No Rest For The Wicked – A Blurb

Book Promo / Haunted / Horror

I get a fair amount of people asking what I’m working on who are simply not satisfied with my generic reply, “A ghost story.” So, for those who need more gory details, I wrote up this little blurb to whet your appetite. If you like what you see, add me to your prayer/positive vibe list that my efforts to find an agent and/or publisher will soon pay off.

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No Rest For The Wicked © 2015 – Pamela Morris

A double murder and suicide may have ended the horrors taking place at Greenbrier Planation in 1882, but they were only the beginning of the story when it comes to finding out why they happened at all.

Lucretia, a jealous wife hell bent on revenge, Sadie, a powerless domestic who once feared for her life, and Beauregard, a doctor and the master of the house who puts more faith in the teaching of de Sade than the Bible, all battle for control over who stays and who goes as the outside world tries time and time again to restore the old house to its glory days.

When Eric and Grace McLaughlin purchase Greenbrier, their dreams are just as big as those who have tried to tame the place before them. But, Lucy, Sadie, and Beau have other ideas for these newcomers and it would appear that the sadistic physician has learned a thing or two over the years and is putting his new skills to work. Eric soon becomes the unwilling pawn of Beau’s unsavory desires and rapidly growing power, forcing Grace to take on roles she never imagined.

Enter WhiSPeR, The Winchester Society of Paranormal Research. Could the solution lie within the humble ranks of this group of amateur ghost hunters? It seems unlikely, but the crew is eager to try. Is there any force or any mind powerful enough to put to rest the wickedness that demands complete control, not just over Greenbrier Plantation, but the very body and soul of Eric McLaughlin.

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Review: Scott Westerfeld’s “Afterworlds”

I must first confess that YA Fiction is not my genre of choice, but the promise of a novel about getting a novel published intrigued me, especially when the novel getting published within the novel about the publishing world is basically a ghost story, which *IS* a genre I have a lot of experience with.

I first came to know Scott’s work by way of one of his more adult science fiction novels, “Evolution’s Darling”. From there I went on to read “The Risen Empire” and “The Killing of Worlds”. Having enjoyed all three of those, while at the same time proclaiming I wasn’t really into Sci-Fi, I figured I’d give “Afterworlds” a shot and step back into my youthful days when I did read YA Fiction in the form of Nancy Drew murder mysteries.

With “Afterworlds” you will be getting a two for the price of one storyline. Scott’s clear and descriptive style quickly pulled me into both worlds.

We first meet Darcy Patel who has just had her first novel accepted for publication. She’s put college aside and strikes out to live in NYC, much to the dismay of her parents. With $150,000 to live on until the novel is released and the royalties start coming in, Darcy quickly finds herself noodling her way through the city with fellow YA novelist, Imogen Gray. Imogen and fellow writer friends, encourage the 18-year-old Darcy by sharing tips and research methods, both to Darcy’s amusement and horror.

But Darcy is not the only one facing a strange new world. Second we have Lizzie, the lead character in Darcy’s version of “Afterworlds” whose life changes drastically after she finds herself the only surviving victim at an airport terrorist attack by playing dead. Lizzie plays dead just a little too well and enters a very unique rendering of the afterlife. Here she meets Yamaraj who offers up some ‘YA Hotness’ in the form of a Hindu Death God. Yamaraj does his best to teach Lizzie the ins and outs of what she’s become, but it quickly becomes clear he’s not telling her everything she needs to know. These withheld lessons lead Lizzie down a much darker path than she or Yamaraj would like her to take.

Both stories were very enjoyable. I loved learning from Darcy and company. I could easily see myself in her shoes, struggling with doubts about herself as a writer and the novel she’s written almost too easily. The lengths she and Imogen go to in the name of research made me laugh out loud and are so, so relatable. Scott’s recreation of the world beyond death that Lizzie experiences is like nothing I’ve read about before. It’s about as new and refreshing as one can get when it comes to life beyond the grave.

