Musings Before the Signing

Our book tour begins this Friday. What could go wrong??? In my all-to-frequent dreams, everything! I realize I am a worrier, although I usually conceal my anxieties beneath a devil may care exterior. But I am coming clean. I ask myself, why are we doing this? The answers come easily enough. My sister and I co-authored a book. We're excited and proud. For me, it is validation after a long publishing dry spell. For my sister, it is her first fiction publication. We fee the book is good, as do our recent reviewers and we want to get a readership. Fine.

In our thinking, a book tour sounded like fun, a sisterly adventure. I sure hope that's what it turns out to be, but still. .... Perhaps my anxiety is increased because our first signing is a my local bookstore and most of the audience will be people I know. My husband thinks that's good. They will be able to provide feedback and will be supportive. I'd much rather have started in a place filled with strangers, so if I flub things, I never have to face them again.

I already made one mistake. In my emails to friends, I wrote the wrong time. When I discovered my blooper, I panicked, sent out another round of emails with the correct times a half hour earlier.

Here are some of the things I worry about. Have my friends already bought the book on Amazon thus insuring that they will show up to our discussion/signing and NOT buy a book at the bookstore. Embarrassing. I feel I am entertaining friends and acquaintances, so I've arranged for pastry and coffee. Now, I worry if there will be enough, and if the coffee will be set up. And, seeing as the signing is going to be at 7 pm rather than 7:30 pm, I worry that wine and cheese would have been the more appropriate choice for refreshments! Oh, well. When we first signed our contract and decided to do all we could to publicize our book, I told my sister, "Expect nothing, hope for everything." I think I will follow my advice, hope for the best, and enjoy the ride.

Fun is really what it's about. I look forward to the adventure. After Friday, that is.

Fran

P.S. Saturday morning. All the worrying for naught. It was a grand success. Onward!

Kindergarten and Book Tours!

It's the first day of school. Kindergarten. I must have been worried the day before. Worried and excited. Would the other children know something I was supposed to know? Just in case, I pulled as many books out of our library as I could handle at five years of age, and stacked them on the porch of our house on Maplewood Avenue. When my mother saw me she asked what I was doing. "I'm starting school tomorrow," I told her, "so I have to know how to read." Somewhere there's a photo taken that day.

Tomorrow is the "first day of school" again, our first discussion and reading at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena, Fran's neck of the woods, though some of my old and dear friends will be there. I don't feel nervous, and I am excited, but deep down I wonder if there's something I should know that everybody else knows. I'm no longer five, I've learned the bulk of what I need to get through life, but is there something else? If only I could remember, but "remember" is probably just what I need to know.

If "remember" is that "something," I confess to it. Memory is a problem that seems to come with age, at least for me. If I've seen a movie I struggle to remember the title days later. I no longer know the hottest stars, though I certainly recognize familiar names from my world, the editing community. My husband and I have learned to compensate with lists and quips about "senior moments." I'm not as facile with the quizzes in the "In Flight" magazines, and I often find myself reading the same paragraph several times to process what I've just read.

What has not diminished, however, is a deepening appreciation for my life and the lives of those I love. My older sister Fran has always been in my life. We've shared every emotion. Who would have expected us to share in the publication of "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz and The Caregiver" and begin this book tour together? Thank God we're friends! Now, let the adventure begin! Wait a minute....where did we put the airline tickets?

Saying Goodbye...

I'm off to California tomorrow to begin the book tour for "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz and The Caregiver," and while it's exciting to begin this adventure and reconnect with old friends, it's also necessary to say 'goodbye," for a while, to my life in Woodstock.


Taking leave of my husband is a complicated matter. It's the longest we've been apart in the eighteen years we've been together, and it's also the arena where the practical and emotional collide. I'll be away for nearly a month, and he'll have to take over some of the many tasks I normally do to keep our life together running smoothly. There are lists to be made, bills to be paid, endless details to attend to. Then there's our vacation rental business. He's never been "hands on," but that's about to change -- at least for a while. And of course, I'll miss him.


