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‘Tsunami Essentials’: Some Things Can’t Be Replaced

I shot out of bed like a jack-in-the-box.  The jangling phone jolted me out of a deep sleep like a jackhammer biting a sidewalk.  It was 6:36 a.m. on March 11.

“Just let the answering machine get it,” husband Chris mumbled.  Something told me otherwise. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver with thoughts of throttling whoever was on the other end.

“Mom?”   I recognized son Sam’s voice.  “Mom!” he hollered again.  “Um… uh… what’s up, Sam?”

Get outta the house, now!

“You gotta get outta the house, now!”  Sam spent the night at a friend’s house and was phoning to tell us that a tsunami was imminent due to a huge earthquake in Japan.

I was wide awake in a heartbeat.  “What are you talking about?”

I vaguely recalled Chris mentioning something about a major earthquake in Japan as he crept into bed the night before, but didn’t give it much thought.  Then I remembered.  We live on the coast of Washington State, a short walk from the water.  Blue and white “Tsunami Evacuation Route” signs pepper the highways like chiles in salsa.  Like most people, I never paid them much attention.  Until March 11.

The first wave

“The first wave is supposed to hit just after 7:00 a.m.” Sam said.  He and I conferred on a future meeting site and hung up.  The entire conversation lasted less than a minute.  I jostled Chris awake, ran upstairs to wake up sons Josiah (11) and Nathan (17), and flew into the kitchen.  We had less than 20 minutes to get out.

Whether the tsunami alert was “for real” or not wasn’t open to debate.  If it wasn’t and we evacuated, then it was “no harm, no foul” and little more than a delayed start to the school day.  But if it was and we ignored it?  We live just a few miles off the infamous Cascadia Subduction Zone.  We weren’t going to risk it.

“Shall we take one car or two?” I queried Chris.

“Better take both.”

Dancing Through Your Head

“Why?”  I was thinking about gas prices.  Funny the things the dance through your head under pressure.  “Because if a tsunami does hit, we’ll lose one.” Chris said.  “Besides, we need both cars so you can take the dog.”

Oh, yeah.  The dog.

Chris tuned in the local news as he threw on his clothes.   We sped around the house, assembling “essentials.”  But what’s “essential” in an emergency?

What should I take?

“Mom, what should I take?” Josiah appeared in the kitchen looking pale.  My mind raced:  What do you take – and for how long?  A day or two?  A week?  A month?  Deep breaths.  Calm down.  Think.  Pray.

Light and fast headed the list.  I directed the boys to quickly pack a couple changes of clothes and any valuables they could fit in their pockets. Josiah brought his sleeping bag.  “Don’t bother with suitcases” I said, tossing plastic grocery bags.  “Use these.  And make sure you grab a jacket with a hood” I added as rain lanced leaden skies.

Besides toiletries, I threw together a couple T-shirts, a sweatshirt, and jeans.  I also tossed soap, shampoo, toothpaste and brush in one bag and a washcloth and towels and the dog’s leash and bowl in another.  Canned goods.  A twelve-pack of toilet paper.  Josiah’s pocketknife and compass.  Paper plates and plastic utensils. (We forgot the hand sanitizer, prescription meds and can opener.)  Nathan dashed to the basement for bottled water, extra blankets, the cooler, First Aid gear and our “emergency kit” which we put together when we lived in southern California, the land of earthquakes.  The four of us and the dog were packed and out the door in 15 minutes.

Careening in a crunch

Curious the things that careen through one’s mind in a crunch.  What should we bring?  What to leave behind?  Items that were too heavy or too big to bring were no-brainers.  But what about family photos?  The hundreds of books in our personal library?  My mom’s silver service?  The emerald earrings Chris gave me for our twenty-fifth anniversary?  Sam’s baseball trophies?  Nathan’s cross-country award?  Shall I call my step-mom and sister in San Diego?  Do we turn off the breaker box?  Shut off the main gas valve?

Plan B?

One thing we hadn’t counted on as we charged out of town was that the gates to the local cemetery, the highest site in town, might be locked.  They were.  Plan B?  Backtrack and hightail it inland to the local gun club, where we are members.  It’s several miles inland at a slight elevation.  The clubhouse itself abuts a hefty hill.  No water is available, but it offers a sturdy roof, a wood-burning stove and enough firewood to last for weeks.  Chris unlocked the gate.  Our breath exhaled in frosty plumes as we entered the clubhouse and unloaded “breakfast:” hard-boiled eggs, cheese sticks and chocolate chip cookies.

I wondered what the people of Japan might eat next, and when.  What “essentials” did they pack?  What or whom was left behind?

