More books than ever were reviewed this month; I shall be distributing a large stack of free books out to my friends and family in the coming weeks.
Feel free to follow the links and review my reviews... comments keep me in good with the boos, whether good or ill. Happy reading!
The Dancing Plague
Louisa May Alcott: The Woman Behind Little Women
Hands off My Belly! (a pregnant woman's survival guide)
The American Revolution 100
Do-It-Yourself Organizing for Dummies
Ciao Italia
Bread Matters (bread enthusiasts must have this book)
Photography Unplugged
Lidia Cooks from the Heart of Italy
The Fallen Sky (poetic research on meteorites)
Marcus Aurelius, a Life
The Alchemy of Color Knitting

The Story About the Story, by J. C. Hallman

Cheers,
Meredith Greene

(an Abecedarian poem)

Another time I would have stopped

But I did not, and despite caution’s pull I

Could not blame it on the

Dark… it was day.

Even though the man looked

Forlorn and friendless, at his feet

Gathered bottles like discarded oyster shells.

His right hand gripped another

Intensely, now and then taking a drink.

“Jurisprudence!” thought I, not wanting to

Keep up with charity a habit’s

Linger, one that would be better broken.

Meandering through traffic I fought guilt;

Nothing did he have but empty bottles

Of booze tinkling sadly on the

Porous cement, each one coming to a

Quiet stop before rolling

Resolutely on to the next resting place.

Sadness leeched up from the bottles,

Through the man’s face and then

Under the car; in my mind I knew this was a

Voyage all his own, and he chose

Which path he would take… which

Xebec he would board and crew.

Yet, for all his clear mistakes, I felt a certain

Zeal within me to help a soul in need.

I am a poet. Since the age of fourteen I have bent my pen and thought towards pouring out the lyrical corners of my soul onto paper. Often received was the ‘why’ from peers, family and even friends. Admittedly, there is little market for poetry volumes these days. Much of the younger generations tend to attribute poetry to the realm of homework, or as an old fashioned method of expression; the best man could do before ‘texting’ was invented.

Upon reflection, I can understand the parameters of this mindset, schoolwork mentality notwithstanding; good, true poetry requires time to produce, not to mention a bit of concentrated thought. Trying to ‘text’ poems would be arduous; the very idea brings to mind a person on a hill, trying to fervently communicate recipes in semaphore. Poem materials are generally old-fashioned, such as notebook and pen; however, several of my poet acquaintances use naught but Word and a laptop to compose their prose.

Time is the greatest luxury item of all and most fine, worthy things call for a sizable share of it. Poetry requires an additional expense: Truth. The words themselves open a small portico in the soul of the writer and unlike literature the general public is then invited in to peruse at will and scrutinize. They are directed in a steady stream up velvets roped paths; onlookers stop and view each line, weighing both effect and meaning. Some browsers give a philosophical nod and move on; some shake their heads in puzzlement. A few, however, will stand and ponder and walk away uplifted, even moved.

Such is poetry; it can be mere scribbles on a paper napkin scented with the oily perfume of diner french fries. It can be typed up via PC and left to breaths while the poet searches for the perfect, subtle font in which to ‘set the mood’. The presentation method matters not, for though humbly shown or elegantly tinted the lines will be treated equally; each word will be read aloud or, whispered, audibly tested and savored for the complete poetic experience.

Poetry can expound on anything, anywhere to anyone; unconstrained by literary requirements, opinion or the woes of advertising trends, poems allow one to un-tap emotion (whether all of it, or a merely portion thereof) letting it drip down and run over the page. Something as simple as a string of thoughts, inspired by some action or scene, can provoke the most profound interest in humans; it spans race, time and cultures.

Nothing seems to incite curiosity in our fellow man more than how others see the world and what they are thinking. After a few false starts, we even begin to understand Shakespeare’s perspective, by the penning of his lines. The views and genius of Wordsworth, Elliot and Keats hold relevance even for the most agile and dedicated texter.

