Other Side of the Fence ~ by Amanda M. Thrasher

"Love and appreciate your parents. We are often so busy growing up, we forget they are also growing old." - WisdomLifeQuotes

Like millions of people, I find myself in a position I was dreading,

making decisions about my father's health I wish he could make for himself. I can't help but look at this incredible man who I've often thought as invincible and wonder how on earth did we get here?

My dad used to be a British Royal Marine and an Engineer. He was married to my mom for fifty years, and would have been married to her for life had she not passed. He's a fantastic dad, an amazing granddad, and an outstanding great-granddad. Until a year ago, he worked out daily, lived by himself for fifteen years, cooked for himself, cleaned his own house, grocery shopped, and even tended his yard. He's eighty-five!

His health had never been an issue; the man has never been sick a day in his life. I think, until recently, he could run circles around all of us. However, my husband and I thankfully had discussed the future and what it would look like if dad ever didn't want to live by himself anymore. It's a good job that we'd discussed it amongst ourselves because it wasn't long after that we received the phone call that brought my dad into our home. It was short, to the point, but I know my dad had put a lot of thought into his decision. Once he had made his decision, there was no turning back.

"Amanda, I've been thinking."

"Oh, yeah. What about?"

"I don't think I want to live by myself anymore."

Pause.

"Well, that's OK. I don't blame you. It must get lonely at times."

"It does."

"Do you have any idea where you might like to live?"

"Well, if it's OK with you and Mike, and I'd like to move in with you."

And that was that; dad was living with us.

It was an adjustment for my two daughters, my husband, and my

self at first, having an extra person in the house, but I quickly realized the move was likely prompted by things my dad must have recognized about himself that were concerning him at home. For example, he would wash his hands and leave the water running, or grab something out of the fridge and leave the refrigerator door open. On occasion, he left the stove stop turned on after he'd cooked himself some breakfast. I found myself dashing around behind him to turn things off without necessarily alerting him to it, and then wondering if I should have brought these things to his attention or not. Not knowing what the right thing to do was; I didn't want to embarrass him, and yet I want him to be safe.

Working from home allows me to keep an eye on my dad, and I mean that in the kindest way, and it didn't take long before we all fell into our new-normal routines. Every morning dad shuffles into my office and tops of my coffee with a fresh steaming cup. I can't help but smile as his shaking hands pour the coffee, and though I've usually had more than I need, I'll drink another cup anyway — his beautiful way of nurturing me and taking care of me as I work.

Sticking to a schedule is part of his life, and moving into our home

didn't change that. Up at the crack of dawn, and even at his age, dad manages to squeeze in a workout. He'll often cook himself a couple of eggs, shower, and when lunchtime rolls around, he always asks if I'd like to eat whatever he's preparing for himself. His greatest joy is to sit out back while I work, soak in the sun, and breathe in the fresh air as the dogs all play around him. I have three fur-babies, and he brought his dog with him, so between the four dogs, the chasing and playing around him are nonstop, which makes for great entertainment for dog-lovers.

I must admit I wasn't sure how I would feel about having my dad present in my home twenty-four-seven, and love had nothing to do with it. Every writer has a process, and I am no different; my method includes writing in silence, and my dad is never quiet. His hearing failing him doesn't help, and the constant in and out with the dogs is another factor. Somehow we make it work; he doesn't get offended if I lock myself away in my office, and I don't get offended if he goes to his room to watch his shows. Over time we figured everything out until that is everything went haywire.

My dad took ill, was hospitalized for a while, and he went downhill fast. Too weak to stand, he needed physical therapy before he could come home. That changed things for everyone, especially my dad. Literally, in a blink of an eye, we went from keeping a loving-watchful eye on him as living companions to that of his caregivers as we assisted with the hospital to prepare him for rehabilitation so he could come home. He was a completely different person leaving the hospital than who was admitted. Lying in a bed for nearly two weeks, with short walks to his door, had weakened him in a way that we found hard to believe. He didn't even look like the same person. Compounded by a fall, two broken ribs, and two broken vertebrates, he couldn't even lift himself out of a chair to stand to his feet. Suddenly unable to walk unassisted, he was escorted everywhere for fear of another fall. He became agitated, rightfully so, and refused to eat due to the pain caused by his fractured ribs. As I watched him fade away before me, dropping pounds he didn't have on reserve to lose, his refusal to eat caused a battle of wills between us.

