I'm Graduating from Feminist to Nasty Woman by Sandy Semerad

“Are you a nasty woman, Mama?” daughter Andrea asked me recently.

Her question took me off guard. Then I remembered the third Presidential debate and knew exactly what she meant.

Following that debate, the “nasty” comment became a “feminist battle cry,” on social media. T-Shirts with “Nasty woman” printed on them are now in demand, as are hats emblazoned with, “Make America Nasty Again.”

Streams of Janet Jackson’s song “Nasty” skyrocketed after the debate, according to Spotify. In the song, Janet calls men, who display bad behavior toward women, “nasty boys.”

No question the “nasty” comment has struck a powerful cord. I’ve never seen so many women open up and describe in detail how they’ve been discriminated against and treated differently than their male counterparts. Women are sharing their stories as never before. They’re talking about how they’d been grabbed and abused. How they were told to be nice, not bossy and to smile, not frown. They’ve shared their stories about being sexually harassed, and how they were shamed, demoted or fired when they reported the harassment.

All of these conversations have sparked my own painful memories, and I’m thinking it’s time to share two of those memories with you.

          

        At 19, I was sexually assaulted in New York City, where I was living at the time.  My attacker was a successful businessman and owner of the business where I’d worked. Ashamed and traumatized, I left NYC without reporting the assault.

Fast forward many years, I’m walking to the Marta train in Atlanta. It’s the end of the day, and I’m heading home from Georgia State. It’s raining. I’m in a great mood, happy I remembered to bring an umbrella.

A strange man steps under my umbrella and says, “Are you from out of this world?”

I’m caught off guard, but I sense he’s a psycho, his eyes wild, glassy. “Get lost,” I tell him.

He grabs my boobs, squeezes them brutally. I yell out in pain and horror and swing my open umbrella to defend myself.

He runs inside the nearest building and disappears.

I’m shaken, but I continue on to the Marta Station, hop on the train and go home. Once I feel safe, I call the campus police to report this psycho and try to stop him from hurting anyone else.

I describe to the officer what happened, but before I can give him a description of the man, the officer asks, “What were you wearing?”

Stunned, I don’t how to respond at first. “Dressed casually, like any college student.”

I should have demanded to speak to his supervisor or to a female officer who would empathize. But I didn’t, I played nice, when I should have been assertive and nasty.

It’s interesting how that word “nasty” has changed through urban interpretations, but it appears more complimentary when referring to men. Men can be nasty cool, skillful, as in “He plays a nasty guitar.”

While with women, the urban definition usually refers to sex: “freak-nasty, blatant, unhindered sexuality, and has an undertone of kinkiness.” Unlike the traditional definitions, which are: “smelly, bad, filthy, repulsive, malignant, ugly, spiteful, disgusting, incredibly mean and stinky, very loud, obnoxious.”

But getting back to the question Andrea asked. In answering her, I said, “Yes,” although I prefer the “cool, skillful” definition of the word, and hereafter I’ve decided to graduate from feminist to nasty woman.

For Halloween, I’m leaning toward dressing up as the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, with a hat that reads, “Good Witch, aka Nasty Woman.” What do you think?

As an afterthought, Andrea sent me this recipe for The Nasty Woman drink, a Quartz cocktail, created by Jenni Avins:

          

        Three parts silver tequila (made by the “bad hombres” of Mexico)

Two parts cherry juice (Avins likes the one from Trader Joe’s)

          

         One part lime juice

          

         Pour over ice and top it with sparkling wine or sparkling limeade.

          

        This drink should get a wedge of lime, but Avins says she too nasty to fuss over a twist.

          

        Whatever you prefer to drink, be sure to enjoy it like a nasty woman should.

          To read more, please visit my website:

http://www.sandysemerad.com/

          

         Also would love for you to purchase my latest novel, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES. This story is loosely based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta, and it’s also a love story.

         

                              Buy Link: A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

Why is the word "Feminism" demonized? By Sandy Semerad

          As a writer I know the power of words, and I’m constantly searching for the right words to make my stories live.

