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I live in a small town. The 2023 census showed the population of our town at 1405. A good portion of those 1405 people are related to me. Our entire county, which stretches 1302 miles, only has a total population of just over 118,000. Let me put that in perspective for you. New York City covers a mere 468 miles and has 8.4 million people living within its borders. Growing up, I never really thought about the fact that I lived in a small town. It was all I knew. I thought everyone lived in an area like I did. But I grew up, started my career, stretched my wings, and met hundreds (maybe thousands?) of people. During that process, I learned that most people don’t live in a rural area like I do. Living in my little town is the exception to the rule. So, what does that mean? It means my day to day life looks very different from many of my friends and family who live in and near big cities. There are things here I see on the daily, that you aren’t going to see in places like NYC, Atlanta, SanDiego, Toronto, and many of the other cities I’ve traveled to. For instance, a few weeks ago I saw two young men driving lawn mowers across the parking lot of a Dollar General. In fact, I had to brake for them as I entered the parking lot. Were they mowing? Heck, no! The machines they were riding didn’t even have mower decks on them. They were clearly using the mowers as a mode of transportation. Speeding along at five miles per hour. They crossed the Dollar General parking lot and headed into the parking lot of an auto repair shop. Maybe they worked there and were reporting for their shift. Or perhaps they were journeying beyond that shop, cutting across parking lots instead of venturing out on the road. Speaking of roads, ours look a lot different than city highways. They’re single lanes running in each direction, some paved, but some just oil and stone. Some have painted lines, but many have none. Horse excrement frequently lines the edges of our roads, a decoration left behind courtesy of horses pulling Amish buggies. My husband calls it “Amish exhaust”. I love seeing the buggies, carrying a slew of little ones piled in with their parents; girls dressed in their bonnets and dresses, boys in their long-sleeve button-up shirts, suspenders, and straw hats. And the bare feet. The Amish must have the toughest feet this side of the Mississippi. When I visit the stands where they sell their wares, the women and children will come running across the lawn in their bare feet. I don’t think shoes are used until the snow falls. Amish homesteads aside, technology has finally reached our little neck of the woods, high-speed internet via cable arriving the past decade or so. I don’t miss the days when we had only satellite internet for high-speed options. Gone are the days of throwing on a coat and boots and wading through the snow with a broom to clean off the satellite dish to get a better signal. Technology has provided us with things like local Facebook community sites that share reports of missing chickens, goats, pigs, and most recently some wayward emus. Transportation is quite different in small towns too, even if you don’t count those utilizing lawn mowers to get around. I remember having a conversation with a coworker who lived in a metropolitan area, and my shock when they said they didn’t own a vehicle. Public transportation was so prevalent, and parking areas so limited where they were, that a car would be more of a burden than a blessing. I had trouble wrapping my mind around this. Where I live, we’re at the DMV the day we turn sixteen (driving age here), getting our learner’s permit. It’s a rite of passage. Although the reality is that many have driven tractors, UTVs, and such, long before they can legally drive a car or truck. Without wheels in this area, you’re literally going nowhere. Stores, entertainment options, medical facilities, restaurants, are all too far away to walk to. I mean, unless you head out the day before, have strong legs, lots of stamina, and no fear of total darkness. Yeah, no street lights in these parts. A lower residential footprint also means more wildlife. Like the frustrating wild turkey who keeps hammering its head into our basement window. We’ve tried convincing it that it's only seeing its reflection in the window, not another turkey, but alas he’s not getting our message. Driving in this area also requires the ability to see and miss the wildlife that shares our roads. I won’t go into gory detail, but I’ll tell you that unfortunately it’s been a banner year for roadkill. As I pause typing and look out my window, I see only trees, now dressed in their fiery fall colors, interspersed with evergreens. No buildings. No concrete. No highway noise. No people. It’s only solitude and peace. So I guess I’ll take living in a small town any day, I truly can’t imagine it any other way. Until next time, love on each other, be kind, and be thankful for all you have,
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I love to read. But sometimes, I just want to sit back and watch a story (TV episodes, movies, etc.) and be entertained without having to use my brain to comprehend the written word. Lately I’ve been looking for something to watch that will serve as a diversion. Something to take me out of reality and put me in a magical place, something so intriguing, and so far removed from reality that my brain will finally rest.
