It's been ages since I've written here (or anywhere for that matter) and strangely, the reason for that is that I wrote a book. Once you've written a book, it seems that all writing stops while you figure out how in the heck to get folks to read that book. To that end, I've been making lists and calling friends and generally asking a lot of questions and forcing myself to emerge from the cozy, little hermit house where I feel most comfortable.
Yes, it's scary.
But it's worth it.
I love my book. I worked my head off to get my book to look and feel like a book. A lot of kind, smart, generous people helped in this process and I owe it to them and to me and to my book to get it out there.
To that end, I ask that if you're visiting this page, why not FOLLOW it?
And if you already follow it, encourage your pals to follow it too.
You can click on this link to get a gander at the fancy book cover and read some of the nice things people have already said about "Leaving Tinkertown."
Thank you. I say this a lot. And I will continue to say it. Thank you.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Sunday, December 9, 2012
So Long, Big Dog
I remember the day my brother brought the little dog home.
"Here," he said, "Look what we got."
He lowered a squirming, velvety black puppy into my sister-in-law's arms.
"What did you do?" she asked. But she was smiling.
It is hard not to smile in the face of my brother's delight. He is, like our father was, prone to extreme exuberance. As I am.
"It's always a surprise being married to a Ward," my sister-in-law said once.
"You can say that again," agreed my husband.
We are exuberant and excitable. Our emotions run high and hot and wet. I say this for my own self, because I don't like to speak for my brother: I sometimes don't think things all the way through. I love a good surprise. I love to get a reaction, but on occasion I dismiss the long term effects of this need.
My father sometimes traded work for old wagon wheels or a batch of antique ice tongs. He'd drive up to our house with a pile of deer antlers tied to the roof of his truck and step out grinning.
"Check that," he'd say.
My mother might have wondered where the grocery money was going to come from, but she couldn't deny the simple fact of his pleasure.
My brother's little black puppy grew into a big, black lab. Edgar, in true Ward fashion, found the wonder in his world. He chased flashlight "fairies" and soap bubbles and wanted little more than a good belly rub and fine friends.
He will be missed, this big dog. But he is in good company.
"Here," he said, "Look what we got."
He lowered a squirming, velvety black puppy into my sister-in-law's arms.
"What did you do?" she asked. But she was smiling.
It is hard not to smile in the face of my brother's delight. He is, like our father was, prone to extreme exuberance. As I am.
"It's always a surprise being married to a Ward," my sister-in-law said once.
"You can say that again," agreed my husband.
We are exuberant and excitable. Our emotions run high and hot and wet. I say this for my own self, because I don't like to speak for my brother: I sometimes don't think things all the way through. I love a good surprise. I love to get a reaction, but on occasion I dismiss the long term effects of this need.
My father sometimes traded work for old wagon wheels or a batch of antique ice tongs. He'd drive up to our house with a pile of deer antlers tied to the roof of his truck and step out grinning.
"Check that," he'd say.
My mother might have wondered where the grocery money was going to come from, but she couldn't deny the simple fact of his pleasure.
My brother's little black puppy grew into a big, black lab. Edgar, in true Ward fashion, found the wonder in his world. He chased flashlight "fairies" and soap bubbles and wanted little more than a good belly rub and fine friends.
He will be missed, this big dog. But he is in good company.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Help From the Afterlife
My mom wrote today to say she'd seen a coyote drinking from her pond.
"The trickster," she called him and found some meaning in his presence. To her, he is my father -- gone but still returning on this day to say a little hello. Dad had a kind of sly smile, a wave that said he was coming and going at the same time, so maybe a coyote is the right kind of body for him to wear on his return. At least it is for my mother. I think she saw a coyote on this day last year and for at least a handful of the other years between now and when my dad was still on this earth. Over a decade in New Mexico, coyotes are always possible. On any day.
My stepmother often sees a hawk. These big birds circle over her on this day, though my father was afraid of birds. He might choose to return in this guise, might want to take weightless flight for a spin. A hawk is what my stepmother sees.
Once we found a beer bottle where there shouldn't have been a beer bottle. More than once, we heard circus music like a distant parade. On this day in the last ten years, we have lifted glasses in toasts and eaten green chile cheeseburgers. We have driven to the desert. We do these things to find him, to miss him, to be near what he liked.
Today I saw a butterfly, a hummingbird, I saw the curve in my own thumb when I rested my hand on the steering wheel. I saw the way the hair grows at the base of my son's neck, the way my daughter can't help but pick up a bottle cap, a rock, a cardboard box.
Our dryer rattles with stones fallen from pockets. These stones are weighted with memory for me, with possibility for my children.
Today our family is out in the world, looking up at blue skies and hawks, greeting coyotes with a smile. We are eating and drinking and breathing with gratitude for our shared time.
"Give it a little juice," he used to say. "That's the stuff."
And we are.
The help from the afterlife is the way we remember and connect and continue to travel through this world.
The help from the afterlife is the nudge that urges us to look up and out and within. We try new things and try to be a little more and a little less like ourselves. Coyote, hawk, butterfly, hummingbird, blue sky, beer drinker -- all of us carrying on.
"The trickster," she called him and found some meaning in his presence. To her, he is my father -- gone but still returning on this day to say a little hello. Dad had a kind of sly smile, a wave that said he was coming and going at the same time, so maybe a coyote is the right kind of body for him to wear on his return. At least it is for my mother. I think she saw a coyote on this day last year and for at least a handful of the other years between now and when my dad was still on this earth. Over a decade in New Mexico, coyotes are always possible. On any day.
My stepmother often sees a hawk. These big birds circle over her on this day, though my father was afraid of birds. He might choose to return in this guise, might want to take weightless flight for a spin. A hawk is what my stepmother sees.
