Creatively Thinking: Describing a character’s appearance is a common conundrum of fiction writing

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn Creatively Thinking8 Comments

I always told myself stories in my head when I was growing up so when I decided last year to write fiction, I was sure it would be an easy task for me.

Well, slow your roll, Lisa (as an old boss of mine used to say). Writing fiction is not as easy as you think. In fact, writing fiction is more like yanking all the hairs of my head out one by one, or sentence by sentence, some days. It’s often tedious and a breeding ground of discontent for over thinkers like me. While many writers just toss what they think onto the page and keep going, I toss it there and then I look at it and agonize over the fact I don’t know a lot of big words, I’m not as smart as other people and I don’t have as much life experience as some.

I’m also discovering I’m horrible at descriptions. Especially when it comes to the appearance of a person. I’m reading a book by Becky Wade and she’s a master at it. Take for example, this description of one of her main characters in Sweet on You: “His pale skin struck a distinct contrast with his hair, which verged on black. His jaw, cheekbones, and nose were all sharply defined. Straight eyebrows. Thick eyelashes. Zander had a romantic, slightly heartbreaking, usually serious face. He could pass as either a nineteeth-century poet or one of those harshly handsome vampires from Twilight.”

You can clearly picture him, right? Right! (Mention of Twilight aside, that was a good description.) When I try to describe a character, I draw a blank. I simply describe their hair and eye color and maybe their build. I don’t draw comparisons to who they look like to others or how a facial feature could be compared to a piece of food or a particular flower.

In some ways I prefer vague character descriptions because then I, as the reader, can make up own mind about what the character looks like. Jan Karon, author of The Mitford series, says she purposely doesn’t describe her characters’ appearances because she likes her readers to use their own imagination and conjure up their own physical image of each character. She draws her approach to character descriptions on the days of old radio shows when she listened and created an image of the show characters in her mind.

I’m working on improving my character and scene descriptions in my next book but I don’t want to go too overboard. We were discussing the subject of overly detailed descriptions in books in an online writing forum I am a part of and several writers and readers agreed that if the descriptions become too detailed they skip right over those paragraphs. One person said they found long descriptions boring.

So what is a writer to do? I suppose a writer has to find a happy medium and offer just enough description of a character or place to flush them out but not so much as to bore the reader. So, yeah, that should be easy to do. Right?

As my mom would say, with her hand pressed firmly against her forehead, “Lord, give me strength!”

Fiction Thursday: Fully Alive, Chapter 4. Atticus

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn fiction, Fiction Thursday1 Comment

This is a continuing serial, or a novella in progress. As always there could be typos, missing words, plot holes, etc., etc., which I will fix in rewrites, copy-editing and all that jazz. To read the other parts of the story you can follow along HERE or at the link at the top of the page.


The stench of death filled Atticus’ nostrils. Any other man would have gagged on vomit, but death was a smell Atticus was accustomed to. Before being stationed in Jerusalem he had been on the battlefields of Germania and before that he’d trained in Rome itself to one day become what his father had been — a Roman centurion.

He’d been 16 when he’d first started training. His legion leader had called him a wolf pup, wet behind the ears.

He still had a lot to learn but battle had burned the timid, cautious nature out of him. Sometimes he felt like he had aged more in the last three years than he had in his entire 22-years of life. Experience built a thick jaded wall around him.

Even with all the death he had witnessed in such a short time, he found it hard to get use to the sights and smells of corpses rotting under stones outside the city gates, or bodies half eaten by wild dogs. The Jews called the Romans cruel, but Atticus saw the ways they punished those in their community who had stepped outside the bounds of their laws as vicious and barbaric.

“What I don’t understand is why we’re moving their dead.” Theopholus spat saliva onto the ground and swiped a hand across his mouth. “They killed them they should dispose of them. Instead they leave them here to rot and we have to find somewhere to throw them.”

Atticus shook his head. “Me neither but we must follow orders.”

Theopholus lifted the other side of the cloth they had rolled the corpses into and they shuffled to one side before tipping the cloth and rolling the human remains into a large pit already partially filled with bodies and waste.

“Is that the last one?” Theopholus asked with a look of disgust.

Atticus looked across the field of blood-splattered stones. “It looks like it.”

Theopholus stepped back and leaned against the wall, opening his flask and taking a long swig. “Have you heard about his man in Judeah? This man they say is performing miracles?”

He handed the flask to Atticus and Atticus took it and drank from it. “Another healer, huh?”

Theopholus nodded. “The people think they have another Messiah.”

Atticus laughed and sneered. “Another one? Don’t we get a new one every few years? And yet they still are crap under our shoes.”

“This place will be crawling with them come Passover, you know,” Theopholus said. “They come here in droves to remember the day they say their God delivered them from Pharaoh. The streets smell of them and their food and drink. The only good thing about them is their women. They are worth a good —”

“That beggar is here again.”

Atticus changed the subject quickly. He didn’t want to hear about Theopholus’ sexual conquests today. He wasn’t in the mood, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was because he himself had not lain with a woman for more than a year now. It wasn’t for a lack of women that was for sure. Something about the harlots in Jerusalem left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. They were too willing, too eager, expecting he’d come to them quickly and willingly to burn off pent up energy from patrolling the streets all day.