With that goal in mind, I decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies. Yes, I’d read the books, but it was quite some time ago. I’d never seen the movies. So, I set off to explore the wizarding world, to dive in and let the magic whisk me away. I watched the movies in chronological order. (I may have been looking for an escape, but I still have standards and couldn’t do something so brazen as watch them out of order). I ventured into watching the movies like it was my job. Come hell or high water, I was going to escape into relaxation. I dove in headfirst. Magic, check. Intrigue, check. Far removed from reality...well, maybe. As I watched the films, the relevance to reality kept popping into my mind. I tried to ignore it, because, well, escaping was the point after all. The common theme of all the movies really boiled down to good versus evil, light versus dark. And even though I’m just a mere Muggle (non-magical individual for anyone not familiar with Harry Potter), even I could see the parallels to the world around us. Innocent children going off to school to expand their minds, only to find evil in their midst. Granted, Hogwarts’ students had to worry about being petrified (like wood), facing Dementors and Death Eaters, rather than worrying about school shootings, bullying, etc., like students in the real world, but the parallels are there. Then we have the rich looking down their noses at poor families. In the Harry Potter movies, it’s people like the Malfoys making fun of the Weasleys, thinking they’re superior to others because they’re wealthy. Unfortunately, disdain based on a lower financial status is something we see all too often. People thinking less of their fellow humans because they are less wealthy. At least the Weasleys were magical. Unlike our world where the poor often have zero advantages. What about families not taking care of their own? I was sickened by the way the Dursley’s treated poor Harry. I know, I know, it’s fiction...but still. Sadly, it reminded me of several news reports where families favored select relatives while abusing others, for no apparent reason. Maybe they didn’t make the abused relative sleep in a cabinet under the stairs...but the evil many doled out to their unfavored family members was actually much worse. Overall, the good versus evil themes in the magical world of Harry Potter were too relatable to our world today. Even though I spent hours watching a world with wizards, witches, giants, magical owls, ghosts, goblins, and elves, ultimately, I couldn’t escape the human parallels to our world today. Art imitating life in a way that knotted my stomach instead of serving as the escape I was seeking. In closing, dear readers, I hope you all find a way to deal with the real world, find magical moments to bask in, and most importantly, continue to align yourself with the good while fighting against the evil that has become part of our everyday life. Take care and love each other. p.s. I did an online Hogwarts sorting experience and am happy to share I was assigned to the Gryffindor house. Phew! Trigger warning: My anti-hunting friends may want to avoid reading this post
I own a gun. I don’t take for granted my right to own one. I use my gun for hunting. It’s a .270 Winchester. I hunt white tail deer and I’ve killed a handful of bucks with it, but that doesn’t mean shooting them is easy. You don’t just point the gun and have the deer drop to the ground. You have to find the deer in your scope, aim, and shoot it in the right place so that the animal dies immediately. If you miss, you have to reject the shell, slam another bullet into the chamber, find where the deer went, aim and squeeze the trigger again. This process is not immediate. If I have to shoot more than one bullet it’s going to take some time and my aim has to be perfect. This week, another school shooting tragedy. I can’t help but wonder if that shooter, and all the mass shooters before him, had to use a manual (not automatic or semi-automatic) gun like mine, how many more lives would have been saved. How much more time would a manual gun give potential victims to run and hide, or a hero to tackle that person to the ground? Why does any civilian need an automatic weapon? What situation would require a non-military citizen of the United States to have an automatic weapon? Why are they even legal to sell and own? Why aren’t they banned? The sad truth is our children are being murdered by people carrying automatic/semi-automatic weapons. Innocent children. Parents kiss their babies goodbye, and send them off to school to gain an education. They might have said goodbye with the promise of pizza and game night that evening. Or maybe planned on cooking their favorite meal or taking them to practice after school. Instead they’re planning funerals. Picking out tiny caskets, trying to wrap their minds around how they will get through life without their little one, how they’ll get through the next day, the next hour, the next minute, the next breath, without them. This has got to stop. Gun reform shouldn’t be a red or blue issue, it shouldn’t be one staunch opinion or another based on your political party. Instead, we should all be banding together to stop the madness, the death and destruction. I challenge anyone to give me a good