I'll miss my many friends, our dog Lucy, my kitchen, the vegetable garden I'm entrusting to a neighbor, and the awkward, amusing wild turkey family that sometimes crosses our road. The delightful Woodstock Wednesday Farm Festival will begin in my absence, as will the Saturday Flea Market where odd little treasures can be unearthed.




Aside from Lucy the dog, I've grown fond of other creatures. I save my vegetable scraps for a lively flock of chickens who live nearby. Their eggs always delicious and never "uniform" like those found in stores, are special treats for guests staying at The Waterfall House. This year's flock includes hens that lay green eggs. I love feeding the chickens and chose to spend time with them on my birthday this past winter.



Then there's the cow and the calf and the horse. I like to take the long way home by the pasture so I can spend a few moments with these creatures. I first saw the calf a few days after her birth. She's grown. She's a little "Buddha" calf. When she's not nursing or exploring the meadow, she sits on her haunches gazing at the newness of her world. Her mother, a black beauty with a white blaze on her face, is never far from her, nor is Thunder, the wild mustang. A neighborhood woman who visits daily has only to call his name, and the horse comes running to eat the carrots she brings. He's generous with his big, sloppy kisses and loves to nuzzle the woman. Stopping to spend a few moments in this pastoral setting is a meditation.

The poppies will bloom, the calf will grow bigger, and I will have stories to tell, so please "stay tuned" and ride this adventure with me.

Barbara

How We Decide!

My husband has been reading the best-seller "How We Decide," by Jonah Lehrer, a book about decision making. Over breakfast, he told me why, according to scientific research, there is a gene which causes some people to make the same poor choices over and over again, not learning from their mistakes.

I don't think I fall into that unfortunate category, but I got to thinking about some of the choices I've made in my life, and why I made them. Some were clearly rational decisions, such as deciding to get a teaching credential after a year of poorly-paid, boring office work. On the other hand, leaving teaching after two years, falls into the emotional category. After my first year of teaching English in an inner-city high school in L.A. I took my first trip to Europe with two girl friends. We did it up right -- Eurail passes, numerous countries from England, to Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Austria and Germany. Adventures galore.

In the fall, I returned to work and looked around the teachers' lounge at the veterans. They were worn-down, discouraged, complaining constantly about the students, principal, and parents! Did I want to be one of them in thirty years? Europe had shown me there was a big, exciting world outside of the teachers' lounge. I finished the year and quit.

Which decision was smarter? I believe both were good. I had the credentials and eventually became a substitute (no homework to correct) and knew I would always have something to fall back on. Quitting allowed me to try my wings at more adventurous jobs, such as the assistant to the general manager of the play, "Hair."

Looking back, most of my important decisions seem to have worked out for the best, however, there is one I wonder about. During that exploratory period I was offered a low level position in a literary agency. I was an English major; loved reading. I turned it down because the commute seemed inconvenient. Hard to believe in retrospect. I cannot help wondering what my life would have been had I taken the job. Would I have become a respected literary agent? I think I'd have made a good one. Maybe one of the good things about life is not knowing how things might have been.

I wonder if others also wonder about the fork in the road and consequences of the road not taken.

Fran

Being Invisible!

Some say women are "invisible" after forty. The only time it really bothers me is when I'm trying to get a salesperson to acknowledge me so I can complete my transaction and be on my way. Of course, it would be nice to have someone flirt with me occasionally, but even that's no great loss; I've got a good husband who sees past the wrinkles.

So what's so bad about being invisible? Not everyone can do it. I know it wouldn't work for my husband. He's the "peacock" and being the center of attention suits him, and it suits me, too, because it allows me to observe. To observe is one of the benefits of "invisibility." If you've spent time in a big city, you know what I mean. In an urban setting, nearly everyone thinks they're invisible.

