Casita Bonita

Three years ago, right around the time my husband retired from the Air Force, we still hadn’t made any firm decisions on what we were going to do post-retirement. I had a good job already, so we considered staying where we were (Annapolis, Maryland). He would either go back to school and finish his degree or find a job.

One of the other things we discussed was living full-time in an RV and working remotely as we traveled around the U.S. and Canada. We could make it work on his military pension and any additional income we generated from remote work. On several levels, this idea was extremely appealing to me. But I was also sick of moving around all the time and really just wanted to feel settled. I was also worried about the impractical aspects of it. What about medical care? I’d rather see one doctor regularly than a different one each time. (I was already tired of changing doctors every time we moved – and vet care for the dogs.) How would we get mail?

There are full-time RVers who make this work for them, and I knew on some level we could, too, but I just couldn’t bring myself to fully commit to the idea. Living in such a small space with two large dogs would also mean less privacy – nowhere to really go if either of us wanted some alone time.

And then it became a moot point. He started sending out job applications, and the State of Ohio called. So, here we are. We have the house. We’re settled. I have a different job now (still a good job, just different). He likes the work he does. We feel blessed to have the life we have.

But he still had that RVing itch that didn’t get scratched. He spent the past three years pining away for a Wanderlodge in particular. He came close to buying one not that long ago. He had enough doubts about it that he stopped himself.

But he still talked about how badly he wanted some kind of camper for weekend traveling. I argued about the impracticality of a large RV for weekend trips. If we were going to get one, it should be something smaller and easier to deal with if we wanted to go away on short notice. We could think about upgrading to an RV after civilian retirement, and then we could take longer trips.

I think I finally convinced him. Last weekend, he started making a case for the Casita Spirit. We watched a couple YouTube videos about the 2019 models and what they offered.

I really didn’t need convincing. I knew this was something he wanted so much and had saved for. It’s far more practical for us than an RV. It will be easier to store and maintain. And I really don’t mind what kind of travel trailer we get, so long as it has the basic amenities and we can be comfortable in it.

Earlier this week, I left town on a business trip. While I was gone, he talked to the folks at Casita. He got a quote and the paperwork. When I came back Thursday night, I just needed to sign it to make it official. Our order is in. It will be ready in May.

Our very own 2019 17-foot deluxe Casita Spirit!

We already have three camping trips booked. The first at Alum Creek State Park, then at a resort outside Mohican State Park (the weekend my brother runs the 100-mile race there – we’re crewing him), and then at Grand Lake St. Marys State Park for my husband’s birthday.

I’m already trying to think of a name for it. I mean, you have to name something like this, right?

I am a writer

(Hat tip: How to Say “I’m a Writer” and Mean It)

“Her name will appear on books someday.”

That’s what my sixth grade Language Arts teacher said at an awards ceremony with school faculty, staff, parents, and other students present. She was presenting me with a special award. I was a star pupil.

I suppose it was the moment I realized I was meant to be a writer. Before, I wrote without thinking much about it. She noticed my knack for it and felt the need to encourage it.

However, I never really lived up to her statement that my name would be on books. It has, but not in the way she meant. I’ve been quoted in a couple books: Once as a book reviewer (a snippet of my book review was printed on the author’s next novel) and another in a book about being child-free by choice.

As an author, no. My name has never been on a book and may never be.

But I am a writer.

Writers come in many forms. It always amazes me how nearly everyone, upon hearing I’m a writer, assumes I write books. As if that’s the only thing writers write.


There are poets. There are essayists. Short story writers. Playwrights. Screenwriters. Bloggers. Copywriters. Journalists. Novelists. The list goes on. And I’m some of these things.

Don’t get me wrong, any of the writers listed above can publish books. But people who don’t know me generally assume I’m a novelist, as if writer = novelist. And that’s just not true.

I started a novel once. It was at some point when we lived in Germany. I think I managed to get about 60 pages into it, and then I realized I bit off more than I could chew. Things went off the rails and I gave up, overwhelmed.

I rarely think of that unfinished novel now, but I still have it on my hard drive. I am unwilling to let go of it entirely. As long as it stays there, there is possibility.

After Grandma died, I found a printout of the first chapter among her belongings. She was so excited when I told her I was writing a novel. My only regret is that I never finished it for her to read. If I ever do finish it, I am dedicating it to her. I can at least do that.