But he didn’t want to release pent up energy as much as he once did. Instead he longed for someone to share his thoughts with not just someone who could meet his physical needs.

“I thought Aurelius told him to leave yesterday. You want me to take care of it?”

Atticus shook his head, still watching the man crouched in front of the wall near the city entrance.

“No. I’ll take care of him.”

“Okay. Then I’m going to the baths. Meet you there later?”

Atticus nodded, staring ahead, thinking about how much he hated this city. The land Atticus had come from, a few miles outside Rome, had been lusciously green, full of life and food. This city was dirty and barren, full of beggars and lepers and people looking for ways to take advantage of other people. It was full of these people called Jews who believed in one God and held strange rituals, though he had to admit their rituals were no stranger than those in his own world who slit the throats of young animals to sacrifice to many Gods, hoping one of them would take pity on them and answer their prayers for whatever their need was.

The Jews killed animals too but believed the blood of a young lamb would wipe out all of their misdeeds, which they called sins. He laughed ruefully to himself as he thought of all his misdeeds. If he ever tried to wipe all his sins away they’d need an entire herd of young sheep to slit the throats of.

He sighed and walked toward the beggar sitting crouched, his knees up, his back against the warm stones and his hand out with a small wooden cup.

“Find favor with God and give to the poor,” the man suggested in a frail, rasped voice as Atticus approached.

His face and clothes were smeared with dirt or at least Atticus hoped it was only dirt.

He sniffed.

It was not only dirt.

The beggar looked up as Atticus’ shadow fell over him, his held tilted back, his eyes obviously unseeing. He must have felt the warmth of the sun disappear from his skin.

Atticus considered the man for a moment, his thin figure, his dirty feet with shredded sandals, his matted hair and clouded eyes, his slightly gaped open mouth with missing teething.  Every day he sat out here, asking for money to buy food to fill his belly. The Jews said someone in his family must have done something wrong because as far as any of them knew, he’d been born blind. Anyone born with a deformity was being punished by God, they said.

 He had scoffed when he heard it, the absurdity of their god apparent. They called him loving yet believed he struck children down for the sins of their fathers? Each time he heard them speak of their god they grew more weak and pathetic in his mind.

Atticus tried not to feel pity for the beggar, but he did. He couldn’t imagine waking up every morning with your only goal being to sit in the middle of a city and beg for money so your belly wouldn’t ache with hunger when you went to bed that night. He didn’t want to chase him away, but he knew the prefect had told him to leave before and would soon use force to make sure he did.

“Who’s there?”

The man’s head tilted from side to side as he spoke, trying to hear what the person standing above him would say.

Atticus squatted next to the beggar so he could be heard over the merchants, animals, and carts passing by.

“You have been told before, old man, that you need to leave.”

The beggar’s expression faded from hopeful to deflated.

“I will not stay long, master. I need just a little bit for my second meal then I shall go.”

Atticus let out a long breath. “You know the rules.”

He wasn’t sure where the compassion he was beginning to feel for the man was coming from but he softened his tone as he spoke again. “Sir, if you don’t go, my concern is you will be forced to go. I think you know what I mean by that.”

The man nodded slowly, clutching the cup with both hands against his chest.  “Yes, centurian.”

Atticus laughed softly. “I am a legionary, sir, but thank you for the promotion.”

The beggar shrugged his shoulders, a grin tugging at his chapped lips. “I can’t keep up with all of the rankings of your army. My apologies.”

Atticus placed a gentle hand under the man’s upper arm and helped him to his feet. He slid two fingers into the pouch on his belt and felt two coins there then dropped them both into the man’s cup.

“This should feed you for today. Go, eat and keep yourself safe from the prefect, okay?”

The beggar’s face showed his surprise. He grasped Atticus’ stronger, rough hands with a gnarled one. “Thank you, master. Thank you. Adonai will smile upon you for your kindness.

Atticus looked around nervously, pried the man’s hand from his and stepped back. “Just go,” he said softly. “I have no need for blessings from your god.”

He watched the beggar limp through the crowd until he couldn’t see him anymore then turned to head back toward the baths to clean the filth and smell of death off himself.

“You won’t ever advance in this army with such softness, soldier.”

The voice of the man towering above him on a stallion was harsh, sharp. Atticus looked up into narrowed blue eyes, a square jawline fixed tight and lips pressed into a colorless thin line. Atticus averted his eyes quickly to the ground, recognizing the actual centurion of his unit, Marcus.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“I never want to see you handle our subjects in such a manner again. A firm hand is all that is needed, something you’re well aware of.”

“Yes sir.”

Marcus leaned forward, propping his arms over the leather of the saddle strapped to the horse. “Maybe we need to find a way to toughen you up, young Atticus. Sirius has an opening in his unit. They carry the bodies away from the crucifixions. It might just be what someone like you needs to burn the softness away.”

Atticus’ chest constricted. He’d watched a crucifixion once. He didn’t relish the idea of having to take down the bodies of the dead, their bodies limp and drained of fluids, sometimes their eyes eaten out by the birds.“Whatever you think is best, sir.”

Marcus laughed loudly. “We’ll see, boy. Just don’t let me see you coddling the subjects again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, centurion.”

Atticus watched Marcus ride away before he turned and walked slowly toward the baths, anxious to wash the blood and dirt — and this day — from his body.

