Ireland's Rustic Lodges, Gold Beach, Oregon

 Starting in 1985, My husband and I found a quaint little cluster of cabins on the Beach in a tiny So. Or. town, called Gold Beach.  No phones in the cabins, a woodstove, or fireplace, a few even came with kitchens.  We started going there a couple times a year, Thanksgiving, and in the summer when family came to visit.  Everything that has been important in the last couple of decades has been discussed and shared in those cabins. We were there when I got the message that the baby we were adopting had been born, and again when the owner knocked on my door to tell me my Dad had died in the middle of the night back in Wyoming.

My Friends have sat around the table, playing the old board games and laughing.  My Grandmother and in-laws and parents, and friends from Germany have  all been there at one time or another.  My husband and I curled up in front of the fire reading, "What to expect the first year" and then watched our son learn to walk while we barricaded the fire with coffee tables and chairs.

 Over time there have been more changes in us than in the cabins, but there have been changes in both, so the fire is now artificial and the toddler is in his Senior year of High school.  The property was bought by the motel next door and there is now an observation tower and hot tubs on a deck on the beach.

 But deer still stroll the grass, and seagulls beg for handouts and friends still come to share Thanksgiving.

 since the fireplaces went fake, the massive woodshed was removed and a fountain put in its place.

 The hot tub, "Spas on the beach" is on this lovely deck.

 Twenty years ago, I painted a stone and placed it on the dirt of the flowerbed, and now the whole area overflows with painted mementoes, around the tower, the trees, bordering the trails.  This time, instead of painting, I was writing my novels, a sequel to "Duffy Barkley is Not a Dog" and another one about two girls, on the Oregon trail 150 years apart.  That is where I turn my imagination and creative spark these days.

 The gulls come to visit and beg, but the eagles prefer to keep to themselves and perhaps fish, or steal a fish from an unwary osprey.

 My husband and I have aged a lot since the first time we walked the sand here, but coming back always makes me feel younger.

 I always see things, in other things, like a heart, or a baby dragon asleep on the sand.

The sunset was one of the few moments the sun broke through the rain

 I don't often see the Rhodies starting to bloom at Thanksgiving.  But the raindrops lining every needle and leaf are just as lovely.

It is strange to think of the life of the cabin through the rest of the year, filled with other couples and families and groups.  But if I keep going there, a week at a time, there will come a day, when I can say, "I lived in a cabin by the sea, for a whole year."  Even if it takes me 52 years to do it.

A Day to Celebrate, Again

I posted this a year ago, and came back to re-read it only, but want to say now, that he is an adult, a high school graduate, a person who knows he is my son and never gives me a second to doubt that he loves me, now that he has been in touch with his birth family and is getting to know about his roots,

I am more in love with being Austin's Mom than ever.  If anyone has any doubts that you can love an adopted child as much as one you give birth too, I can assure you, both my sons are wonderful, and very different from each other  but they both own my heart.

end edited addition from 11-16-2011

From God's Arms to My Arms to yours

by Michael McLean

With so many wrong decisions in my past, I'm not quite sure.
If I can ever hope to trust my judgement anymore.
But lately I've been thinking, 'cause it's all I've had to do.
And in my heart I feel that I should give this child to you.

[Chorus]

And maybe, you can tell your baby when you love him so that he's been loved before.
By someone who delivered your son, From God's arms to my arm's to yours.
Now if you choose to tell him and if he wants to know.
How the one who gave him life could bear to let him go.
Just tell him there were sleepless nights I prayed and paced the floors.
And knew the only peace I'd find is if this child was yours.


{Repeat Chorus}


Now I know you don't have to do this, but could you kiss him once for me?
The first time that he ties his shoes or falls and skins his knee,
And could you hold him twice as long when he makes his mistakes.
Tell him that he's not alone, sometimes that's all it takes -
I know how much he'll ache.

This may not be the answer for another girl like me.
And I'm not on a soapbox saying how we all should be.
I'm just trusting in my feelings and I'm trusting God above.
And I'm trusting you can give our baby both his mother's love.


{Repeat Chorus}

 Today is a Day that we Celebrate at the Goode Family home.  Even though we brought our oldest son home when he was less than 24 hours old, we had to wait until there had been home studies, and Doctor exams to prove that he could "thrive" in our home, before the adoption was finalized.  So when I took him in for his six month check-up (and discovered that I was pregnant) we were at the time when we could finally stand before a judge and have him pronounce us to be a family.

By that time our baby was running all over the place in his white walker, tearing things off shelves and filling the walker tray until the trail behind him was littered with books and toys and noisemakers.  By 7 months he would be running unassisted, not walking, or being able to stop he wold run until he crashed into a wall or piece of furniture and then take off again.

