“It deserved more than just to remain as a passing–pleasing–memory of one night in Barcelona. It needed to be shown as a feeling… an experience.” —Dennis Lowery
Sensual Content
I had met her with a group of other ladies near the Font Màgica de Montjuïc, celebrating a night off on a beautiful fall evening. They took turns posing for photos in front of the lighted waters jetting into the twilight sky as the globes of lampposts flickered like fireflies. The camera owner seemed younger than the others—early 20s, my age—more petite, not as full-fleshed. I offered to take a picture of them in front of the fountain. And that led to a conversation—my bad Spanish, their better English—and then an invitation to join them as they returned to their apartments for a party.
Marisol—the girl with the camera—was silent alongside me most of the thirty-minute walk and remained quiet as we entered the apartment complex and their party began. As we drank in the sitting area of their common room, her eyes were on me as much, or more, as mine were on her. Evening aged into night, and we found ourselves closer to each other. Two objects governed by a subtle sexual gravity and pulled into orbit. A certainty just as sure as the autumn moon—seen through the windows—circled our world.
She had a bottle of champagne in one hand as she rose from the black leather settee and beckoned with the other. I took it. Marisol’s grip was silk-soft yet firm. As I stood, she rubbed her thumb across the corded tendons prominent on the back of my hand and forearm. “Strong… yes?” she asked, releasing my hand to run hers across my shoulder and right arm. She stroked my hand again and lightly held it. A little tug toward the hallway. Gravity. I let it… and her… lead the way.
Though it also brought a chill into her room, the breeze through the window carried delicate night music. The whispering of fountains and a susurration of the evening street noises of Barcelona, with a full moon rising over the northern end of Las Ramblas… announcing the beginning of the weekend.
My senses heightened; the sound of the unsnapping was distinct. I turned from the window to sit next to her and watched long-nailed fingers work down the front of her shirt to reveal the inside arc of high-set, unexpectedly full breasts in black lace. A chiaroscuro effect from the lamp beside us, the room’s only light. As I watched, her flesh prickled… a stiffening tented the fabric as the curtains billowed next to the chaise lounge where we sat. The October winds.
I made a dry-throat swallow, the kind you make when anticipation has lined it with dust. I reached for the champagne. With gestures, Marisol asked me to remove the foil from the neck of the bottle before I opened it. “It’s rough on my tongue,” Marisol explained in broken English and Spanish I didn’t quite follow. I got the meaning, though I didn’t understand her comment.
She sat there—blouse open down to her smooth stomach—for a moment studying me, then took it off, letting the shirt slip from her hand to the floor as she lay back. Her fingers caressed the satin flesh above her jeans—for a heartbeat or two that seemed minutes long—then unbuttoned them to tug down the zipper. Aroused, my eyes explored the shadow within her undone—flared-open—pants. The center of the pull I’d felt growing all evening.
Marisol picked up her camera, toying with the settings as I fumbled with the bottle and, after a second’s difficulty, peeled the foil from it. I offered it to her, and she made a pulling gesture that became a stroking motion as her smile broadened, flashing bright, framed by scarlet lipstick.
As I worked the cork, she set her camera aside. With the gush of foamy white liquid, she hurriedly leaned forward to take it in. The quick burst swallowed; she slowly licked the neck of the bottle, lingering at the tip. And I understood her remark from a moment before. Her eyes never left mine, and laughing, she offered the bottle. She unhooked her bra, and I watched the silk slow-slide from her breasts to reveal dark tips responding to the chill. It went the way of her blouse. Marisol made a pouring gesture over her stomach, then tugged pants and panties off and reclined. I did as she asked. As I drank from her, the soft laughter turned to louder sighs that mixed with the sough of the night wind.
Later, sated, we moved to the balcony where wrapped in a blanket, I held her. We watched the moon fall from the sky while the statues danced near the fountains below. Soon she slept, and I listened to her and the breathing of one of the loveliest cities in the world.
I didn’t sleep during that perfect moment… on a perfect night, I didn’t want to end.
*Beta moves slower than *Alpha. She’s always at the edge of being on time… or just past. And I have certain rules for chores and when to be at the breakfast table on school days. When you aren’t on time without good reason—not an excuse—there are consequences.
We had one of those mornings Beta couldn’t get it in gear. She was late to the table. I addressed it and meted out the penalty. Minutes later, angry at getting in trouble for being late, Beta lashed out at Alpha over some trivial thing. [Understand that they are twins—Alpha’s five minutes older—and friction arises.] Alpha did not take that quietly, so the breakfast table became a volleying ground for harsh words.