My writing journey has evolved a lot over the years. I used to read and write a lot of poetry. I don’t, now. I wrote a play or two when I was an undergraduate. I don’t think I was particularly good at it, but I was experimenting. I’ve written a few short stories here and there. But I don’t think I hit my stride until I discovered journalism, blogging, and copywriting. Those genres are where I seem to excel. I’ve made my career out of them.

Travel writing became my main focus when I lived in Germany. First, it was blogging – I kept a Blogger site detailing my travels for family and friends who were interested. Then my blog got noticed by a few people who wanted me to write travel guides and articles for various websites. I started getting paid to write about my travels. Sometimes I traveled just to write about it because an editor was interested in a particular place.

After I moved back to the US, I couldn’t keep up with the travel writing quite as much. I did a little here and there when we lived in Seattle and again in Maryland. But the focus shifted.

I started writing about education and careers – things like how to become a medical transcriptionist or how to improve your sixth grader’s vocabulary. Not the most creative stuff, but it was steady work. Then I got a steady gig writing short blog posts for various law offices – again, not super creative. I also had a brief stint transcribing letters to Congress. This entailed listening to phone surveys with constituents and typing up the messages they wished to convey to their senators and representatives.

I had better assignments than that. I’ve written for The Seattle Times (the jobs section) a couple times. That’s one of the giant feathers in my cap. So, too, is the assignment I got writing facility descriptions for (which still exist on the site at the time I write this). I also had an article published in Stars and Stripes European edition in my early days as a professional writer. Years later, I still got emails from people who found it helpful. (It was a piece about pottery shopping in Nove, Italy – a popular trip for military spouses.)

A lot of the things I have written in my career seem rather insignificant, but over time, they have added to a rather large body of work. And I’ve proven to myself that I’m versatile. I can write with authority on a broad range of topics. (Mad research skills – thanks, Liberal Arts degree!)

This has led me to where I am now – in the marketing department of an MRO (maintenance, repair and operations) distributor. I write and edit product copy. I write and edit blog posts. I write short and long pieces – some more journalistic, others more marketing. I try to be creative when possible, though tools, parts, and shop supplies aren’t the most inspiring topics.

And so, this blog. This is my creative space. When inspiration strikes, this is where I go. And I never know where inspiration will strike. Or when. I often don’t have the mental energy to write after doing it all day for work.

Yet, I’m a writer. I may not be a disciplined writer when it comes to what I write outside of work. But I write. Every day.

Will my name appear on books someday? I guess only time will tell.

Toward the sunshine

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Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you. – Walt Whitman
One of the habits I am trying to cultivate in 2019 is positivity. I’m a natural-born cynic with a giant sarcastic streak and a self-deprecating sense of humor. Add an emotionally abusive upbringing into the mix, and it’s no wonder that I tend toward the negative.

If you hear often enough that you’re worthless and stupid and fat and useless, those words become who you are. At least until you can think for yourself and realize none of that is true. Then it’s a battle to overcome those words that shaped your identity for so many years, to strip them of the power they held over you for so long.

It was just over seven years ago that I had one of the defining moments of my life. I realized the person who had been showering me with these negative words since I was born (even before then, according to family members) was not entitled to be part of my life. As an adult, I decide who gets to participate in my life. I suddenly realized that blood/genetic ties and convention don’t dictate that – *I* do.

It’s powerful to realize that. And it changed my life.

That toxic influence was cut out of my life. I’ve been on a path to healing since then. It’s a rocky path, to be sure, but I know I’m heading in the right direction. Each day I get further away from that toxic influence, I get closer to finding peace. I’m shedding the weight of those ugly words and finding my true self.

I’m walking toward the light, and the shadows are behind me.


I had two major goals for 2018: Read at least 50 books and find a new job.

I’m pleased to say I did both. I’m currently on book 56, and I started a new job in June after working in a very toxic environment that was wreaking havoc on my emotional health. I’m in a much better place mentally now, and I’m doing work that fulfills me in an office environment that is sane and mostly drama-free.

Oh, and I did yoga for 30 straight days in January to kick off the year, which was pretty cool, too.