A New Beginning up on Kindle and Barnes&Noble today

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn books and reading, fiction10 Comments

I guess I hit a high level of boredom because I published A New Beginning on Amazon and Barnes&Noble this weekend.

If you’re not familiar with the story, I have put up the first two chapters on this page and there is also a link to all of the chapters (if you want to click to each one) HERE for another week.

This is the sequel to A Story To Tell, which you can also find on Kindle and B&N.

Here on the blog you can red my short story Quarantined or follow along with The Farmer’s Daughter, which I am updating each Friday, or Fully Alive, which I’m updating, well, whenever at this point (but usually on Thursdays).

Sunday Bookends: What the family is reading, cold weather moves in and a self-imposed media break

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings, Sunday Bookends18 Comments

It finally happened. My brain snapped this week and I had to impose an overall media break on myself.

Social media.

News media.

Gone for three to four days at least, if not longer. After snapping at people, shaking from anxiety every time I logged off, and having crying fits based in depression and anxiety I knew it was time.

Luckily, after starting the break I felt so much better with less bouts of anxiety. Until I went back on and got in a completely unnecessary word exchange with an acquaintance

I broke it a couple of times for brief updates then went right back into my clueless hole and blocked the sites on my phone and Facebook.

If anyone else wants to join me on my break, you’re welcome to. Just make a list of things you would rather be doing and then commit to staying away from news and social media and at the end of the time you set for your break write about you felt during the break and after.

So far, I have filled my time with some reading (not as much as I would have liked), blog reading, working on formatting novel two and writing novel three, researching gardening and compositing (Lord Jesus, help me. I’m not sure I’ll be able to figure all that out), and watching The Chosen.

I also spent two days avoiding looking out the window since it snowed. Yes. Snowed. In May. I did not take any photos of it because it was insanely depressing.

I thought I’d share what the family is reading this week, since I’m reading pretty much the same books that I’ve been reading for a while.

What I’m reading: A Light in the Window by Jan Karon and Sweet on You by Becky Wade and About Your Father by Peggy Rowe (I read one story a night from this and talked about the book first HERE).

Planning to read soon:
Death of A Gossip (A Hamish Macbeth Book) by M.C. Beaton

Husband: The Poet by Michael Connelly

Description: An electrifying standalone thriller that breaks all the rules! With an introduction by Stephen King.

Death is reporter Jack McEvoy’s beat: his calling, his obsession. But this time, death brings McEvoy the story he never wanted to write–and the mystery he desperately needs to solve. A serial killer of unprecedented savagery and cunning is at large. His targets: homicide cops, each haunted by a murder case he couldn’t crack. The killer’s calling card: a quotation from the works of Edgar Allan Poe. His latest victim is McEvoy’s own brother. And his last…may be McEvoy himself.

Son: Harry Potter and the Half-Bred Prince


Daughter (with me) Ree Drummond’s book Charlie and The New Baby and Ramona The Pest.

Mom: Somebody’s Daughter by Rochelle B. Weinstein

Description:

Emma and Bobby Ross enjoy a charmed life on the shores of Miami Beach. They are a model family with a successful business, an uncomplicated marriage, and two blessedly typical twin daughters, Zoe and Lily. They are established members of a tight-knit community.

Then, on the night of the girls’ fifteenth birthday party, they learn of Zoe’s heartbreaking mistake—a private and humiliating indiscretion that goes viral and thrusts her and her family into the center of a shocking public scandal.

As the family’s core is shattered by disgrace, judgment, and retribution, the fallout takes its toll. But for Emma, the shame runs deeper. Her daughter’s reckless behavior has stirred memories of her own secrets that could break a marriage and family forever.

and before that Angel Killer by Andrew Mayne (My mom reads much faster than me so I have trouble keeping up with what she is on).

Description:

In this self-published bestselling e-book by a real illusionist—the first thriller in a sensational series—now available in paperback, FBI agent Jessica Blackwood believes she has successfully left her complicated life as a gifted magician behind her . . . until a killer with seemingly supernatural powers puts her talents to the ultimate test.

A mysterious hacker, who identifies himself only as “Warlock,” brings down the FBI’s website and posts a code in its place. It hides the GPS coordinates of a Michigan cemetery, where a dead girl is discovered rising from the ground . . . as if she tried to crawl out of her own grave.

Born into a dynasty of illusionists, Jessica Blackwood is destined to become its next star—until she turns her back on her troubled family, and her legacy, to begin a new life in law enforcement. But FBI consultant Dr. Jeffrey Ailes’s discovery of an old copy of Magician Magazine will turn Jessica’s carefully constructed world upside down. Faced with a crime that appears beyond explanation, Ailes has nothing to lose—and everything to gain—by taking a chance on an agent raised in a world devoted to seemingly achieving the impossible.

The body in the cemetery is only the first in the Warlock’s series of dark miracles. Thrust into the media spotlight, with time ticking away until the next crime, can Jessica confront her past to embrace her gifts and stop a depraved killer?

If she can’t, she may become his next victim.