But recently I discovered the word “feminism” has been misunderstood. I had no idea until daughter Andrea received a rude response after she admitted she was a feminist. Made me wonder, why has this word been demonized?

Dictionary.com defines feminism as “advocating social, political, legal and economic rights for women equal to those of men.” Merriam-Webster has a similar definition.

          The term feminism originated in 19 century France, I learned. A second-wave began in the United States during the early 1960s with Betty Friedan’s book The Feminine Mystique.

Friedan wrote this book after talking with friends, who had given up their careers to become housewives. These women felt unfulfilled in their domestic roles, Friedan claimed. She blamed women’s magazines, run by men, for encouraging women to become mothers and housewives, rather than career women. A different scenario existed in the 1930s, when women’s magazines featured confident and independent women with careers, according to Friedan.

More recently Harvard MBA and radio host Samantha Ettus wrote The Pie Life to inspire working mothers and help them let go of the guilt. All women should keep their feet in the workplace, according to Ettus.

          

          Regardless of what Ettus and others have written to encourage women, I found a plethora of negative on-line comments, misconstruing the meaning of the word feminism. Many were under the impression that feminists were men haters, and these same folks left vile comments.

I had to stop reading these negative remarks or they would have poisoned me. Words can poison as Japanese scientist Dr. Masaru Emoto has proven in his experiments. Our bodies contain mostly water, and with that premise, Emoto filled several bottles with distilled water. Then he taped words to the bottles. When he read the words aloud, the molecules in the bottles reacted.

Emoto photographed these molecules and discovered that positive words like “love” created beautiful formations. Negative words like “I hate you” produced ugly, violent images. Emoto has written about his experiments in his book The Hidden Messages in Water.

Other researchers have confirmed Emoto’s research. Words have the power to change our lives, they say. 

For example, in a Psychology Today article, authors Newburn and Waldman used several examples to prove this theory. They mentioned an experiment by psychologists at Missouri State University who designed an exercise for patients in pain. They asked the patients to identify their deepest values and meditate on them. When the patients did as instructed, they were able to reduce their pain and distress. 

Everyone can do this exercise, the article said, and we can involve our family and friends by asking: “What is your deepest personal value?”

Before we can adequately answer this question, however, we must relax completely, close our eyes for 60 seconds and listen for the word or words that express our sincerest values, according to the Psychology Today article.

Words like “peace” and “love” reduce physical and emotional stress, they discovered.

          I tried this exercise several times. Each time I came up with different words: Love, creativity, family, peace, health/fitness, faith, determination, bliss/happiness, achievement, patience, respect, compassion, growth, optimism, education, sincerity, abundance, inspiration, excellence, strength, trust, justice/equality.

          But getting back to the word feminism, Andrea wanted to know if I considered myself a feminist. I told her I didn’t like labels, but given the meaning, I had to say, “Yes.” I believe in equal rights for everyone, and regret this word has been demonized.

When I asked daughter Rene, “Are you a feminist?” she didn’t hesitate. “Yes, women should have the same social, economic and political rights as men,” she said.

It pleases me to know my daughters understand the true meaning of this word and identify with it, but others don’t apparently and need a clarification, which is why I like what actress Martha Plimpton has said:

“I take a lot of pride in calling myself a feminist, always have,” Plimpton wrote in an e-mail. “We’re going to have to insist on correcting bigotry as it happens in real time. And fear of women’s equality, or the diminishment of it, is a kind of bigotry. I think it’s important to remove the stigma associated with women’s equality, and as such, yes, normalizing the word ‘feminist’ and making sure people know what it means is incredibly important…”

My latest book, A Message in the Roses, is loosely based on a murder trial I covered in Atlanta. You may get a copy here:

                           A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

To Read more about my work and life, please visit my website:

  sandysemerad.com/

Old Story Made New with Legendary DJ by Sandy Semerad

     “Mama, you’ve already told me that story,” my daughters often say.  Worse, they like to summarize my stories to prove they’ve heard them before.

