Memories of Mom

Mother's Day is rapidly approaching and as it does, I am always struck with sadness that my mom is no longer here so I can celebrate the day with her. She's been gone for 30 years and hardly a week passes when I don't think about how many things we never got to share or how much I could use her advice or a shoulder to cry on.

My mother was an avid reader, who quite likely set me on the path my life has taken. Not only did she get me hooked on romance novels, but she actually loved to write, even more than I did . . . or do on a day when the words aren't coming easily. She never saw my first book in the stores or even knew I was attempting to write one.

There is, however, one story I like to tell about her longtime friend, who now lives in South Carolina and whom I see each year as I drive north or south between Florida and Virginia. Dottie was in a bookstore one day, hunting everywhere for my latest. She had the clerk looking as well. Suddenly a book fell from the shelves. It was mine. When she told me of this amazing coincidence, I replied, "That was no coincidence. That was my mama." We still laugh about the idea that even from the hereafter, my mother's doing her part to promote my career.

Mom was a wonderful listener, a trait that endeared her to all my friends. I still recall, as I sit on the front porch of my home in Virginia with these same friends today, all the times they would sit in the exact same place -- if not the same chairs -- and spill all their secrets and dreams to my mother. It's little wonder that these people are like siblings to me. We grew up with the same woman encouraging us, building our confidence, comforting us when we were hurt.

There are days it's almost impossible for me to believe that she's been gone from my life almost as long as she was a part of it, but that's the nature of the relationship, isn't it? Moms influence us, become a part of who we are, stay with us always.

So for all of you whose moms are still with you, I hope you'll spend time with them this week. More importantly I hope you'll spend time with them when it isn't
Mother's Day. Treasure the time you have, because it can end all too suddenly.

And for those of you who, like me, no longer have your mom to turn to, to be there for all the triumphs and tragedies in your life, treasure the memories that remain and take some time this week to rejoice in those.

Sherryl Woods

This old house...under construction

Early on I mentioned in a comment on this blog what it's like to have a contractor for a husband . . . or a friend. Little did I know that I was about to discover the true meaning of my own words.

Last fall when I left for my winter home in Florida I sat down with my friend, who's been a contractor for many years. He's done plenty of work for me including the renovations of my bookstore -- twice -- and the major overhaul of my kitchen. I had two interior projects I wanted to have done over the winter because they'd be so disruptive to my life if done while I was actually living in the house. I was having a good bit of my main bathroom gutted and having my office/guest room painted and the closet built out to contain a section for office supplies, another for gift wrap and a section for guests' clothes. We went over paint chips, a sketch of the closet and so on.

Off I went to Florida last October, happily envisioning the changes I would find on my return. I passed along model numbers for a new sink and a new toilet. I found just the right faucets. Then I conducted a hunt for floor tile, after being assured that changing the tile wouldn't delay the project.

We had many conversations over the winter, though few about the projects. About a month before my return, he asked oh-so-innocently, "Now, just when are you coming back?" A cold chill raced down my spine. Then, "Which of those paint colors did we decide on for the bathroom?" I did not find this reassuring.

When I was more than halfway here, visiting with friends in South Carolina, I got another call. When installing the new faucets in the shower, he'd discovered a leak. This on a Sunday, in a town where finding the plumber can be a full-time job on a weekday. The next day, somewhere in North Carolina as I drove on I-95, there was another call. The plumber would be here before the day was out, but there was a second leak. Now, neither shower nor toilet were functional. I almost made a U-turn and went back to Florida.

It is now just over two weeks since I drove up to find an old sink and toilet in my side yard, then walked in the door and found my dining room piled high with bags filled with stuff removed from the medicine cabinet and the storage unit in the bathroom. An hour after I arrived I was sorting through junk, some dating back to my mother who died 30 years ago!! Please, let's not consider what that says about me as a housekeeper, okay? The point is I was immediately overwhelmed by the chaos.