I tried to distract myself this week with movies, but mostly failed on that front. I had considered the newest version of Emma, which you could have rented on Amazon for $20 and now can buy for $14.99. I knew I didn’t want to buy it and after reading some reviews, I’m not sure I even want to rent it. This was my favorite review on Amazon:

“I am sitting here alone, in the midst of quarantine, because the rest of my family couldn’t handle this movie any longer and fled. I have not left my house in five days, but death by coronavirus would be more merciful than continuing to watch this movie. Everyone in this movie is so unlikable, which is not Jane Austen’s fault. The other versions were good. The only saving grace is Chummy from “Call the Midwife.””

Ouch.

So then I tried Little Women. My brother and sister-in-law loved it and telling them I didn’t was hard, but I didn’t. I just didn’t. I guess it was supposed to be artistic but I had to agree with what a reviewer on Amazon said: “The film felt like a very long trailer.”

Saoirse Ronan and Timothée Chalamet in Greta Gerwig’ LITTLE WOMEN.

All the flipping back and forth between the past and present was extremely confusing at times and the orange glow on all the outdoor scenes made me want to adjust the lighting on my computer. If the story had been told in a more linear way I might have been able to actually like the characters, but since it was a movie of five minute clips here and there, I never really had a chance to get to know them unfortunately. Of course, I know them from other movies. I should say I know them from the book, but I never finished the book. I know. I’m awful, but it’s true.

The actors were very good, however, so I really wanted to give the movie a shot again after stopping it only half an hour in the first time. The guy playing Laurie looked 14 whether he was actually supposed to be 14 or in his 20s and he looked slightly stoned the entire time so I really had little interest when he came on the screen. I won’t lie and say there weren’t parts I didn’t cry through, because there were, but I’m not lying when I say I barely had time to cry for Beth because they had flipped to another scene before I knew what happened.

Instead, I watched a more traditional version I found on Amazon that was split into four episodes and featured actresses who seemed to fit the parts more for me than the other actresses did.

I also distracted myself from the news of the world by blogging last week:

Faithfully Thinking: He will lift it soon

A small family greenhouse in the middle of nowhere (this was my most popular in months. I think because it was shared on Facebook and a lot of local people saw it.)

“Did you go outside today?” Yes, Mom, in fact we did.

Fiction Friday: The Farmer’s Daughter Chapter 7

So how about all of you? What are you reading, watching, writing and doing these days? Let me know in the comments.

Fiction Friday: The Farmer’s Daughter Chapter 7

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn fiction, Fiction Friday2 Comments

Catch up with the rest of The Farmer’s Daughter, a continuing story, at the link at the top of the page or HERE. You can also read my short romance story Quarantined about Liam and Maddie Grant, an estranged couple who get caught in quarantine together.

“I had to explain to the woman that CBD oil is not pot and she will not get high off of it,” Liz said, sliding her shoes off and sliding her legs under her on the couch. “I mean, what did she think, we were selling pot plants in the store? So, she said she’d think about buying the oil the next time she’s in. I don’t know, at least the conversation with this lady was way tamer than the one with that guy with the rash . . .”

Liz shuddered at the memory.

“I did not need that much detail about how fast his rash had spread, or where it had spread to.”

Molly handed Liz a glass of iced tea and sat next to her.

“You certainly have some interesting stories from that health food store,” Molly said, shaking her head. “I’m afraid my stories aren’t that exciting – unless you want to hear about the udder infection one of our cows had and how I had to apply udder cream on her every morning for two months.”

Liz’s face scrunched up in disgust.

“That’s right up there with the rash dude,” she said, grimacing.

“So, Liz, tell me – what’s up with you and Matt?”

Liz shrugged. “We’ve gone out twice now. He’s nice, I guess. Even if he is a friend of your dorky brother.”

“He is a little older than you and I’d hate to see you rush into anything,” Molly said. “It’s only been a couple of months since you —”

“I know,” Liz interrupted. “Since I told Gabe to get lost. Matt and I have just gone to a couple of movies and bowling. We’ve talked, hung out, but neither of us is really interested in anything serious.”

Molly sipped her tea, sitting next to Liz. “I don’t mean to be nagging, or too motherly. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Oh, Molly, don’t worry about it. I know you are just trying to protect me. That’s what friends do.”

Gabe and Liz had dated since their senior year of high school. They’d taken a break while Liz attended a two-year business course at the local community college and Gabe had decided to attend a four-year college four hours away. The relationship picked up, gaining intensity when Gabe graduated and opened a physical therapy office in town. The relationship was tumultuous at its best, chaotic at its worst.

The day Liz called Molly, sobbing into the phone, Molly knew it was over. Liz had finally had enough of Gabe flirting with other women and was certain he had cheated on her after she’d agreed to move in with him.

“It’s not my bra,” she’d told Molly. “It’s someone else’s bra, in our apartment. How could I have been so dumb?”

“You’re not dumb, Liz,” Molly told her. “You may have ignored your intuition but you’re not dumb.”

Molly helped Liz move out of the apartment, back to her parents and had also helped her resist picking up her cell when Gabe tried to reach her. Liz had sunk into a deep depression for three weeks after the break-up, feeling as if she’d walked away from everything her parents had taught her and she’d learned at church when she moved in with Gabe. Molly reminded her there was forgiveness and healing from any shame she felt.

“You know, I don’t know how I would have made it without you,” Liz said, sitting her glass down on the end table by the couch. “I’d probably still be in that apartment listening to Gabe tell me that it would never happen again – for the twentieth time.”

