napkin over it and wait for Alan to get home.

But - I will never forget my first time picking up the pooh. Thank goodness they didn't name any other dogs after me.

I'll miss you Uncle Speed. And I'll never forget you.

It's the Most Wonderful Time

Yeah, okay. So the magic that we all felt on that first Christmas in our memory (the one with the surprises under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, family, the smell of turkey roasting and the thought that life was so incredibly wonderful to have all these presents...and...and.....yeah - that memory) is hard to find as an adult.

There is no real joy in wrapping Christmas gifts. Buying them is fun, but I find that even dropping something in the gift bags is tedius. I'm such a lazy wrapper that I put four of my son's small, cheap gadget gifts into one box and wrapped it all together.

I used to think that there was something wrong with my mother. She did not like Christmas. She grumbled about it all the time. I thought she either had a problem with Santa, or she didn't like the baby Jesus, but either way - to NOT like Christmas just seemed - sinful.

And yet, here I am years later making the same grumbles that used to make me gasp when I'd hear her complain. "I hate this time of year." The traffic in the mall parking lot is enough to make me want to scream, not to mention the traffic in the aisles at Wal-Mart! Oy!

Who to buy for, what to buy them, how much to spend. Whose house will we visit? Will they come here? Do I have to cook? Does that mean I have to clean off the dining room table (which we haven't used in at least a year and a half)?

We recently realized that, for the FIRST time in our 18 years of marriage, we won't be getting up Christmas morning, rushing our kids through their santa/stocking gifts while the green bean casserole heats up in the oven and then rushing over to hubby's parents to spend Christmas with that side of the family. Nor, will we be making the long drive to Kansas on Christmas Eve-Eve early morning after I've spent an entire night doing laundry (because I haven't for so long) and packing.

Nope - for the first time, we will be having Christmas at OUR house, with just US. I don't have to make turkey OR green bean casserole. I don't even have to get dressed if I don't wanna! I dont' even have to clear the table; we could eat at the coffee table in front of the t.v. like we usually do. We could.

But, I don't want my kids to have to search for that joy or fun or excitement that Christmas brings. I know it's about the birth of Christ, and all that yada yada yada. I want them to smell the turkey baking as they open their gifts. I want them to feel the grace when we hold hands and say grace at the dining room table and thank the one who made it all happen. Visa.

Okay. I could really stop there, but I can't. My baby girl was born on Christmas day, and whether she thinks it or not, I think it's WONDERFUL that she shares her birthday with the ONE. The ONE for which we celebrate the day in the first place. I thank him daily for my kids, my hubby, and this year, I'll be thanking him for the patience I know he's going to give me to get through the day without extended family.

Merry Christmas and Peace to all!

And So It begins

My first day on my NANOWRIMO account is listed as a failure because I didn't make it to 2,000 words. Day two is listed as a failure as well because I haven't written anything yet. Lovely feeling.

Couldn't they change that feature to read "Not there yet" or "Mostly There"? It seems self defeating to list me as a failure already on day one. Of course, the other times that I participated in Nanowrimo I didn't finish (or "win" as it's called).

I'm also having trouble keeping myself from "self-editing" as I go, which defeats the purpose.

That said - I probably won't blog about much this November, and if I do - I'm using it in my word count.

Just saying.

Triple Oh's and Marching Season

When am I ever going to have time to write again? It was pulling teeth to make myself write this blog today.

At work, it's the busiest time of my fall semester, in addition to blowing out some much needed work on my student data base, I've got apps to the program, scanning all our old files to .tiff documents, and the normal program advising stuff.

At home, when I am there (and that certainly isn't often) I either drop into bed from exaustion or scurry about trying to catch up on laundry, house cleaning, etc.

Yeah....none of that is currently getting done, as I could have safely written this entire blog entry with my finger in the dust on the television, piano and entertainment center. Dirty clothes have become my new floor covering; I have even been known to adjust the piles so that none are taller than the other and the colors of whatever items happen to be on top don't clash. The waste basket in the master bath is almost over flowing (I say almost because I occasionally skim off the top and put that into a trash bag...right next to the can). Oh well - at least it hasn't reached a mountainous peak and teetered over into the sink like my son's did once. Hey - I don't hardly ever go upstairs, and anyway, this is not your child!

So, housework can wait. It's the band chaperone thing that is filling my time and my weekends right now. The Viking Band has done SO remarkably well, I really do think they have a chance at going to State. What "being in the band" involves for me is riding the bus with the kids to all the away games and to all the marching competitions (oh and the occasional 'Please do not share a blanket if you are sharing a seat and you are of the opposite sex'). I'm not sure if it's just me, or the fact that I'm older and larger, but didn't buses used to have a lot more room? I think they added more seats to buses without adding any length. Long bus rides when you are Triple Oh's (Old, Overweight, Out-of-Shape) are extremely taxing on this old body. It takes me a good minute just to get down the steps after a long trip and that's not just because it's usually 1:30 a.m. or so.

Last Saturday, accompanied the band to the Waco Regional marching competition. I got up basically four hours after I got home from the Friday night high school football game in Copperas Cove (2:00 a.m.) and even though we made it home at the ripe ole hour of 11:30 p.m. Saturday night, I could not get out of bed until noon Sunday, and even then was only because I had to pee. I could barely lift a finger all day and still have not replenished the groceries in our house.

This week, the band is being instructed and drilled by the 'legendary', Brad Kerr Green, so practice is every evening from 4:30 - 6:30, in which the front ensemble is usually finished putting away their instruments close to 7:00 p.m. and I'm lucky to get home by 7:30 p.m.