A breath… a moment… a look at a few lines… a pause to reflect and enjoy… a reverie. A true poet causes simultaneous interest and idyll… a tear and a sigh… recollections and shouts. They write not for fame, for there is but little to go around in this sphere; they write for themselves. As to how it is done, nothing is simpler: the moment is either captured or it is not.

A poet must write; there is no ‘why’.

Meredith Greene

Ten days ago the escrow on our new home closed. Well, it’s not new, per say… but to us it seems so. We’ve spent a frantic yet satisfying week moving in and organizing everything to optimum efficiency, and we hope it stays that way. My husband is in the construction industry and saw the housing downturn coming quite a ways back; he said the way houses were being over-inflated there was no way it could last. So, we put our home-buying plans on hold and rented for seven years… waiting for the market to come back down to a reasonable range.

Many of our relatives said we were insane to rent that long. “A house is an asset!” said they. “You’re just pouring your money down the drain!” It did seem they were right for awhile, especially when many of our cousins bought homes. The half-plex we rented looked awfully small with its pocket-handkerchief-sized garden and corner location. However, it was all worth the wait. The house we bought, just four years ago, sold for $200,000 more than we paid for it… so perhaps we were not so ‘crazy’ after all. Our new mortgage payment is now $150 less per month than we were paying for rent, and the garden… it’s simply enormous. The children are free to run and play without my having to worry about their safety. 

As I walk around the home putting things away, the very air seems surreal. Keeping busy seems to help bring closer reality, combining bliss with blisters. Just completed is the pleasantly arduous task of planting the vegetable garden: Brandywine tomatoes, snow peas, basil, onions, garlic, loose-leaf lettuces, spinach, radishes, carrots, cantaloupes and butternut squash. Once matured, they should help out on the grocery bill for our family of six. The only downside to our haven seems to be the increased amount of cleaning time required, seriously cutting into writing time (indeed I have been falling into bed exhausted, able to merely scribble a few lines on a notepad by my bed)  but this somehow does not dampen the overall bonhomie.

The culmination of all the work (unpacking, digging, planting, sweeping, painting, vacuuming, organizing, pruning and family meetings) seems to be a very thorough confirmation of Longfellow’s assertion from auld times past:

“All things come round to him who will but wait.”

May your waiting be invariably worth the blisters and blessed with fruit.

MG

The words ‘tough times’ have been bandied about quite a bit lately in the news, though the recession we currently endure seems to pale in comparison to other notably depressed times in our nation’s history. Once thing remains the same, however… in needing both comfort and the occasional bit of entertainment, Americans ‘re-discover’ books. Whether paper or digital, hardbound or Kindle, Literature remains the cheapest and easiest method by which one’s spirits can be lifted from the doldrums of a  tragic loss, the clutches of loneliness… or the tedium of a bad economy.

Robert Louis Stevenson gets things going by stirring the blood with survival adventures, along with a sort of commoner’s self-reliance and a smattering of useful facts. Depending on one’s mood, the paths branch from more intellectual, darker action with Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, or upwards with light-hearted bursts of laughter in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals.  On to more thought-provoking prose with Henry the Fifth, a hefty dose of patriotic nobility. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice sashays in, now tossing out pithy platitudes, now curtseying and giving out the largess of charming smiles for the sole benefit of the reader.  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle rounds things off with keen interest, saturnine sayings and the thrills of fictional gray-cell-enhanced detective work.

All in all an excellent way to spend an afternoon… for one is in the company of great writers. Unlike the electric lure of television, books require little energy other than page-turning, and provoke the mind to action verses inaction. Literature remains the universal  method by which humans not only communicate who they are through various characters but also how millions unwind and are otherwise comforted to distraction from life’s toil and turmoil. It crosses languages, cultures and colors… often extending a hand over oceans and vast tracts of land to unite minds in at least a few, small ways.

May a good book (or digital reader) soon find its way into your hands.

