I've got your back (and your pen)

Last night, I attended a book signing for my friend, Jean Whatley.  She was signing copies of her first (of many, I am sure) book, "Off The Leash."  The event was held at Subterranean Books in the Loop (for those of you out of town, it's a trendy, eclectic neighborhood in St. Louis).

But I digress, I went for two reasons.

One: I wanted to meet Jean.  While I consider her a friend we've never met - not in person anyway.  We met through a writer friend we have in common - Linda O'Connell.  Of the I-write-every-day-and-everything-gets-accepted O'Connell's (okay, I'm kidding, but she's GOOD folks!). And someday, I hope to finish my own novel and stand behind that podium. And maybe, just maybe, Jean will be there to hand me a pen.

Anyway, I arrived just a few minutes late, and walked into a darling little book shop.  Ya know those books shops that just ooze character? It could be in a movie, this book store.  You know, like the one in "You've Got Mail"?  It's that quaint.

So, I walk in, and Jean's voice floats down from the second-floor loft (okay it didn't float - she has a much more commanding voice that that). People stand on every step of the staircase, lean over railings, and crowd around listening to Jean read from her book.

When she finishes, someone from upstairs calls down, "we need pens!"  Someone from the store pulls one out of her purse, and since I am standing right there, I say, "I'll take it up to her." I do.  I am like Moses walking up those stairs, people parting to the left and right (boy, I'm on a role today, huh?) and as I reach the second floor landing, I see a swarm of people.  Men, women, kids - even a dog!  Sitting, standing, waiting to talk with Jean.  I walk through the throngs, and past a tv camera and stand in front of Jean and her podium, holding up the pen.  "Jean," I smile.

"You're Beth Wood!" She recognizes me - I guess from my facebook or blog profile picture.  We hug like old friends. And because she thinks I'm even "cuter in person" I think I like her even more. I truly feel like I've known this woman for a great many years.

Writing will do that to you.  It brings like-minded artists together.  We share the misery, the stress, the defeat, the joys, the understanding, man that it's what we gotta do.  Like it or not.  Good or bad, blood on the keyboard or no, we just get it.  We stick together.  Like my WWWPs and me.

Which is Reason #2 for me attending last night.  Because we writers have to support each other, dream for each other, critique, help, motivate, each other.

But I digress.  Again.  Jean is, how do you say? One. Hell. Of. A. Writer.  Really.  She is.  She had me from the very first blog post I read of hers.  She has a way of getting right to the heart of things with no drama (and believe you me,  she has reason to be dramatic if she wants to), no pity, just real, raw emotion.  But the real reason I am in awe of her writing is because she can DIGRESS like nobody's business.  The woman can swing from north to south and back again and we're just ... along for the ride.  Nodding our heads, like yeah.  

One of my favorite things to write about on my blog is books.  I'm my own little book review club over here.  I've just finished Jennifer Niven's "Becoming Clementine" and am working on that review.  And now I've got our very own Jean Ellen Whatley's book to enjoy, and review.

Jean, I hope I do ya proud, because I've just started reading, and I am hooked.

So proud of you.  So happy for you.  And looking forward to buying you a margarita over at Nacho Mama's very soon...

crazy coaches and throwed rolls.

We drove to Memphis this past weekend for my son's soccer tournament.  This is the same tournament my oldest son played in years ago, so as we neared the city, those memories came flooding back to me.  In fact, we stayed at the very same hotel.  That was about 6 years ago, and much has changed since then.  Jack's dad and I have been divorced for more than five years now.  So we drove in separately, with our respective partners.

But while some things have changed dramatically, others have, sadly, remained much the same.  Back when Connor played (mind you, he was about 9 years old), his team took first place in their age bracket.  Back then, the boys had raced over to the brick enclosure to receive their trophies.  The team they'd beaten was there too, they'd come in 2nd place and would receive trophies, as well.  We all circled around the tournament director's table, kids sitting on the ground, parents behind, beaming.  The two teams sat next to each other.  All dirty, tired boys. Happy.  Proud of their achievements.  The 2nd place team's coach stood up to accept their trophies.  He thanked our team for a game well-played.  But that wasn't enough.  In front of his own players, he went on to say how much better our boys played.  He told our players that they deserved to win - they'd played a much better game of soccer.  And then told his own players that he was disappointed.  That they should be taking a lesson from our boys...and on and on.  It was, in a word, sad.

Whether or not his players had played their hearts out or given up halfway through the game, did these fourth graders deserve to have their hearts trampled on in front of the competition? In front of their parents?  Was it not enough that they'd lost?  That they'd taken 2nd place? I was embarassed.  For that coach.  For the players.  Really, for everyone within ear shot.  Those boys were already smarting enough to take 2nd place.  I don't think our players took any pleasure in that coach's verbal abuse of his own team.