Now, I understand getting pissed off… when I’m pushed too far and go off, it’s epic… and not always productive. I know this and work hard to not let that happen. I try to teach my girls how to deal with anger. So, I did this:
“You girls want to hear a story?” They know to look at me when I’m talking to them. It broke up the punch-counterpunch of comments flying back and forth. I asked again, “Do you want to hear a story?” Both heads nodded. I told them:
Once there were two monks on a pilgrimage [I explained to them what that meant], an older one who had been on several and a young monk on his first. One day they came to the edge of a river. It was turbulent and roiling, with several days of rain in the mountains feeding it. It would prove difficult, but not impossible, to cross; they were both powerful men. They heard crying. Nearby, under a willow tree, a woman sat weeping. In her hands was a small bag she clutched to her chest. She heard them and looked up.
“Please help me… I’m afraid to cross.” She gestured at the river and gripped her bag tighter. “But I must get home soon.”
The young monk turned his back on her. Their order was forbidden to speak to or touch women. But the older monk picked up the woman and, without a word, forged the river. He put her down on the other side. With thanks he didn’t respond to, she turned to the right-hand path and hurriedly went on her way. The older monk continued straight ahead, and the younger came after him. They walked in silence for another mile. After crossing the river, the young monk fumed (I defined that word for them) in anger. He berated the older monk: “How could you do that — the woman… you’ve broken your vows.” He continued talking to him that way for another mile. Finally, the older monk stopped and turned to him.
“I only carried her across the river. Are you still carrying her?”
I waited for a beat so they’d realize that was the end. Then asked, “Do you understand what he—the older monk—meant?” I saw the wheels turning behind their eyes as a minute passed. Alpha raised her hand [yes, they usually do that when they’re in a straightforward question-and-answer situation with me]. I nodded at her.
“The young monk needs to stop being angry.” She looked at Beta.
Beta still had an edgy look as I replied to Alpha, “That’s right. Sometimes we carry things too long… far past when we should put them down and move on without them.” I looked at Beta and said, “That’s something to think about,” and left it at that.
With things settled down, we finished breakfast, and soon they were off to school. I thought it another little teaching moment they hopefully took to heart.
Epilogue
The next day, Saturday morning, we had many chores to do. Beta and Alpha, angry at each other over something, had another incident. A minor one that could’ve grown larger. I gave Beta a stare, and she dropped the fight but was cold toward Alpha as they did their chores. About an hour later, when I was making some soon-to-be world-famous D’achos (Dad’s nachos) for them for lunch, Beta came up to me at the stove.
“Dad?”
“Yes, honey.”
She gestured for me to lean down so she could whisper something. “I put the woman down….” Beta had a smile on her face. A moment later, I heard her apologize to Alpha.
*About Alpha & Beta
I have four daughters. My oldest was born in October 1988 when I worked for others. My second-oldest was born 15 days after my resignation from my corporate job became effective on January 2, 1996. So, she’s seen my life as an entrepreneur and business owner from day one. Those early years in business were hard, as they often are, and I became like the father in ‘Cats in the Cradle’ (the Harry Chapin song). Always busy, too much to do and not enough time, eaten up with stress and worry about many things. Then, in 2008, I made some changes and pursued what I do today, writing and publishing. And that made a world of difference in having time for my family. The two youngest—unexpected twins I refer to as Alpha & Beta—have had more daily time with me as they grew up than their two older sisters. And much of it I’ve experienced through the ‘lens’ of a writer. So, our conversations and kitchen table discussions—several times—have turned into ‘stories.’
When you develop a story, you create additional assets that can be leveraged differently. Scenes can become illustrations or artwork that support the story. Locations can become settings and maps that help engage the reader. It’s not always possible to get them into the original publication. Still, you can use them to supplement the story(ies), which aids in discoverability and in attracting new readers.
We break down stories to identify those sometimes unseen—yet valuable—opportunities to leverage and enhance story value.
I like dark chocolate and sometimes have a piece in the morning with my coffee. There’s a brand of individually wrapped pieces called Dove™ that includes brief thoughts and statements inside the wrapper. With our preparation for the holiday season each year, my wife buys bags of them. One year, I thought–leading up to Christmas–I would take that day’s chocolate wrapper and write a little about my first thoughts on reading it. Here they are:
The 1st DOVE of Christmas
Engage, Embrace, and Enjoy the special moments… a sunrise, a sunset, a full moon in a bright, crisp autumn sky, a smile, a hug… all that is simple and beautiful in our world.
The 2nd DOVE of Christmas
Sometimes, we think this takes money. That we have to be able to travel to distant places. Not true, though… for me, that’s one of my favorite ways to gain new–and to build upon past–experiences. But discovery often comes from merely doing something different or something familiar differently. Discovery means having a mindset open to its potential… knowing that there are opportunities for it, to a greater or lesser degree, each day. And when the chance is there to take it. Even in small amounts, we can learn and benefit from it. When you live with a purpose, I believe there’s something to discover every day.