I have no training in nursing or caring for the elderly. I'm my dad's daughter, and I love him, but I have no idea if I was helping or hindering at this point. Dad seemed to understand he was going to a nursing home for physical therapy rehabilitation, and once he was strong enough, he was coming home. But he also needed to understand that he had to do his part, which included eating, walking despite the pain, and mentally wanting to get better.

"You have to eat to gain your strength back."

I felt as if I was continually pleading with him.

"I'm not hungry."

"It doesn't matter. You need to eat."

"I don't like it."

"What would you like?"

"Nothing."

"You have to eat something, anything, but you do have to eat something."

"I'm not eating it."

"Do you want to come home?"

"Yes!"

"You can't come home if you're not strong enough; you can't get strong if you don't eat."

I had been told that taking care of an older person was like having another child in the house, but surely that applied to everyone else's parent except for mine, right? Now I found that rang true. My dad, whom I adore, seemed childlike and defiant at times.

"You're not my mom," he snapped, as I insisted he try to eat some of his food after he'd refused his last several meals. I had to laugh. It's one thing to be told you're acting like your mother; it's quite another to have someone tell you your acting like your grandmother.

"You're losing too much weight, dad," I explained. "If you don't want to eat, will you drink this shake?" I held up a meal replacement, vanilla Ensure.

His steel-blue eyes looked at me as if he'd never seen me before, it was just for a split second, and then thankfully it passed. Against his will, he drank the shake.

I feel blessed that my children, and my grandchildren, have grown

up with my dad in their lives. My goal now is to have home sooner than later where he belongs, and I am confident that despite my father feeling helpless and frustrated, he will be able to come home quickly. Being on this side of the fence, as a caregiver to a parent, I am reminded how lucky I am to have this extra time with a man I admire so much. I try not to think about what will happen the day he will no longer be in our home, how empty our lives will be. But for now, I want to savor every second that I possibly can with him. I want to listen to every story that I've heard a million times; only this time, I will not get up and throw in a load of laundry, make a bed, or write a chapter. I'll wait until he says, "I think I'll take a nap now, Amanda. Is that OK?"
                                        Copyright © 2020 Amanda M. Thrasher
 
Amanda M. Thrasher was born in England, moved to Texas and

Amanda M. Thrasher

resides there still. She’s the award-winning author of YA, General Fiction, MG, Early Reader Chapter, and Picture books. Amanda is a multiple Gold Recipient of The Mom’s Choice Awards® (MCA), earning the award in multiple categories including YA, General Fiction, and Early Reader Chapter Books. She is a two-time Gold Medal winner of the Readers’ Favorite International Book awards, a New Apple Literary Award winner, and an NTBF award winner. Amanda continues to write, speak, and conducts workshops for all ages.

Amanda was contracted to write a graphic novel for the Driving on the Right Side of the Road Program. The publication is part of the Driving on the Right Side of the Road (DRSR) program, developed by the Law-Related Education Department of the State Bar of Texas Law Focused Education, Inc., and the Texas Municipal Courts Education Center with funding from the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals and the Texas Department of Transportation. The purpose of the program is to offer a preventive educational program to encourage responsible decision-making when it comes to obeying traffic laws and to following safe practices.

The graphic novel titled What If … A Story of Shattered Lives was adapted into a reader’s theater for as few as five speakers or as many as twenty-six and remains part of the DRSR program.

CAPTAIN FIN was based on a screenplay by Kevin James O’Neill.

Amanda was contracted to adapt the screenplay into a novel for Kevin. Kevin is a director, actor, and producer. CAPTAIN FIN, the novel, won a Readers’ Favorite International Gold Book Award and was the Gold Recipient of The Mom’s Choice Awards®.

As the Chief Executive Officer at Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, in addition to her regular duties, she assists authors with their work and shares her writing and publishing experience with others through school visits, trade conferences, and writing workshops.

You can connect with Amanda at the links below. All photos are the property of Amanda M. Thrasher and may not be reproduced.

WEBSITE (personal)

WEBSITE (business)

AMAZON

Who's Your Daddy's Daddy's Daddy? ~ Lexa Fisher

Photo by Kiwihug on Unsplash

Genealogy began to interest me when I undertook to write stories, the first one being a family history mystery, as I call it. I can't pinpoint the reasons for my interest. Is it the thrill of research as I dig through census records and uncover family clues? Is it studying the family tree in a bible passed down for generations, wondering what those people behind the names were like? 

One thing I know for sure is that I'm keen to learn where my family came from and what their lives were like. Despite this interest, I was reluctant to ask personal questions about my ancestors, aware of uncomfortable postures and hesitancy in the answers I received. As a child I was too young to understand the nuances in feelings that shaped those answers. Memories of the past might have been painful to repeat, long buried for the angst they carried. 