Have I been converted to being a big fan of YA Fiction? Probably not, but “Afterworlds” will certainly appeal to Westerfeld’s longtime fans and will likely bring in new ones. He’s done an amazing job. My one and only ‘complaint’ about this novel is that I think it would have been easier for me to read and enjoy had the two parts been presented separately. I would have liked knowing about the trials and tribulations of Darcy first, leading me towards the reward of finally getting to read the novel she struggled with for so long.

Four out of Five Stars, because nothing is ever perfect.

Why I Have Grown To Hate My December Birthday

Just Plain Random Weirdness

Another year has rolled around and my birthday is fast approaching, not that anyone would have the time to recognize that fact. They are all too busy shopping for Christmas or Chanukah gifts, too busy baking holiday cookies, too many office parties to go to, too many guests coming over for Ugly Sweater Parties. Too many decorations to put up and a tree to trim and on and on. There just aren’t enough hours in the day during December to take a moment to recognize the December Birthday Boy or Girl.

I didn’t always feel this way. As a kid my parents always made an effort to keep my birthday something apart from Christmas. A special cake would be made. I’d get to pick what I wanted for dinner or where I’d like to go out to eat. My presents came wrapped in real-live birthday paper. Birthday cards even came in the mail addressed just to me.

The first time I had to make my own birthday cake is when it all really started to go downhill. Not sure what year that was (only that I was still living at home with my parents) or how I somehow found myself completely alone with the realization that if I wanted my chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and mint chocolate chip ice cream that I was going to have to go about getting those things myself. I only remember that I was alone and I made my own cake and I cried. It wasn’t until the next day that someone suggested maybe we should get together and celebrate it after the fact. I accepted it all graciously because I reckoned it was better late than never.

I hate to complain, I really and truly do, but having a December birthday really does suck. Every year you get to hear at least one person say, “Oh, you mean I have to get you a birthday present, too?!” No, you don’t have to get me a birthday present, but just keep that in mind when your birthday rolls around during any one of the other eleven months of the year.

Some people don’t make a big deal out of their birthdays and that’s fine, but others look forward to them and forward to the celebration with family and friends and having just ONE day out of the year they can call their own. I knew a couple of people in school and within my family that share my birthday with me and that was actually cool, we could commiserate together over the lack of overall recognition.

Since that first birthday spent alone and/or unrecognized came about, it’s happened more and more. My birthday to others has become an afterthought, and let’s face it, a downright inconvenience. At least that’s how it has felt to me. Think about this. What if every year you never heard a peep from anyone on your birthday? No one called. No one sent you a card, let alone gave you a gift. No one invited you out for any sort of anything. Your special day is completely forgotten and ignored by everyone. Or if they did give you a gift, they said, “Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas” even if your birthday is say, in August.

I am fully aware at how selfish this all sounds. That’s why it’s taken me so long to get to this point where I can actually speak up about it. It’s still not comfortable, but being quiet and modest and claiming it doesn’t really bother me is a lie. It does bother me. It bothers me A LOT! I’m not asking for extravagant gifts or a full-blown party with all the works. No, I’m asking, like millions of other December Birthday People out there, for simple recognition that we were indeed born and that we do indeed have a birthday just like everyone else. Every now and then it’s nice to be recognized that we’ve managed to live another year and that maybe that fact is considered a good thing by those that know and love us. You do love us, right, despite the inconvenient time of year we were born?

I used to look forward to my birthday. I don’t anymore and not for the usual reasons other dis-likers of birthday’s people give. I like the idea of getting older. It sure beats the alternative! Now, I just assume it will be another ordinary day in the lives of those around me. There will be no fan-fare. They will be too busy working, taking down decorations, planning New Year’s Eve parties, or returning gifts they got for Christmas. All their time (not to mention money) has been spent. Besides, they just got me a Christmas present!! I should just shut up and be happy with that.

