You know what I like best about anticipation? It means I’m looking ahead.

Anticipation, in itself, is an act of faith.

If you’ve been following this site for a while, you know that I have blogged weekly for years. And that I lost both parents, who lived in another state, between mid-December and late April. They died so close together that I’m dealing with two estates instead of one as executor. As great as the loss is, the paperwork is a much greater burden.

A few weeks ago, I scattered their ashes together—as they lived for sixty-five years—in a thicket of wild roses in the meadow behind our house. It was the perfect day: no wind, pending rain. The act was a step forward, although I haven’t felt as if I were moving forward for almost a year.

God still has much in store for me.

I sent the fourth manuscript to my agent last week. It has survived two tough editors, a beta reader whose brain catches lint, and a twenty-something scientist (weird.) A number of acquisitions editors—general and Christian market—are reviewing it because of sustained interest in the previous manuscript.

And I just received the latest book from my favorite author. His summer release is an event in this house, in a valley where summer is an event. I’m going to sit on my office deck in the evenings and appreciate his talent—which is immense. I’ll have to ration the book, a few chapters at a time, or I’ll pull an all-nighter (I’m a wee bit too old for those) and read it in one sweep. (Guilty as charged.)

I hope your summer is wonderful and that the dog days ahead are good to you. I’ll blog once in August, resuming weekly postings in September. The monthly newsletters will start then too. Meanwhile I’m taking care of things my parents entrusted to me, which means I’m taking care of my parents.

And I’m tending to myself—writing, fishing, serving, gardening, attending concerts—as I adjust to life without them. I’m looking forward to fall, invigorated about life and the two books you haven’t seen.

Thank you for being here.

Everything is green. Our temps are in the eighties. There’s not a cloud in our bluebird sky as I type. The female deer have disappeared, preparing to have fawns that will dot my garden around July 4. (The little dude in the photo above is last year’s baby.) I’ve coated everything in DeerOff and am ready to launch a second offensive!

I’m still dealing with estate matters (which trigger emotions and memories best left behind) after the death of my mom a week before Christmas and dad in late April. But warm days and sweet, cool evening breezes ease every responsibility, making life a little less oppressive. I have a grip on eternity, but getting there was a battle.

The third manuscript is complete and edited; the fourth is in its last edit cycle. According to editors, daughter, and beta reader—tough critics, all—the third and fourth are the best yet: deeper character development, more accessible, clearly driven, engaging from the first page. And in the fall, when I’m fully back in the saddle after giving myself a beautiful summer to recuperate, I’ll begin to post teasers here.

It’s a bittersweet time—marching onward while trying not to trip over the past. And it’s Fathers Day. I refused to go to church to hear a sermon on King David—I don’t care what biblical scholars say, I’m over David and think he’s a complete loser.

Today I’ll garden. Work on my bike. (Guess which one is mine in the photo on the left.) Clean the golf clubs (Ping Eyes) I gave Dad thirty years ago and that returned to me when he couldn’t golf any more. I’ll breath hyssop. Hear the orioles’ (we have a nesting pair this year!) trilling song. Watch for the mountain lion in these parts.

And I’ll think of summer and Mom and Dad. And I’ll count my blessings—including you!

Keep calm and summer on!

I’ve been missing from this blog for a month. The newsletters fell by the wayside in December. I had returned to my home state in November to help my dying mother, after multiple trips in October and September.

Life has been mired in the “domino effect.” Her death moved Dad to an assisted-living facility. Then his health, which hasn’t been good in a decade and a half, went south. Shortly before death, his mind deteriorated.

Like all of life, highs and lows have peppered this last season.

The good news is I spent a lot of time with both parents. We enjoyed each other as much as when I was young. The better news is that I’ve always had an extraordinary relationship with them. I “walked through the valley of the shadow of death” fearing no evil and free of guilt and regrets. I reminded myself of this goal when I was exhausted from supporting an elderly body as it tried to walk. When I stood next to Mom’s hospital bed all night. When Dad’s terror and confusion made him angry.

The bad news is that I’ve reached the end of eldercare. Those sixty-plus-phone-call days, about issues I could not change, are over. I won’t need to deal with the Social Security Administration or MediCare or supplemental insurance until my time comes. TSA agents in two states will miss me. Nurses and doctors at the hospital near my parents’ house won’t get to call me by name any more, asking why I’m back.

I’ll start the blog and newsletters again sometime this summer. I had no time to grieve Mother while caring for Dad. I’ve hidden in writing—the next draft goes to edit in three weeks—because it’s the only thing, besides fly fishing, that absorbs my mind.

I hope you are having a great spring and that your summer looks epic. I’m going to grieve and rest and fly fish and write and go to concerts and heal. See you soon.