Chris got a fire going and we huddled around the wood stove as the dog flopped on the floor at our feet.  We monitored the local news by radio and then phoned the Emergency Management people who indicated an “all clear.”

As it turned out, our tsunami sprint was much ado about nothing.  We returned home about 90 minutes after our mad dash out, feeling a bit sheepish.  Most of our neighbors never even budged.  “Consider this a practice run,” Chris chirped as we unloaded and went inside to brush our teeth.

What can’t be replaced

Viewing tsunami footage later, we tried to wrap our heads around the devastation.  And couldn’t.  We also decided that when it comes to tsunami alerts, discretion is the better part of valor, and some things matter more than others.  At crunch time we grabbed each other, the dog, favorite books, hastily packed bags, food and water.  I also snatched our wedding album, the kids’ baby books and photos of the grandparents.  Some things can’t be replaced.


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Write Away: Attitude (Part 1 of 5)

“Everywhere I have sought rest and not found it, except sitting in a corner by myself with a book”

– Thomas a Kempis

Most people think “writer” is a noun and “writing” is a verb.  Not quite.  Writing is a talent, a skill.  Writing well is a gift.  But it’s also a calling, every bit as much of a calling as is the “call” to be a pastor, missionary, doctor, lawyer, butcher, baker, or candlestick maker.  What kind of “calling” is writing – and how do you know if you have it?  Let’s start with some of the differences between “Writer Wannabees” and “Real Writers.”

It’s not unusual for Writer Wannabees to fancy themselves the Real Deal.  Lord love ‘em, these are the folks who dabble in, play at, or “write” bi-annually, “whether they need to or not.”  Their version of “writer” is anyone who can bang out a few semi-coherent sentences or pages to wow the fam or undiscriminating friends and associates.  Some think their attempt at cranking out the next great American novel earns them the appellation.  Or their degree in English.  Or landing a book contract.  Or getting published.

I beg to differ.

Call me old-fashioned, but my version of Real Writer – as opposed to hobbyists or the occasional, haphazard Writer Wannabee – doesn’t have so much to do with talent as it does inspiration, motivation, and attitude.

More later, so stay tuned.

***

A Little Lowder * Twitter * Facebook


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History Meets Humor in “That’s Amore!” (Some ‘good eats,’ too!)

That's Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles

“I’m not Italian, but my Uncle Joe Olivieri was – and how” says award-winning author Kristine Lowder, of her late uncle’s memoirs, That’s Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles. Says Lowder, who edited and published the Olivieri manuscript in collaboration with family, “That’s Amore! is the story of an ‘ordinary’ Italian family in an extraordinary era, told by an extraordinary man.”

Brimming with historical anecdotes and tongue-in-cheek mischief, Life With sweeps the dust off a bygone era with accounts of Ellis Island immigration, grape buying excursions, an old-fashioned Italian wedding, an exploding back porch, mora games, skate keys, godparents and work at the “Dodgemaina” auto plant in Detroit, Michigan. Told in Joe Olivieri’s own words, “Life With” includes a delightful “you are there” stroll down his beloved Belvidere Street and a “meet and greet” with the neighbors – “one of whom was my Dad” – says editor Kristine Lowder, the author’s niece. Features more than a dozen recipes from the family kitchen.

That’s Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother and Uncles opens in Abruzzi, Italy in 1890 and reveals a rare and winsome look at a close-knit family through World War I, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, meat rationing and World War II, the turbulent sixties and beyond. This candid, snug memoir features a unique blend of humor and pathos flavored with warmth, kindness and a generous dose of familial love.  Lowder adds, “Editing Joe Olivieri’s manuscript and preparing it for publication was a joy, as was my uncle. After reading his exuberant, engaging memoir, I’m putting in for honorary paisanship!”

That’s Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother and Uncles is available in both paperback and as a digital download from Amazon.com.

About Kristine Lowder

An independent writing professional and creative consultant, Kristine Lowder is a multi-published author specializing in creative non-fiction, inspirational fiction and humor. Her byline has appeared in hundreds of publications as well as several anthologies including Whispers of Inspiration, Our Fathers Who Art in Heaven, and A Pixel-Perfect Christmas.  She’s authored 12 books to date and is a frequent contributor to numerous ezines and publications including Mutuality, A Long Story Short, FaithtoWrite, Heartwarmers and JournEzine.


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Laughing All the Way: 10 Tips for the Hilarity Highway

Being a freelance humorist has its benefits.  You can set your own schedule, show up for work in your jammies, or hammer down on raspberry white chocolate cheesecake whenever your feel like it.  One of the biggest perks of being your own boss – besides firing and rehiring yourself at will – is that you choose your own topics.  Today it’s humorous travel writing.