Meredith Greene

I heard quite a bit about Twitter over the last six months or so and decided to ‘give it a shot’. I was pleasantly surprised at how many news clips and bits of random info I can gather from my friends and fellow follow-ees. It is fun to pop on write a blurb about what you are currently doing, then read all the bits of instant news being typed on as well, not only about local issues, but world events. It takes no more than a few seconds to update those following you of the daily happening surrounding you… of what, who and why. Or not. It is an application which can be ignored if one's life intervenes.

I began following the BBC news tidbits which I found unduly informative; I also follow literary personages of which I have vested interest, publishing companies for short babbles about upcoming books and publishing technology breakthroughs. To my surprise and delight a few people started following me… *insert laughter here* I’ll make an account for Belator Books in the next few days and connect it to my burgeoning Facebook page. So far, Twitter has brought in two new clients, not to mention a vast well of information and also of lighthearted reading. If you are on Twitter, feel free to look us up.

Cheers,
Meredith Greene

While I wish I could write without err, whether grammatical or spelling, the true facts are surprisingly contrary to that whimsical daydream. The blatant correcting editor has grown in my esteem over the last two years to a place where I resent them not, at least not usually. I have four beta readers now, in several countries and they constantly edit not only my work but each other's edits and thus most (if not all) the mistakes are located and scoured from the surface of my books. Over the last year alone the books for sale on our website have undergone four separate edits for the things that one missed, gleefully pointed out by another and corrected.

Take the humble pill and have others look at your work, and bite back the retorts that bubble up as valid mistakes are pointed out, for thus is the reason they edit.... to make your work as good as it can be. Some great places to put your work up for scrutiny: fictionpress.com, gather.com, livejournal.com and writerscafe.org. All are free and fairly easy to navigate. Join writers/ readers groups and help edit the work of others as well.

Cheers,

MG

I recently got a part time tele-commuting job reviewing books for the Sacramento Book Review; it’s a relatively small position but hey, I get to see my name in print… and get free books. Life is good. They liked my blogs and website; they read some of my previous reviews of my favorite classic book on websites like Mouthshut and Library Thing, and subsequently challenged me to not be so long-winded. (Translation: word-count limit)

I came in just at the tail end of the March pool so I only get to review one for the upcoming issue, due out on March 5th; you can see the digital version at this website (after the 5th anyway): Sacramento Book Review Website

I got to review ‘The Adventures of Arthur Conan Doyle’ by Russell Miller; it’s right up my alley (being an ardent Sherlock Holmes fan) but I wanted to know more about the author. I’d certainly appreciate any here on Facebook to take a gander my review and call out yea or nay in comment-form.

There’s also a group on Facebook one can join; just type in Sacramento Book Review. I like how they keep the issues free for the public, coupled with simple layout design and a passion for literature.

Many thanks,

Meredith Greene

Two days ago we marked our first year of selling eBooks on that vast and uncertain market… the Internet.

While the very idea is intimidating for an unknown site/novel/author, a small, glimmering hope shone out amid the risks and fears. Though unpredictable and incomprehensibly enormous, the worldwide audience retains its promise as living, breathing potential customers.

I never expected the books to sell. While I like my stories and my husband’s we could not rely solely on the glowing praises of our friends and families… a focus group consisting of rather biased initial mindsets. 1000 customers later, I am pleasantly proved wrong and we have furiously added to our small collection of novels available. The repeat business is very encouraging; with each new title completed the sales strengthen, as does our resolve to write more.

What worked? Writers like us may be interested to know that free advertising sites like craigslist or free ads on myspace proved nearly worthless, and time consuming. Facebook, however was a gold mine; the folks there appear ardently curious. As we joined book and reader groups and commented on various posts, wrote blogs, etc… (never spamming the boards with ads) people felt compelled to click in our signature links, check out our page/site and clamor to be added on our friends list.