Last week was marlin week. Any time I catch a wonderful sport fish like a marlin, the event merits an interruption in my blog schedule. This week, we’re back to the creation of my new desk. As you can see, it’s a messy process.

The woodworker, Scott, called to say that he had finished the joinery. He has all the legs ready, and he’s shaving them from square to round before shaping them into their final profile. I was his excuse to buy a lathe (yes, Ranchman is jealous), and he demonstrated it today. It reminded me of the edit process, in which I start with something I think is the basis for a good manuscript and then whittle madly to make the story lean and mean.

As I watched Scott, I recognized a fine touch. He braced his body to ensure that he didn’t take off too much, or gouge into what would become the leg on a contemporary Biedermeier piece. If you look closely at the photo to the right, you see the metal slide in which his left forefinger moves to ensure that he applies even pressure as he glides his tool down the wood. It’s almost as if he’s dancing carefully, the machinery his partner. And in a way, since human and machine are creating this desk, they are partners in the project.

The boards for the skirt are set aside on a trolley, as are the boards for the top. The finished piece is kind of large, so he’ll assemble it after the parts are ready. I know he’s working this weekend, and I’ll resist the urge to stop by the shop to spy. (NOT!)

He’s inserted blanks in the top of each leg, where pieces of the writing surface will fit. The blanks will stay in place until the legs are perfect. If he tries to put the legs on the lathe without the blanks, the slots in the wood might burr, and he’d be starting all over again.

It’s exciting to watch this project unfold, just as it’s exciting to be drafting the next manuscript. I’m more than 10 percent finished, and if I can maintain this meticulous pace, I’ll have a complete draft in May. Most of this manuscript will be written at my new desk, the first NEW desk and commissioned piece of furniture I’ve ever owned.

I’m up to the challenge!

(Disclaimer: I thought this was the fish that would best me.)

What is it about a marlin? Hemingway fixated in The Old Man and the Sea. Anglers regard the species as part of a Holy Grail that includes the chinook; a tarpon; any sea-run brown off the Tierra del Fuego; and a tail-walking steelhead (“the fish of a thousand casts)” caught spey casting while wading the Deschutes.
Striped, black, white, or blue, a marlin is angling braggin’ rights. In my dreams.
In six months, I’ve lost one parent and settled the second in assisted living a thousand miles away. I’ve sold a house, executed an estate, distributed belongings, and seldom been home more than two weeks in a row.
This trip, scheduled a year ago, was supposed to be a break from a frigid winter on my mountaintop. Instead, it was a communications marathon with doctors, nurses, assisted-living employees, lawyers, and adult children.
When we boarded the boat for deep-sea fishing, I wasn’t at my best. Saltwater fish get large (duh). I haven’t been working out because I’m either doing eldercare or recuperating from eldercare. And although I’ve landed a sixty-pound salmon in a river and several thirty-plus pound salmon in the international shipping lanes between the Kenai and Queen Charlotte Islands, I have great respect for ocean currents. I also have issues with . . . seasickness.

It was shoulder season for large species, so I encouraged Mr. Wonderful to take the first strike. He brought a vibrant green dorado, which matched my face, to the boat. I watched from the upper deck, content to escape diesel fumes, as he wrestled his catch.

The captain sent me to the chair. Moments later, it hit. Hard. The line buzzed as the fish headed for Ireland. Three rods were brought in while the fourth was jammed into the holder. I gripped, braced my feet against the cooler, and reeled for all I was worth. Which wasn’t much.

I was dreadfully seasick, facing backward, breathing fumes, rocking sideways. The captain yelled, “Marlin!” and I glanced as it leapt. I was in trouble.

This white marlin didn’t like me. I wasn’t fond of it. I hoped I didn’t throw up all over the rig and thought I might have to try to hand the rod to my husband: ANATHEMA! The fish cleared the water in an arc, and I reeled while wondering if this was going to end well. My triceps and biceps reminded me of the dusty free weights on the office floor, but I kept steady pressure on the lunatic acrobat with fins. Stupid fish.

I kept reeling. The marlin jumped, ran, and misbehaved. The captain adjusted the position of the boat. My husband muttered about lucky anglers and asked for something that would cut the thick monofilament line uniting me with my fish.

For twenty minutes, I forced myself to focus only on the fish and forget the rest of my world. After one last leap near the boat, we tugged the marlin over the side, snapped photographs, estimated nearly seven feet (including bill) and sixty pounds, and threw it back into the Atlantic.

I stumbled up the stairs, then chummed the boat from stem to stern, fore and aft, side to side, and over the river and through the woods. Although not as epic as Hemingway’s Santiago, the marlin escaped to be caught another day as a fitting end to the battle between this old woman and the sea.

“My big fish must be somewhere.”

Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea