A writer's hobby by J. S. Marlo

  

Seasoned Hearts

"Love & Sacrifice #1"

is now available  

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The Red Quilt 

"a sweet & uplifting holiday story"

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J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I have many hobbies, which I indulge between books or when I need to think about a story. One of them is woodworking.

We had a magnificent poplar in our backyard. When Hubby planted the little twig twenty-five years, we never expected it would grow three times the height of our house, but it did. Some of its leaves were bigger than my hand with my fingers outstretched. In the fall, we raked forever, to the delight of my little granddaughter who loved jumping in the huge pile. We filled many orange bags with them, then with a black marker, I drew Jack O'Lantern on them. Easy Halloween decorations!

Unfortunately, the tree got sick and we had to cut it down at the end of last summer before it fell on the roof.  We were left with a giant hole and huge logs in the backyard. We turned the hole into a gravel circle, then bought a portable fire pit. We kept all the wood. When Hubby started chopping it, it occurred to me I could turn some of the bigger logs into stools to put around the fire pit.

I peeled the bark, sanded the logs, carved a design on them, then stained and treated them. For months, my garage smelled like cut wood. Here they are: Owl, Wolf, Bear, Squirrel, and Rabbit. My granddaughter decided the Owl was hers LOL

I don't know how long the stools will last, but hopefully, they will withstand many Canadian winters. In the meantime, they add charm to the backyard -- and they were fun to make.

Stay safe!

JS

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

 

Make Believe World

 

I live in a make-believe world. Okay, not literally, but vicariously through my characters.  I decide where they live, name their towns, or sometimes I let them live in a real city/town.  I prefer small towns, maybe because I’ve always wanted to live in one. I especially like towns with Victorian houses and apparently so do my characters, because I use them a lot.  I often say I must have lived during the Victorian area, probably as a mean old nanny. I’m sure I wasn’t the lady of the house, and by house I mean mansion. Queen Anne Victorian homes are my favorite. I love the round turrets, all the gingerbread, and wrap around porches. It was always my dream to buy one and restore it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be and I’m past the point of wanting one now.

Back to my make-believe world. I’d like to say I choose my characters, but truthfully, they choose me.  Sometimes I even get to name them, but if they don’t like the name, well believe me, they misbehave until I change it. And, yes, that’s happened several times. Just because I like a name doesn’t mean they do. The last time it happened it wasn’t even a main character. She was only in the story for a short time, but boy was she stubborn. She refused to talk to me and anything I wrote was garbage, better known as dreck in the writing world.

As I’ve said previously, I write many different of genres, from Women’s Fiction to Romance to Mystery and even Paranormal. Most of my books are a combination of romance and another genre. As a reader, I’ve always favored mystery and romance, so it only made sense to combine them.  Mine would be classified as cozy mysteries; the gory stuff takes place off scene.

 I also love ghost stories – not evil mean ghosts though. One such story is Shadows in the Attic and another Time to Love Again. I’ve always been fascinated by ESP, hence my story Entangled Minds,

My character’s ages range from their mid-twenties to middle age and into their seventies. Yes, seniors need love, too. Geriatric Rebels is a favorite.  It’s fun working with different characters, and I especially like when they add a bit of humor. I really form an attachment to them. Once a character chooses me, I make a character worksheet so I know everything about them, not just what they look like.

I love creating my characters, picking their careers, anything from housewife, authors, teachers, floral designers, and interior designers. Sometimes their careers play a part in the story, sometimes not. The character in my work in progress (WIP in the writer’s world) is a former teacher. It’s not a big part of the story, but it’s something I needed to know. She’s a real character in the true sense of the word. She came into being in a previous story, All in the Family. It started out with her having a small part, but Aunt Beatrice Lulu (ABLL) grew into a big part of the story. Once I finished that book, she popped up again and demanded her own book. Problem is, she takes fits and goes into hiding every so often, which is where she’s at right now and has been for some time. Sometimes she pops up for days of writing. Other times, I get a paragraph or two. I’ve never had a character do that before.