reason why they need an automatic (or semiautomatic) weapon. I guarantee I’ll call bullshit. Yes, as I said in the beginning, I appreciate my right to own a firearm. But since I’m not anticipating a zombie apocalypse, nor serving in the military, I don’t need anything beyond a manual gun. And I’m not sure why anyone else does either. Banning automatic and semi-automatic weapons feels like a no-brainer to me. Why isn’t there a bipartisan effort to ban those guns? If you own one, or plan to buy one, I implore you to think about how you would feel if somebody in your family was the victim of a mass shooting. I don’t care what your political beliefs are, or whether or not you’re a proud card-carrying member of the NRA. What I care about is human life and common sense tactics/legislation that we could enact to help protect those lives. This insanity has got to stop. We need to find ways to prevent our children from being slaughtered. Yes, mental health is an issue. Poor parenting may be an issue. While any issue that contributes to someone becoming a mass murderer is bad enough, allowing them to be armed with an automatic weapon is like throwing fuel on a fire. My apologies for the heavy topic of this month’s blog post, but it’s weighing heavy on my mind. If this article makes just one person stop and think, even just for a second about how they can help make the changes that are needed, to help us all get on the same page, then it was worth it. Till next time, dear readers. *Note: Before the haters start coming at me picking at the details, any mention of “automatic weapon” in this article also applies to “semi-automatic” weapons. Whether you can repeatedly pull the trigger and fire several rounds, or simply hold the trigger to do so, both result in mass loss of life when in the hands of a shooter intent on taking multiple lives. Want to be kicked in the teeth? Try being a writer. A writer who wants to be published traditionally. Because having this dream is like getting kicked in the teeth, punched in the face, or maybe having your heart carved out of your chest with a butter knife. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, getting traditionally published is not for the faint of heart.
I’m currently writing my fourth book. Each of the four books are Romantic Suspense/Thrillers. Albeit heavier on the suspense/thriller than the romance. All of them take place, at least in part, in a small town. They say “write what you know” and well, I know small towns. I’ve lived in one for over six decades. Don’t do the math! I know I’m older than dirt, no need to prove it mathematically. I’ve felt progressively better about each book I’ve written. The one I’m currently querying for, I felt damn good about. But since I just sent off my 131st query for that book, without a publishing contract, maybe it just sucks. However, in my heart, I know it doesn’t. I read. A lot. In fact, I’m currently reading my 16th book of 2025. So, I know what’s out there, and even if I didn’t write this book, I’d enjoy reading it. <Stops typing. Sits back and wonders if that sounds conceited. Decides “f*ck it” and carries on.> Writing a book is so much more than just sitting at a keyboard and letting your fingers magically dance across the keyboard, pumping out page after perfect page. Since the moment I had book three ready for querying, I’ve been simultaneously querying that book while writing book four. And the work that goes into getting a manuscript ready for querying is in itself a heavy lift. First of all, you have to write the damn book. A novel. We’re talking over 80,000 words and close to 300 pages. But that’s just the beginning. After you write the book, you have to edit it, then you throw yourself out there by giving it to readers for feedback. Then more edits based on that feedback. Then searching for the right agent to query - someone who represents your genre, someone who has a good track record, someone who will champion your work. Then you have to write your query letter, write a synopsis for the book, find comparable books (since agents ask for them), come up with a one line, or three-sentence, or one-paragraph pitch (each agent wants something different), and so on. Just getting ready to query is exhausting. Even after all that work to prep your story for querying, I still have days where I feel like I should just hang up my querying hat and go gangbusters writing the current book. But I’m not ready to give up on book three yet. I mean…it has had some traction. I’ve had one partial request and two full requests and an agent like from a pitch contest on that book. So it can’t totally suck, right? And honestly, I haven’t given up hope on books one and two yet either. They need some dusting off and editing based on what I’ve learned since I wrote them. I just have to figure out when to pencil that work in while querying book three and writing book four. I’m currently waiting to hear back from over a dozen agents on book three. There’s at least a dozen more unanswered queries that are now over a year old. Pretty sure I’m not going to hear back one way or another from those old queries. Heck, maybe the agents who received those queries aren’t even agents anymore at this point. I have one particular query that is currently sitting at 345 days old - that