The 3rd DOVE of Christmas
We all do it. No, not that… I’m talking about daydreaming. That moment when we slip into a mindscape of wishes, wants, and maybe a what-if or two. There’s been a lot written about visualization and how athletes use it for peak performance. Doing it—what you want to do or to get better at—in your mind helps. No, not that… well, maybe that, too. But I digress. Daydreaming can be constructive, but only if anchored—mostly—in reality. I mean, it doesn’t become or isn’t from the start an absurd fantasy with little chance of existence. Guide your daydreams, and base them in your real world in a way that fits what you do, who you are, and what you want from life. Make them possible… the kind of daydream that requires you to—real-world—stretch and reach. Making it tangible often starts with imagining it can be so and then believing in yourself enough to take action and get it done.
The 4th DOVE of Christmas
I disagree with this one.
What this Dove says (I think) and means is not to restrict love… let it flourish unbound. Don’t tell Love what to do.
Love can be unruly. It can happen when we least expect it. And it can run from us if we chase it. That can be problematic when most seek love and companionship, though I know some who are content without it.
But new love, at any age, that runs wild and free with the wrong person or a seasoned, mature love that becomes abused or untended can wither and end in anger, sadness, hurt, and pain.
For love to work, I believe one fundamental, paramount rule is necessary: to love only someone who loves you in equal measure. Love someone who respects you as much as you respect them. This must hold true at the beginning and throughout any relationship.
Love has to include respect, or it’s not love. That’s the rule.
The 5th DOVE of Christmas
Smiles always get me. The most beautiful sight to me is a smile on my wife and daughters’ faces. I’ve seen spectacular vistas from coast to coast, continent to continent, cities of light, bright shining skyscrapers that pierce the clouds, the views from some of the tallest buildings in the world, the subtle shades of sea greens and blues in oceans and waters around the globe, the austere grandness of canyons and ancient ruins that stun you with wonder at their age and how they were erected ages ago. So many beautiful places, man-made and natural… and nothing matches the impact of their—Daphne and my girls’—smile. Nothing makes me happier to see.
So, give and get some smiles this Christmas… yours for them (your loved ones and friends) and theirs for you.
The 6th DOVE of Christmas
Love. That’s what I got, along with the 6th Dove, for my birthday (which is in December). Love. My wife and three of my daughters to celebrate with me, and a warm birthday wish from my oldest daughter, who is married now and lives in another state. Love from friends and family… all important to me.
The personal messages within meant the most to me. The ones from my daughters tell me my wife and I haven’t missed the mark in raising them to be young adults with their heads on straight about what’s important. The others tell me I have—in ways—touched people in ways I don’t consciously think of… just by being me. And that feels good, too.
One year, I also got a surprise. From one of my daughter’s friends—a young man—who wrote a touching letter about how, over the years, he has come to view me as the type of father figure and man he aspires to be. Now, I’m not a perfect man—far from it—but I do try to impart, in subtle ways, some of what I’ve learned in life to not just my children but their friends, too. His letter was an unexpected and heart-warming gift.
I don’t need material things. I have all that I need and lack for nothing. [And yes, I’m fortunate and blessed to say that, but my wife and I have worked hard for what we have.] I count my riches in the love I receive and that I can, in turn, give to others (who deserve it), especially my family and those friends closest to me.
So, for my birthday, I got the greatest gift of all. Love.
I hope this holiday season, you all receive and give love in equal measure, as deserved.
And I hope you get chocolate. The kind you like, and if that’s not what you want… then the sweetest treat you enjoy most. Like maybe a chocolate-dipped vanilla ice cream cone from Dairy Queen.
The 7th DOVE of Christmas
This one says: “Take advantage of every free moment you have.”
Some would say this advice is about being productive; don’t waste time. Squeeze every bit into producing something. That in and of itself is not bad advice. I believe the road to getting ahead in life—and creating a sustainable good one—is paved by effort.
My writing work is mostly done in my head (before it gets to screen or paper, even if it beats it by a nanosecond), so wherever I happen to be, I can also work on something. In this picture, you see the area next to my chair, by the fireplace, in our family room. It’s prepared for those moments when I need to write down something I’ve just thought about or to make a note. So, I believe we should always be conscious of moments—lulls in the day—that can be useful. But you don’t have to feel compelled to fill them with work. Many serve you better as a time for quick reflection… for thought.
For me, it could be a moment to pay attention to the course of events around me and step away from work inside my head. To catch the flash of my wife or daughters’ smile… or hear a low laugh that spills from some other part of the house when my girls are chatting, seemingly amused or just enjoying themselves in their rooms… to overhear my wife talking with one of her friends and laughing together over something. To listen to daughters singing—loudly—in their shower… the streams of it sometimes heard in the evening. Those moments make me appreciate that my wife and I have created a family environment where we all easily laugh and sing.