Oh, I’ve had writer’s block a time or two, but once I’m over it the writing flows. Not so with ABLL.

  It’s also fun describing my characters, their hair and eye color, height, even their weight. I’m often asked if I’m a plotter or punster. I tried plotting once and ended up blocked for almost two years. For me plotting doesn’t work. I usually know the beginning and end of my stories. What happens in the middle is as much a surprise to me as it is to my readers. ABLL is full of surprises. What that woman doesn’t get into. So even though she goes into hiding, it’s generally worth it when she reappears. I’m not sure where she came from, but I’m sure enjoying working with her. Okay, I’ll be honest, a little bit of her is me, a little bit my sisters, and even my mother. She’s a combination of all the people I love and it’s so much fun living in her make-believe world.

You can find all of my books here.

The WHO, What, Where, Why and When of Writing - Part 1

April 3, 2019

Walking tends to make my creative brain ramble with ideas I generally forget fifteen minutes later, especially when I get caught in the rain and have to hustle. But this concept for a series of blogs stuck. When we think of the five Ws, we immediately think journalism. In this case, however, I’m applying it to writing.

Who – as in Who are YOU as a writer?

What – for What do you want to write?

Where – location, location, location.

Why – what drives you?

When – what the best time to write?

Over the next few months, I’d like to expand on those ideas because those are the questions I see a great deal on social media questions and answer pages for writers, new and experienced. We all have this curiosity about other writers as well as our own creativity and what makes us tick.

So let’s start with the WHO.

Who am I?

When I was a kid, my dream was to be on the Oprah show. To get there, I planned to become one of two things:  An actor or a writer. Fast forward a few years later (Ha!). Oprah’s show is over. I am not an actor, but I work for a live-stage theatre.

And I am a writer.

I’m not famous. I may never be, but I’m doing what I love to do even if I’m not able to do it full time just yet.

How long have you been a writer?

This question comes up a lot on forums. For me, I started storytelling when I was little, before I could write. Then learned how to put those stories onto paper so others could read them.

I’ve stuck my passion in a drawer for years to satisfy someone who called it a waste of time, then dragged it back out when I had kids and never looked back.

Are you one of those people who has always loved books and capable of survival if locked in alone in a library for a long weekend?

With a stash of water and food, I’d be in Heaven! Not that all writers would survive without full access to computers or paper to work on!

Have you always had an itch to write the next great novel or do you dream of being wealthy and famous beyond words?

In all honesty, it’s not easy. Those writers like J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, and the like, they’ve had their share of rejections and have had to work hard to get to where they are. All writers do.

Most will never get that kind of attention or notoriety...

Can you type?

That one may seem silly on the surface, but these days all books are submitted via email to agents and publishers. No one will accept a handwritten stack of loose leaf papers.

Do you LOVE to write?

I’ve been told to get a real job many times. That’s never stopped me from writing. Even John Grisham wrote between court cases.

I write between my full time job, raising my kids, and trying to lead a normal life. I write because I have a passion for words, books, for creating stories that no one has ever heard before.

Writing, for some of us, is like a disease that wakes us in the wee hours of the morning. Or distracts us in a board meeting or while on long walks.

We can’t live our lives without a pen in hand or a computer screen beckoning.

Do you have a thick skin?

People can be mean. They criticize and condemn even if they’ve never actually read a word we’ve written. They tell us our dreams are silly and not worth the paper they’re written on.

If you are open to constructive criticism, there are many people out there who will genuinely be able to help you improve your skills.

Listening and learning only help us grow.

Do you have a sense of curiosity in how you see the world around you?

Perhaps another silly question, but it’s how we see the world that makes us writers. We question. We experiment. We have a curiosity about “What if” which is what compels us to create.

Our stories may be based on world events, life events, anything that strikes a chord deep within and makes us wonder what might have been.

Are you addicted to collecting pens, paper, and sticky notes?