Another thing that did not work: giving out a free/discounted eBook as an advertising strategy; we tried a promotional month of ‘99-cent’ books and subsequently sold the fewest number we ever had. After the promotion ended, the numbers increased. With reading audiences, they appear to like paying more for a good story, or at least what they deem a good price. 99-cent books may work for some genres, but in fiction audiences seem to think that a cheap price reflects the books contents. The standard acceptable price for a fairly good full-length novel by an unknown writer seems to be about $6.99.

We also sold more books once we re-designed our covers; we walked around several well-known books store chains and looked at the best seller racks until we got a good idea of the cover trends. The covers still look rather homegrown, but the response of customers showed us that our efforts wrestling with Fireworks was well worth the time and exasperation.

Regarding increasing web traffic, writing and updating several types of blog helped bring in visitors to the site and paying customers; eBay blog, Live Journal, Gather, Facebook Notes, WordPress, Book and Reader forum and others all proved themselves worthy fishing holes, along with several book reviews sites like Library Thing . Sometimes a simple thing like writing humorous, insightful reviews of your favorite books is all it takes to attract new audiences.

Lastly, don’t limit yourself you your own neighborhood, city or even your own country. I was stunned by the number of customers from India whom are interested in my books; I have found them well-read and willing to give excellent criticism. Half the books we’ve sold have been outside the USA including Canada, France, Indonesia, India, Australia, New Zealand, the UK, Ireland, Germany and Denmark. Several of these countries have popular review sites and book forums; many new writers there are eager to write for American audiences and want advice and subject matter to study.

As for persistence, any writer knows that one must try repeatedly in order to succeed even slightly. While our efforts do not yet support us, it supplements our income a little, all the while offering that wonderfully inspiring force- hope.

Keep up the pen,
MG

At the end of December I will be 31 years of age. I don’t know about other women my age, but when I was a young teenager, I heard often that a woman’s life ‘peaks’ at thirty. Thirty was an age to be feared, synonymous with words like ‘old’ and ‘haggard’. The condition of being youthfully beautiful was, I suppose, the foundation for such an assumption among my peers. They were of course speaking from a point of view entirely unable to draw such conclusions, yet all the same their fears of aging invoked a sort of mild, philosophical curiosity in me… I wondered why these girls thought 30 was so darn awful.

Thinking back, the crowd I hung around cannot really be blamed for such shallow thinking… mainly due to the fact that they were indeed shallow. Life, to them meant outward beauty, material objects and vast amount of personal popularity.

Though somewhat uninformed, said girls were partially correct… a woman’s beauty blossoms around 18 or so and she continues growing all the more lovely through her twenties. Around 26 or 27 most women begin noticing very fine wrinkles under the eye or by the mouth. Indeed, most of the pre-signs of aging are so small most people don’t notice them… except their owner. Happily, I listened to my mom and grandmother when they sternly warned to ‘wear sun block’ (not sunscreen) when we went outside for prolonged periods. My mother was fond of 45spf. Some studies show that a woman’s skin is pretty much damaged by the time she’s 21, citing loss of copper and elasticity in the dermis, etc.

Despite this paternal protection, I found fine lines upon me at 29; they snuck up rather gradually. One morning I looked in the mirror and a slightly older face than I remembered seeing looked back at me. Admittedly, at first it was surprising… and then I was amused at my own surprise. Then I smiled, and laughed.

I looked ‘sage’, I decided… and thought it was the coolest thing since laptop computers. I walked through the bedroom to make the morning coffee with the slow, regal walk of a duchess, for so I felt.

Since then I have discovered that being thirty has many, many perks:

   1. For the first time in my life, I can shake my head in tolerant condescension at the foolishness of younger folk… and actually carry it off.
   2. I can be reserved, grown-up and wise, yet harbor a spark of the impetuous youth within me.
   3. I can use and regurgitate all the common sense platitudes which were regaled to me throughout my childhood… and so with a plausibly straight face.
   4. I can buy a nice bottle of Merlot without being carded.
   5. I get to remind the check-stand girl at the market (whom questions the validity of my coupons) that she is only a little older than my daughter.
   6. When I wear eccentric clothing its considered ‘fashionable’.