“Not necessarily,” Molly said. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You would have finally had enough and cut him off, even without me.”

Liz placed her hands together on her lap and focused on Molly.

“Enough about me. It’s time to talk about you, Molly. It’s time to get you out and about a little bit. The annual summer benefit dance for the fire company is coming up in a few weeks. Let’s find you a date and go together. Maybe I’ll take Matt.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t go to dances.”

Liz laughed. “No one dances at that thing. Not really. It’s mainly for eating, talking and, for some people, an excuse to get drunk.”

Molly scooped her hair up in her hand and wrapped a scrunchy around it.

“I don’t even know who I’d go with. But I don’t mind tagging along with you for fun. Even if I do hate socializing with – well, anyone.”

Liz and Molly both laughed.

Liz’s eyebrows raised and Molly knew that meant Liz thought she had a brilliant idea. “Molly, why don’t you ask Alex to go with you?”

“Liz, no.” Molly shook her head, holding up her hands in front of her as if to stop that suggestion right in its tracks.

“Why not?”

“It’s just – I don’t know – he’s my brother’s friend and we work together and —”

“And that’s enough excuses,” Liz interrupted. “He’s good looking. He’s funny. It’s not like you’re asking him to get married. You’re just asking if he wants to go to the banquet with you.”

“He’s also older than me.”

“By like five or six years, not twenty,” Liz said. “You should just ask him.”

Molly drank the rest of her iced tea and walked toward the kitchen.

“I’ll think about it, but I don’t think so. He won’t want to take me. He hates dances as much as I do.”

Liz sat back against the arm of the couch and slid her feet up on the cushions, sighing.

“What we really need to talk about is what you brought up the other day at sewing club. About how you’re thinking of spreading your wings and branching out from the farm. What about asking Liam Finley at the Journal about some freelance work or writing a column? Or you could start a blog. That could be a way of branching out without making a drastic change.”

Molly’s face scrunched up in disgust at the mention of Liam Finley. In some ways, he was the stereotypical small-town newspaper editor – sleazy, unshaven, frequently intoxicated and a womanizer. He was not, however, balding, or fat. She also didn’t necessarily see the Spencer Journal as the highest form of journalistic integrity, but then again, it was better than some in an age of declining integrity overall for journalism.

“I never even finished my degree,” Molly said.

Liz shrugged. “I doubt Liam would care and you could raise the quality of that paper if you submitted a column.”

Molly didn’t like the idea of writing for the small newspaper in the town neighboring hers. She’d always imagined writing for larger publications, but everyone had to start somewhere she supposed.

“How do you know Liam anyhow?” Molly asked.

Liz rolled her eyes. “He was a friend of Gabe’s.”

Molly grimaced. “That doesn’t make me feel any better about submitting any of my writing to him then.”

Liz shrugged again. “Eh. He’s okay. A little messed up but he’s more level headed than I’d expected. He and Gabe mainly went out drinking a lot together. And he only made a pass at me once. He’s good at what he does, though, and seems to be able to separate the personal from the professional.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Molly said. “Who knows. Maybe doing something different means leaving Spencer.”

Liz leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Molly Tanner. You are not seriously considering leaving me alone in this God-forsaken dump of a town, are you? Don’t you dare.”

Molly sighed and tipped her head back against the couch. “I don’t know, Liz. All I know is I feel so . . . stuck. So stagnant. So . . . I don’t even know what.”

Molly didn’t like the smirk on her friend’s face.

“Maybe you need a little excitement,” Liz said, raising her eyebrows. “And asking Alex to that dance certainly would be exciting.”

Molly playfully tossed a pillow at Liz, laughing. “Liz, stop it! Why don’t we just change the subject? Are you going to go with the ladies group with Tuesday?”

“You can change the subject, lady, but I’m going to keep on you until you ask Alex to take you to the banquet,” Liz said, sipping her tea. “And yeah, I think I’ll go this week. Jane cut the hours for the store back on the weekends now, so I don’t have to be there late anymore.”

“Good! It will be nice to have you there,” Molly said. “I’m not sure what we’re discussing this week, but it will be a good time for fellowship with other women.”

Liz grinned. “Molly, you sound so ‘holy’ anymore. Listen to you. ‘Fellowship with other women.’ Why don’t you just say, ‘We’re going to hang out with some other women.’?”

Molly laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am starting to use a lot of,” she made quote marks with her fingers. “Christianese these days. I’ll try not to do that anymore.”

“It’s okay,” Liz said. “As long as you don’t try to pray a demon out of me.”

Molly almost snorted tea out of her nose. “I don’t think there is any chance of me doing that.”

She leaned forward, reaching for the remote. “Hey, let’s take advantage of your day off and watch a movie.”

“As long as it isn’t anything with Russell Crowe, I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong with Russel Crowe?” Molly asked, looking through her brother’s old stack of DVDs.

Liz rolled her eyes. “He was Gabe’s favorite actor and we had to watch every movie he ever made. Now I can’t see a clip of Gladiator without thinking of Gabe.”

Molly slid a Harrison Ford movie in and sat back on the couch, but found herself unable to concentrate on the movie as she considered Liz’s suggestion about asking Alex to the banquet. Still struggling with how to interpret Alex’s recent change in behavior, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of sitting next to him at a banquet, trying to make small talk without making it obvious everyone else would think they were on an official date.