Yes, some people prefer paperless, but a lot of writers I know live for the smell of freshly printed books, colorful notebooks, and multi-colour pens which we carry in every pocket and bag we own.

A writer without a pen is like a smoker without a lighter.

One last question for you before I’m off to work on my own book… Are you willing to put in the work?

Writing is indeed work. You need to do research, create a rough draft, edit that rough draft, submit to editors, agents and publishers, do more edits, cry a little, do even more edits.

Then the work begins. No one will market your book for you. You must spend time telling the world what a brilliant person you are and how you’ve written a great story.

You have to organize and do book signings, attend writing events, take workshops to develop your skills, attend more events, do interviews both online and in your community, join writing groups and online groups…

The list never ends. There are so many ways to reach your audience.

The short of it is, you cannot just write a book then sit back and let it take on the world.

The world will never know it exists without a little help from its creator.

Diane Bator

Author of Wild Blue Mysteries; Gilda Wright Mysteries and Glitter Bay Mysteries

Mom of 3 boys and 2 cats

My sinuous path to writing by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

Many people I meet are curious to know how I became a writer, but I’m afraid the answer often disappoints them—or isn’t quite what they expect to hear.

I would love to say I obtained a degree in English literature, journalism, or creative writing (such a degree would come handy on a daily basis), then wrote and published stories. Instead, I followed a different path, a path I never dreamed would lead to writing and publishing.

As a teen, when I was bored during math class, I scribbled short stories, imagined new scripts for my favorite TV shows, or rewrote the ending of books I read, but without any writing expectations. It was pure fun. A hobby. A secret passion. I believed my path forward was lit with numbers, not words. I wanted to become an accountant, a statistician, a mathematician, or an actuary. I obtained a degree in business and finance, and for nearly twenty years, numbers ruled my world with little room for words.

 Then one summer day, I underwent a routine surgery but developed a severe infection following major complications. I spent many months in bed. To save my sanity, my husband gave me a laptop so I could interact with the outside world.

Well...I found a writing site. At first, I was a reader, then I gathered the nerve (or maybe it was the meds) to post the opening scene of a story. Next thing I knew I started getting comments about my scene, so I posted another one. Writing my daily scene gave me purpose and pleasure amid the pain. What had started as an escape became a torch at the end of a long tunnel, a flame that rekindled that secret passion buried deep inside me. In time, I healed and re-entered the world of the living, but I couldn’t ignore or re-bottle that passion I unleashed. In the following six years, I wrote and shared over two dozen stories—fun stories that served as learning tools for POV, floating body parts, show vs tell, character development...

Thanks to the encouragement I received, I started writing a special story, a story about a female scuba diver who investigates a Ford Model T sunk at the bottom of a lake, a story I kept to myself and showed to no one. After I finished it, I submitted it in a contest sponsored by a new publisher. In my wildest dreams I never imagined it would land me my first publishing contract.

Writing is a precious gift I rediscovered under difficult circumstances, and it changed my life for the better. The journey is ongoing as I write almost every day and sometimes way too late at night. So far, I’ve published eight novels, I’m midway through a ninth, and I’m geared up to start a new romance paranormal series later this year.

So, how did I become a writer? Quite literally by accident.

Thanks for joining me. Have a wonderful day!
JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

Books We Love Spotlight - Author, Roseanne Dowell

Roseanne Dowell wears many hats - wife (married 50+ years) mother of six, grandmother of fourteen, great grandmother of three, Avon Representative,  author, and former school secretary,  she writes a variety of genres  from romance to mystery to paranormal and suspense, all with romantic elements and a bit of humor. Her heroes/heroines range from their mid twenties to their seventies. Yes, old people need love, too.

In her spare time, Roseanne enjoys quilting and embroidery, especially combining the two and making jewelry as well as other crafts, Her favorite past-time is spending time with her family, her second favorite thing to do is write. She's currently working on Book 3 in her Family Affair Series.

WHO am I really? by Sheila Claydon

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My publisher has suggested that I and my fellow authors start the year off by introducing ourselves properly on the Books We Love blog. It's a much taller order than it seems. It depends is the only answer I can give about who I am and what I do.