This time around, Jack's team didn't fare as well.  They did make it to the semi-finals, and got to play on the stadium field - a treat in and of itself.  But they got beat.  And as we sat and watched the game, I wondered about this other coach.  He stood on the sidelines screaming at his players.  Mind you, they were winning.  In fact they were up 2-0 at the half, but that coach was literally jumping up and down, waving a shirt (or a towel - something) in the air and screaming.  At the players, at the refs, hell, probably at God himself.

I watched our coach (who happens to be Jack's dad), hands behind his back, pacing the sidelines.  Occasionally he'd yell a player's name, and as the player looked over, he'd use a silent motion to get his thought across.  A point to his head might have meant "get your head in the game,"  Both hands waving towards himself, meant "move back," you get the idea.  As the players were subbed out, he'd hive five each one.  As one came off the field after a less than stellar performance, he'd stop him, hands on small shoulders, and talk for a moment, eye to eye.
Maybe you think this wasn't enough.  Maybe, you think, this is why your team lost.  I don't think so.  Not for a minute.  This team won one of their toughest games this weekend with this same coaching style.

Maybe it was a good thing that the other team went on to the finals (and won, by the way).  I can't imagine how their coach would have acted had they lost.

But I digress.  Parents are still coaching from the sidelines.  Screaming at refs.  Fighting amongst each other.

To what end?

Are they afraid of what will become of their child if they lose?  Do they feel so much pressure to update their facebook status with a "win" that they would make a scene in front everyone?  I'd like to know how many players on the field are listening to the parents over their coach.  I wonder how many coaches wish the parents would just shut up already and let them do their jobs.

One year, when Connor was playing select ball, his team picked up a new player.  Nice kid.  Good ball skills.  His father, on the other hand, was another story.  This guy was a screamer.  If his son missed a goal, he'd scream.  If he lost a 50-50 ball, he'd scream.  And when his son got hurt?  He'd scream at him to quit being a wuss, pick up his purse and get up already (I shit you not).  The man would frequently bring his older son to games, and wouldn't you know it?  The poor kid's older brother would scream at him, too.  The coach let him go at the end of the season.  Not because of the boy's performance, but because his father was so incredibly disruptive on the sidelines.  It made all the parents nervous.  Hell, not only did he fight (loudly) with parents on the opposing team, but he'd yell at us, too.  Not what you'd call good sportsmanship.

I'll take this just one step further into insanity. True Story:  My 1st grade daughter is taking her first soccer camp through the same select club for which her older brother plays.  I did not sign her up for select ball...I signed her up for a learning camp, and did so through this club because it allows her to practice on the same night as her older brother, on the field right next to him and her dad (who is his coach).  It also allows her oldest brother to help coach the team, and assist other coaches and staff.  A win-win for all.  The night of their second game, sweet Ella served as goalie.  She was adorable, alternately waving to me on the sidelines, and shouting encouragements to her teammates.

She made some great saves, and let in a few, too.  At one point, after the second ball sailed past her into the goal, the mom sitting next to me said loudly to no one in particular, "can we change goalies!?"  This out-of-shape hoosier then proceeded to tell the people around her that she had played select soccer in high school and college.  Enough said.

Refs are going to make bad calls (football, anyone?).  Players are going to make mistakes on the field.  Every team will win some and lose some.  So if you're sitting on the sidelines and have the urge to scream at a ref, a coach, a player, stop and think.  What good will this do?  Is the ref going to hear you screaming and reverse the call?  Is he going to be afraid and call the game in favor of your son's team.  Does he care?  Or are you just modeling atrocious behavior that your child will certainly pick up later in life?

But I digress.  On the way home from the tournament, we stopped at Lambert's...home of the throwed rolls (you know the place, right?).  Fun atmosphere, great food, and yes, hot rolls thrown right to you.  My daughter stood up in her seat and held her hands high over her head.  The server saw her and launched a hot roll right to her.  It was one hell of a throw.  Of course, as soon as it started sailing towards her, Ella did what most seven year old girls would do...she ducked.

So I screamed and yelled at her for not keeping her eye on the roll.

KIDDING!  We caught the roll and handed it over.

(author's note: Listen, I'm not saying that the losing team should get trophies, too.  While that might be nice when they're little, at some point, and especially if kids choose to play at a select level, they are going to know what it feels like to lose.  And guess what? That's okay!  It makes the victories that much sweeter. And pushes them to work harder.  I just don't think parents - and even coaches of young kids - need to be quite so... ignorant.)