If you’re wondering how to connect travel and humor, you haven’t seen enough of Clark Griswold.  Let me illustrate with Easter on the O.P.  This delightful piece is an incredibly compelling narrative about a family hike on the Olympic Peninsula (excerpted from my soon-to-be bestseller, how I got to be 50 and other atrocities):

“The Heather Park-Lake Angeles Loop Trail is one of the premier day hikes on the Olympic Peninsula” gushes our handy-dandy trail guide.  “You’ll climb from deep forest to airy cliffs and pass a sapphire lake tucked in a snowy cirque.”

Doesn’t that sound delicious?  They left out the part about a trail so steep you have to be part mountain goat to navigate, sluicing down ice-clogged creeks, and traipsing through every type of debris, tangle foot and treacherous traipse known to humanity.

We strike out on this “premier day hike” and, Energizer-Bunny like, keep going and going and … Scrambling over downed logs.  Skittering over snow.  Crossing streams on foot bridges so narrow the chipmunks have to scamper sideways.

“Buck up, kids,” Snuggle Bunny chirps.  “It could be worse.  At least we have the trail all to ourselves.”

Of course we do.  Everyone with brains stayed home.

Temperatures are dropping by the minute.  Our breath exhales in frosty plumes.  The higher we climb, the colder it gets.

“I can’t feel my toes,” son Josiah whines.  “I can’t feel my nose,” complains Sam the other son.  We bribe them with Gatorade and enough Ho-Hos to buy stock in Hostess.

“Not to worry, kids.  Ya gotta love the great outdoors,” I huff and puff.  “Besides, it’s all part of the adventure.”

“Yeah, and it could be worse,” Snuggles chimes in cheerfully.  “Let’s be thankful it’s not snowing.”

Ten minutes later: it’s snowing.  And I don’t mean the light, feathery, wuss snow.  I’m talking the Real Deal.  Like someone just dumped a giant package of powdered sugar out of the sky. We slog on, punching through hip-deep drifts and floundering through terrain that’d give a Yetti cause for pause.

Is this place great, or what?

That’s just for starters.  With a little curmudgeonly creativity, you can turn any outdoor expedition into sheer misery, too.  Here are ten tips to take on the hilarity highway:

1.                  Start strong. Don’t expect your audience to stay with you into the backstretch if you haven’t corralled ‘em at the starting gate.  You get a nano-second to saddle an editor’s interest, spur them into the next paragraph and gallop to the finish like Secretariat.  Take that bit in your teeth and surge ahead strong.

2.                  Be unique. No one wants to read the millionth version of “It was a dark and stormy night.”  Even if it was.  Come up with something new.  Even if it kills you.  This is especially tricky if you’re writing about a well-worn tourist spot that hasn’t seen a drop in visitors since before the Ark landed.  So either make funeral arrangements now, or see Tip #3:

3.                  Keep it fresh. Readers gag on pre-chewed leftovers.  Angle for a unique angle.  Writing about the Grand Canyon?  Avoid words like “stunning,” “spectacular” and “gorgeous.”  They taste like milk that’s been left out since last Christmas.

4.                  Keep it original. Related to the brilliant tip above, don’t rehash the geology, geography, or donkey trails at the Grand Canyon.  Half the population of the Free World has beaten you to it.  Write about what happened when grandpa leaned over the railing for that chipmunk photo…

5.                  Select your target audience. Ask, “Who’s my main audience?  How do I want them to react to this piece?  What experience or expertise can I offer that will connect with my readers?”  Direct your writing toward a specific target rather than the entire world.

6.                  If you can’t or won’t target a specific audience for your next riotous romp, do what political pollsters do: shoot the stuffin’ out of everyone.  You’re bound to hit something.  (If you’re lucky, you might put a campaign commercial out of our misery.)

7.                  Write what you know or have experienced first-hand. If you’re a childless senior, writing trail tips for parents of toddlers may not be your best bet.  If you’ve never ventured south of the Mason-Dixon line, you may want to forego that piece on the best B&B in Cajun country or the tastiest hush puppies in Atlanta.

8.                  Know your potential publisher. Study their product.  What kind of tone, style, and topics find their way into print?  Make sure you pitch the right article to the right publisher.  Trotting out Hamlet and Ophelia for a droll stroll through Grit and Grunge magazine may not be a great idea.