5 Ways To Survive Seasonal Widowhood

Just Plain Random Weirdness / Mental health

I’m the last person I’d expect to be writing about this particular topic, but there I was, typing away, checking my facts, looking up certain terminology of which I am otherwise ignorant.  Not ten feet away the television droned. The images, voices and sounds mostly ignored. When I’m into what I’m writing the rest of the world melts away.

And now it’s time to share it here; my December article for The Good Men Project.

http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/5-ways-to-survive-seasonal-widowhood-dg/

Cover Me In Glue & Roll Me In Glitter

Just Plain Random Weirdness

My ex-hubs has a Facebook page called “Tucked In The Corners And Under The Stairs”. It’s a place to post pictures and memories of all those old things we have kicking around that maybe once belonged to our parents or grandparents and that we still treasure to this day, or something found at a junk or antique shop, or won at an auction. You get the idea. It’s a fun and happy place to go when you’re feeling nostalgic.

Recently a dear friend of mine, Sherry, that I’ve known since the 4th grade, we won’t go into how many years ago that was, posted some pictures of little houses that her mother had. I don’t remember seeing these houses at my friend’s place all those many years ago, but maybe they were packed away before I came around. Who knows? Sherry said they were called Putz Houses and I was instantly enthralled because well, miniatures. I do have a slight obsession with such things.

Almost immediately I Googled ‘Putz Houses’ and the obsession dug its sharp, tiny claws in ever deeper. They are also known as Glitter Houses because they were traditionally covered with glitter to replicate the sparkle of snow and ice and used as decorations for train set villages and mantels during Christmas time.

As I scrolled through the websites I quickly found myself in the Danger Zone. Oh, look, a link for ‘Blue Prints’. This wasn’t going to be pretty. I clicked and the Nails of Obsession (oh, that sounds like a good name for a death metal band!) dug into my arm enough to draw just a bit of blood. I selected a very simple plan, the innocent sounding “Picture Window Cottage”. I printed the plans which took all of two sheets of paper. Oh, look, there’s a variation “Bay Window Cottage” page. I may as well print that while I’m here, too.

I took my pages and a pair of scissors to coffee break. How hard could this be? Within ten minutes I had all five pieces cut out and ready for folding and gluing. Break was over with though and I needed to get back to work. And for the next three hours those innocent pieces of paper taunted me. “C’mon, Pam, it will only take a few minutes. Stop working. Put us together. The glue is sitting right there.”

I’m not sure how I managed, but I fought off those little demons and got some real work done instead. Lunch time could not come fast enough. As soon as it arrived, I grabbed my salad, a bottle of white glue, my ready-to-fold “Picture Window Cottage” and a 3X5 mounting card base.

Between bites of less than fresh and flavor-filled mass prepared Chef’s Salad, I set to work. Fold, glue, hold. Fold, glue, hold. In another fifteen minutes, I had my house. Granted, it’s simple and flimsy, but there it was and I couldn’t stop looking at it.

Last night I lay in bed thinking about that little house. How could I improve on it? What could I use for siding? Roofing? Windows? A fence? Oh! Wouldn’t some pulled cotton look cute coming out of the chimney to resemble smoke? I have an extra bead from the miniature perfume bottles a made a few weeks back. That would make a great doorknob! How big should I make my final project? I’m going to skip the glitter. Frankly, I’m not the glitter type. I’ll be going for realism.

Today, I printed out plans for “The Little Charmer”, because it was there. I’ve obtained the right sort of board as well, not just flimsy printer paper. Thank, God, I only have seven more working days until winter break. I know, I know. I should be working on the novel, but MINIATURE HOUSES!!! people!

Are We Acclimated Yet?

Adventures / Motorcycles & me

I hear tell that it takes a human two years to become acclimated to a new environment. If that’s true then in two more months Jim should be all settled into the various climates of Central New York State. The cold should not bother him so much, or the lack of sun, or the over generous amounts of rain we get compared to his native state of Texas. Oh, we have our warm moments up here in the Northeast, don’t get me wrong, but not like they do down there. I’ve had the pleasure of being in Texas for three of the four seasons, or what passes as seasons anyway.