My husband collects antiques. I collect "moments," little bits of sensory nuggets. Here's the last little bit garnered from a recent trip to the city. A young woman, walking while talking on her cell phone somewhere around 33rd and Broadway, said to her friend, "I told him to bring me something vegan. And you know what he brought me? A stuffed animal."

I could not have made that up. What a rich little nugget! Now, don't you agree there's something to be said for being "invisible?"

Barbara

The other day I read about a woman undergoing treatment for breast cancer. In the article she expressed her gratitude for the online sites, such as Caring Bridge, which allow people with serious illnesses to easily keep friends, family and acquaintances up to date on their treatment. I won't presume to pass judgement. Having undergone treatment four times for cancer, I know everyone deals with these traumas in his or her own way. What the story did was to remind me how drastically our culture has changed. We've gone from "don't talk about it" to Twitter.
When I was growing up, people kept personal issues private. Everything, it seemed, was a secret. Marital problems and illness were among the real no-nos. "Nervous breakdown" was the general term used when someone disappeared for a while. It implied everything from anxiety to full-fledged insanity. Cancer was a word to be avoided, or whispered. When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer thirty years ago, my mother-in-law wrote a lovely letter, concluding with "don't worry. I won't tell anyone" even though I did not swear her to secrecy.

Today, of course, people believe their every feeling, experience and activity is worthy of being shared with the world at large. It's my guess that the openness of the 60's and the Internet are responsible. So, I ask myself, which do I prefer? Offhand, the elimination of the "society of secrecy" is a positive. People who are in failing relationships, or are diagnosed with serious illnesses should not be made to feel shame or guilt. I am grateful when good friends confide problems and experiences, but at the same time, I find it annoying to be the recipient of constant less than earth-shattering news from acquaintances. Sort of like the lengthy Christmas letters sent en masse describing every trip, family gathering, and on and on.

The question I ask myself, is have we as a society become so self-involved that we take for granted the world is interested in our everyday comings and goings? If so, is it a generational thing? Just wondering.

Fran

What is this thing called age?

Let's sing to the tune of, "What is This Thing Called Love? Better yet, let's talk about "age". We humans are strange creatures. We're the only creatures on the planet who count time chronologically -- that is, by "numbers."

If age is a number, why don't I feel like that number? In my case, it's a "big" number, or so it seems right now, at this moment in time. If I'm lucky enough to be around in, let's say, ten years, I'm sure to think the number I'm at now is better than that future number. Looking back, the number I was twenty years ago seemed like a big number, but not as big as the number I am right now.

I say, let's get rid of numbers. Let's substitute "seasons." We -- each of us -- gets to choose which season we are in, and we can even go backwards or forwards if we want. Just for "starters," here are some suggested "seasons." See what you think, and feel free to add your own.

1. "The New Season" -- this begins at birth, and might go through childhood. Also called, "The Season of Innocence."
2. When you're ready, you are free to go on to "The Learning Season." You might want to go back to this later in life. It works for the school years. Some might call it "The Growing Season."
3. "The Hormony Season," is a synthesis of: "hormones" and "horny" sometimes, but not always, leads to "harmony." Often a lengthy and turbulent season.
4. "The Experience Season" could follow, but again, feel free to choose and name your own seasons. You know you better that anyone else!
5. Then there's "The Wisdom Season," or maybe "The Season of Ah-Hah!" Some of us experience a certain "wistfulness," but this season, in my opinion, is no less full than the others.

You get the idea, now. For my part, I'm not a number. I'm a first-time published author of a novella, "Feeding Mrs Moskowitz and The Caregiver: Two Stories," with my sister, Fran Yariv. I run a vacation rental business (http://www.waterfallrental.com/) along with my husband, and we married eighteen years ago when I thought I was a "big number." I'll take "seasons" over numbers any day. Care to join me?

Barbara