9.                  Submission guidelines are road maps.  Follow them to the letter. If a 700 word maximum, double-spaced, sent in the body of an email is specified, DO NOT submit a 5,000 word, single-spaced magnum opus as an attachment and stalk off in a blue funk when it’s rejected.

10.              Finish well. When wrapping up your latest masterpiece, don’t just stop.  This leaves readers with concussions.  They feel like they’ve been dropped on their heads.  Close any loops and swoop onto the tarmac with a smooth landing, not one that requires a crash truck.

When it comes to travel writing, tired tedium is worse than crossing the English Channel without your Dramamine.  So ride that funny bone until it laughs out loud. Trust me, it’s a lot more fun than firing yourself.

A Little Lowder * Twitter * Facebook

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Up next:

A five-part mini-series: Write Away…


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Author Interview

50 CoverRead my recent author interview by Cathy Stucker of Selling Books.  The focus is my latest title, how i got to be 50 and other atrocities: a baby boomer reflects on the boom and other splashes of everyday life.

How i got to be 50 is a light-hearted, yet insightful romp through my three most important areas in life: Family, Friends, and Faith. The ‘perfect reader’ is anyone who’s approaching middle-age, is well past it, or is convinced it could never happen to them.
Find out more at the Living Stones Fellowship Bookstore or at Amazon.com.


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“Marley & Me”: More Than a ‘Dog Story’

Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog

By John Grogran

Harper Collins, 2005

ISN: 13: 978-0-06-123822-2

I confess.  I’m a dyed-in-the-Alpo, no-bones-about-it, unabashed, bonafide dog lover, but even feline fans will appreciate John Grogan’s Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog.  An eloquent look at a “wondrously neurotic dog” and “what really matters in life,” this engaging, insightful epic recounts the zany escapades of a ninety-seven pound yellow Labrador retriever who “crashed through life with a gusto often associated with natural disasters” and the humans who loved him.

Marley begins when newlyweds John and Jen Grogan move to South Florida and begin budding careers as journalists at competing newspapers.  An adorable “clearance puppy”  turns their lives inside out and upside down for thirteen roaring, soaring, raucous, wonderful years – as only a “loopy” dog can.

A richly textured three-dimensional portrait of family life and love, Marley avoids maudlin sentimentality while offering honest “slice of life” vignettes to which anyone relate.  It’s also wickedly funny.  Catapult-like, this wild ride with “the world’s worst dog” races through mango snacks, gold necklace “dessert,” poodle distractions, drywall destruction, thunder phobias, ejection from obedience school, mishaps at Dog Beach, to loss, disappointment, kids and sleep deprivation, a scream in the night, job changes, moves, and the kind of unwavering loyalty, devotion, and crazy love that’s unique to canines.

Marley & Me is more than a “dog story.”  Grogan’s nimble pacing, pithy observations and quirky chronicling evoke both laugh-out-loud mirth and hand-me-another-tissue sniffles.  Marley makes you want to run, not walk, to the nearest mutt and hug him or her for dear life.

Speaking of which, Grogan’s first-person narrative runs the gamut of “everyday life” emotions: appreciation, apprehension, horror, humiliation, unbridled glee, intense sorrow, exasperation, exhaustion, effervescence and ebullience.  Chapters include And Puppy Makes Three, A Battle of Wills, The Things He Ate,  In the Land of Bocahontas, alfresco Dining, Lightning Strikes, The Big Meadow and Beneath the Cherry Tree.   A special bonus is a reprint of Grogan’s January 6, 2004 column about Marley from the Philadelphia Inquirer, Saying Farewell to a Faithful Pal, that inspired the book (bring Kleenex).

Nuts as Marley is, we get the feeling that the world would be a better place if more humans lived and loved like this crazy yellow dog.  Indeed, Marley and Me leaves no doubt as to why dogs, not cats, are tagged as “man’s best friend.”  By the end of the book you’ll feel like you’ve known the Grogans for years, and that Marley was your dog, too.  (Have I told you about Eve, our mellow yellow Lab? A Marley polar-opposite, Eve is by far and away the smartest member of our family.)

Even cat lovers will get this one.  Four stars (for occasional language, adult themes.)

***

Coming up:

Laughing All the Way: 10 Tips for the Hilarity Highway and a five-part mini-series: Write Away…


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“That’s Amore! Life With an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles”

Somehow, somewhere, some unknown number of years ago, Joseph B. Olivieri, Sr. prefaced an unpublished manuscript with:

“This book is being written for my children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces who never knew their grandparents and their uncles.”

I am one of those nieces.  And I really should clean out my filing cabinet more often.