      But recently, to my surprise, daughter Andrea didn’t recall one of my stories and she’d been a participant in it. I discovered this block in her memory as we were trying to think of the name of a great pizza place we used to frequent in Atlanta. Andrea still lives in Atlanta, and I thought she’d recall the name and location.

     “We went there the night we met Skinny Bobby Harper,” I said.

     “Who?”

     “Don’t you remember him? He wore thick glasses, had black hair” I said. “We were standing in line at the pizza place. He commented on your outfit. It had been Western Day at Roland Elementary School. So I’d braided your hair in pigtails and you’d worn an ankle-length dress that day.

     “I don’t remember,” she said. “How old was I? Seven?”

     “I’m surprised you don’t remember. We talked about it afterwards.”

     Unable to pique her memory of that evening, I rehashed it:

     “What is she supposed to be?” he asked.

     “That’s what she considers Western,” I answered and explained about Western Day.

     “Yes, she absolutely right, she looks like Laura Ingells, Little House on the Prairie.”

     After my long day, my mind stalled. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

     He flashed a smile. “Your ex-husband, an old boyfriend, perhaps?”

     I laughed, “No.”

     He refused to give me a clue, but as I stared, trying to place him, I thought of a recent article I’d read. Could this man be the inspiration for the character Johnny Fever on WKRP in Cincinnati, as the article had said? The photo looked like him. “Are you Skinny Bobby Harper?”

     He offered his hand. “How do you do?”

     I told him I’d read the article about him.

     He said Hugh Wilson, a friend of his, had written and produced the popular sitcom WKRP. Wilson had been the ad guy at WQXI in Atlanta where Harper used to DJ. Wilson wrote for the Mary Tyler Moore Show, before he created WKRP, Harper said.

     Harper had ventured into television more than ten years prior, as one of TV’s ground-breaking video DJs on what was known as the Now Explosion. That show was telecast in Atlanta on Ted Turner’s channel 17 and was nationally syndicated.

     I’d read about Harper’s colorful language. (He sometimes swore on the air). He’d been fired from a number of radio stations, although others stations clamored to hire him regardless, due to his immense popularity and talent.

     In talking to him, I found him sweet and respectful, and after we got our pizzas, we sat at adjoining tables, Andrea and I at one table, he and his daughter at another.

     The next morning I was driving Andrea to school when she said, “Mama, why don’t we listen to the man we met last night at the pizza place?”

     I scrolled the radio channels until I found him, although I wasn’t prepared for what I heard him say: “Do you know what day it is today? It’s be kind to Sandy Ryles day.” (My last name was Ryles at that time.) He repeated the “Be kind to Sandy Ryles day,” a number of times and said, “If you see Sandy Ryles, be kind to her. It’s her day.”

     I smiled until I thought my face would break, as I drove Andrea to school; then drove myself to the Marta station to catch the train to Georgia State University. Back then I was working on a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism.

      I wanted to call and thank him, but I didn’t have a cell phone. No one had cell phones then.

     But from that morning on, I always listened to him. He made my days happier and brighter. He’s been called a comic genius, and he was.

     He created a character called “Lavern” from the “Never Say Goodbye” nursing home. Lavern was also a member of the “Toe-to-Toe-With-Satan Church of the Constant Struggle.”

     There were many other skits he performed over the radio, and as I listened, I pictured Lavern and all the characters he created. He also reported on how many moo cows were seen in Atlanta.

      Sandwiched in between his skits, he played lovely tunes, like Smokey Robinson’s The Tears of a Clown, and so many of my favorites, too many to name.

     In talking to Andrea and reliving all of this, I realized I’d lost track of Skinny Bobby Harper after I moved to Florida in 1990. A google search brought sad news. He died of lung cancer in 2003. He was only 64.

     But I feel blessed to have met and listened to him, and I’m sure I’ll repeat this story about the Hall of Fame, legendary DJ. How he made me feel like a queen for a day and brightened my mornings. If only I’d called to thank him for bringing me such joy.

     I’m trying to make amends by spreading some of the joy he gave to me, and the next time I tell this story to Andrea and Rene, they’d better not say they’ve heard it before. If they do, I’ll come back with, “I’m your mother. If I want to repeat old stories to make them new again, I should have that privilege.”