Or just now [as I wrote this]. A glance and I see movement around the Christmas tree… Murphy’s suddenly discovered his in-the-house ball had rolled under it, and he’s belly-crawling trying to get it. He looks over at me and pauses as if to say, “Give me a chance… I’ll get it.” I do, and he does. He takes it, climbs up on his chair with the Batman blanket in it, and he’s lying over there alternating, gnawing on the ball and looking at me. It’s just a moment, but I’m mindful of it and him. It—and he—makes me smile.
I guess what I’m advocating is that in our so demanding world of digital devices, alerts, and reminders of a plugged-in, multitasking, and connected world… and in this holiday time of year, that can be so hectic and hurried… that when we have a moment, take it for ourselves. Hear the sounds, see what’s around you—that makes you smile—and plug them firmly into memory. They come and go quickly, but they all add up… if we pay attention.
As I sit here typing this, pausing to drink coffee, I hear my two youngest daughters getting ready for the last day of school before their Christmas and New Year’s break. I think of this weekend when we make and bake our first batch of Christmas cookies. And how when they come out of the oven and that pleasant aroma fills the house, I’ll savor the sensation and appreciate the time with them to make those cookies. It will trigger thoughts (year after year it always does) to back when they were younger, shorter, and had to stretch—or need help—to get at them. Little hands reaching up to the kitchen counter where the cookies cooled on sheets of aluminum foil. And I think of how they’ve all grown up and what good and strong individuals they’ve become. Moments like that and more make my day a better one.
I have to go now and want to leave you with this.
I hope that something in each and every day brings a smile to your face and a good feeling in your heart. Just remember they’re often there… hold them close and know there are more to come if you pay attention to the moments.
The 8th DOVE of Christmas
Hmmm…
I know that some of you do.
Others that I don’t know probably do, too.
And I’m sure most—if not all—assholes don’t. They do the opposite, and no one likes them. 😉 No chocolate for them. Not from me, anyway.
The 9th DOVE of Christmas
It was early spring 1978 on a Sunday at a teen (16 to 18 years old) dance club called ‘Tiffany’s.’ The song, ‘Brickhouse’ by The Commodores, came on, and Teresa G. got up on a table. It was like something teenage boy’s dream about… mesmerizing. Tall, coltish, slender with long honey-blonde hair, and though only 18, the budding curves of the woman she was becoming were there. She turned as she danced, and slowly, her hands ran down, without touching, the length of the outside line of her shape from ribs to thighs. They raised following the same line and further to clear the sweep of hair that covered her face, piling it up and letting it fall. Through mussed hair, I saw her gray-green eyes close and a slight smile, just showing the edges of teeth, form on her lips. It was a charged moment, watching her. Lightning in the air coursing through as the pulse of the music washed over me, on my skin, and in my bones. “She was mighty… mighty…” And I’m sure every guy felt it. I know I did. The song ended; she swept the hair from her face and stepped down. She returned to a nearby table where she had been sitting with a friend. Not one boy approached her.
I was usually a quiet guy (unless someone pissed me off), not that I was shy, but just because I was, and still am, not a loudmouth, or everyone’s buddy, life-of-the-party type of person. But I liked what Teresa had done. We lived in a relatively small town of about 36,000. I knew her only slightly—she went to a different high school—but she’d impressed me as the quiet type, too. She was pretty but not Barbie-doll perfect or carefully crafted to seem so. Not the girl every-boy-was-after… not the rah-rah-school-spirit, in the school’s most popular clique, kind of girl. I wondered what made her do something so extraordinarily intended to draw attention. So, I went up and asked her. “What was that?” and gestured at the table she’d danced on.
“I love the song, and no one asked me to dance. So I decided to dance anyway,” she said.
At the time, the deeper meaning behind that feeling and how important that underlying philosophy would become to me flew right by. But I knew she’d done something brave. At that moment, I sensed she had felt at odds… different from her peers… wanting to do… instead of wait… and decided on something entirely unexpected to celebrate how she felt about herself. That I understood completely. When the next song came on, I asked her to dance. Afterward, she left for work, and I returned to my friends. A few days later, I asked her out, and she went to prom with me.
Soon, it was graduation for us, and a couple of months later, I was off to bootcamp and significant changes in my life, new worlds, and new experiences. Teresa and I did not stay in close touch. A few months later, after more training and reporting to my ship, I came home on leave, and she was still working at the Burger Shef on Central Ave. I went to see her and saw she had taped a recent picture of me to her cash register. [The photo Teresa had was taken after a workout on my ship; my mother gave it to her.] So, I guess we connected, each giving the other something extraordinary, even briefly.