agent’s stats show they only reply to 1.5% of queries. So why haven’t I just considered that one a bust? It’s been nearly a year and 98.5% of her queries go unanswered. And those she does answer typically result in a rejection after 102 days. Pretty sure I have a better chance of getting hit by lightning than hearing back from that agent, but the optimist in me doesn’t want to let go of that one last thread of hope. Even though my inner voice is saying “Tammy, you’re a dumbass”. I’ve determined that writers like me, who want to be traditionally published, must be optimists to survive. Or maybe we’re just gluttons for punishment. I mean, getting kicked in the teeth over and over again really isn’t fun. But the reality is that it only takes one YES. One teeny tiny yes from an agent who believes in you and your work. I know mine is out there somewhere. Someone who will want to champion one of my books, or maybe even all four! After all, that is my dream. I want every book I’ve written to be traditionally published. Oh, I also want them all to be on the NY Times Best Seller’s List too. Go big or go home, right? So while I’m out here writing books and my monthly blogs, throwing salt over my shoulder and lighting candles for an agent bite, I’m going to keep the dream alive. In the meantime, my website does have blurbs for what each of the three books I’ve written are about if anyone is interested. Also, as readers of my blogs, is this writing stuff boring for you? Should I instead write about supermarket visits, my perpetual clumsiness, my crazy life experiences in general and avoid sharing the writing world ins and outs? I’d be curious to hear your thoughts. In the meantime, if anyone wants to throw some magic pixie dust my way for a publishing bite, I’d be forever grateful. As always, love each other and take care. Someone waited until the last day of June to write their June blog post. It’s me. I’m the someone. Sigh. But the important thing is…it is still June, so I made it by my self-imposed deadline. Phew!
I’m writing this from the Orlando airport. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve traveled post-career, so I’m a bit out of practice. But I guess it’s like riding a bike, it all came back to me fairly quickly. Airports, rental cars, hotels, all navigated successfully. My GPS did have a bit of a hiccup this morning guiding me from my hotel to the airport, but alas, switching from one map app to another fixed the issue. Apple Maps for the win! Evidently Google Maps needed a nap. I traveled to Florida to attend a beautiful wedding that I was honored to be invited to, and to visit some precious family. With those events now behind me, I’m heading back north. It will be good to be home. Assuming my plane stays in the air, and all that. These days it does make you wonder. This trip has actually been pretty smooth, thanks to the Travel Gods above. With the exception of a slight bump in the road due to a dog in the hotel, a few rooms down, who barked non stop. Note to self, don’t book in a pet-friendly hotel next time. I did my best to just ignore it, even though slipping a t-bone laced with poison under the door may have crossed my mind. (Just joking here. It isn’t the dog's fault he has a bad human parent who shouldn’t have left him alone in a strange place. I probably should have fantasized about poisoning the bad dog parent instead.) My arrival in Orlando coincided with Disney vacations for many families with their children just finishing school. Yes, southern friends, school just ended up in our neck of the woods. So the airport on the way down was full of little ones anxious to visit Disney. Their destination was apparent by families dressed in matching Disney t-shirts and the palpable excitement of the little ones. The Orlando airport now has many tired little travelers waiting for their flights to depart. Their little Mickey Mouse ears have been angrily tossed to the ground while complete meltdowns threaten. Parents are exhausted, their “be good or you won’t be going to Disney” card can no longer be played. “Take at least one bite of your mac and cheese or you won’t be allowed to play on your tablet”, said one tired parent. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I’m just naturally observant. Or maybe nosy. I’ll blame it on the writer in me. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t bring my kids to Disney when they were little, I wouldn’t have been as patient as the weary mac and cheese dad. I probably would have threatened they eat their food or I’d leave them in Florida for good. Then again, that may have backfired since my kids were pretty adventurous. Overall, most of the kids I’ve observed while traveling have been very well behaved. Maybe they’re all drugged. Or perhaps their parents are sipping vodka from what appears to be their water bottles. Hey, I’m not judging. Whatever works. As long as nobody falls asleep on my shoulder and drools on my shirt, it’s all good. Well, the gate agent is getting ready for us to board, so I better wrap this up. Until next time, my friends. May your worries be sparse and your travels be smooth. Let me start by saying I love you all, dear readers. Even if this post doesn’t resonate with you or well….pisses some of you off, please know I still love you all.