 

To read more, please visit my web site: 

                               sandysemerad.com 

Below you’ll find the link to my latest novel, A Message in the Roses, based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. Warning: contains steaming romance.

Buy A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

Old Story Made New with Legendary DJ

     “Mama, you’ve already told me that story,” my daughters often say.  Worse, they like to summarize my stories to prove they’ve heard them before.

      But recently, to my surprise, daughter Andrea didn’t recall one of my stories and she’d been a participant in it. I discovered this block in her memory as we were trying to think of the name of a great pizza place we used to frequent in Atlanta. Andrea still lives in Atlanta, and I thought she’d recall the name and location.

     “We went there the night we met Skinny Bobby Harper,” I said.

     “Who?”

     “Don’t you remember him? He wore thick glasses, had black hair” I said. “We were standing in line at the pizza place. He commented on your outfit. It had been Western Day at Roland Elementary School. So I’d braided your hair in pigtails and you’d worn an ankle-length dress that day.

     “I don’t remember,” she said. “How old was I? Seven?”

     “I’m surprised you don’t remember. We talked about it afterwards.”

     Unable to pique her memory of that evening, I rehashed it:

     “What is she supposed to be?” he asked.

     “That’s what she considers Western,” I answered and explained about Western Day.

     “Yes, she absolutely right, she looks like Laura Ingells, Little House on the Prairie.”

     After my long day, my mind stalled. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

     He flashed a smile. “Your ex-husband, an old boyfriend, perhaps?”

     I laughed, “No.”

     He refused to give me a clue, but as I stared, trying to place him, I thought of a recent article I’d read. Could this man be the inspiration for the character Johnny Fever on WKRP in Cincinnati, as the article had said? The photo looked like him. “Are you Skinny Bobby Harper?”

     He offered his hand. “How do you do?”

     I told him I’d read the article about him.

     He said Hugh Wilson, a friend of his, had written and produced the popular sitcom WKRP. Wilson had been the ad guy at WQXI in Atlanta where Harper used to DJ. Wilson wrote for the Mary Tyler Moore Show, before he created WKRP, Harper said.

     Harper had ventured into television more than ten years prior, as one of TV’s ground-breaking video DJs on what was known as the Now Explosion. That show was telecast in Atlanta on Ted Turner’s channel 17 and was nationally syndicated.

     I’d read about Harper’s colorful language. (He sometimes swore on the air). He’d been fired from a number of radio stations, although others stations clamored to hire him regardless, due to his immense popularity and talent.

     In talking to him, I found him sweet and respectful, and after we got our pizzas, we sat at adjoining tables, Andrea and I at one table, he and his daughter at another.

     The next morning I was driving Andrea to school when she said, “Mama, why don’t we listen to the man we met last night at the pizza place?”

     I scrolled the radio channels until I found him, although I wasn’t prepared for what I heard him say: “Do you know what day it is today? It’s be kind to Sandy Ryles day.” (My last name was Ryles at that time.) He repeated the “Be kind to Sandy Ryles day,” a number of times and said, “If you see Sandy Ryles, be kind to her. It’s her day.”

     I smiled until I thought my face would break, as I drove Andrea to school; then drove myself to the Marta station to catch the train to Georgia State University. Back then I was working on a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism.

      I wanted to call and thank him, but I didn’t have a cell phone. No one had cell phones then.

     But from that morning on, I always listened to him. He made my days happier and brighter. He’s been called a comic genius, and he was.

     He created a character called “Lavern” from the “Never Say Goodbye” nursing home. Lavern was also a member of the “Toe-to-Toe-With-Satan Church of the Constant Struggle.”

     There were many other skits he performed over the radio, and as I listened, I pictured Lavern and all the characters he created. He also reported on how many moo cows were seen in Atlanta.

      Sandwiched in between his skits, he played lovely tunes, like Smokey Robinson’s The Tears of a Clown, and so many of my favorites, too many to name.