Ever witnessed an out of control coach or parent?

And now in a scene right out of Sixteen Candles...

Jake Ryan knocks on the door, only to be told (by Long Duck Dong), that she got married.

The unforgettable Jake Ryan (married?)

Married?
Married.
Married?
Married!
Good Stuff. You can watch it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGJfruLLiyk

But I digress.  The other day, the news reported that an historian of early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School had identified a scrap of papyrus on which is written, in Coptic (a fourth century greek language), “Jesus said to them, `My wife ...’ ” 

Is it so incredible to think that Jesus might have been married?  Was he not a man?  Did he not live among us? Breathe, eat, sleep, God forbid... poop, like the rest of us?   And why should we think he didn't also fall in love, get married even?  

I realize that every religion picks and chooses portions of scripture around which to build their business model (yes, that's what it is, it's a business with a model, just like anything else.  That doesn't make it bad, or good, by the way.  It just is).  What is the travesty in considering that Jesus may have had female disciples?  

That maybe there was something to that theory in "The Divinci Code" - that right there in the painting of The Last Supper, was a woman, seated at the table, among the 12 Disciples chosen by Jesus.  Well, surely, he was born of Mary, right?  She's pretty spectacular, no?  And if there is a God, and He is, in fact, Man, as we understand that term to mean, well then, he came from somewhere, did he not?  And let me tell you folks, he sure as heck didn't come from another man.  I guess you could argue that if Jesus can be born of a virgin, then God can be born of... what? Nothing?  
It's a crap shoot, I'm telling ya, because we just don't know.  We can all proselytize till we're blue in the face, but: We. Just. Don't. Know.  Ya know? 

Ah, but what we do have is Faith.  Can't see it.  Can't smell it, touch it, hear it even.  But, it's there, man.  Because if there is one sense we can engage to find faith, it's touch... because we can feel it.  

Faith that what?  What's important here?  Do you need the knowledge that God is a man to have faith? Do you need to know for a fact that no way, no how, did Jesus allow women at that table? Is that what you need to believe?  Or is it the idea that something much greater than you - God - as we call Him - is out there...somewhere.  That He holds you in his palm.  That He loves you as you love your own children. That in times of great sorrow, great need, great joy even, you can call out to Him, pray to Him, talk with Him?  

Does it matter, really, whether or not the people around him that last night of his life on earth could pee standing up?  Does it?  

Do you think in your heart that if Jesus promised to devote all he had to God, that he couldn't possibly love someone here on earth, too?  'Cause I don't.  Not for a minute.  It's part of what really gets me about the Catholic church.  And I can say that because I was raised Catholic.  Baptized into the faith, received all the necessary sacraments, the whole ball of wax.  And it's how I raise my own kids, too.  Not because I need them to have some organized religion making rules for them.  But because I believe they need a foundation from which to someday be able to make their own decisions re: religion.  And, more importantly, I want them to have Faith.  That illusive creature, that helps them through the bad times, picks them up off the floor, crying, bleeding, broken, and helps them get on with the business of living.  I want them to know that there is something greater out there than themselves.  That they are loved.  That there is good in the world.  

But I digress (again).  I suppose the knowledge that Jesus really did have a wife would change the whole foundation on which the Catholic church was built.  Why, they might even have to allow priests to get married and let women become priests. 

I don't know a whole lot about the business of religion, but I do know that I can sit in church and listen to a man (the priest) speak eloquently about our God, about Jesus and his disciples and feel that faith.  But I'll tell ya what, I could just as easily sit in that pew and listen to a female speak to me about my God.  What difference does it make?  Didn't God create EACH OF US in his OWN LIKENESS?  Well, then, I ask you, does it matter?  

We were having this discussion at dinner last night, my kids and I.  And my oldest was telling me about how they discussed this news of Jesus possibly having a wife in his religion class.  Connor was adamant that it does not matter.  But he also struggles with the idea of faith.  "How do you know He's real," he was saying, "if you can't see Him, talk to Him..." As he was saying this, my daughter (age 7) piped up, saying in her sweet voice, "But you can talk to God, Connor.  Like when you're feeling sad, or you need help with something..."

Leave it to the little ones, right? Truer words, my friends... God love her ; )

But I'm very curious, what's your take on this bit of news? 

Fall In!

This summer was a hot one.  If I remember correctly we went from the wet, cool days of early spring right into three digit temps, nothing gradual about it.  At first, I sighed with relief as I threw those fuzzy boots to the back of my closet, slipped on my coveted flip flops and pulled my hair into a ponytail.  But after many months of this sweaty, oppressive heat, we are finally feeling some relief and I couldn't be happier.  Mid-September, how I've longed for you!  