 He stood up in the Judges Chambers and held onto a bench and giggled as the judge told us we were parents - like we hadn't known that for a while now.  We walked out of the courthouse without feeling the ground beneath our feet, laughing in joy and relief.  Then we slid the song into the tape player and cried and thanked God for this baby and the Birth Mom who had loved him enough to hold him close and then place him into our arms.

 How could we have celebrated 17 adoption days already?  And how come no-one warned us that being the recipient of the baby was not the end of the journey,  No our turn to let him go is coming closer, and we get to be the parents who have to pass him into other hands.



  This time into his own.

 And another way that the song was slightly misleading I think, is it implied that he had ever left the hands of those who passed him on.

 Not true, he will always be held, in God's hands, Her Hands, Our hands and now His own as well.

 And in that sense of needing the whole world to raise a child, there have been so many others along the way, Grandparents and teachers, neighbors and friends, cousins and community - and there will be more - all there to love and support you,

and celebrate you.

But look at this young man!  Between God and his Birth family, and our family, we have watched him grow and become a strong, Kind, talented soul.  Baby, I love you so much!  DO you think you will ever know how much I love you, how many other people love you or how strong and capable and Wonderful you are?

Is it any wonder that we celebrate having been allowed to raise you up surrounded by our love?

National Novel writing Month, again.

Lately, every time that I sit down at the computer to write, I open the file with my infant novel, which will hopefully be a fully grown, if still pimply young adult by the end of November.

Promising to write a 50,000 word novel in November is my most selfish piece of craziness, and I refuse to give it up.
National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo, turns off my natural self denial buttons and allows me to say, "No you can't have the computer, No you can go by yourself this time. No, I'm not cooking, if you want dinner, cook it yourself." Not that I am advocating total selfishness, but like the Mom on the airplane who must get her own oxygen mask first in order to stay conscious and help her family, I believe that some intense selfishness refills the well and allows me to give to everyone else the rest of the year.

There are, of course times when being chained to my own thoughts at the keyboard also fail me, then I am so glad that I live in a place of great beauty. i can take my camera and take a walk, or a drive and soak in the wordless beauty, refill my well with the cool, clean, splendor of the pacific northwest, and then return home to pour it into an imaginary, fantastical world, where somehow, the thing I always discover, is ME.
This year, instead of returning to the world of Uhrlin, with my favorite protagonist, Duffy Barkley, I have taken a trip along the Oregon Trail, twice. In this years NaNoWriMo, there are two girls making the trip, and they share an ancient wooden lap desk, where they store their treasures and their journals.

But they are taking the same trip 150 years apart. One in a wagon caravan, and one in a Dodge Caravan. Only sometimes, when they slide back the lid on the old desk, what they find is not their belongings but those of the other girl.
Can you imagine walking all day to get 4 miles, and being hot and thirsty, and having to filter buggy, muddy water through a bandana - and then reading a journal written by a girl who drove 400 miles in air conditioned comfort and spent the evening in a motel pool?

I Can. It is what I do for fun.

A couple weeks after publishing

Hi, I just have to tell you about my experience in self-publishing "Duffy Barkley is Not a Dog." It has been easy and inexpensive, the way I did it, but there are more expensive, more help available packages from CreateSpace if you are less broke, or perhaps simply smarter than I was.

A friend on a forum I hang out at, asked me if I was interested in signing up to write a whole novel in the month of November a couple years ago, on NationalNovelWritingMonth, (NaNoWriMo - every November), I signed up and participated the last two years, but didn't finish the first year, you have to write at least 50,000 words. Last year, I did finish the 50,000 word commitment although that story did not feel finished at that point. CreateSpace, not connected to NaNoWriMo, offered a free proof copy of your book to anyone who finished.

I had talked to other people who had self-published with vanity presses that cost them thousands of dollars and left them with boxes of unsold books, but CreateSpace's proof, was like a real book, but legally it was not "published," so I could still try to sell it as unpublished to an agent or editor if I wanted to.

So I did the proof, converted my Word document to a pdf and uploaded it. Then designed my own cover and uploaded a photo of it, but they have a stock library of cover photos if you want. I loved the way the book looked. This wasn't one I'd written for NaNo, it was one I'd written and rewritten and passed out seven copies to friends and got feedback from them and then read it to a couple classes and to my husband and my own kids and got more feedback. I had actually been trying to interest a publisher for about 5 years but by trying, I mean sending out a couple letters then waiting months for a reply.