I’ve found in my life—more times than not—that what ‘feels right’ for me is the best way to go. I’ve done so many ‘spur of the moment’ things that I know most people would never do. Either because of some norms of convention they felt bound by or just their innate reservation or reluctance, maybe even fear of being that ‘free.’ Being spontaneous and making it work out, especially on important matters, takes contextual judgment based on experience. So young people need to tread carefully. But at the right moment… little things like dancing when you want to dance, singing when you want to sing… the ‘rightness’ of it fills you, and you just have to do it. Not for others, but for yourself. No harm, no foul… and not caring what others think.
We were oh so young… but today, more than four decades later, I still remember Teresa and why she danced that day. She did what felt right. “She was mighty… mighty…”
The 10th DOVE of Christmas
I love this one. There have been times in my life—two of them explicitly at critical points—when I didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask for a reservation. Didn’t wait for an opening… didn’t wait to be considered… did not hope for approval before I did what I needed (or wanted) to do. I showed up, expecting to be accepted. I created—or forced the creation of—what I desired. And it worked extraordinarily to my benefit.
When we–my family and I–drive somewhere, and we’re parking… we check the closest spot to where we’re going. When there’s an open spot right where we want, I always say, “They knew we were coming.” I tell my girls that only half-jokingly.
I believe in life, you have to expect room in the front row and expect to be welcomed and appreciated. Now, that’s not always the case. It does not always happen the way you want. But I know from experience that doing so (intelligently, with good taste, and hard work, you cannot be a crass, dumbass slacker and pull it off) works out in your favor more often than not. And that can help create a good life for you. Or maybe even—likely can—help turn one around.
The 11th DOVE of Christmas
This one likely means—to many—not letting the clock rule you. To take the time to smell the roses, and there is value in that. You should take time for yourself.
But another thought about time comes to mind.
I have a thing about it: focus on timeliness and being on time that preexisted the emphasis that military training instills in you, especially operations. Time matters: Time on Target, Time to Impact, Course and Time to Intercept, Last Contact Time… Run Time, Elapsed Time Speed, and Distance Target Motion Analysis. Relieve the Watch On Time. Time and Tide Wait for No Man. And on and on… So, I believe being disciplined with time is an integral part of success in life. But you have to make sure that it is spent on the things worth your time and on what’s important.
We all have work schedules. Even as a business owner/self-employed professional for 24+ years, I have deadlines, a clock, and a calendar determined by what is negotiated in my contracts with clients and the demands and requirements of publishing and publication deadlines (including production and book manufacturing lead times and schedules).
But I believe there are times when people let someone else’s clock (not their job or work) rule their life. Others expect this or that from you… Maybe you always say ‘yes’ to them when you should, but more often than not, say no. For some reason, you feel obligated to do as they ask or are compelled to do it to curry favor. Sometimes, you remain the gerbil on that wheel because you don’t know how to stop. And so you end up tense, frustrated, and feeling life is out of your control.
If that’s how you’ve let things become, then it’s true. You don’t have control over your life. You’ve ceded that to someone else or to the whim of circumstance. Your life is governed by the ticking hands of someone else’s clock or that of fate. And that is the clock you should ignore.
We often use the words ‘spend’ or ‘give’ when it comes to time and how we use it. Both—to me—connote its intrinsic value. And as the years go by, we consider how it has been invested and have to be ever wiser with the care and management of what we (presumably) have left. Remember that the time you spend must be on what’s worthwhile, and the time you give to anything or anyone… is never coming back. Treat time just as valuable as it truly is.
“How did it get so late so soon?” ―Dr. Seuss
The 12th DOVE of Christmas
Some will read this, agree with it, and be thankful.
I did, do, and am.
Others might view it differently.
How you feel when you read this depends entirely on where choices—and, to a degree, chance—have led you in life. I believe the former, more than the latter, are the drivers and determinants of our past, present, and future.
Just remember:
The past is not a chain; it does not bind us.
The present is a moment in time.
The future is not fixed or predetermined.
In a now-famous post-game rant, Dennis Green, the former coach of the National Football League’s Minnesota Vikings, said about an opponent they had just lost to: “They are who we thought they were.” It was part of a bizarre tirade, but here’s where it’s apt in the context of my thoughts on this DOVE. “We are who we think we are.” And I’d join that with, “We are where our decisions have led us… so we are where we are.”
This DOVE’s use of the word ‘supposed’ is critical. Here’s the definition of that word: ‘generally assumed or believed to be the case, but not necessarily so.’
Perhaps some read this and feel they are not where they’re supposed to be. Where they are is not a happy place, or maybe it’s marginal… not bad, but not great. Maybe it’s limbo. But there it is. It is where they are.
The question I have is whether they can read this DOVE’s statement this time next year and feel the same way or if things will be different. It primarily comes down to choices made between now and then.