I also understand that what someone does say is from their point of view, with their lapses in memory and biases as to what is important to them. Even so, this gives me great insight into who I am listening to. As a writer, it helps me develop characters who have depth.

One of my favorite weekend activities is finding estate sales, especially ones where there are traces of history throughout the house. My greatest find is a suede-covered high school memory book, My Golden School Days, from 1916. The young woman's past is helping me create a story for the family history mystery that I'm currently writing.

Photo by Paul Wong on Unsplash

To learn more about my own heritage, last year I opted for DNA testing, eager to find out where my maternal lineage had originated. I'd long been told that I had a Cherokee chief in the family tree on my mother's side. Imagine the disappointment and questions that arose when I found I was entirely European! My Cherokee ancestry drifted away like a smoke signal on a blustery day.

Photo by Andreea Popa on Unsplash

Continuing my search, I delved into census records at ancestry sites and discovered wonderful information about my paternal grandfather's family. Answers led to more questions and piqued my interest further. How to explain my grandfather's sister who was twenty years older than he was? Surely this had to be a second marriage. I remember this woman, my great-aunt Dora. We share a medical condition that makes me long to know her now. But the only clues I've found are through census records and her tombstone.

After the DNA testing, I chose to be contacted by anyone whose DNA indicated a relationship. One day I received email from a woman claiming to be a cousin who wanted to meet my mother--her mother's sister.

What? My mother had never mentioned a sister, so I hesitated to provide any contact information until I'd confirmed this. To my complete and great surprise, I learned that my mother has five half-sisters! Never in sixty years had this come up. 

I'm now on the trail of my mother's ancestors. These real life discoveries are just the stories I love to read and write. Bits of my own ancestors' lives will add dimension to my stories. And like a Cherokee scout, I may one day find charred stones from a smoke signal fire.

Christmas Past by Lori Roberts

photo: Pinterest

The older I get, the more I wax nostalgic. It seems like there is a memory attached to everything during Christmas. My memories aren’t limited to Christmas, but so many memories are tied to Christmases past.

While putting up the different trees in the house, my mind wandered back to the memory attached to the ornament or decoration I was holding. Growing up, my mom bought ornaments for my sister and me each Christmas. The earliest one was 1973. I was ten years old and I have all the ornaments since that Christmas. 

Most brought a smile, while a couple brought a tear. The snowman ornament she made for us the first Christmas after my dad passed is one that still puts a lump in my throat when I hang it on the tree. His hankie, shirt, and a sock were the material used to fashion this treasure. 

Another special ornament is a pair of crocheted ice skates with paperclips for the blades that my grandmother gave me. They have been on my tree for at least 3 decades. The ornaments my children made for me bring back wonderful memories when they still believed in Santa Claus.

I have the records I listened to as a child and have purchased replacements now that vinyl records are making a comeback. Listening to Andy Williams, Bing Crosby, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and Judy Garland transport me back to a time of innocence and wonder. I remember the excitement of listening to the large cabinet style stereo playing, a fire in the fireplace, and watching the lights of the Christmas tree. Life was simple and safe then.

photo: Pinterest

Family was and is a large part of Christmas. As a child, we always went to my maternal grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve. I can still smell the cedar tree covered in large bubble lights and tinsel in their living room. The house was full of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Those memories are still vivid in my mind. 

photo: Pinterest

Last weekend I was part of a Christmas bazaar where I had a table to sell my books and book related items. Beside me was a vendor with doll clothes. I saw the Barbie clothes and was instantly transported to my childhood. My paternal grandmother gave all of the granddaughters a box of handmade Barbie clothes. I still remember how excited I was to open the box and see the tops, slacks, ballgowns, wedding dresses, and coats. She made each one with love.

I hope those who read this will be transported by their memories and I wish you all a blessed Christmas and blessed 2019.

The Legacy ~ by Linda Boulanger

       

 I was struck by something Lori Roberts said in her post, Plugging Along. She mentioned that beyond just writing because she had characters who wanted their stories told, she also wrote her stories as gifts to her grandchildren… She wanted to leave them a legacy, so to speak.

The use of the term legacy was my word, not Lori’s. It kept popping into my mind, so I looked up the definition. As so often happens, I found one that fit what I was looking for: something handed down from one generation to the next. Lori wanted to leave her legacy in the form of her stories. She wanted her books to be there as her contribution to the world… and more precisely, to her grandchildren. We just get to share them.

