BRINGING IT ALL HOME

I went grocery shopping today.

Big deal, right? Yeah. It was a much bigger deal than I expected it to be.

My husband and I were early in preparing to shelter in place. We expected not to go out for a month or more and had planned accordingly. We were forced out into the world due to an oversight. Delivery would take days. We decided only one of us should go. 

I raised my hand. If we had to go out for one thing, we'd replenish what we needed and I am the meal planner of the family. Besides, I wanted a bit of an adventure. I am lucky to live in a small town with a major grocery store. Shopping mid-week, I figured I'd have the place pretty much to myself.

We tripled checked the list the night before. We YouTubed and Googled best practices for staying virus free. Some of the steps were a bit over the top, but safety is safety, and knowing we were starting the clock again for any exposure, we were willing to take precautions to keep our peace of mind. 

Planning made me feel like a special agent. Gloves. Mask. Dirty area. Decontamination process. My adventure was beginning!

The store created special early morning hours for seniors and I wondered how they would enforce that. It's been years since I had to skulk past a bouncer, but this time I wanted to be carded. 

My first shock: At 6:00AM, the store lot was nearly full. It seemed like people had even parked their cars in a social distance way leaving a space between each.

My first disappointments: I was not carded and I could not bring in my reusable shopping bags.

A sign said to keep six floor tiles apart. Employees in gloves, some in masks, counted people in and out of the store. Red tape marked where folks should stand in line. One employee wiped down each cart.

By the time I passed half-full refrigerated cases, my sense of fun had begun to wilt. I was no longer shocked or disappointed. A prevailing feeling of numbness crept in as I walked inside a movie set of dystopian life.There was still plenty of food, but the choices had thinned. Many shelves were empty. I did not sense tension among shoppers as I had during an earlier shopping trip when news of the virus was just breaking. People were resolute. Everyone wore gloves. Those who wore masks or scarves seemed to make an extra effort to put a smile in their eyes. I know I did.

I took note of who was there. I checked my normal impatience at the door and shuffled at least six tiles behind everyone. A stooped rail of a man peered at his list, then up at a shelf, and back. Heavy scrawled letters on the wrinkled paper confused him. I had visions of his wife at home, taking care to write as clearly as she could, knowing the choices would be bewildering to him.

It took a minute, but he made his choice and moved on.

I almost reached for the sole remaining paper towel roll. A knotted hand reached out for it. I stepped back and continued checking off items on my list.

Every-other register was open and a line formed to retain social distance. Employees helped manage the cue and give instructions for checking out safely. While I waited, I realized how fortunate I was. I could buy food. I felt safe. I wondered about too many people who did not have the options I almost took for granted in my zest for adventure.

I followed the new rules and loaded up my car, switching out one pair of nitrile gloves for a clean pair.

Then I put my face in my hands and cried.

Windrush Gala Speech for Kathy

Last night I had the incredible honor of being the guest speaker at the Windrush Farm Gala. I've written and spoken about Kathy and my experience as a volunteer, but I never dreamed I'd be asked to speak in front of a crowd of hundreds. I was glad I could hide my shaking knees behind the podium. The standing ovation was a shock, but what really tugged at me was receiving one of Kathy's Special Olympics gold metals from her family afterward. -cjh

============

Many of us are here tonight because we’ve seen the transformation a loved one has enjoyed as a result of their Windrush Farm experience. We’ve heard stories of first words spoken, emotional wounds fading, and physical sufferings lifting. The Windrush experience is often the catalyst for remarkable growth–physically, socially and emotionally– in the client rider.

In ways big and small, Windrush makes an impact beyond its split rail fences and pastures.

I think of the Windrush experience as a pebble thrown into the middle of a pond. Its impact ripples outward and touches more than just the rider astride a horse. Of course, the first ripple of Windrush’s effect is felt by the families. They can see the changes in mood or movement in their loved one up close.

Kathy won this gold metal at the equestrian
Special Olympics. Her family gave it to me
after this speech. I will cherish it forever.

But, the ripples keep expanding.

I started volunteering at Windrush because I’m a horse lover without a horse. I had six horses growing up and missed the sweet tangy smell of a stable and the oily grit of horse under my nails. A friend told me about an incredible, positive place that welcomes volunteers.

Enter Windrush into my life. Or should I say, enter Kathy.

I met Kathy Blanton five years ago. She had been riding at Windrush for close to ten years and I was a new volunteer horse handler. I knew horses. I knew nothing about Kathy. We were paired with an independent-minded pony named Bearito. I knew what to expect with horses and I could handle Bearito’s moods. I didn’t know what to expect with Kathy. She greeted me that first day with a nod and a look that told me she was sizing me up. Kathy no longer needed sidewalkers and could balance in the saddle independently. We got to work. The hour lesson was just Kathy and me, each learning about the other.

I was surprised and pleased when, a few weeks later, Kathy asked to work with me exclusively each week. I didn’t know then that a magic spell had been cast. Something profound changed in both of our lives.

But mostly mine.