I’ve been putting off writing this post. It’s been swirling around in the back of my mind and I’ve done my best to tell it to just shut its damn mouth. One of the guidelines I’ve always lived by (and told anyone who would listen) is to never discuss the following: income, weight, age, religion and politics. I know they’re sensitive topics and heretofore I’ve avoided them. I mean really avoided them, like the plague. But, desperate times call for desperate measures, and the world around us right now feels quite heavy. I am not a Democrat or a Republican. I’m not affiliated with any political party. I vote independently based on what the candidates running for office stand for, then align myself to what I feel is right. Well, mostly right anyway. I’ve yet to see a “perfect” candidate. However, I do have a lot of friends and family that fall staunchly into one party or the other. And it’s those toes I’m trying not to step on. But sometimes things need to be said, and the pen being mightier than the sword, compels me to write this month’s blog post. I know many of you tell me there’s a lot of “fake news” out there. And since I’m cynical by nature, I question most of what I hear or read. So, I’m basing this blog on what I, myself, have seen, my very own observations. Here is what I know:
I could go on with more examples, but you get the drift. I never remember a time like this before, a time when politics pull friends and families away from each other, causing rifts in lifelong relationships. A time where it feels like we’re walking on eggshells. I’m seeing the lines between right and wrong being blurred in ways I’ve never seen before, and frankly, it’s terrifying. I can't help thinking of when I learned about Hitler in school. I was shocked that people believed his propaganda, his lies, but still ended up in concentration camps and gas chambers. I remember thinking, “How could people have believed the things he told them?”, “How could they not see how evil one man could be?” I’m feeling a lot of evil out there these days. Seeing it with my own eyes, hearing it with my own ears. It makes me wonder what I can do about it. Hence, the reason for this post. I am a writer. I can at least write about what I’m feeling, what I’m experiencing. I don’t have all the answers. Heck, I don’t think I have any answers. But I can share my thoughts. And remind those I love that we can disagree on issues, but still have each other’s backs. I respect opposite points of view and I keep an open mind. But I can’t ignore or support a bully. What I can do is ask all of you to not let our political climate tear apart your relationships. Don’t let your political allegiance blind you to things you witness with your own eyes; if your gut tells you something feels off or feels wrong, listen to it. Decide whether or not you want to align yourself to those who prey on the less fortunate, the weaker among us, the defenseless. Lastly, I ask for grace. None of us are perfect, we’re all human. My opinions are my own, whether they’re viewed as right or wrong. So, do your best to care for the people in your life, to be there for them, to show up, regardless of their political preferences. Remember, we’re all in this together. Love each other. I took a punch to the gut today. Metaphorically took one, but still. Although a physical punch may have been easier to take. The punch was delivered by a literary agent who had requested the full manuscript of my book back in December.
