Several years ago, my husband and sons started making their own beer. Over time the process has grown from a Saturday afternoon event into a bit of an adventure.
It started out as a shared experiment between father and sons; a time to get together, to try out something new and to share stories the way only men who are more alike than different can do. And recently our son-in-law and soon to be daughters-in-law have joined in the brewing team too.
These new characters have made the experience that much richer for everyone. New beer recipes have been created, a few stolen from the experts, and others borrowed from the prescriptions of long ago. In short, they’re all working together to make memories, stories to tell their children and recollections to hold dear to their hearts when life moves on.
Oh, and they are also brewing some pretty fabulous and tasty beer along the way. Gathering around boiling pots of barley, hops, water, yeast and other “secret” ingredients, the team works together to create some pretty memorable ale. It’s a judgment free zone where everyone is encouraged to just be themselves. And once the beer has been created, it rests for a while in tubs in our garage while the creators develop unique labels to proudly paste on each capped bottle at just the right time.
And me? I am the proud recorder of all that happens in this tight circle of love. I get to watch, to admire, and to share our life stories as another brew is born while I’m enjoying a glass of wine. Here’s hoping they’ll learn how to make that next!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
My husband and I went driving through the hills of Palos Verdes last Sunday afternoon. He drives a too tiny for me sports car that he absolutely loves and that I find rather confining. It was a beautiful day outside. The California coastal skies were clear. The ocean waves were gentle and incredibly tempting. For October, it was surprising just how many people were still enjoying our ocean waters.
But the air was overly warm and all I really wanted to do that particular Sunday was to stay inside with a good book. I had just finished writing my latest book and was well into the editing process and I was pretty sick of the whole thing. I still had not come up with a title, although there were several roaming randomly throughout my brain.
As much as I knew that I had work to do, I had grown tired of correcting punctuation marks and hunting for run on sentences. And so, really and truly, the only thing I wanted to do was to read my copy of Mary Higgins Clark & Alafair Burke – You Don’t Own Me. I had started it over a month ago and had just not found the time to get further into it. It had waited patiently for me on my desk for over a month.
So my husband convinced me that the best way to get my book fully edited was to take a ride, clear my head and find something else to think about. “You’ll be sharper after you spend some time away,” he said, not really caring about my head but more about having company on his ride past the beach and through the still green hills.
We started our journey off with me offering up potential titles for my book and him coming up with sillier versions to distract me. To my surprise, he also came up with a few good ones. I was just about to launch into a discussion of why I might actually like his last suggested title when a strange man in a most unusual white car drove into the lane next to us. Our car being a lower to the ground Pontiac Solstice, I found myself having to look upward at the driver. The man, apparently aware of my interest, pivoted his gaze down on me, tipped his hat, smiled and promptly drove off.
“What an interesting guy,” I said. “I love his fedora hat (it was a strange shade of blue), but what the heck is he driving?” I asked my husband, who is well versed in the automobile world and knows far more about cars than I could ever hope for.
“A Morris Minor. A 1950 something model, I think,” he said.
Hitting the gas, while hoping to avoid a P.V. cop or two, my husband took off after the beautifully polished white car. “It’s a British made car. Came out after the war. Think it’s named after the guy who designed it.” (See, I told you he knows a lot about cars!)
“That car is older than me!” I said. “And the guy driving it looked like he could be the original owner.” Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a little, but the gentleman did look really old and his style of dress did not speak of Southern California. I think he might even have been wearing tweed on a ninety degree day!
We followed the car and the interesting character chauffeuring it through the hills for a few more minutes before the man turned off on a side street and we lost him. But in that short time, the infamous Morris Minor driver was tattooed on my brain. My husband and I drove home and I raced to my computer to learn all I could about the car I’d just seen.
A few minutes later, my husband stuck his head in my office door and said, “You need to include that guy in one of your books. Stetson…”
“What about Stetson?” I asked.
“That’s what you should call him.”
And so I will. The man in the blue Fedora, wearing tweed and drive a 1950 something Morris Minor car. Hmm, can’t wait to start. And, of course, I’ll name him Stetson.