I googled info on CreateSpace and a few others. I liked that CreateSpace links to Amazon and to a couple sites that sell to libraries and bookstores, and that it is print-on-demand, so you never pay for extra copies, they print as the book sells. There is a $40.00 charge if you want to link to the pro-sites but none if you just sell off CreateSpace's own site. A proof costs about $10 with S&H and that is the only expense that you have to have. If you publish, after you see the proof it is just a matter of saying, "yes" and giving them a place to send checks and filling out some tax payer info. You set the price of your book but they have a minimum. They charge based on # of pages and book size, mine is 6x9 inches and 252 pages. I wanted to charge $9.99 but then if it sold for that on Amazon, I would have owed them $0.50 per book

When I had people ask if it was available for the kindle. I did that but it is through Amazon, not a CreateSpace thing, but I could upload the same pdf to Amazon and they converted it for me.

I have had fun, and interest from others, a book signing offer from a library, a few copies go on sale at the local Walgreen's, but I'm doing something every day to promote it. The thing is, once you self-publish, traditional publishers are even less interested unless you sell 5,000 copies and show them there is a real market.

One thing that amazed me, is I went to a local Writer's conference just to hear the speakers, and in a break, I found myself surrounded by eager, curious people who were asking questions that I knew the answers too, and giving me positive comments and their attention. That is when I realized that it was different from any previous conference, because, self-published and all that implies, I was and always will be, an Author.

So I'm working on the sequel this nanowrimo and loving saying I'm an author and seeing people reading my book is a kick. It is also really scary. I had always been the girl scribbling in my notebook to avoid having to make real conversation, when I was a socially terrified grade school kid. She is still in there, in spite of the fact that I get up every day and teach classes. Teaching is not the same as putting your stories and your secret dreams in someone else's power and letting them do as they will to it. Knowing that there are people reading and talking about your book in places you've never been and in conversations you'll never hear. It's like having your baby leave home for the first time, and begin a life where you are no longer necessary.

Sic ‘Em, Pal!

Sic ‘Em, Pal!

The rattle from beneath the clump of sagebrush startled he pony and she jumped forward. My long adolescent legs tangled on a large stone and my butt hit the ground, hard. The pony scrambled forward and away as I climbed awkwardly to my feet. The 12 ear old dog dancing excitedly beside me barked in concern as I brushed the alkali dust from my eyes. How would I ever get the pony back? In frustration and panic I demanded a skill of the dog that she had never possessed, “Sic em, Pal”

To my horror the dog immediately snarled and ran after the pony. Growls and angry barking astonished me, as I had never heard anything like it from Pal in the 10 years of my life. Now I wouldn’t have to explain a missing pony. Instead, I would have to explain why the pony had been killed, on my orders, by the world’s friendliest red farm dog. Once again, I wished I could be anyone but me.

At ten, I was awkward and un-popular in school. During 4^th grade, I had gone from 5 foot even, to five foot 9 inches and my ankles twisted nearly every step I took as the cartilage had not had a chance to fill in with bone yet. Now at the start of fifth grade my height and flaming red hair made it impossible to be as invisible as I wished to be. An only child until just before I started school, in a family with great-Grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, grandparents and parents, I got along well with adults, but I very clearly remember my mom telling me to “go outside and play,” and me, standing frozen on the back stoop, with no idea of what that meant. The children at the grade school seemed like graceful, but mean, alien creatures with whom I could never say or do the right thing. I hid by writing imaginary stories and letting my long hair obscure the face I bent over the notebook.

I was only truly happy away from school, and the best was the weekends when we drove to the ranch 30 miles away where my Mom had grown up just North of Meeteetse, Wyoming. Her cousins and Aunt still lived and worked hard on the old homestead. Summers were hot and dry and the air smelled of sagebrush and Alkali.

There were often chores to be done before the family gathered for one of the enormous, meals that barely kept skin and bones on the hard working ranchers. I knew that the work needed to be done but every weekend I begged to be allowed to ride Echoes of Pandora, the beautiful Morgan mare, who owned my heart. Rarely, there would be a free moment and then my cousin would saddle her and pull me up behind him and for a while I could be in heaven.

This day the men, my cousin, Dad, and Grandpa, were out setting irrigation lines in the fields. Without the constant monitoring of water, nothing but greasewood, cactus and sage would grow here. The women, Grandma, Little Grandma, Aunt Clara and Mom were in the steaming hot kitchen, snapping aprons full of green beans and packing them into quart Ball canning jars. I had helped for most of the afternoon, and finally been told that I could go out and ride the Shetland pony, princess, if I also gave rides to my younger brothers and cousins.