I’ve been on pins and needles since she requested my manuscript, secretly waiting for “the call” with an offer of representation. Which of course, led me to skip ahead to already seeing my book on shelves in stores, maybe even hitting a best seller’s list. But alas, those dreams were dashed today when I received an email from the agent telling me she was going to pass. She loved the premise of my book, believes others will as well, but considering her current client list in my particular genre...blah blah blah. Yada, yada, yada. Bottom line, it was a no. Regardless of how it was sugar-coated. I have high hopes for this book that I’m currently querying for, the third I’ve written. I received rave reviews from my beta readers on it (I don’t think they were just trying not to hurt my feelings). I really thought an agent would quickly snatch it up. I had more confidence querying this book than I did querying the two I wrote before it. I felt confident. Idiot. Getting traditionally published by one of the major publishing houses is a difficult journey. The success rate is dismal. But I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, so I continue to keep the dream alive. I could go to smaller agencies or self-publishing, but I’m going to try to hang on to the traditional publishing dream a bit longer. I’ve convinced myself that for a writer, rejection is an art. If it is, I should be a Picasso by now. I've been sending out queries for this book since March of last year. I’ve queried 111 agents. I’ve received 76 rejections thus far. I’m waiting to hear back from 32 agents, some of which I’m sure will never respond at all. And I’ve had three requests for this book's manuscript (two fulls and one partial), which has now turned into three passes, as of today’s pass. In reality, querying is like stabbing yourself in the heart. Repeatedly. This is the third book I’ve queried for. The first book I queried for, I only sent out a measly 14 queries and had two full requests (requests to send them the full manuscript) that didn’t end up panning out. The second book I sent 44 queries out on and received one request for a full that was later rejected. So, if you’re following along, that means I’ve sent out 169 queries for three different books resulting in zero books getting published. Oh, did I mention I’ve been querying since 2017? I’m pretty sure I'm a glutton for punishment. Or delusional. Or maybe a combination of both. Prior to entering the query trenches, I didn’t handle rejection well. Even the tiniest of rejections would send me into a tailspin. Not anymore. I mean, I am truly heartbroken about today’s rejection on my full manuscript, but a normal rejection on a regular query barely phases me anymore. It really is an art, I guess. And if so, I’m killing it. Chalking up those rejections like a gunslinger notching kills on his weapon. With each one I become a tad more resilient. And when I do get the next request for my manuscript from an agent, I’m still going to dance around my living room like a crazy woman, call my family members to share the news, throw salt over my shoulder and keep my fingers perpetually crossed. Because in that moment, I have hope. Hope for a dream I’m not yet ready to give up on. Everything sucks. The optimist in me shivers as I type those words, but damn, enough is enough. Even the most positive people can only take so much. Tragedy, death, destruction, heartache, sickness, it’s a daily thing lately. Bad news on top of bad news. And I know it’s not just me; other people are feeling it too. I feel like I have a little optimist angel on one shoulder, and a pessimistic devil on the other. As I think about all the pieces of the world crumbling around me, the optimist angel is telling me, “It’s not all bad. Think of everything you have to be grateful for.” Meanwhile the pessimist devil is leaning out around my face, holding up its middle finger, telling the optimist angel, “F*ck you!” And I’m left here in the middle, shrugging my shoulders. Yes, I know I am truly blessed and have a ton to be thankful for, and I’m genuinely grateful for all the good. I really am. But dang, the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. It’s hard to stay positive when there is sadness and bad news around every corner. Is this what getting older feels like? Is it because the circle of people you know grows exponentially as you age, therefore you experience more loss and grief just because of the sheer number of people in your circle? I know life ebbs and flows, delivering both good days and bad days. It’s always felt like a delicate balance. But lately, it’s been a dark tidal wave (think tsunami) of sad that just doesn’t seem to let up. Even though my optimistic angel is saying it isn’t as bad as it seems, that this is just a season that will pass, things will improve soon, my pessimistic devel is telling me they won’t, that this darkness will just hang around, perpetually doling out sadness like dandelion fluff on a windy day. So, dear readers, if you are feeling the sadness too, let’s do our best to work through this together. For every piece of bad news that comes our way, let’s acknowledge it, but then think of good news to balance it out. Even if you must really dig deep to conjure up some good news (e.g. I’m still breathing, I didn’t lose a tooth today, no sharp objects were within my reach, I wasn’t impaled, etc.). I can come up with more bare-minimum things to be thankful for if you run out, just give me a shout. Let’s do our best to take care of each other, lift each other up, show kindness. Let’s smile more, even when it kind of hurts. Hug your people, even if it’s just virtually, whenever they need it. My hope for you all is that you’ll find goodness even on your darkest days and have the strength to bitch slap that pessimist devil right off your shoulder. To brighter days ahead, stay strong my friends.  