Next year, I hope you hear your inner voice say what the ancient knight—the guardian of the Grail—told Indiana Jones when he selected the right cup: “You chose wisely.”
# # #
So, my 12 DOVES of Christmas end here. I hope that something in what I’ve written sparks some thought or appreciation for what the messages mean.
Everything in life starts with what you think and how you feel. Make them (thoughts and feelings) good. Make them serve your turn. I hope they make you happy, year in and year out.
INGRAM, our distribution and manufacturing service provider, has hardback cover options that expand what we can do with cover design and branding of our titles. We’re looking forward to using them for our new books and retrofitting some of our current titles.
Here are some of our story and book covers (published, to be published, or for future publication), alt-cover designs, and concepts for stories in development:
“Most of all, I remember looking out the window as I shifted around on the seat, clutching my purse and glancing up to make sure my bag was still on the rack above me. The station and buildings nearby were decorated and dressed in lights of silver, blue, gold, red, and green. As the train pulled out, they reflected off and within the glass, flickering by in a kaleidoscope of holiday colors. When the wheels turned, I took two deep breaths. A feeling of certainty I was making the right decision came over me.
“Soon, the train was outside the city and picked up speed. The view dimmed to gray with a lighter blur as we passed snow piled high in places along the track. Occasionally, color flashed from trees, their brown limbs thick with green pine needles powdered and sprinkled white. I saw country houses, too. My view of them grew slowly when the tracks curved toward them in the distance. As I got closer, they would fly past, a smear of more color on the frosty pane clouded by my breath on the cold glass. I liked it most when the train slowed at a crossing, and the flakes drifted down—a slower dance—as that sensation of getting closer to where I was going grew when the train went faster again.
“I hadn’t traveled much. The first time was when I surprised everyone by taking a job in the city. My parents went nowhere, not even on vacations, and had never been big on celebrating the season, but Tom’s were. He and I met the year before. Both of us had been stuck working through the holidays. I was young… new to the city and took my lunch breaks at the same time he did. Idle comments—nervous ones from me—led to conversations. I learned he was only a couple of years older than me and could tell how much he missed being with his family by the wistfulness of how he spoke of them.
“As that winter passed into spring, summer, and fall… we fell more in love. As the next holiday season approached, we decided to meet at his parent’s home and spend the day before Christmas Eve through New Years with them.
“I had grown up shy, but being with Tom made me discover confidence I didn’t realize was there. Still, I wasn’t always comfortable around people I didn’t know, so that Christmas would be very different for me. Full of anxious anticipation, I wanted to be with Tom, even if it meant being among strangers.
“Since then—and maybe it started with that trip—I’ve learned how much you can change the way things are, the way things once were, into what they become, if something triggers it. Even if it’s only a tiny shift… that makes you realize your happiness is determined by what’s in you and not by others. But back then, I was still learning about myself and life.
“I remember changing trains at Holly Oak. The small town’s station sat at a crossroads for the east-west and north-southbound railroads. I had come south and now would be headed west into the mountains on the 7:50 PM train. Two hours later, making better time than expected, I got off the westbound train in Tom’s hometown, full of thoughts of him, and stepped onto the empty platform.
“Bells rang, sharp and crisp in the icy night air. They were lovely, pure, and clear, not smothered by the sounds of a city that never slept. A girl of the suburbs and city life who had never known the quiet of small towns and the country, as the train I’d been on pulled away and its sound receded, I listened to them in the stillness.
“Night had fallen, but there was enough light from the streetlight on the corner to see the snowflakes. Making their slow way to the ground, adding to the drift in the lee of the concrete base of the bench I sat upon. The wind couldn’t catch them there and cast them away. The small pile was its own landscape; I saw a mountain slope topped with bare, gray stone. Then a bed of white snowflake-crafted linen flowed from shadow into the light with only a glint showing it was not fabric. It ended at the heels of my scuffed boots.
“It was a moment of self-reflection I’d never experienced. I felt the cold that came around the edges of the framework of who I was inside. Though 20 years old, I still had a scared child’s fear of the unknown. I loved Tom but had never traveled so far alone and soon would be surrounded by people I did not know. I shivered as the wind picked up and wished I’d worn a scarf as the icy gust feathered my hair and peeked down the collar of my jacket. As I rose to go inside and wait for Tom to pick me up, I tried to smooth my hair. I checked my watch; he should be along shortly.
“Then the wind carried more than the sound of bells. Voices. I turned toward the singing and followed it around the station’s corner that faced a park and off to the right, the beginning of the town’s main street. As my train pulled in, I hadn’t noticed the glow of the small group of people holding candles near what appeared to be caves that peppered the snow-covered hills surrounding this small town and hugged the station and park on two sides. The plumes of their breath accompanied each verse. The music touched me, pushing aside the coldness of the current of air that brought it.