Last night I was what you might call, a frustrated night owl. I flattened the candle, hoping to finish the first draft of my latest book. I worked until my eyes refused to focus and my butt hurt from sitting so long and still I pushed on. Although I was fairly pleased with the results, my story remained sadly incomplete. Oh, I knew the ending I wanted to attain; I just wasn’t sure which road to take to get it there. Somewhere around midnight, I started questioning my sanity, something I do far too often when I’m struggling with my writing. Provocative thoughts like why hadn’t I ever thought of making this book into a series sprang to life. Was it too late? Did I need to start over? Expand my characters? Was this book going to be a thrilling finale, or a brilliant beginning?
And then it happened; I got stuck in my own head and couldn’t get out! I felt like all of my imaginative juices had inexplicably dried up and I started freaking out. I mean like walking the floors, talking to myself freaking out. I have been working on this one story for such a long time as a seed of an idea finally grew into an actual story with characters, a setting and a plot I really like a lot. So getting stuck now made no sense at all and struggling any further seemed pointless, so I did what every unsure writer does – I went to bed.
The next morning found me in a fog, no closer to finding the clarity I needed to continue and with little desire to get to work. My only option was to strap on my headphones and my tennis shoes and head out for a long walk. Trying to pump a dry well of creativity is futile and adding in fatigue from a restless night just made things worse. Listening to the strains of Vivaldi, my mind blank, I wandered up and down the hills in search of who knew what. And then I found what I hadn’t realized I’d even been looking for; a trigger of inspiration.
I saw the faded paper sign hanging off an old tree that was a ways off the walking trail and swimming in a sea of ivy and I almost walked right past it. Fortunately, something fateful drew me back to the tall Eucalyptus tree and the modeled piece of white paper tied around its trunk. The words Lost & Found were barely visible, written in faded black marker pen. Some of the letters were transparent, bleached by the sun or washed away by the heavy ocean dew, proof that the announcement had hung there for a while at least. What made the sign even more unusual was the pair of glasses, reading glasses I’d guess, sticking through two paper punched holes, just waiting for a passerby to notice.
At first, I walked away smiling at the strange sight. But my curiosity soon got the better of me and I found myself returning for a second peek. Looking at the tortoise shelled frames, I wondered, had an older gentleman dropped them? They looked like a man’s pair of glasses to me. How was he coping with the loss? Was his wife nagging him to stop complaining and go to the drugstore to pick up another pair or had he silently battled his inability to read without his plastic framed friends? And what lovely person had discovered the glasses and then gone to all the effort to create a sign, attach the glasses and post it where walkers might see?
Within moments my synapses were on fire, creating a scenario for a story I couldn’t wait to get home and write. I was humming with excitement and ready to go. My creativity was back and I silently thanked the angel who had put that sign in my way. It took me another thirty minutes for me to walk home and without even realizing that I had, I created the conclusion for my other book, the one I had been struggling with before my morning walk. Those glasses clarified my options and offered me the vision I needed to complete my story without ever leaving the tree.
I think I’ll take a walk past the Eucalyptus tree tomorrow to see if anyone has claimed the lenses. Or better yet, I think I’ll start chapter two of my next story, The Sightless Stranger about a man who lost his way.
Stay Healthy and Happy!
I read this quote in Daily Inspirational Quotes the other day and it made me think…
Don’t write your name on the sand, waves will wash it away.
Don’t write your name in the sky, the wind may blow it away.
Write your name inside the hearts of people you come in touch with. That’s where it will stay.
Maybe that’s what we’re all hoping to do each time we write a blog, an article or a book. We hope that somehow our words might just touch the heart of someone new and lighten their load, spark a curiosity or bring a hint of laughter. But the words in this particular quote felt incomplete and left me wanting more, so I added my own line. Perhaps you’d like to add one too?
Here’s mine – Write down your thoughts in stories that inspire, intrigue, probe, caress or challenge – a subtle reminder that we’re all on the same road, searching for our own enlightened serenity.
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