What I'm trying to elude to is that I'm just tired. This Saturday, we leave at 5:30 a.m. ish to go to Regionals in San Antonio and likely won't return until 2:00 ish in the morning (Sunday).

How the 'legendary' Janice Clark, head band chaperone for (ever?), does it - the world may never know. I think it's because she doesn't suffer from the Triple Oh's.

I know, I know - I signed up for this. I don't regret it at all. I have a ball at the football games, dancing to the different pieces the band plays, being Pit Mom with my fellow Pit Mommas, Maryann and Susan, playing bus captain for the senior bus, and totally embarassing my daughter. It's a blast, and far more rewarding than any other volunteer work I have ever done.

I just wanted to take this time to explain why my house is a mess....should anybody happen to visit during marching season....

Littleton/Hiney Luck VS. Burch Luck

Yeah, so not everyone in the world is "lucky" enough to experience Burch Luck. I always thought that if you were a friend of a Burch, you would experience Burch Luck, By Association - a new phenomenon.


However, as luck would have it, I was able to experience luck of a different kind recently.
It took place during our third Tom Petty concert in The Woodlands, September 24, 2010. I guess we can call it "Littleton/Hiney" luck because this isn't the kind of luck that I normally have, though it could have gone either way.




Burch luck is where we forget the number of our hotel room so I just check the entry card on every door until the card finally works. . . . on the last door that you try.



So our hotel was a block and a half from a Shell station - a good place in which to buy bottled beverages for before the concert. Cathy Littleton and I trapsed over to the Shell station, purchased some beer (they even had limes! In a GAS STATION!?) and walked back to the hotel. By the time we got there, we were hot and ready for that first beer.



As I'm quickly trying to cut a lime with a partially dull pocket knife we realize that we have nothing with which to open a beer bottle.



Burch luck is where my friends would have actually let me use the sprinkler head to open the bottle. I'm sure it would have worked!




Littleton luck is where you open the door of the hotel room and ask the couple who just happens to be walking by if they have a bottle opener, to which they immediately reply "Yes" and hold one up. WTH?! So they opened our beers for us, told us to stop by anytime and invited us to imbibe with them before the concert (seems like everyone in the hotel was there to see ZZ Top and Tom Petty).




It turns out, that when you mix Littleton Luck with Hiney Luck, you have something close to Burch luck, but not as bad.




While looking for the parking lot, Littleton Luck told Hiney Luck to look for the "GREEN" parking lot, as she was sure that it was the "GREEN" lot that was closest to the pavillion. We spotted a parking lot attendant in a green shirt and whipped a U-turn and made our way in. Turns out, all the Cynthia Woods Pavillion employees wear green. It was actually the "ORANGE" lot we pulled into, but it got us to the concert none-the-less.




Once inside the venue, we decided to buy ice cold beer but were dismayed to find out that they don't serve adult beverages to minors and they CARD EVERYBODY. Only the Hiney brought her ID - and she was the designated driver. Now that IS Burch Luck.




But, it was either Hiney Luck or Littleton Luck that gave us Tom Petty in concert on the night before a throat infection caused him to have to cancel his next two concerts. It definitely wasn't Burch Luck, or we wouldn't have seen him at all. Maybe a combonation of the three that got us only (or should I say AT LEAST) two songs for a standing ovation (rather than the normal four). At least we got American Girl!!




Now, it was MOST DEFINITELY BURCH luck that had us at the back of a long bathroom line when a GREEN shirted Pavilllion attendant told us that the other bathroom had no line at all but when we got there, the line was longer than the first one.




In all - a good weekend. But woe to Gubenatorial candidate Bill White and the guy who was drunkenly campaigning for him; pulling a dachshund and a beer cooler in a wagon yelling at the top of his drunken lungs to "VOTE FOR BILL WHITE FOR GOVERNOR"

He'll need some kind of luck to pull up in this campaign.

Burch Luck and the Weight Loss Game

We all know that the 'battle of the bulge' (I hate that term but it fits, so suck it) is ONLY won if you cut down your caloric intake and/or counter it with exercise. That means "Eat Right and Exercise." It's the new CRAZE!

And most, if not all Burch's HATE it. It isn't even that we hate exercise so much. Okay, that's wrong too. We don't like exercise. We can tolerate it though if it's necessary.

It's the food part that catches a Burch. We like to eat and we like to eat a lot. That's not to say that we don't like healthy stuff. One of my favorite little veggie dishes is my Grandma Burch's cucumber/onion/vinegar stuff. Yummy! Goes good with her chili or goo-lash! And her homemade piecrust cinnamon rolls - nothing better. We fight over them. Yeah, about those veggie dishes....

So I stumbled on this blog that inspired me more than most if only because it included a Youtube video that was set to some nice, heart tugging music.

Now, I wanted to start this off by saying that it's a lot easier to lose weight if you're a guy. It's physics man. But 120 lbs for anybody is no small feat and I would have to wonder if Ben would agree that it was ANYTHING but easy. Bloody nipples folks - watch the video!

So, I'm a little worried about the nipples thing, but maybe a sports bra will help with that. If I keep coming up with excuses, I'm going to keep coming up with more weight to lose. As it is, I set ONE SMALL goal for myself and though it's really not that small, it's still a goal. I will have to lose 37 lbs - only 37 - to reach this goal. When I make it, I will set more.

For now, I'm planning my first marathon to be a year from now. That means my first half-marathon will have to be in 5-6 months. Let's see what happens.

Burch Luck would dictate anything but success. So lets see if I can't turn that luck around.

"Luck affects everything; let your hook always be cast. In the stream where you least expect it, there will be fish." Ovid