I had never worked with anyone who had special needs and didn’t know what to expect. I was there for the horse grit, right? Each lesson–when she’d walk into the arena and greet me with her arms outstretched and that huge thousand-watt smile–we would each learn a little more.

Kathy was a tease. She’d pull my ponytail or take my hat. We’d laugh at our successes and laugh even more at our failures. As a horse handler, my job was to make sure to keep the rider safe if the horse did anything unexpected, so I was never out of reach. Kathy loved to trot, but I think she loved making me sprint around the arena beside her even more, laughing as I caught my breath. Steering the horse to nudge me into a freshly deposited pile of poop was a special delight for her.

I developed a deep respect for Kathy and saw her through the prism of what she could do rather than what she could not. She wasn’t a diagnosis. She was a person.

She learned to feel like an equestrian, complete with knowing that the road is filled with failures, but it’s the failures that help us forward.

In that special alchemy that happens inside therapeutic riding, she gave each lesson the full extent of her abilities, pushing up to and beyond her limitations. How many of us approach our challenges this way? She learned to do a posting trot, unclipped, independent. Free and able.

She was capable of so much and we kept trying more. Early on, she began helping me by leading the horse back up to the barn, taking the bridle and saddle into the tack room, and brushing out saddle marks. Then she’d help me lead the horse into a paddock or stall. After, we would walk arm-in-arm back down the hill. Sometimes we’d have lunch together in the gazebo. Sometimes she’d show me something special in her life – pictures of swimming lessons or family gatherings. I suspected these brief moments were a ploy for us to spend more time together. I didn’t mind.

In the outer ripples of Kathy’s Windrush experience, I learned about the power of the human spirit and never to take for granted the gifts that each of us has when we allow ourselves to give. . . or to receive. In that gazebo, I received the first short stories Kathy had ever written and published them on my blog. She was thrilled when I told her I namedcharacters in my last novel after her—a horse handler named Kathy, a priest named Father Blanton. Windrush Farm and Mandy Hogan got a nod, too.

Kathy wanted to do more. She wanted to create and write more.

Her experience continues to wash over and through me.

It’s with some irony that Kathy’s challenges were a result of surviving Eastern Equine Encephalitis as a young child. That often fatal virus – in the news so much now – may have taken a physical and intellectual toll on Kathy, but it did not dim her spirit and she lived for more than fifty years as a vibrant, funny and loving woman. It is with profound grief that Triple E finally succeeded in claiming Kathy’s life by being a significant factor in an incomprehensible series of events this past winter.

Kathy changed me and we never would have known one another if it were not for Windrush Farm.

Her family is doing something remarkable in her memory and Kathy’s experience continues to ripple outward, impacting others in ways large and small.

Thank you, Blanton family and Windrush, for being the pebble and the pond, and for letting me be just a small part of this story.

A Glimpse Inside an Author's Life

Okay. I'm writing this in an exhausted state. For all of you who think being an author is a life of writing by the warm hearth with a mug of steaming tea by our sides, with the occasional foray to events in our literary honor, stop reading and slap yourself upside your heads.

Maybe its like that for a few lucky souls, but let me tell you about my week.

It started with every emerging author's rite of passage. I submitted the full manuscript of my WIP, Find Cally, to two agents and a publisher. Yay! I had pitched to them at Crime Bake 2017 and was thrilled to receive their interest. In truth, the submissions were long delayed because my personal life detoured, but I was determined to submit the buffed and polished MS before this year's Crime Bake. (My WIP is a new venture and direction from my trilogy, so a fresh start makes sense.)

The beginning of the week was doing what writers do...revising, second guessing, revising, and hitting SEND.

Now a bit of backstory. I'm VP of the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime and on the board of this year's Crime Bake, a premier writers' conference. Being a hot-wired, detail-oriented person, I was doing my hot-wired, detail-oriented follow through on all things Crime Bake. As hotel liaison, my role was more Project Manager than Supreme Commander, but if something went wrong, it was my job to fix it. Oh, it was also my job to make darned sure nothing went wrong to begin with.

And then, on Monday, the boxes started to arrive.

Ever wonder about those nifty conference totes attendees get? Or about what goes in them? Yeah. Details matter.

Along with my real life and my author's life, I have a volunteer life. As a horse handler at a therapeutic riding center, I've worked with one woman for years. Physically and intellectually hobbled by a childhood illness, her positive spirit and our bond gives me far more than I could ever give her. Since we've together, she has ridden independently for the first time and claims I have inspired her to write.

On Wednesday, she gave me a short story she had written. My heart swelled.

The day before Crime Bake should have been a day of last minute follow through. Instead, I had to see MY PEOPLE! Equine Affaire is an annual conference of all things horse. The four-day event draws over 100K attendees. I've been a panelist and speaker there for the past two years and have been signing books at Taborton Books ever since The Charity was published. To be surrounded by horse-loving, book-reading people is wonderful and catching up with fans I only see there is better than you can imagine.

I sell a lot of books and (hopefully) make more fans.