In the middle of January it was in the mid-80s with clear blue skies.

In early July it was in the mid-90s with clear blue skies.

In mid-October it was in the low 80s with clear blue skies. It did rain once while we were there this last time and I immediately thought as I stepped out and saw the overcast sky, “Ah, just like home.” Of course, the very next day we were right back to those blue skies and in the 80s.

I’m pretty sure I could get acclimated to that sort of thing in two years, but I think you need more than that when going the other way. Hell, I’ve lived in these parts for almost fifty years and I can’t say as I am all that tolerant of the cold, at least not anymore. Maybe it’s just old age. I can’t stand to be cold anymore and I complain about it from September to May, at least. Once upon a time temperatures in the 80s-90s would have sent me running to the sanctuary of A/C. Now I think on them with an ever-growing fondness. While visiting Texas, as the others would all be inside, I’d find a glorious spot in the shade, the warm, warm beautifully warm and comfy cozy shade, to read and relax and wallow in the heat like I can so seldom do in New York.

But, what of Jim and his battle to acclimate the other way around? Will he ever be warm again? Will he ever employ the dressing in layers method? Will he ever forgive me for being the reason he can no longer ride his motorcycle twelve months out of the year? It tugs at certain guilt strings every time I see him sitting at the computer or on the sofa watching television wearing his winter coat over a hoodie sweatshirt over a t-shirt. I’m miserable when I’m cold and yet, I fear I am not as cold as he must be all the time in these Northern climes we call home.

He’d surely jump at the chance to move back to Texas to be toasty warm again. And yet, as much as I’d love to be warm more times than cold, I cannot find it in me to move. I love the changing of the seasons. I love to see the snowdrops, crocus and daffodils push their way up through the molding leaves and melting layers of snow. I love how the silence of winter is one morning suddenly broken by the sweet, beautiful chirping of returning birds. I love when the smell of lilacs drenches the air and when the sun finally returns. I appreciate every single amazingly cloudless and wonderfully blue sky. And in the fall, the hillsides are ablaze with the most brilliant of colors and the air smells of fallen leaves, ripened fields of corn, and pumpkins. And yes, oh, it is beautiful when we get just the right amount and type of snow that clings in tiny white lines along the leafless branches and all is quiet. At night, the blankets of white sparkle under a full moon, reflecting the twinkling stars above; breathtaking. I find myself humbled in those moments. Even as I may long to be warm and cozy, I can’t yet give those wondrous, child-like times up just yet.

I don’t think two years is long enough to learn to love a place so different than what you are used to. I have to admire the man for even trying and I count myself amongst one of the very lucky to have found a person willing to put up with it all in the name of love. As we enter our second winter today – the third if you count when he moved up here in the middle of January – I sure don’t look forward to shoveling snow, scraping ice and those Oh-So-Mighty heat bills. I do look forward to snuggling on the sofa and sipping hot cocoa though. And it’s been mentioned that someone wants to actually trudge out into the cold and snow very soon to get a real Christmas tree. Maybe he is acclimating after all.

To Beard Or Not To Beard

Just Plain Random Weirdness

Let’s make this perfectly clear, I am a terrible blogger.

It amazes me how so many others can find so much to write about while I struggle to get something here once a month. My life just doesn’t seem to be that interesting, but… I have been writing. Recently I joined the ranks of writing for The Good Men Project and have had three articles published by them. I do manage to toss a Tweet out now and again and post more frequectly on my Facebook page.

So, until I find something more enthralling to pass your way, he’s the link to my latest Good Men Project article, ‘To Beard Or Not To Beard’. Hope you enjoy.

http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/to-beard-or-not-to-beard-2-dg/

Their Stories Carved In Stone

Cemetery / Cemetery Crawls / Memento Mori

This article appeared in the Tioga County Courier, Owego, New York in October 2010. It seemed an appropriate time to share it elsewhere. Hope you enjoy.