I was surprised when not one of the children wanted to come with me. They were playing on a big dirt hill, pushing bright yellow Tonka Trucks and tractors, across the ground and the vocal energy that they put into the sound effects roared across the prairie. Of the two dogs at the ranch, even Lady, the collie refused to come out from her patch of shade where she lay watching the Tonka Truck Rodeo rather that choosing to accompany me, but the large red dog, Pal hoisted herself to her feet and followed along gamely.

Princess, with her coat of cinnamon sugar, was a sweet, gentle animal that even a town girl, like me could hardly have trouble with. At least, I’m sure that is what the adults had been thinking. She was so short and round bellied and I was so long and gangly that my toes nearly dragged across the earth with each step. In spite of the stories I wrote, the sketches I covered my walls with, and the dreams of my heart – I was not a graceful rider.

We turned of the graveled track, with Pal following faithfully at our side. The faithful, red, dog had appeared on the ranch, footsore and matted coat, but obviously not much more than a year old, eleven years before and been there for my entire life. Ranching country was, unfortunately, often the dumping ground for large, young dogs just past puppy cuteness, once families realize how large and difficult they can be. My cousin assumed the dog, which showed up at feeding time one night, and stayed was another drop off. Pal had never been trained, but was a friendly, even-tempered dog who stayed close to the kids and the collie, happy to roam the ranch and wander along looking for jackrabbits and white-tailed deer among the willows and cottonwoods which lined the banks of the Greybull River.

Vivid, clownish Magpie’s flashed across the waxy blue sky. Their bold black-and-white flight captured my eyes for a moment. A hot breeze skittered past, pushing a small dust devil across the land. Suddenly a rattle near the ground startled Princess. A snake would make the better story perhaps, and be quite unsurprising here, but I saw a piece of yellowed newspaper tangled in the brush, rattling as the breeze stirred it.

Princess jerked forward then scrambled nearly sideways as she tried to bolt. Her short legged, stoutness made her nearly waddle. Still my dangling toes tangled with a boulder and I fell backward.

My jean clad, rump landed unhurt, but my mind exploded in a dozen panicked thoughts at once. How would I ever re-capture the pony? If I lost her, I would never be allowed near Echo. There are rattlesnakes around here!

I jumped to my feet and pointed after the fleeing Shetland, “Sic em, Pal!” It was an outburst from my frustration and impotence with no expectation, but then the Old Dog Did! She exploded after the pony, growling and getting around in front of her, planting her feet and going nose to nose. She forced the frightened animal to stop, and stand, sides heaving until she calmed and I could grab the reins.

Afraid to get back on, I led the pony back to the corral and brushed her down with shaking hands, giving her water and apple slices, while Pal gulped noisily from a water bucket. Finally I turned in amazement to the red dog. She grinned up at me as I patted her head nervously. Suddenly the faithful shadow was a mysterious stranger full of unknown danger.

Hesitantly, I thought of every command I knew, and tried them. Even though she had been around our family for eleven years and never been given a command, she executed them all perfectly. She sat, spoke, rolled over, shook my hand, begged and played dead. Her tail wagged and her eyes sparkled as if she was delighted that someone was finally playing with her.

After I put her through her paces for the amazed adults, and told the embarrassing story of my fall and the command to “sic-‘em,” the discussion turned to where Pal had really come from. Obviously, such a well trained dog, had not just been an abandoned, unwanted, overgrown puppy. All our assumptions were wrong and someone must have ached over the loss, but after all this time, the mystery remains unsolved.

But the mystery stayed with me and continues to influence my daily decisions as a teacher. Yes, the girl who hated school, grew-up and never left the classroom. I know that if a dog can remember lessons learned after not using them for a decade, then the students, I teach every day, may carry the smallest interaction with them for the rest of their life. I am reminded to make impact on their life be one of kindness and love and optimism. Pal showed me that learning may not be visible in any outward way, and yet, still be carried inside for life.

I also look at these children, some seeming unloved, abandoned almost feral. Then I remember that this assumption would be the most wrong of all. At the start of every life there was a creator, who loved each child, and gave them a mind capable of learning, and loving, and laughing. Where their paths intersect with mine, I pray my own version of the Hippocratic oath – Let me help them, let me teach them, and when I cannot reach them, at least let me do no harm until they move on to one who can teach them and guide them.

And Echo? Yes, I got to tide her at times. She was steady, gentle and never gave me a story as exciting as my afternoon with the pony. She did give me one thing I use on a daily basis, her name. I use “echo” or “pandorasecho” as my on-line nickname, because there are so many memories of family and happiness – but most of all, because I remember that the echo left behind in the box Pandora opened, was HOPE.