I received the unpublished manuscript for Life with an Italian Father, Mother, and Uncles from my step-mom, who mailed it to me shortly after my father passed away in 2003.  I gave the mss. a quick, cursory skim, stashed it away and promptly forgot about it until just recently.[1] I was looking for something else in my personal “archaeological dig” (aka: The Dreaded Filing Cabinet) when I noticed an oversized manila envelope wedged in the back.  Curious, I hauled it out, blew off the dust, opened it, and found myself instantly transported back some forty years or so to Michigan and the Olivieri home.

You see, Joseph Olivieri, Sr. was my uncle.  He married my Dad’s sister, Charlotte.  Their three kids are my cousins.  I only met Uncle Joe once, during my one and only visit to Michigan in the 1960s.[2] I was very young and don’t remember much.  What I do remember about my Uncle Joe:

1) He was as bald as a billiard ball

2) He wore glasses and seemed as tall as a giant (everyone looks like a giant when you’re six years old)

3) He was always smiling or laughing

4) The smells from the Olivieri kitchen were divine, and

5) there was something about… smoking a cigar.

If only I’d taken better notes!

Fortunately, Uncle Joe did.  What I found in that dusty manila envelope was nearly one hundred single-spaced, type-written pages of his unpublished memoirs.  The editor in me danced a jig.  A word about that is in order.

When working on an edit, I usually warm up the ‘ole red pen or pencil, roll up my sleeves and bleed red ink all over dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, incorrect usage and the like.   It may sound corny, but I just couldn’t do it this time.  The closest I got was adding “That’s Amore!” to the title, because it seemed appropriate and a good fit.  But there was something about holding my uncle’s manuscript that was like holding his hand.  I couldn’t bear to slash any more red ink anywhere.[3] It seemed sacrilegious.  So I refrained.  The editing and keyboarding process are “speeding” along like a gimpy snail on crutches mired in a molasses factory, but it seems the respectful thing to do.  It also means only minor edits and reformatting for publication by yours truly.

My Uncle Joe passed away several years ago.  My Aunt Charlotte continues to reside in Michigan.  Unfortunately, the manuscript is undated.  Although there is no way of pinpointing its date of origin, the paper and type font used suggest it was printed off a 1980s-vintage Macintosh computer.  Whatever the date or age of the manuscript, I’m working on wrapping up my Uncle Joe’s story, in his words.  Que bella!

[1] I am still kicking myself for not giving this manuscript more attention sooner.  But  as they say, “better late than never.”

[2] I’d give you an exact date if I could, but I can’t remember it.  Possibly 1967.

[3] In truth, Joe’s original manuscript is so well-written that the editorial attention required is minimal.

***

Next up: Seven Deadly Social Media Sins


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“Walk the Line” is a Keeper

I’m not what you’d call a “country music fan.”  At least I wasn’t until last week, when I saw Walk the Line (20th Century Fox, 2005) with the fam.   Line is the true story of country music legends Johnny Cash (Joaquin Phoenix) and June Carter Cash (Reese Witherspoon).  It’s a remarkable film.

Phoenix turns in a brilliant performance of the complicated, multi-faceted ‘Man in Black’ who finally turns his life around with the help of June Carter.  In an extraordinary thespian tour de force, Phoenix captures Cash’s driving “freight train” voice with a steely intensity that should’ve earned him a Best Actor Oscar.  He  has Cash’s unique style, mannerisms, posture, gestures and facial expressions down so well, it’s like looking at Johnny in a mirror.  Witherspoon is equally as impressive as the sassy, spunky Carter.  Both do their own singing.

In an era of car crashes, computer-generated graphics, earsplitting soundtracks or cheap theatrical gimmicks to draw in audiences, character-driven movies of this quality are as rare as the Hope diamond.  Walk the Line walks the extra mile – several, in fact – and relies on rich, three-dimensional characterizations, superb storytelling, great performances and dramatic conflict – both external and internal – to ably round out this inspiring story of an American icon.   “I know that one!” tunes like Folsom Prison Blues, Jackson, I Got Stripes and Ring of Fire are peppered throughout.  So are “cameo appearances” by “Jerry Lee Lewis”, “Waylon Jennings”, “Roy Orbison”, and “Elvis”.

Why it took me five+ years to discover this gem, I don’t know.  But “better late than never.”  Even my teenagers enjoyed Walk the Line (high praise indeed).

Any way you run it, Walk is a keeper.  It may even convert you into a country music fan.  Just don’t ask for my copy of It Ain’t Me, Babe.  I ain’t sharin’.

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Up next: That’s Amore! and Seven Deadly Social Media Sins