Although I'm always a wife, a mother, a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, a friend, a colleague, and a neighbour, I'm also a writer, a reader, a gardener, a cook, a dog owner, a traveller, a walker, a carer, a Yoga practitioner, and a whole lot of other things besides, and that's before I get on to control freak, micro-organizer and (you might already have guessed this) list-maker! Then there's my working life  - the jobs I had, the things I learned - but I'm not even going there.

I'm no different from anyone else of course. We are all made up of the little bits of  everything that are our day-to-day lives. It's how we form the memories, some bad, some good, that we reminisce about as the years go by. Oh hang on a minute...I'm a writer (it said so in the list) so I am a little bit different after all. Its why I store all those experiences in my sub-conscious until I'm ready to retrieve them and download them onto the pages of my latest manuscript.

I'm not proud of it, but it's how it is. When I travel most of the details of the journey remain lodged in my brain. A new environment is uploaded to my sub-conscious lock, stock and barrel and sits there until I need it.  Time spent with my grandchildren, visits to family, walking the dog, talking with friends, shopping for a neighbour, even visiting someone in hospital...it all goes into the swirling cauldron of memories that I call upon when I'm writing.

Sometimes an experience will trigger an idea for a story and when that happens, it will, if left to its own devices, weave itself around the memories I have stored in my head, rejecting some of them and trying others for size until the outline of a new story emerges with very little conscious effort on my part. It's not until I fire up my lap top that the real effort of joining it all together begins.

In Reluctant Date the trigger was a place I stayed on a holiday. This somehow wove itself into another landscape 3,000 miles away, picking up a hero and heroine on its journey. In Mending Jodie's Heart the idea for the story was prompted by an actual event involving horses and disabled children, which, before I knew it, had turned into the When Paths Meet trilogy. Then, in my latest book, Miss Locatelli, half-forgotten memories of Italy forced themselves back into my consciousness as soon as I realized my heroine had to visit Florence. A magazine article about a jeweller triggered that one.

When I look back at the dozen or so books I've written so far there is a real bonus, however, because every one of them has special memories woven into the story. None of them are about me or my family although, inevitably, some of the characters will display traits I've observed in the people I know, but the story still resonates with me on a personal level. The children in my books often behave in the same way my own children and grandchildren did when they were small, and then there are the animals. Dogs, horses, birds...even the wild ones...all trigger a memory. The grown up characters too. I rarely spend long describing any of them. They are just part of a continuing story of memories that I like to think helps to make my stories real.

So that's who I am. Someone who is made up of little bits of a lot and who never knows which bit she is going to wake up to.  Today it was the micro-managing/list-making persona. Tomorrow it's grandchildren day, so cooking, cuddling and playing games will dominate along with supervising homework and listening closely to whatever they want to tell me.  With any luck I'll wake up to my writing persona the following day and by then I'll have more memories to call upon, so when the book I'm writing at the moment, Remembering Rose, is published at the end of June, I will be able to read it and remember.

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All of Sheila's books can be found on the links below:

Books We Love

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Smashwords

She also has a website and can be found on facebook

How to time-travel without a star ship... by Sheila Claydon

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What do you see? Is this just a derelict building gradually falling apart in a piece of forgotten woodland, or is it history?

Visiting Anglesey in north Wales recently, I came upon this tiny stone building while I was walking my dog.  It was at the bottom of a steep hillside, its roof long gone and its doors and windows shored up by wooden struts. My companion walked on without really noticing it but the dog and I stayed behind and did some exploring. Eventually we found a small notice hidden by an overhanging branch. It said The Old Mill 1325.

1325! That really is history.

I immediately went into a typical writer's research mode and discovered that the mill is situated in what, in the fourteenth century, was the village of Llanmaes. Located on the shore of the eastern entrance to the Menai Strait, it was an important medieval port that was briefly the capital of the kingdom of Gwynedd. 