“What did you do over summer vacation?”

Other kids in my middle school class likely answered that question with such things as going on a family vacation to Florida, maybe 4-H Camp or just hanging out with friends around a swimming pool. I spent most of one particular summer in the Berkshire Evergreen Cemetery, voluntarily documenting and mapping the headstones.

I’ve always been fascinated by cemeteries and never found them creepy to walk in, day or night. To me they are places to get away from it all, to relax, to think, to reflect on all my dreams for life. Being surrounded by death like that makes you appreciate living. Thanks to the Internet I’ve discovered I’m not so alone in these feelings, but as a kid very few of my friends could understand my fascination and fewer still would join me in my various cemetery adventures.

One youthful journey that I made with my father reigns over them all. We were visiting family graves in Speedsville at the time. I must have been eleven or twelve years old. While Dad tended to watering flowers and plants that had been brought earlier that year, I wandered around and read the tombstones. One stone quickly got my overly active imagination going. It was one of the earlier stones in the graveyard and at the top was carved a hand with a finger pointing downward. From the finger dangled three chain links, one of them broken. I was instantly convinced that finger pointing down could only mean one thing, this poor sinner was bound for Hell. When I showed Dad the stone, he didn’t know what it could possibly mean either. The mystery would remain with me for almost thirty more years.

I started taking pictures in cemeteries in my early twenties. Whole weekends would be devoted to cemetery hunting and grave walking. I occasionally found others to join me, but most of the time this was a solitary practice, just me and my camera. My images eventually started to focus on the intricate carvings on the headstones: the different types of flowers, trees, animals, birds and a variety of archaic symbols, including many, many headstones with hands in various poses on them. I remembered the stone I’d seen with my father all those years ago and knew there had to be a reason and meaning behind all these things.

My serious research soon began.

In North America the earliest markers erected were generally unrefined and simple. The inscriptions, if indeed they bore an inscription at all originally, have in many instances eroded away or crumbled off. These stones are generally from what is called the Federalist Period, 1789-1850, and sometimes offer us little information. But even the crudest markers can tell us a great deal about the history of the region during this time.

One of the most popular symbols displayed prior to 1850 is the funerary urn. These appear with great regularity on 19th century gravestones in all settled areas of the United States and Canada. The urn was a well-understood symbol of death and the mortality of the body. Quite often the urn was accompanied by the Tree of Life (not to be confused with the Weeping Willow symbol that will be explained later). This provided a sacred message for the living; although the individual had perished, their remains would provide the seed for new life. When this same tree appears to be growing out of the urn it expresses the Western religious understanding of the hope of everlasting life.

The urn and Tree of Life made perfect sense to me, but when I saw my first tree-stump-shaped grave marker, I was baffled. Why would anyone have a headstone shaped like a tree stump?

I discovered there was a fraternal organization called Woodmen of the World and to have the graves easily identifiable by their brothers, the headstone would be carved into the shape of a tree stump. One tree symbol led to another. The Weeping Willow mentioned earlier was a common symbol found in Great Britain during the neoclassical period (1660-1740) and was intended solely to represent perpetual mourning and grief. You will find countless depictions of the willow on grave markers from the nineteenth-century in our area as well. Oak leaves and acorns on tombs stood for power and longevity. Laurel branches often mark the graves of those who have served their countries with great distinction.

Then came the flowers: roses, poppies, lilies, and sunflowers just to name a few. Not only did each flower have a meaning, but the flowers arrangement and stage of life could tell the informed observer about the person whose remains lay beneath. This is most visible in the rose. A rose bud will most likely mark the grave of a child or young, unmarried woman, while roses in full bloom are carved on the stones of those who have led long, productive lives. A wreath of roses, or wreaths of any kind, speaks of eternity. Anything round, such as wreaths and orbs, have long been symbolic of things that are meant to last forever, just as the familiar circle, or band, of gold many of us wear for a wedding band does.