     In talking to Andrea and reliving all of this, I realized I’d lost track of Skinny Bobby Harper after I moved to Florida in 1990. A google search brought sad news. He died of lung cancer in 2003. He was only 64.

     But I feel blessed to have met and listened to him, and I’m sure I’ll repeat this story about the Hall of Fame, legendary DJ. How he made me feel like a queen for a day and brightened my mornings. If only I’d called to thank him for bringing me such joy.

     I’m trying to make amends by spreading some of the joy he gave to me, and the next time I tell this story to Andrea and Rene, they’d better not say they’ve heard it before. If they do, I’ll come back with, “I’m your mother. If I want to repeat old stories to make them new again, I should have that privilege.”

 

To read more, please visit my web site: 

                               sandysemerad.com 

Below you’ll find the link to my latest novel, A Message in the Roses, based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. Warning: contains steaming romance.

Buy A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES

We Can't Let Bad News Break Us By Sandy Semerad

          The other day I walked in the house and found hubby Larry in a funk. When I asked him what was wrong, he said, “I saw another shooting on the news.”

Larry, being a kind and empathetic person, had absorbed this pain, and as he explained in detail what happened, I became sad. Until then, I’d been in my happy zone, listening to Elvis on Sirius radio.

“Don’t watch the news,” I told Larry.

Strange advice, coming from me, a news reporter for many years, but when I first started my career as a journalist, it was a different era. I tried to stick to the facts, give all points of view, and avoid reporting on certain things. Like suicides, for example. Reporting a suicide created more suicides.

Nowadays nothing seems off limits. The 24-hour news monster has taken over. This monster is impossible to satisfy, and seems to prefer a diet of sensationalism with violence and killing and political mud-slinging.

To avoid the flatulence of this monster, I’ve decided to watch the news less and spend more time trying to become more peaceful and compassionate.

Compassion is our highest calling, according to author and philosopher Joseph Campbell. But how can we become compassionate when we blame others for the problems in our world?

In pondering this question, I recalled the words of a song I heard Elvis sing the other day:

“Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk a mile in my shoes

Before you abuse, criticize and accuse

Walk a mile in my shoes.”

As a writer, I often try to imagine myself walking in the shoes of others, and I suppose that’s why I like this recitation from the Dalai Lama:

“Today I am fortunate to have woken up, I am alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others, to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings, I am going to have kind thoughts towards others, I am not going to get angry or think badly about others, I am going to benefit others as much as I can.”

In order to achieve a true state of compassion, we should focus on our commonalities, rather than our differences, according to his teachings. We all want to be happy. We’ve all known pain and suffering. And we all appreciate a smile and a sympathetic ear.

I like to think I’m a compassionate person, but I have a problem when it comes to people who deliberately hurt others, and yet, according to the Dalai Lama, I can’t reach that final stage of kindhearted living, unless I want to ease the sufferings of those who have caused suffering.

If someone hurts us, we shouldn’t react angrily, he says. We should withdraw. Analyze the situation and ultimately realize that the abusive person is the one who is suffering, and then we should offer compassion.

 “If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.”—Dalai Lama

Daughter Andrea claims she’s found more compassion and peace since she stopped watching the news every day. She recently canceled her cable subscription and bought a box that converts her regular television to a smart T.V. This allows her to select the programs she wants to watch. She feels lighter now, unlike some of her friends, addicted to the news, who emit heavy, negative vibes, she says.

I certainly don’t want heavy, negative vibes, I told her, and I’m determined not to let all of this bad news destroy my day. I’d rather work on trying to eliminate my own flaws and in the process, become more compassionate.

Maybe if we all choose this path, our positive energy will spread to everyone, everywhere, or to quote one of my favorite spiritual song, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me…” 

                                 Hurricane House is 99 cents for a limited time: 

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            For More information. please visit my web site: www.sandysemerad.com

                           

                                                                                                                                                               

Can Nonviolence Stop the Killing? By Sandy Semerad

         I’ve been thinking about Dr. Martin Luther King lately, and wondering what the slain civil rights leader and champion of nonviolence would say about the deadly mass shootings in our country.