Of course, asking him to go with her to the banquet could clarify the matter and then she wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. Then again, it could also complicate the situation even further. If she was honest with herself, she was terrified to find out why Alex had been acting strange around her. What if he was simply toying with her to have a story to tell his friends at the bar? She knew he couldn’t be interested in her romantically. She definitely wasn’t his type. Her hips were three times the size of the women he usually dated. Molly glanced at her chest. Well, her chest might be about the same size. She shook her head, trying to focus on the movie again.

Maybe Alex wasn’t acting differently at all. Maybe her restlessness was distorting everything around her, including her friendship with Alex.

She pushed her thoughts of Alex away, forcing herself to figure out what Harrison Ford was telling his female costar. She needed to worry more about what direction her life was taking, or wasn’t taking, than Alex Stone. It would all work out eventually — when she figured out what direction she needed to take to help her feel less . . . Less what? Trapped? Yes. Trapped. That’s how she felt. Trapped in her stagnant, boring life.

So, trapped that she was starting to hallucinate and see things that weren’t even there – like a change in the way Alex looked at her and a change in the way she was seeing him. It must be stress causing her to notice his smile more, the way his eyes sparkled in the sunlight, his long fingers and strong hands, the way his jeans fit . . . She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, trying to stop her thoughts from spiraling out of control. What other explanation of her confused thoughts and feelings was there than stress? She couldn’t actually have feelings for goofy, obnoxious Alex.

“Harrison Ford still looks amazing for his age, doesn’t he?”

Liz’s comments broke into her thoughts.

“He certainly does,” Molly agreed. “I never thought I’d think a man in his 70s was attractive, but he has proven me wrong.”

With a small laugh to herself, she pushed the thoughts about Alex aside and instead joined Liz in commenting on the movie and admiring Harrison Ford. She could figure out how she felt about Alex and her life on the farm later. 

“Did you go outside today?” Yes, Mom, in fact we did.

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings26 Comments

We spent all day Sunday outside. Well, from 12:30 p.m. to 7:30 p.m. anyhow. By “we” I mean my entire immediate family. The only one who spent less time outside was my teenager, but, well, he is a teenager. He did, however, go on three bike rides around town, so I can’t complain about that small amount of time he spent on the computer.

We started our day planting the flowers we’d picked up at Doans on Saturday. In actuality, we didn’t plant so much as put flowers in pots, pour some potting soil over them and deciding we’d replant them again after the expected cold nights this week.


I didn’t really care if we properly planted them or not, it was just fun to get dirt, literally, under our fingernails. My daughter loved playing in the dirt and taking care of the flowers and our dog loved chasing us all over the place while we planted, running free, off her lead, for most of the day (until she walked into the road infront of the house and wouldn’t come back out again without me sounding a mean dog owner and saying her name sharply to get her attention.).

After planting most of the day it was time for my daughter to chase the dog in the backyard, then me to cook hamburgers on the grill, my husband to mow the lawn, my daughter to swing on the porch swing, then draw with sidewalk chalk on the front sidewalk and steps, and then  . . . I don’t know because by then my brain started to melt.

Did I mention we had two meals outside as well? My daughter decided we should have all our meals outside at the table on our front porch.

All four of us agreed when our son said “I love this house.”We do love this house.

We’re still getting used it though and I see my daughter trying to see the familiar in it, comparing the smallest things to the house she grew up in. “That drain pipe looks like the one we had at the other house,” she said. “And the siding.”The siding only looks slightly like the siding at the old house, but if it  feels familiar to her, then I’m okay with her looking for similiarities.

There is a lot more room in the backyard here and while our property bumps into the neighbors there isn’t a fence, which made our property at the old house feel more constrained somehow. There is also a lot more nature here, as well. Last week we saw five or six deer (one kept wandering in and out of the woods) in our neighbor’s backyard, two cottontail rabbits hopping over each other, vultures circling our property (that was disconcerting, but not unusual in this area), hairy woodpeckers, bluejays and further down the road a Canadian goose couple and three little fuzzy goslings. 

We saw more people walking on our street today than we have in the two weeks we’ve been here and my daughter was thrilled to say ‘hello’ to them and get a few waves and ‘hellos’ back. I’m glad we were able to enjoy the day because the temps are supposed to drop into the 50s this week with off and on rain.

Our state is also set to reopen, in a small way at least, on Friday, but our governor has been flip flopping like a dying fish on the bank of a lake so who knows what will happen by then. Regardless, we’ll be able to do some planting and fixing up outside our home and hopefully have some outside adventures to keep us busy in between homeschooling lessons.  

A small family greenhouse in the middle of nowhere

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings11 Comments

Around the beginning of May every year, the traffic on the dirt road in front of my parents triples when a small greenhouse in the middle of nowhere opens.  Doan’s Greenhouse is located through a grove of trees and at the bottom a hill a short distance from my parents. It’s been there, cradled between a couple of barns and a cute farmhouse, since 1973 when Bob and Shirley Doan opened it.

I remember many trips to the greenhouse with my dad, often in May, sometimes throughout the rest of the summer, to pick out flowers to plant around our house or vegetables to plant for the garden. We often went there right before Memorial Day to pick up flowers to put on the graves of family members buried in various cemeteries around the county, with the majority buried at the tiny cemetery behind the church down the road from my parents and at the county cemetery 25 miles north.