In hot pursuit came the animals one finds carved on graves. The two most popular are the lamb and the dove. A lamb will mark almost exclusively the grave of an infant or a very young child. Doves can be found in various postures from sitting upright, to flying upward or downward to lying flat on their back, feet curled up in the typical image of a dead bird. As with flowers, each of the dove’s positions has a different meaning. Sitting upright means the soul of the deceased is believed to be at rest. The bird flying upward represents the soul’s transcendence into Heaven, downward it symbolizes the spirit of Christ coming down to take the soul. If the bird is flat on its back, chances are the life of the deceased was suddenly cut short.

The Masons, along with countless other fraternal and sorority organizations, use a variety of symbols to identify the final resting places of their members. Masons view the beehive as a symbol of industry. A beehive may also mark the grave of a Mormon. If you find a stone carved with an eagle and the number thirty-two, this marks the grave of a 32nd Degree Scottish Rite Mason. The most common of all Masonic symbols are the compass with the square along with the obelisk-shaped headstone itself. The Ancient Order of Odd Fellows often uses a three-linked chain where one of the links is snapped open, symbolizing the severance of the dead from the living.

Wait. What? A three-linked chain with one link broken? Where had I seen that before? The Speedsville cemetery with my dad, of course! Did that mean the deceased really wasn’t bound for Hell as I’d first imagined? I searched further and found a reference to hands, and more importantly, hands with fingers pointing in various directions. I was about to have my answer.

You’ll find a lot of hands on graves. Some hands are clearly folded in prayer. Other times, the hand of one person may be seen holding the hand of another. In the case of two different hands behind held together, look very carefully. A hand that reaches down and may appear a bit larger than the one below symbolizes the Hand of God fetching up the soul of the deceased. Sometimes the cuff of a man’s shirt or a lady’s blouse has been added and this could represent the hands of a husband and wife held together for all eternity. Hands with the fingers pointing upward are meant to guide the soul in the direction of heaven. Finally, the hand with a finger pointing downward means that those on Earth have been called to witness the mortality of humanity, that the deceased has been chosen by God. My dearly departed friend in Speedsville wasn’t Hell bound after all. He was merely a member of the Ancient Order of Odd Fellows whose family had left behind a symbolic reminder of the mortality of us all. That wasn’t even close to the sinister imaginings I’d harbored all those years.

As you can see, a vast number of iconographic symbols and themes grace the headstones of cemeteries. Only a very few have been mentioned here. Gravestones are, in many aspects, works of art. Some are masterpieces, while others are representative of the crude and harsh pioneer environment our own ancestors endured.

Every grave marker has a symbolic message all its own to share, a voice waiting to be heard. These stones have stories to tell, but it takes a willing and observant person to sit down and read that message and understand the story left so lovingly behind by the family who placed it there.

What did you do over your summer?

I walked through and took pictures of what I believe to be some of the most beautiful and fascinating stone sculpture gardens ever created by man and read the stories carved in the stones of our local cemeteries.

Nanu, Mr. Williams. Nanu.

Childhood fantasies / Mental health

Johnathon Winters is quoted as saying, “You’ve got to be an observer. And you’ve got to take time to listen to people, talk, to watch what they do.” As a kid, I really liked Mr. Winters. My parents had this old vinyl album called “The Very Best of Johnathon Winters” that I listened to countless times. In fact, that record is still in my collection. I loved his stories and the way he did all the voices for his characters. In retrospect, I wonder if that is why I always did that for my kids whenever I read to them. It seems the most natural thing to do, doesn’t it? I think so anyway. Winters made me laugh, a lot.

Though I certainly played with Barbie’s and baby dolls, my most favorite playthings were puppets. My best friend Sherry and I had a vast collection of puppets. Pink rabbits, purple frogs, a hippy, a white cat and an old hound dog that, ironically, our black lab, Amos, dragged home one day, just to name a few. No, we didn’t put on too many puppet shows. We were more sophisticated than that. My Barbie Townhouse became an apartment building along with a small bookshelf tucked behind my dad’s recliner. Sherry created 312 Seymour Drive in the corner of her dad’s home office. Our puppets met, fell in love, married, had children and we even had a funeral for one of them. Every puppet had its own voice. Those are some of my favorite memories of childhood.