The story does have a happier ending. I have a functioning bathroom again(it took three days total for the plumber to deal with the leak -- one day to track him down, one day on the job and another day to fix what was still leaking after the first visit). My office is organized enough that I can actually sit down and write without thinking I should be hanging curtains or throwing out yet more junk.

This tale of woe is not meant to make you feel sorry for me (though a little sympathy would be appreciated), but to explain why I haven't done a blog for a couple of weeks. Now I would absolutely love to hear your horror stories about renovations that have gone awry, taken longer than expected, or even the bright and shining examples of things that turned out exactly the way you wanted them to, and on time. Click on comments below and share your experiences with us, or email them to me at Sherryl703@gmail.com and I'll post them for you.

As for my contractor, we're still friends. After all, we've known each other since we were 12, so we know way too many of each other's secrets. And even when I find him the most frustrating, I know I can count on him to get the job done with meticulous attention to detail. He's very, very good at what he does . . . and driving some 100 miles round trip each day to work for me probably is above and beyond.

And now that I can walk into a bathroom that looks even better than I envisioned it, or into an office that's freshly painted and almost organized, I like him even more.

Sherryl

Be careful what you write...

Is there such a thing as email etiquette? You know, the kind of guidebook about email that Emily Post used to write about getting along in the world? If so, I haven't seen one, but I am frequently reminded that there sure is a need for such a thing.

How often, in a business or personal situation, have you started to fire off an angry email in a fit of annoyance or exasperation, only to stop yourself at the last second? Or, worse, how often have you hit SEND, only to regret it the next second?

That's the thing about email. It's quick and all-too-easy to react impulsively, not choosing our words with care. And as if that alone wouldn't be bad enough, an email doesn't come with an image of the sender or his or her tone of voice. Next thing you know that quick response has been misinterpreted, taken as a serious or biting comment, rather than the witty little joke you meant to make. And someone's feelings are hurt. Or there's a rift in a friendship or business relationship.

I've certainly received my share of emails from strangers, family or friends that imply a negative tone that may not be intended at all. Sometimes I'm tempted to fire back an equally snippy comment. Sometimes I've even done just that, only to find out the person who sent the original email never intended the message I received.

So, here's something to consider, even in the most casual email exchanges...and even more importantly in the professional ones. Take a second look at what you've written -- unless it's as simple as suggesting a time for lunch, for example -- and be sure there's no way the recipient can misinterpret your words. If you mean your email to be biting, will you have reason to regret it an hour from now? Or even two minutes from now?

If the subject is serious, something that could affect a relationship, wait to respond, rather than replying in the heat of the moment. I sometimes write scathing emails, then go back and take out all the incendiary language. That gives me the satisfaction, without the repercussions.

If you've ever fired off a quick email and had cause to regret it, tell us about that. Of if you've ever received one that hurt your feelings -- intentionally or not -- tell us how you handled that. Did you pick up the phone? Fire off an angry email in response?

I'm curious about the impact all this may be having on civility and any experiences you'd care to share. Either click on "comments" below or send me an email at
Sherryl703@gmail.com.

Sherryl Woods

Getting inventive about getting around

Just last week one of my best friends from college came for a visit. We make it a point to try to get together at her home in Colorado, mine in Florida or in Virginia at least once a year. One of the first things we do is make a list of all the things we want to do during the visit, all the restaurants that have become favorites.

This year at the top of her agenda was spending a day at the Sony Ericcson tennis tournament, something we hadn't done for several years at least in part because my gimpy knee makes getting around the tennis complex, up and down stairs and even from the parking lot a real nuisance. However, as someone who once loved to play tennis and even played competitively on a neighborhood team -- yes, me! -- I really wanted to go. So, I got inventive.

I called the ticket office and asked about a zillion questions of a poor, clueless guy who kept trying to seat me in the upper deck, but handily near an elevator. I finally gave up, went on the site map and figured out which row was at the top of the section I wanted, meaning no stairs to climb once I was inside the stadium. Two seats in that section also netted me a parking pass right across the street from the stadium. And, as a bonus, a pass to a special hospitality suite. When I was unable to make the reservation online, I went back to poor, clueless guy and gave him the information about exactly which seats I wanted.