I started thinking about King as I listened to the song, People Get Ready. I’d heard the song before, but I’d never paid attention to the words until Larry, my piano-playing husband, wanted me to sing it. I had forgotten Curtis Mayfield had written the song. According to Mayfield, the lyric and tune germinated as he waited at a Chicago train station for King to arrive.

Although he wrote other gospel songs, this particular one became an enormous hit. It has been recorded by Rod Stewart, the Neville Brothers, and others, including Mayfield himself. Mayfield would have been 74, June 3, had he lived:

          

         “People get ready                                    

          There’s a train a-coming

          You don’t need no baggage

          You just get on board

          All you need is faith

          To hear the diesels humming

          Don’t need no ticket

          You just thank the Lord…”

King eventually used this song and others, like Keep on Pushing, also written by Mayfield, to inspire marchers as they faced violence and jail time.

I once had the honor of meeting Dr. King. He was pacing back and forth in the Atlanta Airport, as if lost in thought, unaware of his surroundings.

I watched him for a while before I gathered the courage to walk over and say, “Hi Dr. King.”

He froze. I thought I saw alarm in his eyes.

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “I just wanted to meet you,” I said.

He kindly took my hand.

Being star struck, I don’t recall what he said in response. I couldn’t quite believe I’d actually met him.

Tragically, a few years later he was assassinated. As I watched his funeral on television, daughter Rene—only a few weeks old then--cried most of that day, as if she had absorbed my grief.

No question those were turbulent times: The Vietnam War, President John F. Kennedy’s assassination in ‘63, followed by King’s in ’68. Then two months after King died, JFK’s brother Senator Robert Kennedy was murdered. But even in that crazy decade, we never heard of mass shootings, outside of war.

Dr. King would have been appalled by these senseless killings, I know. He’d always espoused peace.

Four years before his death, he received the Nobel Peace Prize.  He fought for racial equality, using nonviolent resistance as he sacrificed his life to bring about peace and justice for all.

His I have a Dream speech called for us to become better, braver, unbiased and more dignified. (I alluded to his great speech in my novel A Message in the Roses, which is set in Atlanta). I can close my eyes and still see him on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, during the March on Washington.

If he were alive today, I’m confident he’d continue to march and use his powerful oratory to speak out for peaceful perseverance. 

As Dr. King, I abhor violence. It’s incomprehensible to me that three of the deadliest shootings in the United States have occurred in the last ten years: Pulse Orlando nightclub in Orlando, FL. (June 12, 2016)—49 people killed, 50 wounded; Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, VA (April 16, 2007) 32 people killed, 17 injured; Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn. (Dec. 14, 2012) 26 people killed, mostly children. The shooter also killed his mother.

The weapons used in these shootings were obtained legally, according to a CNN report. I’ve also read there were two other similarities. The shooters had been prescribed antidepressants--often large dosages--and they used weapons of war (assault weapons).

However, the U.S. Senate recently voted down two pieces of gun violence prevention legislation--June 20, 2016). This legislation failed in large part due to the powerful National Rifle Association’s lobbying efforts, according to the Washington Post.

       In the spirit of Dr. King, Georgia Congressman John Lewis led a sit-it in the U.S. House. Lewis, and other democrats, wanted the House to allow a vote on "common sense" gun control legislation, but House leaders refused. Lewis, a civil rights icon, who risked his life and marched with King, said he will not give up the fight until tougher gun laws are passed. 

       Most Americans support tougher gun laws, according to public opinion polls. Yet, the majority of our lawmakers refuse to act. 

       This baffles me. Too many beautiful lives have been lost and too many hearts have been broken.

I’m thinking Dr. King would say we can find a solution if we work together, but we must choose the public good over special interests. He’d say violence is never the answer, as he stated so eloquently in his I Have a Dream speech:

“We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protests to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.”

Amen, Dr. King. Amen.

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To read learn more visit my website: www.sandysemerad.com

Why Zombie through Life when you can Dance, by Sandy Semerad

         When I was a child, I used to listen to music and dance around the house. I pretended to be the happy hero, rather than the little girl who’d lost her daddy. Daddy died of a heart attack when I was seven, and I worried Mama might die, and I’d have to live with my crazy aunt.