And, these are but a few examples…

More importantly than all of the above, my outlook on life had changed; upbeat, I guess it the best word. This change reflects in my writing and poetry, which, in my youth, held a rather dire view of things in general. Now I see beauty in far more places; observing people’s faces and expressions is now an interesting and useful occupation and there are several people in my life which I consider far more important than myself. The fictional characters in the books my husband and I write automatically seem to learn from our collected experience, navigating troubles fairly well and avoiding the pitfalls of foolish mistakes… for the most part.

Regarding writing, this last year has brought four novels to fruition, whereas before I had not the inspiration, nor inclination to finish them. Editing now is far broader and more self-examining than prior edits done at more youthful periods, and I am inclined to think of my work in light of other, greater authors and find it pales a little with each comparison. The poems penned this year have taken on a comfortable flavor, which I like very much. It leads me to believe my own assumption about myself regarding being happier than in years previous.

My year of thirty has been good, productive and fulfilling... and yes I’m even proud of my fine lines. I suspect that this is merely the beginning of the best years of my life.


Meredith Greene

Hats off to Google once again.

To all budding writers/artists out there... head to Google presentations online; a free service, you can upload, organize and present images and descriptions your work in a PowerPoint style system that is hosted for free. We did up a mini-presentation using images we put together in Fireworks, picturing of some of our work... just to try it out. Take a gander:

Belator Books mini-presentation

Let us know what you think and/or follow the link below to make your own.

Link to make your own:

Apparently they can be embedded in your blog/website. Still figuring that one out. (We are merely writers, you know...)

Cheers,
Meredith Greene

'A piece of cake...'

I don't know what kind of cake you make but mine are utterly complicated. Velvet Spice Cake, among others; delicious, but they take a long time, make a large mess and don't last in cake form for more than 24 hours. Whomever said 'a piece of cake' for the first time to mean simple must have been unaware of the steps involved in a quality piece of super-moist, ultra rich, flavor-packed cake.

 Does food add flavor to your writing? Before you snort indignantly and wave away the idea, consider writers in coffee houses, sucking down caffeinated beverages and chai latte as fast as humanly possible, often with a comfortable croissant or fruits pastry on the side.  Consider the many times favorite foods have been the subject of poems (yes, even Burns’ haggis) or how poets and authors alike have embroiled food or drink into their stanzas and paragraphs as much an integral part of the story as the supporting characters.

 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, yon penner of the great Sherlock Holmes books, was a gourmet food appreciation specialist… to the point where he mentioned his favorite restaurants in several of his stories. He often described what food Mrs. Hudson brought and what food the main character waved away, too deeply enshrined in his own genius to think of food… yet it was present.

 Shakespeare himself was not beyond swirling food/eating/dining descriptions about his iambic pentameter.

 “Nay, you shall see my orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year's pippin of my own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth: come, cousin Silence: and then to bed.” -Henry the Fifth

 … And even a market list or two.

 “… I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates?--none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun.”  - The Winter’s Tale

 Many writers like sipping fragrant tea while typing; my own notebooks are puckered with tea drops or various types, and drop of apple cider as well; they contrast nicely with the flecks of dark chocolate, miniscule crumbs of oatmeal cookie, smidgens of shortbread and strawberry seeds, while the scent of fresh mango (lovingly consumed) hovers over the page like a long-evaporated mist.

 I’ve noticed that the food one eats influences the characters themselves, as well as the setting of the story. Warm rice pudding, for example, makes for a comfortable, home setting where the character sitting back, relaxing… perhaps having a bit of pleasant conversation with a loved one. Coffee that has cooled considerably whilst one is typing gives the prose a bitter edge, chilly throes of danger and a boost of energy… along with uncertain aftertastes. Hot cocoa is altogether stupefying and seems to hinder the writing abilities to the point that one must lean back and enjoy the beverage uninhibited. Fresh bread spread with Irish butter makes me want to finish two entire chapters, pausing now and then to crunch down the remaining crumbs on the plate.