In 1978 a new television show came on the air called “Mork and Mindy”. By then I was nearly thirteen years old and have left the puppets behind me, but by no means the myriad of character voices. I could recite the “Wizard of Oz” nearly by heart, voices, songs and all. I was a goofy kid or so I was labeled by my Aunt Brenda. You’ll get no argument from me. A goofy kid is a happy kid and there are only a scant few unhappy moments I can recall from my childhood. I was, am, truly blessed. With the arrival of “Mork and Mindy” in my life, it made it alright for me to be goofy. My outburst of randomness and over dramatized voices were so much like Robin Williams’s character of Mork, it helped me to settle more into my own skin and be who I really was. You can but imagine how enraptured I was when Johnathon Winters appeared on “Mork and Mindy”! Two of my favorites! Winters and Williams were made for each other and I sucked it up like the sponge I was. All the voices that lived in their heads were tossed out there for all the world to see and hear.

Partially through them and because of my love of storytelling, I began to observe people and their characters. I started looking at people and wondering how I could recreate them into a workable persona for a story. I am perfectly content to sit and people watch. For all the enjoyment I got, and still get, out of bursting into random voices, I am in general a very quiet person. I’ve been known to sit and take notes on people I watch. Bits and pieces of conversations I’ve eavesdropped on have been incorporated into story dialog.

There are very few celebrities out there that I care enough about to take note of their deaths. I may think, “Oh, gee, that’s too bad,” one minute and be going on with my life without a second thought of it the next. I can name the ones I’ve cried over on one hand; John Denver, Roddy McDowall, Johnathon Winters and now, most recently, Robin Williams. Roddy McDowall was probably the hardest. You might say John Denver taught me to sing as I have a very clear memory of singing “Country Roads” to a group of my grandmother’s church lady friends when I was about seven years old. I thought Roddy McDowall was the cutest guy in the world and would watch anything and everything he was in. He’s also the only celebrity I ever wrote to asking for an autograph. He graciously obliged and that signed picture is one of my prized possessions to this day. Winters and Williams showed me it was alright to be goofy.

Some people have heroes. I don’t know as I’d call any of those guys heroes, but I did admire them all on deeply personal levels at some point in my life. Part of them became part of me over the years even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time. I admit I have cried over the death of Robin Williams mostly because of my memories and how I could so easily relate to Mork; an alien, someone from the outside looking in, someone trying to be like everyone else, to fit in and at the same time, helpless against their inner nature that every now and then BURSTS out into the open.

Mork was an observer. Mork was sent to listen to people, talk to them, watch what they did and report it back to Orson at the end of each show. We will likely never know the thoughts that were running through Robin’s head in those final minutes, as we did when he spoke to Orson. I don’t really want to. It’s bad enough I now have this all too graphic image in my head of his death. I hope he found peace. I hope he’s found a place where his laughter no longer masks the pain. And I hope we, his fans, can remember the way he lived and the laughter he brought to billions, instead of the tragic ending he brought to his own brilliant, loving and tender mind.

I think Mork himself said it best at the end of one episode of “Mork and Mindy.”

Orson: What did you do this week, Mork?

Mork: Well, sir, this week a made a friend.

Orson: If you made a friend, why are you so sad?

Mork: Well, you see, sir, I lost him.

Orson: Can’t you make another?

Mork: No, sir. Well, I could but I haven’t got the heart for it.

Orson: What do you mean?

Mork: Well, sir, you know when you create someone and you nurture them, they grow. Well, there comes a time when they have to live their own life, or die their own death.

Orson: And now your friend is gone forever?