The sweet smell of flowers, plants, and fresh soil is inextricably tied to my childhood because of Doan’s and my dad’s gardening. I’m sure running a greenhouse was not easy, but I can’t remember one time when I visited the greenhouse that Bob and Shirley weren’t smiling.

(photo from the Doans Farm and Greenhouse website)


I told my kids Saturday that Shirley always had an amazing smile complete with red cheeks that they always draw on older, apron-wearing ladies in cartoons. Her cheeks really looked like round cherries on her cheeks, even though I don’t remember the rest of her being round.

We had to break out of the house this weekend and Doan’s was one of the first places I wanted to hit when the weather warmed up. I’d actually been counting down to their opening day for a couple of weeks. Old memories slammed into me as soon as we pulled into the small, dirt parking lot and looked out over a stream running under a handmade wooden bridge, the greenhouse it’s backdrop.

The greenhouse is now owned by Bob and Shirley’s daughter, Jeannie, and son-in-law, Tom. They live kitty-corner to the greenhouse. Bob and Shirley still live in the house next to the greenhouse but are retired. For various reasons they couldn’t come out to see their customers (many of which are longtime neighbors and friends) this year but their daughter Cindy and granddaughter Hannah, son Dan and other two grandsons (whose name I don’t actually remember!) were busy inside the greenhouse, putting out plants and helping customers. Bob and Shirley have four children, 19 grandchildren and 4 great-grandchildren (at least according to their website. That number of great-grandchildren could be a little higher now.)

I’ll admit it was hard not to see the familiar Doan’s smiles, with them being hidden behind facemasks mandated by our governor, but I knew they were there because just like Bob and Shirley, their eyes revealed their emotions.

I almost called my dad while I was there, to glean advice for what flowers or herbs I should buy, but Dad knows I kill most plants and I had a feeling he’d discourage me from buying anything when all was said and done.

So, instead, the kids and I picked out what we thought was pretty, deciding to choose floral therapy over planting practicality on this day. I even snatched up (okay, had to ask for it to be lifted down) a hanging basket for Mom for Mother’s Day (knowing I’d better grab it then or I’d forget to do it later this week).  I dropped the hanging basket off on my way back to our house and then tried to decide what to do with our flowers since I haven’t decided where to plant them yet and since a new neighbor reminded me this is Pennsylvania — we could still get another frost before the month is out.

For now I’ve set the flowers and the herbs I picked up in some containers I found in the garage and garden house (my husband calls it the out building. I’m calling it the Garden House.

It sounds more romantic that way, right? ) and placed them on our front porch. I’ll water them and try to keep them alive until I plant them, but I can’t promise anything since I’m a well-known plant killer. I should probably start speaking life over my plant-maintaining skills instead of death and removing my “plant killer” label. I’ll work on that this week.

(Click on the images below to see larger versions and a sliding gallery.)

Faithfully Thinking: He will lift it soon

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn Faithfully Thinking17 Comments

My daughter was drawing with sidewalk chalk outside the house. She drew a heart. I doodled some hearts and an angel near her heart.

She’s 5.

Sometimes 5 going on adult.

The song “Trust and Obey” had been going through my head much of the day, though I didn’t know why.

I wrote the word Trust in orange chalk on a step.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a word.”

“What’s it say?”

“Trust.”

“Oh”

She steps down off the step and looks at it. She can’t read yet.

“That should say Jesus after it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Trust Jesus and believe in God and He will lift it.”

Watching her.

“He will lift what?”

“He will lift the corona. He will lift it soon. Just believe in God. Write that.”

“Well, that’s a lot to write, but I’ll write, ‘Trust Jesus. He will lift it soon.'”

“Okay.”

And she skipped away.

What’s weird is she rarely says stuff like this.

Sometimes when I say “let’s pray,” she rolls her eyes. She wasn’t brought up in Sunday School like my son was and sometimes I feel like I’m letting her down that way but then she comes out with something like this and I think “oh…apparently she’s listening to the sermons and me more than I think.”

And we weren’t talking about corona before she said this either, but I could tell it had been on her mind and she had reached a point where she just knew — it’s going to be okay.

 

Sunday bookends: Missing the familiar, I finally finished a book and observations since moving into our new home

On By Lisa R. HowelerIn Sunday Bookends13 Comments

It’s weird how I keep waiting for this new house to feel familiar when I know it will take a long time for it to happen. Oddly, it does feel somewhat like “home” already and did as soon as we moved in two weeks ago. I don’t miss the town we left, but I do miss the house and the familiarity of the neighborhood. I miss my tub that was bigger and how cozy our small bathroom used to feel.

I miss looking out my backdoor and seeing my neighbor’s house, knowing she’s in there being awesome, because she is. I miss that I could walk next door with a treat for her (though I wish I had done that more now) and she would tell me some hilarious story about her friends (she called one Divorced Debby), her trips to the local casino and her morning swims at the YMCA 30 minutes away. And I miss that sometimes when we were outside in the yard she would talk to me from her bedroom window and she would assure me that I will survive perimenopause and she’d had a lot of the symptoms I am experiencing when I was her age. Let’s be honest, I just miss her.