Apologies in advance to my local friends who ski, snowmobile and ice fish. I know you are loving this winter. Yay, you. However, I’m completely over it. Done. Finished. I’ve heard many of you say, “we’re finally getting a real winter” or “at last we’re getting a winter like we used to”. And you are saying it like it’s a good thing. I just don’t get it. I do understand that I live in the snow belt, and yes, I chose to live here. Technically I didn’t choose, it’s just where I was born, and my family roots are so deep here, moving would be like pulling out a stubborn weed. A poisonous weed that would make your hands break out after you tried to pull it. For my southern friends, a “snow belt” is where Jack Frost consistently lays down a blanket of snow so deep and harsh you permanently hate the color white and consider slitting your wrists. Unless you’re one of the people I mentioned above. In recent years, living here in the snowbelt really hasn’t been that bad. Heck, we’ve even seen actual grass on occasion during our winter seasons due to warmups in between snowfall. We’d get some snow, maybe even a snowstorm, then a couple of days later the temperature would rise above freezing and the snow would melt. It made it more bearable because you could trick yourself into believing spring was coming soon, in between the white stuff coating the ground. However, that fluctuation in temperature is very unpopular for our local ice fishermen (fisherpersons?) because with those conditions the ice doesn’t form solidly enough to be safe to venture out on. This year we haven’t had the warmups, so the ice is solid. Well ice fisher people, I hope you’re happy. Because you can certainly get out on the ice this year with your sleds, shanties and snowmobiles, dig your little holes and catch your fishy dinners. How joyful for you. I will admit the snow is pretty, especially when you get a sparkling dusting on Christmas Eve to deliver the coveted White Christmas. I can begrudgingly say it’s still somewhat pretty during one or two snowfalls a year. I’m tolerant like that. But this winter has been a perpetual snowstorm. It. Just. Won’t. Stop. It’s not pretty to me anymore. It reminds me of the winters of my childhood where we’d stick our feet in plastic bread wrappers before shoving them into our snow boots, bundle up and head outdoors to “bank” the house with snow as instructed by our father. For those of you unfamiliar with banking snow, you shovel snow around the base of a house to help insulate it. Especially when you grew up in a 100-year-old house that wasn’t well insulated. I think banking the house was sold to us as a “fun” chance to get outside in the snow. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t fun. At all. But those winters of my childhood were like this winter. I should be hardy. I should be used to it. I was raised here, for crying out loud. I even lived through the blizzard of ‘66. Although I was just a toddler during that storm, I’ve seen pictures of myself bundled up in my pink snowsuit on top of a snowbank that towered over our house. I looked happy. Lord knows why. I’m not a child now. I’m old and cranky. I can’t even tell you how many feet of snow we’ve had this winter. I just know it’s been way too many feet. The blast we had the night before last left us with another fresh foot of snow. That’s fun to wake up to. Thank God our son keeps our driveway plowed out, especially since we’re more than 700 feet from the road. But even with that, there’s still snow blowing and shoveling to be done. The snowplow can’t get it all, there’s still sidewalks and door entrances that must be cleared. If there was just a small amount of snow to be dealt with on those walkways and entrances, it wouldn’t really be bad. We’d just take that in stride. However, this year we’ve also had to worry about snow load. When several feet of snow fall, you must worry about your buildings caving in. Yes, that beautiful light fluffy stuff can cause havoc when it adds up. That means this year we’ve had to shovel our back deck off at least a half-dozen times. I know I’m not tall, but when it’s up to my waist out there on the deck...well, that’s still a lot to shovel. Then there’s the roofs. Roof shoveling, again for my southern friends, is a hellish chore. First, you must get up on the roof. So, in our case, step off our porch, sink up to your waist, try to figure out how to move your legs through the snow to make it to the ladder. Then climb up the ladder that’s leaning against the porch roof, and do it with a snow shovel in one hand. Oh, and do it without dying. Because a fall, even with snow on the ground, would not end well. I’ll dare say roof shoveling is an art. Our roofs are steel, (yes, for the snow load, but not this much of a snow load), so you must leave a fine layer of snow to cover the steel so that you don’t accidently slide down the