By the end of the 13th century the village had become such an important trading center that it was renowned for its ale, wine, wool and hides. It also held two annual fairs and maintained a busy herring fishery. I could go on and tell you how it was eventually conquered by the English King Edward I, who moved the villagers to the opposite coast of the island, built a castle and a new town, and took over the port, but this post is not about the history written in books, it's about imagining what life was like in the days when the mill was busy grinding the corn into flour for the local population.

Nowadays the derelict mill is the only relic of the original village and the river is long gone, although I suspect the shallow, leaf-clogged ditch beside it will still have a trickle of water in a long, wet winter. There is absolutely nothing else left to show how it might have looked, however. The surrounding land has been turned into a golf course and the local buildings are mainly holiday apartments. Even the carefully managed woodland is more recent.

It has atmosphere though, and because of this the writer in me can see a young girl of about thirteen years old carefully carrying her father's lunch to the mill. She's barefoot and her long, brown hair is blowing around her face. The miller is hot and sweaty and covered in white dust and she can hear him shouting to her brother to hurry up and finish loading the flour. He grins at his sister as he hoists a heavy sack onto the cart while a stout welsh pony waits patiently between the shafts?

That's the beauty of being a writer. I can travel back nearly seven hundred years and populate the village of Llanmaes with villagers, reshape the countryside to fit my imaginings, and create a history that might have a vestige of truth...and if it doesn't, well who will know. 

One day I will write that story. Until then, those long ago villagers will live as characters in my imagination, long forgotten and yet somehow still alive.

A writer can time-travel whenever they want to; backwards or forwards. I did this in my book Reluctant Date. It is set in a place where I once had such a magical holiday that I never forgot it, and when I eventually wrote about it I populated it with my own cast of characters, reliving a wonderful memory.  To do this I had to time-travel forwards a few years in order to imagine what it might be like now and yet also time-travel backwards so I could remember. That's the magic of writing.

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Sheila's books can be found at:

Books We Love

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Smashwords

She also has a website and can be found on facebook

Statistically I don't exist by Sheila Claydon

I received a letter from the Office for National Statistics. It said I had been selected from the UK's Royal Mail's list of addresses to form part of a sample that represents the entire country. What it really means is that it's a mini census about a specific issue and the information given helps government departments, local authorities and charities make decisions about how they will spend their money.The European Union also uses the results as do schools and universities.

I know it works because a number of years ago a much needed local traffic system was approved as a result of a similar survey. This one, however, was not about transport and roads, it was about employment.

A man wearing a identification card on a cord around his neck duly arrived and, once he'd got his computer to work, started asking the questions. The first ones were easy. Name, age, household, health, da-di-da-di-da. So were the next ones about qualifications, past employment, retirement, tax benefits etc. Things started to get tricky when we started talking about the present though.

It didn't seem like a difficult question. Are you still in any form of paid employment? But it was.

Yes, I'm a self-employed writer.

A fair bit of hemming and hawing and then 'There isn't a writer category on the list."

Try author.

Ah yes there is one for author. I can slot you in there. Do you work full time or part time?

Part time.

Would that be mornings or afternoons, or part of a week?

All of those...sometimes.

Could you be more specific?

No because there's no pattern.  I work flexibly. I might write almost full time for a week and then, because of other commitments, not work at all for two weeks.

By full time do you mean Monday to Friday?

No. It could be Monday to Sunday or, in another week, just the Wednesday.

Do you work in the evenings?

Yes.

How many evenings do you work?

It's impossible to quantify because it depends on what else is going on in my life.

Do you work at night?

If you mean right through the night then no but I sometimes work really late.

Would you say you write every day?

No. As I said it's flexible but I do look at my work related emails every day.

So would you say that's two hours a day or is it more than that?

Far less than that usually but occasionally I have to follow something up immediately and that might take a bit longer.

So can I put two hours a day?

I was feeling sorry for the guy by then so I almost nodded because I really, really wanted him to be able to tick a box. I didn't though because it wouldn't have been true.