 I know everyone is not affected thusly by certain foods, but everyone seems to have a few they find comforting… even inspiring.

 Meredith Greene

… if it did, I’d make it stretch. If said fabric can stretch over large bodies at the gym it could expand a little to cover the bundles of laundry waiting to be done, the piles of neglected notebooks… reaching all the way over to the little faces around who so eagerly want to walk to the park. On the stretched edge of time, held fast and pulled back towards me, I’d sew on all the popped-off buttons, cut out the quilt patches that sit forlorn on a shelf, pen the poems which have whirled about my brain for a month and learn another language and plant these tiny packages of morning-glory seeds in front of the backyard fence.

The list grew as I thought about it; doubling unchecked its size was near impossible proportions by the time my chores were done. The business phone rang again; hurriedly I answered the client’s questions as I was able and jotted down yet another note for my man to address when he returned from his latest job. The sheer number of them seemed intimidating; unconsciously they added themselves to the list in my mind. It felt overwhelming, all the things I have not done and wished to accomplish in the short time I have upon this planet.

And yet… time was been wasted in said foray into all that is not done, in the wishing and yearning to do more than I already do. It made me feel a trifle annoyed at the depressed notions which nip at the heels of such thoughts. Irritated enough that I shook myself from the daze of feeling sorry for ineptitude in general and plunged headlong into another project, if for nothing else than to see it done. Time is made of steel, I thought. Despite its hard, un-moving surface I resolved to not let it pass me by.

A strange feeling of accomplishment made itself present not long after, settling first on my skin then sinking down further as I worked on. The house grew cleaner, gradually; the various accounting work and secretarial duties called forth and swiftly dealt with. Laundry was folded with speed and the sheer determination to have results in the steely face of time. Dinner slowly planned itself out in my head and came to fruition under my hands.

At last came the moment; I put on my shoes and the wide-brimmed hat and looked at the silent door of my children’s room.

“Anyone want to go to the park?”

It’s just one phrase and simply worded at that… but it invoked the most pleasant of reactions. Four faces appeared in the doorway, with smiles, no less; little feet thundered over the living room carpet and shoes were put on with haste. Two hands found there way into mine on one side, two in the other. Though hard won with frustrated toil, the moment felt keenly fine, like gazing at an old master’s painting of an idyllic pastoral scene. The day’s cares slide away from me like leaves shaken from one’s shoulder.

Time may not be on my side, but it has not beaten me.

Our house is quiet this evening; though it is often so, it has been unusually still at night this whole week. My oldest daughter, having found that Pride and Prejudice was a far better story in book form than any film version could possibly be, is sitting on the futon with her nose inside the final pages, her eyes moving with great rapidity. Faced with the rather unexpected discovery that reading can be fun, my son is on the rug with his school readers in a pile before him; every once in awhile he nods to himself, his little eyebrows in a knot of concentration. Behind him my husband is seated on his large chair, a newspaper open to the business section; the two littlest girls are asleep in their respective corners, one with her face plastered on a picture book page. I sit on my writing couch, with a stack of C. S. Forrester’s tomes by my elbow, looking up every once in awhile to admire the serenity; it floats about the room like drifts of autumn leaves on a perfumed zephyr.

Ever since I first began writing, it has been my firm belief that in order to write a good book one must read a wide selection of books before, during and after any particular project. The Editor and I are currently halfway through the second novel in the 'America' series, weaving a story about 1900s immigrant families using our own ancestors’ tales as an example.