I miss being close to larger stores and larger playgrounds, but I don’t miss the cliques that were so prevalent where we used to live. I don’t miss driving by old houses where loved ones once live but no longer do or driving by the part of the local cemetery where so many young people were buried. I’m definitely glad to be closer to my parents and in a more rural area too.

Some things I have observed since moving here:

  1. I have failed as a mother because my son has no idea the difference between a washcloth and a hand towel.

“Oh my gosh! It’s like Grandma with the spoons!” To explain, my son sets the table when we go to my parents for lunch on Sundays and he sets the table with the soup spoons, which are larger, instead of the regular dinner spoons, which are smaller. The fact he still doesn’t know the difference cracks us up and the fact we even care what size the spoons are drives him insane. “They’re spoons! Who cares!”

So when he came back from upstairs with a washcloth for me to put in our tiny bathroom on the towel rack (emphasis on the word towel) I stared at him and thought, “My Lord, I’ve never taught my son what a hand towel is. What kind of a mother am I?” So I explained to him that a hand towel is larger than a washcloth, therefore making it easier to dry your hands on. His response? “Who cares?! You can still dry your hands on it!”

Anyhow, have I mentioned my son is a teenager now?

2. Speaking of our tiny bathroom, this room has started to become one of my favorite places to be.

No, it’s not one of my favorite rooms for any reason related to digestive issues I may or may not have (not, thankfully). It’s a favorite of mine because it’s small, quiet and no one can find me. The hum of the fan built into the light also drowns out the sound of whining children, barking dogs, the yowling cat or the husband asking if I’ve unpacked the rest of the clothes yet. I won’t deny I go in there with my phone, with the plan to sit there for a long while, though that plan often falls through and I end up coming out to the sound of a little voice asking “Mooooom? Where are you?”

3. I’ve have spent almost 18 years of marriage without a breadbox or a butter dish. And that is sad. I got one this week in the mail and just ordered the other. Thank you to my friend Jonica (isn’t that an awesome name?) who told me about this butter dish:

I can’t wait to try it out and officially have a butter dish (even though I don’t use that much butter since I no longer eat bread. I can put it on baked potatoes, though!).


4. I know I am officially old because the most exciting thing that happened to me this week was that I bought a breadbox and a vacuum cleaner. Not only was the vacuum cleaner exciting but I looked forward all day to using it and when it appeared I would have to go to bed before I used it, I made everyone stay up late so I could use it. I know. It’s so sad. I recognize this.

5. All of the windows in this house are crank windows. Every last one, which means it will be very hard to put air conditioners in the windows and we will be very hot most of the summer. Or it means we will call someone to replace some of our windows soon.

I finally finished Falling For You by Becky Wade, which was the second book in The Bradford Sister’s series. Each book of the series focuses on a different sister. The first book focuses on Nora, the second on Willow, and the third on Britt. And, of course, each sister has their own love story. I just started the third book in the series, Sweet on You this weekend. True to You is the first book in the series. Each book includes a romance and a little bit of a mystery. They are clean/Christian fiction and very well written.

I also read a chapter a night of About Your Father by Peggy Rowe. As I told her on her Facebook page, reading one chapter a night is like unwrapping a special gift at the end of a long day.

51z4jVNc3hL._SY346_

712VW7RcmDL._RI_Because I want to start a garden, I’ve been watching a show from Ireland called Grow, Cook, Eat. I’m learning a lot about planting, harvesting and cooking various vegetables, but I’m also developing the weird habit of speaking in an Irish accent. We visited our local greenhouse Saturday and my daughter chose a Begonia, which I proceeded to pronounce the name of in a thick Irish accent. In public. So…yeah..there is a downside for those around me to me binge-watching an Irish show. Unfortunately for them, I’m going to watch it again this week as I try to decide the best way to take care of the flowers and the herbs I bought until I can figure out where I’m going to plant them.

I did learn this week that the garden space we have practically floods during heavy rainfall so I am considering building raised garden beds, which for someone whose thumb is more black than green (I kill plants. Remember?), is pretty ambitious, if not insane. Still, I would like to at least try to build them and plant in them and see what develops.

I also watched a movie called Juliet and Rodeo on Amazon that I thought was going to be totally horrible, but it actually wasn’t that bad. The acting was pretty authentic, less like lines being delivered, and more organically done. It’s about a romance writer who goes back to her father’s ranch to sell it after he dies. She goes back to her past (of course) and brings her daughter who meets a handsome young man and, you know, conflict and love ensues. It was a nice distraction from other things this week.

Getting out of the house Saturday was definitely needed and we enjoyed our trip to a small greenhouse about ten minutes from our house that has been run by a local family for the last 45 years or so. I’ll be writing about that trip in a separate blog post later this week. I picked up a hanging basket for my mom for Mother’s Day because I had a feeling I wouldn’t actually get it done next week. I am surprised at myself but I didn’t even take a photo of the basket before I dropped it off at their house on the way back from the greenhouse.

I did take a few photos at the greenhouse of my daughter dressed up as Elsa (side note: I can not take watching Frozen II one more time! NOT. ONE. MORE. TIME.)

DSC_0023DSC_0038

So what have all you been up to this week? Reading or watching anything good? Let me know in the comments!