So fellow writers (or authors if you prefer) how would you fare if the very nice man from the Office of National Statistics visited you? Would you fit into his nice orderly boxes or are you like me, an 'if and when' writer who has to take her chances when she can?

I'm not sure what the government and all those other worthy bodies are going to make of my answers. I guess they won't even see them, they'll just see a minor blip in the employment statistics that will eventually be published.  In the meantime maybe I should try to work in a more orderly fashion. After all it would be nice to be able to tick one of those boxes.

One of my heroines had to tick boxes. That was Claire in my book Reluctant Date. She was ticking boxes on an Internet Dating site though, and that's a whole other story.

http://amzn.com/B008R39E7C

All my books are available on Amazon at http://amzn.to/1nTIbfS and at http://bookswelove.net/#

Before the Magic Box by Roseanne Dowell

I was nine years old when our magic box arrived. We all gathered around and watched the deliverymen bring it in.  I’m not sure who was more excited, my parents or us kids. Never one to sit still for very long, it was difficult to remain patient while  they lugged it in and hooked up some odd looking things they called rabbit ears, and set them on top of the box.
“Everyone ready?" The men turned a knob and the little box lit up. Wavy lines flashed across the screen. They moved the rabbit ears this way and that way and suddenly a person appeared. They turned another knob and sound came out, just like in the movie theater only smaller. Way smaller.  "Enjoy," the men said and left.

 

My brothers, sisters, and I sat on the floor in front of it and watched as the voices we’d heard on the radio now had faces. It was the greatest thing since applesauce.  We all sat there mesmerized while the characters moved across the nine inch square.

Before the magic box, we always gathered in front of the radio and listened to stories played out by actors.  Life before the magic box was more imaginative. On cold winter evenings, we listened to our favorite radio programs, The Lone Ranger, Fibber McGee and Molly, and Jack Benny.

Our summer days, we spent our time bike riding, playing hopscotch, tag, kick the can, and oh yes, at twilight hide and seek and catching lightening bugs. We went on picnics in the park almost every night, weather permitting. Back then we didn't own a grill, let alone a gas grill. No one we knew did. Families went to parks to cook out. When my dad came home from work, Mom already had the picnic basket packed. While he washed up, we kids loaded the car and before you knew it, we were on our way to the park.

While Mom and Dad unloaded the cooler and picnic basket, we kids gathered twigs for kindling and larger dead branches for firewood. No, we didn't use charcoal back then either. My dad crumpled up newspaper and layered twigs on top for kindling. Once it caught, he added the larger firewood and we waited until it burned down and was glowing just right to cook.

Occasionally my aunt, uncle, and cousins joined us. Then a baseball game ensued. With eleven kids and four adults, it was quite a game. I can still hear us on that dusty field screaming if we hit the ball, or cheering someone on to run home, and yelling at someone in the outfield to catch the ball.              

                       

Sometimes we took a walk with my brothers up a long hill, to a place we called the witches house. The house is still vivid in my mind, covered in thickets of ivy, the yard overgrown with weeds and trees. It was probably abandoned, but as kids that thought never entered our minds. Besides, my brothers told us it was the witches house and our brothers never lied. 
Did they? 
We certainly didn't think so back then.

 We walked up the hill closer and closer to the house until someone’s imagination spooked us.
“Look there she is!” someone yelled. We raced down that hill, like the devil himself chased us.

It was a simpler time of life filled with memories of family togetherness. We managed to live without all the new electronics. I’m sure modern day children with their wide screen televisions, surround sound, cable or satellite dish, VCRs, DVDs, computers and nintendos can’t imagine life without them.

What have they missed I wonder? Where are their imaginations? Can they even imagine television with only three channels and signed off at midnight. Can they comprehend life without MTV, twenty-four hour programming and hundreds of channels. Has progress squashed the minds of our young people?

Probably not, now they have to figure out how to combat the evil doer on their x -box.  They are a different breed of children. Their lives, unlike ours, are involved in technical things.