Besides Forrester, on the table by my couch Shakespeare’s 'Henry the Fifth' is in the stack... to add a pinch of drama, political villainy and poetic speech. Jane Austen’s 'Persuasion 'also sits nearby for not only romance-tinges notions but speech sparkly with wit. Burroughs leans against Dumas on the table to hopefully impart some fine storytelling with edgy throes of action intermixed. The War of the Worlds sits in the back, silently reminding me with each glance that a writer cannot ignore tragedy, whether real or imagined.

How good it is to have a collection of authors at the elbow, readily available for reach and reading, for perusal and the occasional gleaning of ideas, along with slightly nagging criticisms flowing as a perpetual undercurrent; these remind me quietly, persistently, that the words a writer threads together can always be improved. As I read the famous passages I find myself admitting how inferior my novels are in comparison. Being humbled is healthy, however; it makes me want to click open the laptop and type furiously away, re-working my old material until it reaches another, higher level.

In an age of talking heads constantly speaking phrases like ‘self-assurance’ and ‘self-confidence’, it feels almost refreshing to read silent admonitions from authors long gone, to compare one’s work to theirs and find it wanting more attentions than previously supposed. In the back of my mind, I cannot help but wonder if these same writers did as I am doing, comparing themselves to the ancient masters of the pen, to poets and saga speakers whom could wind the word about the ear and feed the soul, all seemingly without effort. Did their admiration for aulde accomplishments spur them onward towards greatness? Indubitably, for here I am enjoying the fruit of their fevered, dedicated labors. Once again the book immersion has performed that which I hoped it would, for inspiration flows in like a tide… slow, steady and almost blissfully overwhelming.

Meredith Greene

Amid the calls, typing, accounts and duties of our home office there are ballet lessons, park excursions, meal-prepping, dishes, sweeping and laundry to deal with; these activities are sprinkled with reading books to young ears, snatching a few minutes to write on our latest novel, half-listening to the news on the radio, checking the various emails and advertising our website.

I am not complaining; all the above day to day activity has helped keep me from the ‘overweight’ category. As an added bonus, when my man comes home from his long, daily toil I can look at him in the eye with confidence; he knows I have not been idle. I also get the satisfaction that my girls are growing up knowing that there is more to life than sitting on one’s couch watching television. Well… in all fairness we do succumb to the lure of the couch and a few movies when we have the flu.

In spite of all the good things that children and work bring, one is glad of an occasional breather. Once a month, or so, the children’s grandparents take the children for an extended week-end. These are the nights we sleep a full nine hours. The morning is full of quiet talk over breakfast or no speech at all. Silence once again reigns in the car if we drive someplace; we can go into a nice restraint to eat with other grown-ups and not worry about water glasses being tipped over or food being flung. (Our littlest child is nearly two and not quite over the throwing stage.)

Despite the charms, rest and relative quiet, once day three rolls around I begin to miss my little ones. I suddenly long for the little faces saying “Morning Mommy!” and jumping on the bed to wake me up. My husband feels their absence as well, as I am not quite as responsive as the children are when he wishes to tease someone. When the kids are here and Daddy goes into ‘monster mode’ they scramble to hide with shrieks, peering around corners to try to outwit the large, tickling foe.

Suddenly the terms for my children change from ‘little turkeys’ to ‘sweet little ones’ and I long to see them again. My affection was always there, but absence does truly make the heart grow fonder. I never understood that phrase until I had my first child and let ‘Gramma’ watch the baby while my husband and I went out to dinner. Fretting and worrying inwardly all through it, I was eager to return after only a few hours; scooping my baby up into my arms, she seemed all the more beautiful and sweet having missed her tiny presence.

It is not hard to re-capture this notion of motherly love; four faces peer at me around the door frame of the office, their eyebrows raised expectantly, their eyes alight with anticipation. Saving my work, I find it is not difficult to slide to the floor on hands and knees and give chase, doing my best to sound as the Bengal tigers are want to do. I must be doing it fairly well, as the small feet are fleeing away at a rapid pace, with subsequent squeals and muffled giggles. Even with the children present with ringing phones and lists of things yet to accomplish… a breather is possible, if one knows how to find it.