Mork: Oh, no, sir, no. I’ll always keep him right here. *touches his heart* Until next week, sir. Nanu.

 

Nanu, Mr. Williams. Nanu.

She’s Not The Nanny, She’s My Sister.

Family & Relationships / Mental health

I had no idea I had something so unique in common with Fran Drescher. Or, maybe, in this day and age it’s not so unique as I once thought it was.

I was watching ‘Oprah, Where Are They Now?’ a little while ago and Fran was her guest. I was shocked when I learned that Fran had once been married to a man who came out first, as bi-sexual, and then as gay a short time later. Not only that, but when Oprah asked her about their current relationship compared to their married life, Fran pretty much echoed what I had thought and continue to think to this day.

Fran stated she and her husband had a very active and satisfying sex life. I can relate to that. My ex and I had great sex and were very happily married. We have two wonderful kids. I must have been doing something right, huh? I can’t pinpoint any precise moment or event and I can’t say, because I don’t know, what inspired my ex to step out of the closet. I just know that one day all was right with the world and the next, everything had changed – sort of.

There was one thing that has not changed though we’ve been apart for ten years and divorced for three. We still love, respect and emotionally support each other enormously! I must confess that there was a period of time that I felt very hurt and lied to. How could he NOT tell me? I was very angry for much longer than I cared to admit to anyone, even myself. It wasn’t like we’d never talked about our previous relationships. He had simply omitted a few key details. But, I loved him then as I do now. I wanted a life with him and our kids. Considering the nature of the world and its less than accepting qualities for people who are bi, gay or transgendered, what he did made perfect sense. He wanted a wife and children. He wanted to be ‘normal’. He wanted to be loved and accepted by his own family.

As the years went by and we worked together to keep our marriage and family intact, with some slight variations on things, it slowly became clear it simply was not working as we hoped. We still loved each other, but it took a lot for us to admit to each other and ourselves, that neither of us was really happy with the current arrangement. We had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for a while by then, making up once excuse or another to family and friends, including the kids. Living together and living this lie day in and day out, had become exhausting. As much as it hurt, we knew continuing this lifestyle was doing more harm than good to the friendship we still both desperately wanted to keep.

Eventually it came to pass that he moved out and got a house about ten miles away. As he was just outside the school system the kids attended, they lived with me and went to visit him as often as they liked. The rest is pretty much your standard story of separation. I still had bouts of anger. I still felt cheated of the fairy tale life I thought I was getting on our wedding day. I still cried into my beer and over spilt milk. And though every shadow of hope that I’d once had that we could make it work had been obliterated by the bright light of truth, I still loved him. And, I knew he still loved me.

We still faced life together. If there was a problem with the kids, we dealt with it as a couple. We went to school functions as a family. We spent Christmas mornings together as his place, as a family. When our son went off to college, we all went together to see him off. It was never a burden to work or be together because despite our differences, we had vowed to each other to be there for our kids and to both be parents to those kids. No one was to ever feel like a single parent, ever! We owed our kids that. And, in some odd way we have maintained our marriage vows to always continue to love and honor each other as people, to be there for each other, for better for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health. It took living apart to grow together as friends. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a lot more important than staying married for the sake of appearances.

My ex-husband is truly one of my dearest and best friends in the whole world. I feel like one of the most blessed people in the world and one of the luckiest, too. We may not have beat the divorced statistics, but I believe we have beat the odds in another way that is far more important. We entered the marriage with love. We left the marriage with love. Because of that, we’ve both been able to continue our lives in ways that have brought us greater happiness and a truer, deeper understanding of what it means to love someone unconditionally.

It was a very hard life lesson. I’ve since left the hurt and anger behind me. In doing so, I’ve been able to embrace completely the new and wonderful life (and man) I now have and to accept people much more easily for who they are. If your heart is full of love and acceptance, there just isn’t any room for hatred and bigotry.

As for Fran Drescher, she’s no longer The Nanny. She’s now become a kindred spirit and an emotional sister. How cool is that?