When I danced, I could be Ginger Roger or Fred Astaire. Today I love to dance while watching Dancing with the Stars, and see myself as a winner.

          

         For many years, I thought I was the only person who fantasized through dance. But then I met a hitchhiker named Mary. (I have a character like Mary in my second novel, Hurricane House.)

I came to know Mary after I’d moved from Atlanta to Florida. When I first met her I couldn't believe she was a hitchhiker. She looked like a fifty-year-old mother or grandmother.

Mary carried everything she owned in a duffle bag. Each item had been neatly packed, not what you’d expect from a hitchhiker.

“Aren’t you afraid to ride with strangers?” I asked her.

“I usually ride with truckers I trust,” she said, and went on to explain how she showered and washed her clothes in truck stops. To earn money, she cleaned the trucks she rode in, and when she felt lonely or sad, she danced.

Mary used to be an opera singer in New York City, she said. To prove it, she sang for me. She had a beautiful voice. When I asked her why she would give that up, she said she had a tear on her vocal cords.

Back then, she had planned to get surgery to repair the damage, but she lost her job as a switchboard operator. Technology had phased her out.

Without a paying job, she eventually lost her apartment and moved in with her boyfriend. Unfortunately, her boyfriend drank and abused her, as her parents had when she was growing up.

To escape the abusive boyfriend, she took a train to Seattle, thinking she could find a job there. She stayed in a homeless shelter while she searched for work. The shelter smelled like “stinky socks,” she said, and being a clean freak, she had to leave. That’s when she decided to hitch her first ride with a trucker, and she’d been hitchhiking ever since, she said.

Not easy and often scary, she admitted. The hardest part was learning to sleep sitting up and eating paper when she had no food.

She used to be an atheist, she said, but that all changed the day her hunger forced her to pray, “God if you’re there, help me.”

After the prayer, she looked down, and saw twenty dollars on the ground. From that day forward, she believed in God, she said.

A few weeks after I met and talked with Mary, she called me. It was almost Thanksgiving. I asked Mary if she’d like to come visit me for a few days. I didn’t expect her to clean and organize my house, but that’s what she did. She even rearranged and color coordinated my closet. I have never been that organized since.

I told everyone about Mary. I thought she could do the same for them, and eventually she might make enough money to get off the road.

One of my friends said she’d pay Mary to clean and organize her place. I thought Mary would be happy about this.

But when I told her, she frowned angrily. “I don’t want to clean her place. She smokes. I helped you, because I wanted to, and now my job is done.”

She asked me to drop her off at the MacDonald’s. “It’s time for me to hit the road and dance away,” she said. 

At first I felt sad leaving her there, but as soon as she jumped out of the car, she smiled and waved and appeared happy.

A month or so later I received a card from Mary. On the card, she’d painted a beach scene with a seagull flying in a blue sky—Mary would probably say the seagull was dancing.

Since then, I’ve lost track of her. I wish we could have kept in touch through the years. I’d like to know how she’s doing. She might be happy to know Larry and I have gotten married. She thought he was a stellar guy when she met him, and she was right.

She used to say she dreamed of opening up a truck stop to serve the truckers, who had been kind enough to let her ride with them. Serving others would allow her to dance, rather than zombie through life, she said, and she preferred to dance.

Whenever I hear the song I Hope You Dance, I’m reminded of Mary. Written by Mark Sanders and Tia Sillers, this song seems to express the inspiration she gave to me and offers guidance to us all. Here’s some of the lyric:

“I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,

Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens,

Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,

Dance…I hope you dance.”

Here's my second novel Hurricane House, where I patterned one of my characters after Mary: A hurricane hits a Florida fishing village with a murderer at large: 

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My latest novel, A Message in the Roses, is based on a murder trial I covered in Atlanta. It's also a love story.  

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My first Mystery, Sex, Love & Murder: A young journalist, visiting New Orleans during Mardi Gras, is drawn into a series of murders involving the President. 

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Please visit my website for more information: 

http://www.sandysemerad.com