Yes, I drove three hours to meet, greet, and sign for seven hours the day before a three-day conference.

And yes, after I arrived at the hotel Thursday evening, I treated myself to a dirty martini. Very dirty.

Friday morning started with a meeting of the Crime Bake team with the hotel staff. Co-chairs Edith Maxwell and Michele Dorsey pulled together a great team and the Hilton Hotel's staff, from the General Manager on down, met with us to pour over final details.

In truth, the next 72 hours are a bit of a blur. I absorbed the words of our Guest of Honor, Walter Mosley, in his Master Class and felt both unworthy of the title of "author" in the shadow of his incredible talent and inspired to persist.

Authors and fans know this is a time of being surrounded by their tribe. Sessions range from drilling down into craft techniques, to learning the fine points of criminal investigations and forensics, to insights into writing cinematically. The intimate size of the conference fosters connections in a relaxed atmosphere. My local library will be thrilled with a personalized signed copy of Mr. Mosley's newest book.

Board Members of Sister in Crime New England with our very
own Sherry Harris attending as Sisters in Crime,
national president. SinCNE president Edith Maxwell is
seated to Sherry's left.

Bright and early Saturday morning was a board meeting breakfast of Sisters in Crime New England. (I have much more to talk about and I'll be sharing SinCNE news with you soon.) After breakfast, I bounced around from attending sessions to addressing those pesky issues and details that inevitably crop up. From rearranging risers and podiums to ensure all audience members could see panelists, to working with the hotel to fix an agent's room needs, I did what needed to be done and completely ignored Rule #1. I did not keep to my dedicated time to write. Emails and trouble-shooting notwithstanding, I did not write one word. Nada. Zilch.

Honoree Kate Flora with author
Connie Johnson Hambley

Saturday evening's banquet honored Kate Flora with a Lifetime Achievement Award. Kate is talented, accomplished, and generous. Her influence inspires minnows like myself more than she realizes. After sharing a glass of wine and a conversation that ranged from cases to craft to family, she greeted me the next morning with a copy of her newest book, SHOTS FIRED, and dedicated it to my daughter who is embarking on a career in law enforcement. Kate is all class.

Sunday's panels had everything an author could want. Even with a packed house, the atmosphere was warm and friendly.

After the last of the attendees packed up and returned to their own writing lives, my job continued. Sunday even included a search for a purloined bouquet of flowers that were given as a gift to outgoing SinCNE president Edith Maxwell. (The Hilton ordered a replacement and personally picked them up from the florist!)

Once again, I deployed the secret weapon all authors should have and packed the car for the return trip home. Challenged by most things spacial, I never would have been able to fit all of this (and more!) into my car without my secret help.

Sunday night I filled my home with boxes of stuff I'll be holding on to for the next events of SinCNE and Crime Bake. I was finally able to give my 91-year-old mom a call and fill her in on all the details...who was there, how everything went, what everyone wore, and yes, what I ate and if I slept well.

The whirlwind is over and some folks said I'll miss the activity.

Maybe. As much as I love being surrounded by my tribe, I adore the solitude of writing. So, I'm still in my jammies as I write this, mug of tea beside me.

Okay, Fine. Here's an Update

"Where have you been?" you ask. I have no good answer for the dearth of posts except the very lame:

1.  I've been busy
2.  It's a brain space thing.

I'm in the throes of revisions for my fourth novel, Find Cally. I'm at the stage where I'm hacking out chunks of chapters, tightening up scenes, and double-checking my research. The fun part is learning about mega-yachts, maritime law, and diesel engines. The tough part has been inhabiting the emotional space of human trafficking. 

And it's harder than I thought it would be. In Find Cally, a hardscrabble dad searches for his teen daughter in the labyrinth of human trafficking helped by a trafficking survivor. I have five emotional layers I've needed to crawl into in order to breathe life into my characters.

1. The trafficked women: The biggest questions are how did they become involved in "the life" and why do they stay? The reasons are as simple as they are complex. Think of love and safety as viewed through an evil funhouse mirror.
2. The searching father (Dak Turner): What will a daddy do to protect his little girl? What if that daddy is an alcoholic? Could the pressures drown him in booze making him incapable of searching?
3. The innocent (Cally Turner): When and how does she realize what's happening to her? Does she see adapting as protecting herself?
4. The survivor (Sienna Wesson): What scars does she carry? How does she shape her life after leaving "the life"?
5. The men who profit: Manipulation and subterfuge on so many levels--emotional, social, financial, sexual. If it wasn't so real, it would be fascinating.

I've bonded with the characters. I feel protective over them. I want the women I conjure to emerge unscathed and whole. Why? Because I've volunteered and worked beside survivors as they struggle to regain their sense of power and wholeness. I feel a responsibility to them. 

But part of my responsibility as an author is to bring readers into unfamiliar worlds and to leave them changed by my story. I want them to learn. I want them to feel. I want them to stare at the ceiling at night, wondering.

The unspoken update on my writing life? This book has changed me. I'm struggling to bring a book to life that will change you, too.