It turned out to be one of the best things I've done in years. The walk from the parking lot was a breeze. My knee even cooperated for a walk around the gorgeous grounds and allowed me to hike up one set of stairs to my seating level. By then I'd spotted an elevator and made the next trip up in that. In between we saw a men's doubles match won by the tournament's eventual finalists, a match by the tournament's eventual winner, Serena Williams, and part of a match by the eventual men's winner, Nikoly Davedenko. The only thing I screwed up was not realizing that if I'd had the exact same row on the opposite side of the stadium we would have been in the shade, rather than the scorching heat. Next year!

This isn't the first time I've made phone calls to determine the best seats for an event. I know exactly which row is best for me at the Florida Marlins spring training site in Jupiter. I've figured out which seats work best in which theaters in New York and which theaters are within walking distance for me from my hotel.

I'm bringing all this up because it made me wonder how many of us stop doing things we love when we conclude that it's inconvenient or physically difficult. I know I've done that more often than I should. Going to the tennis match reminded me yet again that there are ways to keep up with the things we enjoy. They sometimes require a little ingenuity, but they are possible.

So, don't put aside your passions when you think they're beyond you. Maybe it's true, but maybe it's not. Maybe it's just a matter of looking at the seating plan, making a phone call, asking the right questions. I hope I always remember this lesson, because my life will be richer for it. So will yours.

If you have a topic you'd like to discuss here, among friends, be sure to drop me a note at sherryl703@gmail.com. If you'd like to write a guest blog about something on your mind, drop me a note about that as well.

Sherryl Woods

What's a woman to do?

Just about anything she sets her mind to, from what I can see.

Last week I had the most amazing opportunity. I spent a few days in Toronto with the five winners of Harlequin's More Than Words awards. Trust me when I tell you that these are women of action, women who saw a need in their communities and stepped up to fill it. As I chatted with them, I was in awe. I think you will be, too.

Each year Harlequin Enterprises solicits nominations from the U.S. and Canada of women who are making a difference in their communities. Five are chosen to receive a $10,000 award for their charity. In addition, five authors are selected to write fictional stories inspired by these women and their great organizations. This year's More Than Words anthology is being published in hardcover for the first time with stories written by Linda Lael Miller, Curtiss Ann Matlock, Jennifer Archer, Kathleen O'Brien and me. It should be in stores any day now and all proceeds go back into Harlequin's charitable foundation to honor future recipients and causes that are important to women.

The winner to whom I was assigned was the energetic, enthusiastic founder of Inside the Dream, based in the Peel region of Canada just outside of Toronto. Ruth Renwick, a native of Peru and a social worker by profession, was asked a few years ago to help a teenager who literally would have been unable to participate in her senior year prom or graduation without the proper clothes to wear. Ruth found her one dress. When that didn't fit, she went home, opened her own closet and that of her daughter, and took more dresses over until the perfect dress was found to give this young girl her Cinderella moment.

From that single incident, Ruth saw the impact that such an act of kindness could have on a young person's self-esteem and ability to have important memories from high school. With the help of her daughter, colleagues and her husband, she founded Inside the Dream. In just a few short years more than 350 teens -- girls and boys -- have benefitted from this program, winding up high school standing a little taller, going out into the world with a little more hope.

Though I had spoken to Ruth before writing my story -- "Black Tie and Promises" -- meeting her proved everything I'd felt when speaking to her and reading the material that had been submitted by her husband when she was nominated for the award. Every teenager could use a fairy godmother like Ruth. This is someone who simply doesn't take no for an answer, who has boundless energy and commitment . . . to say nothing of eyelid tattoos so she'll never need eye make-up again. Those of us who are constitutionally incapable of putting eyeliner on straight were in awe. I'm still trying to convince Harlequin to fly any author who wants to go to see Ruth's plastic surgeon who accomplished this magical feat.