“I listened and was warmed by their voices and the song’s message. It made me believe the things ahead in my life—ones I could never know would happen, though they might challenge me—could become blessings. It made me think of how the story of a baby boy, born to follow the path meant for him, had changed billions of lives over two thousand years. I’d not been raised religious, but in the words and beauty of the song, I found peace and hope for a purposeful life, too.
“I had bent to pick up my bag and turned to go inside, and there was Tom. A dusting of snowflakes sprinkled his dark, wavy hair, and his smile caught the light from the Christmas-ribboned lamppost above us. He lifted me, twirled, and gave me a quick kiss as he set me on my feet again–”
“I was stronger back then…” The man behind the steering wheel laughed.
I turned from facing the back seat to glance at Tom sitting next to me. Much stouter and gray-haired—just like me—the lights of cars passing in the opposite direction shining through the windshield showed the lines on his face. I smiled at him and felt a touch on my shoulder. I looked back at Cassidy, my youngest granddaughter, who had leaned forward. Twelve years old and still full of questions, she had asked me to tell her about when her grandfather and I were young.
“I love how you tell stories, Grandma! So, that was your first Christmas with Grandpa?” She had just made her first trip to visit us in the country for the holidays since we had retired and looked so much like her mother, sitting next to her, had at her age.
“It was my second,” I brushed a wavy lock of dark hair from her face, “but the first real one. It was the one that taught me the holidays mean so much more than big city decorations, parades, and shopping.” I reached for her hand. “And we don’t always know how life will turn out, so it’s important to have faith and a purpose.” I squeezed it and let go so she could sit back.
At the stoplight, Tom turned to Cassidy. “But there’s a part of it about gifts, too.” He reached over, took my hand, and brought it up to kiss and hold to his cheek. “Your grandmother’s the best Christmas present I ever got!”
“Do you remember the song, Grandma?” Cassidy asked as the light turned green, and we moved.
I saw the sign, only five miles from home, and looked at Tom as he slowed for the turn. To me… he was still the young man who lifted and swung me on that train station platform decades ago. “What, honey?” I shifted in my seat to face her.
“The candle song… the one the people holding the candles were singing. Do you remember it?”
My memory traveled back to that moment when my young girl’s mind was full of love, all awhirl about the future, and how hearing the song settled my heart and soul. “Yes, sweetie… it goes like this….”
# # #
Note from Dennis:
My daughter Cassidy came to my study one December weekend morning with her younger sisters, Amelia and Bonnie, in tow. She asked: “Dad, have you heard this song?” I put down my writing pad and took her phone, turning it sideways to play the video. When the song ended, I returned it, telling her, “That’s beautiful!”
Now, my girl Cassidy has possibly the hugest, most loving heart of anyone I know (which she gets from her mother). Her greatest reward is when she does something for others that touches them, making them smile or happy. The song—the music video ‘Mary, Did You Know?’ by Pentatonix—she had just introduced me to did. I went to Amazon Music and bought it, adding it to our library. Then, with the song playing softly on the Bluetooth speaker beside me, I set aside what I had been working on and wrote the story you just read for Cassidy… and for you, too.
REMEMBERING Paule is the compelling story of two friends, novelist Paule Marshall and folklorist and literary critic Daryl Cumber Dance, both committed truth-tellers, teachers, cultural critics, writers, and activists who wielded their pens to revolutionize their literary world. Marshall is often hailed as the matriarch of the Black Women’s Literary Renaissance. Her Brown Girl, Brownstones signaled a new day in African Diasporic women’s writing. Daryl Dance has been dubbed ‘the Dean of American folklore’ for her work in African American and Jamaican folklore.
About the Author
Daryl Cumber Dance has achieved renown for her classic studies and collections such as Shuckin’ and Jivin’: Folklore from Contemporary Black Americans; Folklore from Contemporary Jamaicans; Long Gone: The Mecklenburg Six and the Theme of Escape in Black Folklore; Fifty Caribbean Writers: A Bio-Bibliographical and Critical Sourcebook; New World Adams: Conversations with Contemporary West Indian Writers; Honey, Hush! An Anthology of African American Women’s Humor; The Lineage of Abraham: The Biography of a Free Black Family in Charles City, VA; From My People: 400 Years of African American Folklore; In Search of Annie Drew, the Mother, and Muse of Jamaica Kincaid; Here Am I: Miscellaneous Meanderings, Meditations, Memoirs, and Melodramas; and her fiction, Till Death Us Did Part: A Story of Four Widows and Land of the Free… Negroes.
From the perspective of a Black woman, Copeland reveals lessons about history, the invisibility of racism, and the insidiousness of prejudice and bias, all in just a weekly five-minute read. Revealed is a resource for those committed to better understanding racism, prejudice, and bias. This tool will aid those who have been through racial equity training and want to continue their learning journey in a structured, proactive way. Not only does it offer critical information, it prompts deep reflection and encourages action.