I’m still thinking through my 2019 goals, but I know I want to simplify my digital life and get my house better organized. Oh, and be less ambitious with the vegetable garden so I don’t bite off more than I can chew.

I also want to do more with my photography. I entered one photography competition this year, which was huge for me, and I want to do more of that. But that also means I actually need to get out more with my camera.

Anyway, in case you’re curious about my reading list for 2018, it’s here.

Tights and Tutus and Christmas Tradition

The holiday season is now in full swing, though I’ve barely managed to do anything so far. I at least started my shopping and have some decorations up. (No tree, yet – not until tomorrow.) And I’m about halfway through my cards.

Later today, I will indulge in one of my favorite Christmas traditions.

I grew up with The American Ballet Theatre’s 1977 version of The Nutcracker, starring Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland. It debuted on PBS when I was just two years old, and it became a holiday staple. I was enraptured by it as a little girl, and I am sure this was a big reason I had dreams of being a ballerina. (Never came close to that dream, though I took a ballet class when I was at Ohio State as one of my electives.)

Mom and I watch this every year. As I got older, I began to see how very cheesy a lot of this production is. It’s very dated – a lot of ‘70s hair going on, for starters. And the special effects are laughable now. It’s a bit anachronistic, given that the story is set in the 19th century. And Drosselmeyer…. oh, Drosselmeyer. This Drosselmeyer is especially entertaining. In a goofy way.

But the dancing is swoonworthy. Baryshnikov and Kirkland are absolute magic together. And I have never seen a male dancer yet who can compare to Baryshnikov in his prime (which is when this was filmed). Holy moly, his solos just blow my mind.

I’m glad Mom and I are in the same geographic area now so we can watch this together. While I was living in Germany, Seattle, and Maryland, we at least tried to watch it on the same day. There were a few years when we’d watch it at the same time and discuss it over the phone. (We now have this MST3K sort of thing going on with it.) A tradition is a tradition, and we did our best to maintain it even if I was halfway around the world.

So, Mom, prepare the eggnog. I’ll be over in a few hours.


Some of my favorite childhood memories revolve around Thanksgiving. That was always the big holiday in my family.

We’d gather at my grandparents’ house in Findlay, Ohio. My aunt and cousins would drive in from Illinois. I had cousins who would come from South Carolina. For a few days each year, we would eat, laugh, play several games of Trivial Pursuit, and just generally enjoy being in each other’s company.

The last time I remember one of these big Thanksgivings was, I think, in 2005. I may be off by a year or so. My husband and I came in from Germany. It snowed. A LOT. I’ll always remember that – not only for the snow (which was a bit unusual) but also because Thanksgiving changed after that.

That’s how life works, doesn’t it? The grandkids grow up and get married. They get busier with adult responsibilities. It becomes more difficult to get together in large groups.

Our grandparents are gone now. Grandpa passed away in 1999, Grandma in 2011 (the last time we were all together again like old times was for her funeral). And with Grandma’s death, we had to say goodbye to their home forever. No more family gatherings there, no more making memories.

Thanksgivings have been smaller since then.

For several years, we couldn’t make it to Ohio. Thanksgivings in Seattle often included friends. In Maryland, we either had a quiet Thanksgiving at home – just the two of us with the dogs, or I ended up alone because my husband had other commitments. (Military life!) I didn’t mind being alone – I had the dogs after all. I made myself a nice meal, spent the entire day in my pajamas, and binge-watched TV.

Since we moved to Columbus, Thanksgivings have been at my parents’ place. My aunt and uncle come down from Cleveland. My youngest cousin, a student at Ohio University, also joins us. It’s the new normal, and I’ll always reminisce about those earlier Thanksgivings with a slight ache in my heart. I miss my grandparents. I miss those times.

Today, I’m thankful I have those memories. I’m thankful to have such a large, loving, joyful family that loves being together. I realize that I’m lucky. Not everyone had such happy times with their families. For some, holidays are fraught with anxiety and drama.

This morning, I will make my family favorite macaroni and cheese and some apple crisp. In a few hours, we’ll head over to my folks’ place for a wonderful feast. I still love Thanksgiving. It’s not as exciting now as it was when I was growing up, but it’s still family time, good food, and laughter.


Ask for their stories


Today is Veterans Day, and while my husband was in the Air Force and my younger brother served in the Navy, the first veteran in my life was my grandpa, Tom Sheaffer.