The other four winners were equally remarkable -- a single mom who'd struggled to put food on the table for her own kids then launched a program for others in similar situations; a charming, soft-spoken woman who founded a theraputic riding academy to honor her daughter, who suffered from Down's Syndrome and died at 15; a doctor dedicated to autism research and programs; and a woman who used the occasion of her wedding reception to launch Bears Without Borders by asking friends and relatives to donate a teddy bear. Those bears -- and many more -- have made their way into the hands of children around the world.

So, despite temperatures in Toronto in the 20s and ice on Lake Ontario, I came home with my heart warm. Meeting these women lifted my spirits and inspired me to look beyond my own routines to see what I, too, can accomplish in my community. Find a copy of More Than Words, whether the edition in which my story appears, or one of the earlier volumes. I hope you, too, will be inspired to make a difference. It's amazing what one woman with determination and a dream can do!

The evolution of the Easter egg

Don't be scared. This is not some scientific treatise on the Easter egg. It's just a bunch of random thoughts about how times have changed for this holiday tradition, specifically in my life.

Remember way, way back when moms would bring a dozen or so eggs out of the refrigerator, along with one of those special kits with little images of bunnies or Easter lilies that could be transferred onto brightly colored eggs? Hopefully someone remembered to boil the eggs first, but then we'd spread colored dye from one end of the kitchen to the other trying to create the perfect eggs to fill those baskets that the Easter bunny left on Easter morning. There was an artistic satisfaction to the creation of those eggs.

Then, in later years I joined friends every Easter, arriving early in the morning to hide eggs for their five children. By that time, plastic eggs were starting to be in vogue, eggs filled with candy or money, and hidden in such a way to keep the kids hunting for hours while the traditional Easter ham baked in the oven. We still tucked a few dyed eggs around the yard, but that had turned into a risky business since we couldn't count on the kids finding them or us remembering where we'd put them.

About that same time, an old friend in Virginia had little kids of her own. Not only did she do the whole Easter egg thing in style, but she'd dip her fingers in flour and leave "bunny tracks" through the house for her girls, leading them to eggs and hidden treasures.

In a fit of nostalgia maybe ten years ago, while visiting my dad, my cousin and I decided we absolutely had to dye Easter eggs. We ran around to every store in town --all five or so of them -- looking for an Easter egg coloring kit or even some food coloring. Nothing. On the eve of Easter, the shelves were bare. Back at the house, disappointed, we told my dad where we'd been. He simply shook his head, walked into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and handed us food coloring. Trust me, it had been there for a very, very long time, but the stuff did the trick. Our eggs weren't fancy, but they were bright and cheery. And he, of course, got to gloat that he'd had that dye all along.

A couple of years ago my goddaughter was visiting here in Florida around Easter, just in time for the annual Easter egg hunt on the village green. We took her two sons over there. While the oldest, who was about 10 at the time, gathered with others his age awaiting the start of the hunt for that age group, the rest of us waited with the one-year-old for his "hunt." It was especially aimed at toddlers. Parents were advised to stay outside the circle, where dozens of plastic eggs and small toys had been scattered for easy retrieval by the tiniest hunters. Within seconds of the official start, parents were on their hands and knees grabbing everything in sight, ruining the event for the kids and for the few parents -- my goddaughter and her husband among them -- actually trying to follow the rules. It was one of the most offensive scenes I've ever witnessed with adults pitted against toddlers, leaving many in tears. The next day we staged another hunt in my apartment to give the kids a fair chance to win a few prizes and find a few eggs.

The last time I tried to decorate a few eggs in the Easter tradition, it was ... Christmas. What, you've never heard of Christmas eggs? It was part of a joke gift for a friend this past holiday season, brightly colored red and green eggs with Merry Christmas, Mark written on them in crayon, along with a bit of decorative holly. I even took one to my breakfast place on Christmas morning to wish the cook/owner a happy holiday, mainly because he'd thought I was insane when I told him what I was doing. He's probably still a little uncertain about my mental health.