As noted social justice advocate Howard Ross said in the book’s Foreword:
“Each of the weekly ‘reads’ is, in and of itself, a lesson in our understanding of the dynamics of race. It calls for us to stop, listen, think, and digest in a way that the modern reader can easily absorb and get meaning from.”
About the Author
Tamara Lucas Copeland offers this about herself and racism: “As a Black woman with education and professional experience in public policy, how was it possible that I fully understood individual racism, prejudice, and bias but didn’t see structural racism and didn’t understand its perniciousness, depth, and impact? Because the system, the political, social, and cultural system of our country has been built on bias and racism from its inception.” Copeland wrote REVEALED to open the eyes of others and to prompt actions for racial justice.
Book Information
ISBN: 979-8-9860859-4-4 (Paperback)
Page Count: 223
Wholesale Orders: Organizations can place orders (at wholesale pricing) directly. See Book Orders for more information. Retail Order — Publisher List Price (prices may vary by bookseller): – eBook (at Amazon) $4.95 for a limited time. – Paperback $14.95 available for order at these and other bookseller websites:
Stories are windows into our past, our experiences, and our adventures.
Stories remind us—often vividly—of our emotions at points and places in our lives.
Stories are also an immersive view that can connect who we were with who we’ve become.
Our stories—maybe most importantly—are a means to share what we’ve learned with others.
But memories can fade. Details blur, memories get fuzzy, and before you know it, those incredibly sharp narratives that once inspired us—and could inspire others—become hazy. Those who have heard them… forget. Or, maybe worse than forgetting entirely, the stories told them change and deviate. The ‘center’ of them—the real story—no longer holds.
If they’re not written, they’ll slip away, lost to time like a whisper in the wind or the lightning moments of our life, never caught in a bottle for others to see. Or they’re presented in ways we would not recognize or are changed enough; we shake—would shake—our heads in consternation. Think about that in context: the importance of having our stories rendered accurately or the risk of having them mis-told by others.
Or they don’t get told at all.
Think about the countless tales that have vanished simply because they weren’t documented.
Think about legacy. Your parents’ or grandparents’ stories… the ones you wish you had written, saved as they were told. Maybe it’s that tale of their journey to a new country, or the hardships they overcame, their military service, their loves and losses, their jobs, their children—your parent(s) when they were young—all the events, small and large, that led to your existence. Those rich anecdotes from your grandparents’ youth, the adventures of your parents before they became ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’ or even your own escapades that happened before the digital age took over. These narratives hold immense value and connect us to our roots. They give us a sense of identity.
Those stories are threads woven through generations, binding families together in a rich tapestry of shared history. Your experiences, lessons, heartaches, and triumphs should be added … expanding the fabric of a family’s generational history.
Or maybe you’re the first. Either because your past has been lost to you by time and context. Or perhaps—because of circumstances—through choice or because of hazard, you’ve no desire to connect with it. So, your life becomes the stuff—your distinct past, present, and thoughts about the future—to write upon a new clean sheet of paper. For yourself and the family you’ve formed.
Imagine the impact.
Writing these stories down isn’t just about preserving them for posterity; it’s about gifting your family with a piece of their history. Once written, they are like a time machine. Picture your kids, grandkids, and even their grandkids reading your words and getting a front-row seat to your life’s journey and—if you’re writing includes them—stories of others in the family. They’ll get to know you not just as ‘grandma’ or ‘grandpa’ but as someone with a unique story that shaped their beginnings.
What if your experiences could offer a fresh perspective, challenge conventional wisdom, or simply make someone smile on a tough day?
What if you’re the unsung hero of a tale that could inspire, motivate, or bring joy to others?
We all have stories like that. Sometimes, they’re known… sometimes, they’re waiting to be discovered beneath the surface of our memories.
Writing your story might feel daunting at first. You might think, “Who’d want to read about my life?” But authenticity is magnetic. People crave real, genuine stories. Your story might resonate with someone going through a similar situation, guide someone lost in life’s labyrinth, or serve as a source of entertainment and connection.
Your story matters; writing it to completion is a gift to yourself and others, including future generations. It’s a chance to leave a legacy that uplifts, enlightens, and links people.
Writing it can be cathartic, a way to make sense of your journey and even find closure where needed. It’s like having a heart-to-heart conversation with yourself, processing emotions, and finding meaning. Leaving behind a legacy that’s more profound than any material possession.
So grab that pen or keyboard and start jotting down your adventures, musings, and what’s in your heart. Write it down or have it written. Because The Greatest Story Never Told… well, that could be yours… if you don’t.
“The palest ink is better than the best memory.” –Chinese Proverb
* * *
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