He served as a Radioman on the USS Cowpens during World War II. Growing up, I never heard him speak much about his service. I saw his old Navy photographs. He mentioned a deep loathing for Spam because of his Navy days. There were other snippets of information here and there that he shared with us. But I don’t remember any specific stories. Maybe I should have asked.

After his passing, we heard from one of his shipmates. He was a good friend of Grandpa’s during the war, and he had kept a journal of his experience. Grandpa was mentioned in it. (There were photos of him, even.) He had copies of his journal printed out for his family, and he also shared it with us. It’s the only insight I have into what his experience might have been like. That journal is a gift. I will treasure it always.

Those veterans in your life? Ask them for their stories. Some may not want to tell their stories, and that’s okay. We have to respect what they went through and what they still carry. But if they want to talk, be there to listen. These stories are their legacy, they’re OUR history, and they’re important.

I’ll share this story from Art Daly, my grandfather’s shipmate, who shared his wartime journal with us. This is his account of a typhoon that hit the Cowpens (exactly as written without edits), and it mentions Grandpa. I never heard Grandpa mention this!

December 19, 1944

Our ship and task force are all beat up. We were smashed by a typhoon the last two days. All men not on duty were ordered to lock themselves in their bunks. Ships were in danger of crashing into each other.

We almost hit a destroyer that cut across our bow. Cowpens and San Jacinto were in danger of colliding.

Our propellers would be out of the water and would almost shake the ship apart. The stern took a beating. On the 17th I was on duty in the radio shack. We had everything tied down. Even our chairs were tied to the deck. Some broke loose. Things were flying through the air. At times we listed 45 degrees and we thought we would turn over.

Up on top waves crashed through the steel rollers on the hangar deck. Water poured in. A fire broke out on the flight deck as one of our planes broke loose and crashed into the catwalk. One of our 20 mm guns was smashed as we rolled in the sea.

Bombs broke loose and rolled around in the bomb magazine next to the radio shack. Planes and tractors broke loose and went crashing into each other. Some went crashing over the side of the ship.

Waves were coming over the flight deck. The wind was reported to be as high as 124 knots (a knot is approximately 1.15 miles per hour). Waves were reported as high as 70 feet from trough to crest. The barometer was recorded as low as 27”.

We lost our radar and was guided by the destroyer Halsey Powell by radio. I watched a lot of the storm from the top of the bridge. Destroyers would plow right through towering waves and out the other side, knocking their smoke stack right off them. The big carriers and battleships were tossed about.

I was supposed to be tied to my bunk when not on watch, but I just had to get topside. I did help with securing some planes.

During the height of the storm, we lost our air group commander over the side. He was on the flight deck trying to save his planes. He had been shot down in June 1944, was rescued, and sent back to the States. He came out again as ship’s air officer. This time he didn’t make it.

Tom Sheaffer told me that during the storm, he grabbed an overhead pipe and was flush with the ceiling. During the storm, we lost the destroyers Hull, Spenser, and Monohan.



Life, Death, and Donations

October 9, 1989 – I was a freshman in high school. I was at my locker before homeroom, preparing for the day. A friend approached me, her face very serious and sad.

“Sherry died last night,” she announced.

I raged at her. Told her to shut up. It couldn’t possibly be true. Sherry was only 14.

And yet, I knew it was true. On some level, I expected it.

In homeroom, I listened to the announcement of her death over the intercom. Most of my classmates came from other middle schools and didn’t know her. I was one of the few who cried. Later that day, I got a note from a friend saying that this was the worst day of her life. I had to agree. Losing a best friend is brutal at any age, but it’s incomprehensible at 14.

Sherry was one of my best friends in middle school. She had an illness – the name of it escapes me now – which weakened her lungs and made it difficult for her to breathe. When we first met, she could do most everything that healthy kids our age could do. Birthday parties, school dances – she even played clarinet for a time.

I think it was around 7th grade when her illness became more apparent. As her heart and lungs weakened even more, she stopped participating in normal activities. Every day, her father would carry her up the stairs at school for classes and then down again at the end of the day. Since she couldn’t take the stairs, my friends and I would take turns getting her lunch tray and taking it up to her. We’d all have lunch together.