My favorite time of year is on its way my friends.  And with the arrival of Autumn comes those glorious colors, like a brand new 64-pack of Crayola crayons.  While Mother Nature makes her changes, I'll make a few of my own. Starting with my closet:  I'll cram flip flops, summer sandals and open-toe heels into the back and bring forth the shoes of Fall:  Hello, Boots!  The tall, black leather heeled ones, the brown suede mid-calf, oh... my furry uggs, how I've missed you!  I'll line them all up right in front, little soldiers standing at attention for their turn to step out.  Then I'll move up to the hangers, sliding halter tops, tanks and sleeveless blouses to the far side, and bring forward the hoodies, long sleeve tees and soft sweaters and cardigans. 

While Mother Nature is blowing in cooler temps, I'll throw open the windows.  And as she puts a slight haze over the strong, summer sun, I'll switch my bottle of white wine for red.

But I digress.  I'm so looking forward to cooler temps, comfortable days, and cozy nights in front of a fire.  Okay, okay.  I've got this grandiose image of myself in a long, soft sweater, leggings and furry boots, curled up in front of a fire with a pumpkin spice latte and a good book (or maybe a glass of Cabernet and the two-part finale of Sex and the City).  And I realize, Autumn also brings some not-so-fabulous reality...

Like  the sneezing, coughing and itchy eyes of fall allergies.  And while watching the trees turn from green to bright copper and gold really is beautiful, those leaves will eventually turn brown and fall slowly, deliberately to the ground where I will be forced to undertake the back-breaking labor of raking said leaves into humongous piles.  But, oh, those piles are fun to jump in if you're 7 years old!  And I'm sure there'll be some great photo ops there.

The simple truth is, Mother Nature's not going anywhere.  And every few months she throws us a curve ball - no avoiding the seasons if you're in the Lou, that's for sure.  So, enjoy every day, every season, everything she throws at you, because believe it or not, it won’t last forever...Case in point: At the end of a very long, miserable winter a few years ago, I wrote about my burning desire for a spring thaw, here.

Happy Autumn!  What's your favorite season?

8 Months and Counting

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to visit Paris.  I can't remember exactly when the desire hit me, although I think it was the first time I saw the movie "Sabrina."

 You know, the one with Julia Ormond, Harrison Ford and Greg Kinnear?  Sabrina (Ormond) has a terrible crush on Ford's younger brother, played by Kinnear.  She is a bit of an ugly duckling - a wallflower, but spends a summer in France finding herself, growing up, and comes back completely changed.  Beautiful, confident.  When the movie came out in 1995, I was 23 years old.  A newlywed who, by all appearances, was all grown up.  But maybe it was this desire to be transformed myself that began my love affair with the city of lights.

Ten years later, in 2005, I finally realized my goal of earning my writing degree.  And once I'd checked that off my bucket list, I started thinking of other dreams and goals, started believing that I could achieve those, too.  Being a published writer was one of them.  I was published online for the first in 2007.  On a whim, I went down to the post office one day at work, and applied for a passport.  It arrived a few weeks later, and I stowed it in my night stand drawer.


Over the next few years, I'd come across it as I searched for other things or attempted to clean out drawers and "get organized."  I'd always put it right back in its place, under my journals and homemade Mother's Day cards from years past.  2009 brought my first publication in a regional print magazine.  And 2010 saw my first of several essays published in national anthologies.

So, while these dreams of mine were beginning to come true, this trip to Paris was stored away in the back of my mind.  A few years ago, I decided that I would take that trip by the time I was 40.  Well, I turned 40 in July, and thought, okay, I've got 12 months...

A few weeks ago, I found out that I will get to make that dream a reality.  On May 1, 2013 (2 1/2 months before my 41st birthday), I'll be going to Paris.  I've already checked the weather for that time of year (upper 50s is the norm), checked out advise on what and how to pack, and scoured the Taulk Tours website to learn more about this "Taste of France" River Cruise on which I'll spend the majority of the trip.

But I digress.  Until then, I'll be counting down the months, weeks and days until I depart.  And maybe even give thought to other dreams...  I've always wanted to visit Ireland.  Drink beer in a little pub while the fog swirls outside.  And I've always wanted to write my own book, walk into some little out-of-the-way bookstore and see my name on the cover of a paperback.  No sense in thinking that can't happen.  Of course it can.  

What's on your bucket list?  And what one dream or goal have you achieved that you weren't sure would ever come true?