Once we found a beer bottle where there shouldn't have been a beer bottle. More than once, we heard circus music like a distant parade. On this day in the last ten years, we have lifted glasses in toasts and eaten green chile cheeseburgers. We have driven to the desert. We do these things to find him, to miss him, to be near what he liked.
Today I saw a butterfly, a hummingbird, I saw the curve in my own thumb when I rested my hand on the steering wheel. I saw the way the hair grows at the base of my son's neck, the way my daughter can't help but pick up a bottle cap, a rock, a cardboard box.
Our dryer rattles with stones fallen from pockets. These stones are weighted with memory for me, with possibility for my children.
Today our family is out in the world, looking up at blue skies and hawks, greeting coyotes with a smile. We are eating and drinking and breathing with gratitude for our shared time.
"Give it a little juice," he used to say. "That's the stuff."
And we are.
The help from the afterlife is the way we remember and connect and continue to travel through this world.
The help from the afterlife is the nudge that urges us to look up and out and within. We try new things and try to be a little more and a little less like ourselves. Coyote, hawk, butterfly, hummingbird, blue sky, beer drinker -- all of us carrying on.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Radar Ward, a Chihuahua whippet mix of unknown origin passed away on September 15, 2011. Born in 1996 in the wilds of Albuquerque’s North Valley, he spent his formative years wandering solo until a potent combination of fate, luck and horse sense brought him to the Ward family.
The small white dog, dubbed “Radar” in tribute to his outsize ears became the immediate friend and muse to artist Ross Ward. The inseparable buddies spent many happy hours sun bathing, catnapping and perfecting the mid-air tennis ball catch. Proclaimed “best dog in the world,” Radar became the subject of a series of late career paintings by the artist where he was depicted as a bright spirit of hope and once as The Pope, himself.
Radar’s dedication to the creative genius only deepened as Ward battled Alzheimer’s disease. Whether sharing a table, a bed or a particularly warm patch of sun, Radar rarely left Ross’ side and seemed to share a freeflowing path of communication with the artist long after words had been lost.
With a bouncing step and a jingling collar, Radar brought great joy and comfort to Ward and the many other residents of the Manor Care Alzheimer’s wing.
After Ward’s death in 2002, Radar continued to live with Carla Ward in Sandia Park, as Mayor of Tinkertown Museum. After a full season of meeting and greeting visitors from all over the country, Radar spent winters relaxing in Phoenix, Arizona. Vacationing in the shadow of Camelback Mountain, Radar developed a taste for organic chicken and long hikes in the desert.
During his tenure as Tinkertown Mayor, Radar was the inspiration and star of the picture book "Emily Finds a Dog," written by Carla Ward and illustrated by Megan Ward.
Radar is survived by feline friends Franny and Zooey, devoted humans Carla Ward and Eric Rasmussen and legions of loving fans. This best dog will be greatly missed.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Happy father's day. Found myself telling lots of stories today. Wondering if my son was old enough to whittle. What my dad used to call "parking lot pine" is good whittling wood and the name made my son say, "what the ( mouthed hell) is that?" He giggled hysterically over the silent swear word and my non-reaction to it. I'm hard to shock and part of that is thanks to my Dad and that makes me a good Mom and for that (and a million other reasons) I am grateful to my Pop. I miss him still.
My own husband, the father we celebrated today, is a good man in more than name. He deserves a day all to himself. All parents do. More than one.
My own husband, the father we celebrated today, is a good man in more than name. He deserves a day all to himself. All parents do. More than one.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Happy birthday, Dad.
I spent today doing mostly things I love. I wrote some and walked in the bright spring sun. I tickled the kids and made up silly songs. My daughter and I had a sword fight with cooking tongs and socks and my son laughed the high cackly laugh that lights me up like a string of Christmas lights.
It was a great day.
I spent today doing mostly things I love. I wrote some and walked in the bright spring sun. I tickled the kids and made up silly songs. My daughter and I had a sword fight with cooking tongs and socks and my son laughed the high cackly laugh that lights me up like a string of Christmas lights.
It was a great day.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
It's as easy as riding a bike. But is it? I've just spent forty minutes trying to remember how to inflate the tires on my bike. Granted, I haven't ridden the darn thing in a year and it's got those tricky little Presta valves, but I'm still a little abashed by my need to watch a tutoring session on tire inflation on YouTube. (Thank you, cute bike guy, for all the info.) Inflating the tires on my bicycle is not the only thing that I've forgotten. I forget regularly how to pay my bills (some of them are paid online through the bank, others come out at intervals through auto withdraw and some I actually have to sit down and write a check.) I've written a list of how and when all these things happen, but then I forget to look at it. I forget the passwords to my various online accounts (why in the world do I need a security question to buy a top from J. Crew?) I forget what book I'm reading and then when I remember the title, I forget where I am. In all the catching up, think I probably read each paragraph five times. And then, when the book ends, I promptly forget all about it.
Am I overloaded? Under brained? Sometimes I worry about Alzheimer's. But mostly I figure that there's a lot going on. With over forty years of stuff crammed into my cranial file drawers, things are getting a little crowded, a little dusty.
Besides, I can remember how to make a souffle, how to saddle a horse, how to make paper dolls for my daughter. For everything else, there's a recipe book or a cute guy on YouTube.
Am I overloaded? Under brained? Sometimes I worry about Alzheimer's. But mostly I figure that there's a lot going on. With over forty years of stuff crammed into my cranial file drawers, things are getting a little crowded, a little dusty.
Besides, I can remember how to make a souffle, how to saddle a horse, how to make paper dolls for my daughter. For everything else, there's a recipe book or a cute guy on YouTube.
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