I think back to memories of days before the magic box came along like a thief in the night and stole family life, and progress created individuals instead of unity.  I think back to a time when we gathered on the floor in front of the radio and played games. While we listened to our favorite programs, our imaginations played out the scenes in our minds. I remember many evenings spent in front of that radio listening to the Cleveland Indians in the 1954 World Series.

Ah, yes, I enjoy the memories of a simpler time. Before the magic box, when fun, love, and imagination abounded.

Strange, realistic visions and dreams invade Rebecca Brennan’s mind. When she experiences someone’s pain, she’s determined to find out who shares her mind. Her search leads to a small town filled with 

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Victorian homes and interesting people and puts her life in danger.

To learn more about Roseanne's and all of her Books We Love books visit her Books We Love page

http://bookswelove.net/authors/dowell-roseanne/

Things My Mother Never Taught Me by Roseanne Dowell

Dedicated to my mother who passed away Nov. 22, 1996  

My mother never taught me about the thrill of a first kiss or the hurt of that first breakup. She never told me about the love between a man and a woman and the joy of standing at the altar vowing before God, family and friends to love him forever.

My mother never taught me about the emotions of holding my newborn child in my arms for the first time, or the feeling of responsibility for their lives. She never told me about the overwhelming sense of awe I'd feel knowing that this child came from within me. That I created the life, nourished it for nine long months, and now had to nourish and care for it in the real world. She never taught me I'd feel this amazing sense of awe with each child.

My mother never taught me the feeling of swelled pride at watching my children take their first steps or hearing her first words.

She never taught me about the combination of pain and pride I would feel as I watched my children waltz off to school looking so grown up and yet so young. So independent. She never told me how I’d feel when they came home and said “But Miss so and so said it was better to do it this way.” and the realization that I was no longer the sole influence in their life.

My mother never taught me about the fear of having a child in the hospital undergoing tests by a neurologist after a normal eye exam discovered a problem or sitting in an emergency room while your child undergoes an emergency appendectomy. She never told me how difficult it would be to watch your child suffer through typical childhood illnesses, stitches or broken bones.

She never taught me about the fear of letting your child go down the street to play or crossing the street for the first time by themselves.

My mother never taught me about dealing with my daughter’s first crush and heartbreak and lost love. She never told me how hard it would be to watch my children struggle to get good grades or make the team or try to fit in.

She never taught me about the pride of watching my child march down the auditorium to receive their diploma or hearing about their first job. My mother never told me of the deep fear I’d experience when they learned to drive or getting that phone call that told you they had an accident.

My mother never taught me of the excitement of their engagement and the trials of planning a wedding. She never told me of the happiness and pride I’d feel watching them walk down the aisle to stand beside the one they would vow to spend their life with or the worry that this child was now totally independent of you.

She never taught me of the sense of wonder I’d feel holding my newborn grandchildren for the first time.

She never explained that these feelings of worry and concern never go away when my children grew up. My mother didn't tell me the worries would only strengthen as my children married and had children of their own. That I’d have more to love and worry about.

She never told me was how it feels to be a mother.  She never told me about the joy, pain, and overwhelming awe of being a mother and grandmother. I now know why my mother never taught me these things.  Because these thing have to be experienced to understand the wonderful sense of being a mother.  

But the biggest thing my mother never taught me was how I’d feel when she was no longer here to talk with, to share my feelings with after she passed from this world. She never taught me how to deal with the sense of loss at losing a loved one or the pain deep within that I would carry through the rest of my days. She never told me how much I’d miss her.

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Forced to stay in a nursing home while undergoing therapy, seventy-two year old, Mike Powell refuses to get out of bed, won't cooperate with the nurses, and won’t take his medicine. At least not until he meets Elsa. The tiny, spunky little Elsa sparks new life into him. 

Seventy year old, Elsa -left in the home while her son takes a family vacation - joins forces with Mike, setting the home on its heels, and later discovers deception and fraud. Can they find happiness together?