At any rate, with Easter almost here, I couldn't help thinking about the old days with parents and kids, eggs and a messy kitchen. The plastic eggs filled with treats may be easier, they may last from year to year (in fact, I think there may be one or two rolling around under my sofa even now), but it's just not the same.

None of this, of course, has a thing to do with the meaning of this holiday in a religious context. It is, however, all about tradition. I wish we were a little more intent on passing that along to our kids, spending that little bit of extra time with them, indulging their creativity, mess or no mess. Think about it next year when you're about to buy another bag of colorful plastic eggs for the kids' Easter baskets. Give them the gift of your time instead.

Meantime, I wish you all the true joy of this season.
Sherryl Woods

Guilty, soapy pleasures

For the past couple of months I've been totally obsessed with how TV's soap operas were going to negotiate their way through the disaster of the writers' strike. Why, you may well ask. Because one of my guilty little pleasures for many years has been watching the daytime soaps.

It may go back to childhood when my mother listened to a couple of soaps on the radio before I started school and she went back to work. Or it may go back to my years as a TV critic in Ohio when I broke my ankle, had a cast up to my hip in the middle of winter and was stuck in the house with soap operas to entertain me. I wrote a whole series of columns on the soaps and got hooked all over again, especially on The Young and the Restless, As the World Turns and The Guiding Light. My favorite story from that time was mentioning in a column that I just couldn't figure out the convoluted relationship between two characters on As the World Turns. By Monday morning I had a stack of mail on my desk explaining it to me . . . and every version was slightly different.

Over the years soaps have been maligned by critics, denigrated by TV snobs, and treated shabbily by networks and local stations who cut into them at the drop of a hat for "Breaking News" that usually isn't worth the airtime it wastes. With viewing patterns changing and soap ratings falling, I wondered if the writers' strike would be the kiss of death for this form of daytime entertainment.

When the strike began, word was that most soaps had sufficient scripts to carry them into February. Just in case, I hoarded my daily tapes, allowing myself to watch only the occasional hour, staving off the day when they might be forced to air reruns.

And as February neared, viewers I think could begin to see the very clever ways that the shows were trying to grapple with a dwindling supply of words for their characters to utter. Some shows had more than usual musical segments...meaning music played while characters interacted without speaking. This entailed long, meaningful looks, strolling hand in hand, rolling around in bed or anything else that could occupy the screen while music substituted for words. Some shows resorted to many, many flashbacks, weaving old clips into the story which could easily extend one new script into two days worth of shows.

My favorite, though, has been All My Children. Now some of this was, I'm sure, planned even before the writers' strike. The return of beloved characters Angie and Jessie -- never mind that he died onscreeen years ago -- could well have been in the works all along, but it has allowed somewhat conveniently for many, many flashbacks. In addition, they brought back the "real" Greenlee -- Rebecca Budig -- for an amnesia storyline about her old love Ryan, which has -- you guessed it -- allowed for the use of many, many flashbacks. They couldn't have pulled that off with the new actress in the role.

In general All My Children and the three CBS shows I tape have weathered the strike mostly with aplomb. After all, many of these seasoned actors spend their spare time on the New York stage and are used to live performances that require them to roll with the punches when the unexpected happens. They mustered on no matter what material they were handed. Only on rare occasions have I gone, "Huh?" when a storline or character veered wildly off-course.

Thank goodness, though, that the strike ended when it did. Had the strike gone on and necessitated the kind of scheduling disaster that occurred in primetime, it might have been the death knell for the soaps. And as someone who not only loves the genre, but also writes connected books because of an affinity for stories that return to the same world again and again, the loss would have saddened me. Now if network executives could muster up the same amount of respect for these venerable old shows, I'd feel even better about their future.