I suppose the books I have written and the covers I have designed are a part of my legacy. They are one of my marks on the world, something I am proud to have accomplished and happy to share. It made me think of one of the families in an upcoming series I’m working on and the legacy they shared. I pictured a Christmas Eve with this Medieval family of dragon shifters gathered in the solar of their castle, sharing a tradition steeped in legacy…

"Christiev DuBois folded his tall form into a sitting position in front of the sofa in his family's solar and waited for his grandchildren to arrange themselves around him. This was the only way they could all see the pages of the book he laid on the floor before him. Tracing his fingers over the dragon etched into the wood panel on the front, he opened it up and began to read the words written by his wife, explaining the dragon carving on the front. 

The children listened in awe, especially when he closed the book again and allowed each of them to run their hands over the ancient dragon form. He smiled at their oohs and aahs as their little fingers bumped over the ridges making up the scales and wings. He hadn't been much older than them when he'd first seen this carving. He was pleased Ashlynn had found a way to use the piece in this book—this treasure she’d filled with legacies left by past DuBois generations. They were all pieces that might have been lost forever had she not salvaged them from the old castle his father had abandoned after his mother had died there.

His mother’s death and the years that followed were not a time he wanted to remember. It was a dark time, with too much sorrow and anger, his father taking that out on anyone or anything he came in  contact with—including him. 

The older dragon shifter had practically destroyed the old castle, building this one where Christiev and his family now lived, only after his aunt had stepped in and threatened to have her brother declared mad if he didn’t at least provide a decent home for his son.

By that point, it had almost been too late for Christiev. He’d been following in his father’s footsteps far too long, hatred and anger building, spurring him to where he, too, acted more like the hated Driagaran instead of a protector. He’d forgotten that most important part of being a Druajen—the side of the dragonkind that were sworn to protect the world against the dragon shifters that believed they had the right to take over and rule the humans. Driagaran dragons had forgotten they were part human. Druajen had not… though his father had, for a time, acted like he had forgotten, with Christiev doing his bidding.

He glanced at his wife while the children continued to look at and talk about the dragon carving, each speculating whether they would, someday, have wings and the feather-like scales of the Druajens. 

Ashlynn smiled at him and his heart melted, just as it had the first time he’d seen her buried within the rubble of a wrecked carriage. His heartbeat finding hers had been the only way he’d known there were any survivors, though it would be nearly a decade longer before she would be his. Those were years of change and reformation that hadn’t truly taken hold until after she and their son had come to live with him and his father at Castle Esperanza.

It had taken many visits to the abandoned castle for Ashlynn to unearth all the treasures she’d combined into this book she’d made. Originally, she’d done it as a gift to his father, no one quite sure how Kristoff would react. 

By that time, the old man had taken to spending most of his time in the few rooms he’d designated as his alone in the family wing of the castle. The only thing that seemed to give him joy was his grandson, Christof, though when Ashlynn had presented him with this book, he’d wept openly, his fingers caressing the carving much as the children’s were. 

He’d thumbed through it, lingering on each piece of work left by one ancestor or another chronicling the lives of the Druajens as a whole. Together, he and Ashlynn had added in the words that explained the pieces. It was a glorious memento—a book of legacy, as well as one of healing for his father.

In the days that followed, Kristoff had been more alive, more the gentle man he’d been during the time he’d been married to Hope. He’d wanted to make peace with the people who lived in his land and had begun to do so with the help of his son and grandchildren, though most days he could be found sitting in front of the fire in his quarters, the book Ashlynn had made for him opened to an image of a dragon with icy blue wings made of feathers. 

It had been painted by Christiev’s mother, who had then painstakingly cut a feather from an ice bird and meticulously placed the pieces to create an image of a magnificent feathered ice dragon. It was how she saw his father whenever he shifted. It was glorious, and another favorite of his grandchildren. He knew they would squeal with glee when they finally got to that page.

Christiev’s heart was so full as he sat amidst his grandchildren that Christmas Eve on the floor of the family solar in Esperanza Castle teaching them of their heritage and sharing with them the history of his family through this beautiful legacy—an heirloom, created with love, to be passed down from generation to generation for all eternity."

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little peek into the DuBois family. I am currently working on the books for this series, however, I introduce the Druajen dragons in both A Leap of Faith (historical time travel romance) and Stirring Up Some Love (contemporary fantasy romance). You may find out more about my books by visiting the links on my  page, and, as always, your comments here are most welcome. I would LOVE to hear about your family’s legacy or legacies. What mark do you intend to leave for future generations?