She started appearing in the local news. There were spaghetti dinners and other fundraisers to help the family with medical expenses. She was on a wait list for a heart and lung transplant.

In 8th grade, she no longer came to school. She was too sick, so she continued her education at home. Meanwhile, everyone waited and hoped for a donor.

I wrote to her often that year. She never wrote me back. To this day, I don’t know why. Did my letters upset her? I wrote about events at school – a life she could no longer participate in. Did she know she was dying? Probably. Maybe she was trying to pull away from all her friends, thinking it would make things easier for us. I will never know.

Just a couple days before she died, I wrote her another letter. I remember walking into my bedroom later and seeing it. I crumpled it and threw it away, thinking she would never write me back anyway, so why bother? I’m so glad I didn’t send that letter. Her parents would have received it right after she died.

I didn’t go to the visitation later that week. I couldn’t bear it. There was a finality to seeing her dead in a casket that I couldn’t handle. The funeral felt safer. The casket was closed. I remember the funeral being on Friday the 13th.

Since that time, I’ve been advocating for organ donation. I signed up as an organ donor when I got my driver’s license a couple years later.

Today, on this 29th anniversary of her death, the bloodmobile came to work. I have no intention of donating organs any time soon if I can at all help it, but blood, I can donate. It seems fitting to do it today.


Thinking of you, Sherry. And today, I’m wondering who you would have been if you had only gotten that organ transplant that would have saved your life. You never got the chance to grow up, but hopefully I can give a chance at life to someone (or multiple someones) when my time comes to an end.

Canon or Nikon?

I have a Nikon camera. For everyday use, my cellphone has a pretty great camera on it. But when I’m deliberately out taking photos, I bring the Nikon.

A couple weeks ago, I took my mom to Pickerington Ponds Metro Park. A Roseate Spoonbill had taken up residence there, and while we did see it, it was too far away for me to get a good shot – even with my zoom lens. This photo won the day.


In fact, this was one of three photos that I entered into a nature photo contest last weekend (which will be exhibited around the Columbus and Franklin County Metro Parks starting next weekend).

I’m still learning. But I’m a serious hobbyist, and I particularly love shooting nature.

This morning, I attended an event at another metro park. Midwest Photo and Canon hosted the event. For $15, I got to borrow Canon equipment of my choosing and go on a walk with an Audubon guide.

The equipment I chose was no joke.

img_20181007_084718It was a 45-minute walk, otherwise this thing would have seriously started to hurt my neck and shoulders. It was HEAVY.

But it was an unfamiliar camera, and I didn’t really know what I was doing. So I focused and clicked and hoped for the best.

I did okay.

Female monarch

Egret in flight

Egret perched in a tree above Scioto River

This last photo was but a white blob in the distance to the naked eye – 400 mm zoom, hell yeah! My zoom on the Nikon maxes out at 300 mm.

It was fun to try new equipment, but I’ll stick with my trusty Nikon. I just need to get some more lenses for it.

Maybe I should experiment with macro lenses.


A Picture and a Story II

Spice Bazaar

Istanbul, 2005

I was excited to go to Istanbul as part of a tour organized by the Turkish members of the International Women’s Club. (In short, IWC was a spouse’s club for those of us living near the NATO base in Germany.) While Istanbul was not one of the places on my bucket list during our time in Europe, the opportunity presented itself and I jumped at the chance.

Turns out, it was one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. And the food was phenomenal. We went over to the Asian side one day, and it’s the only reason I can claim that I’ve visited Asia.

This photo was taken in the spice bazaar. I had just bought the pashmina that I’m wearing here. The man in the photo is a stranger, someone who worked at the bazaar. He asked to have his photo taken with me, but first he wanted to wrap my head. I’m not entirely sure why. Most women I saw in Istanbul didn’t have their hair covered – though Turkey is a predominantly Muslim country, it is a secular society. But he wanted to show me how he thought I should wear a pashmina, and then we posed for this photo.

I got a lot of male attention because of my blond hair and blue eyes. At least, that’s what our male tour guide said. So perhaps this is why the man in this photo asked to pose with me.

Anyway, this is just one of many memories from Istanbul.

Here are some more:

bread vendor

apple tea vendor

Hagia Sophia

Blue Mosque

Spice Bazaar

Spice Bazaar