roof like a pair of satin pajamas flying down a laundry chute. And I’ll tell you, roof shoveling is hard work. My roof shoveling stints usually end with me sitting on my butt up on the roof, surrounded by snow, trying to get my heart from beating out of my chest. The cherry on top of shoveling the roof? The fact that you then must move the snow you’ve shoveled off the roof when it lands on sidewalks and decks. Yeah, good times. The unbearably cold temperatures have also added to the joy that is this winter. You know it’s cold when you walk out the door and it’s actually painful. That cold blast of air hits you in the face, stinging your skin and freezing your nostrils shut as you navigate what looks like the frozen hedge maze from The Shining to reach your car. Knowing this, you try to dress for it. Heavy winter jacket, knit hat, gloves/mittens, maybe a scarf. Then you get to your car and attempt to drive it, bundled up like the Michelin man. The struggle is real. I mean, you could take off all the winter clothing when you get to your car to make it more comfortable to drive, if you want to shiver your teeth right out of your skull waiting for the heater to kick out enough heat to keep you warm. And yes, before you ask, I do have a car starter. But the signal doesn’t reach my car which is parked in our steel-walled steel-roofed pole barn/garage. And yes, I must park my car in there to eliminate one more obstacle so our driveway can be plowed. I’m longing for the days when I can shove my feet in a pair of flipflops and leave the house without an extra layer of clothing and comfortably walk from house to vehicle. Right now, that seems like a pipe dream. For now, I’ll sit in our cozy cabin, in front of a warm fire, and watch the snow come down outside, knowing tomorrow will bring another day of snow removal. In the meantime, I’ll be scrolling through weather reports trying to find the one I like the best, the one with the least amount of snow predicted. Once I find it, I’ll light some candles and throw salt over my shoulder in hopes that forecast is the right one. Stay warm, my friends. And to all those dealing with this winter, try not to throw your back out or have a heart attack shoveling the white stuff, and may your vehicles stay on the roads and out of the snowbanks.  Back deck once again filled with snow. Trigger warning – if you are a man, you might want to scroll on by this post, especially if discussing the female anatomy makes you uncomfortable. Because, my friends, we’re going to talk about some things that aren’t talked about nearly enough. Things that are hushed away, glossed over and generally shoved into a “you shouldn’t talk about this” bucket. Well, buckle up, buttercups, because we’re going to tip that bucket on its head. For those of you still reading, we’re going to talk about the difficulty of being a woman, and all the lousy physiological stuff that goes along with it.
Girls and boys start out on fairly equal footing. But for females, everything goes to hell in a handbasket when you’re about twelve-years-old. Society spins that change as something wonderful. Freaking liars. I can remember having the “talk” in school. I’m pretty sure when my 5th grade female classmates and I were all herded into the locker-room of our school gymnasium to learn about the “thing that must not be talked about in public”, we were sold on the beautiful change that was soon to occur in our lives. I think there was a filmstrip or movie with butterflies and flowers blossoming. I believe the booklet we were given was called “Growing Up and Liking It”, or something along those lines (former classmates who may have sat alongside me on those hard wooden benches where the air smelled like sweat and dirty socks, please correct me if my memory fails me on the title). Along with the booklet we were gifted with a little goody bag of supplies we would need when we reached the glorious point of womanhood. Glorious my ass. The average age of menstruation is twelve years old. For crying out, you’re still practically a baby and you must deal with that shit. You don’t even get a choice! Your hormones are all out of whack, you laugh, then you cry, sometimes at the same time, and you have no idea why you’re doing either. Your shirts start fitting differently and your mother introduces you to the torture device known as a bra. It might seem a little exciting at first, until you realize you’re expected to wear that chest tourniquet every single day for the rest of your life. Every. Single. Day. Then, while waiting for the anticipated red flood, your abdomen begins cramping like a pair of jaguars are trapped in your innards. How is this fair? And you don’t usually realize in those early days that you’re going to have to deal with that nonsense for the next four decades or so. When that realization hits, you hate your genes, your parents, yourself and anyone else who dares cross your path. All this monthly torture exists to set the stage for bearing children. Our female bodies made to procreate. Without us, humans will cease to exist. No pressure on us or anything. And once one of those little swimmers reaches your homeland, you get to wait for your tiny bundle of joy. You anticipate how great it will be to go nine whole months without your monthly visitor. That is, until you swell up like a water buffalo, constantly have to pee (God forbid you laugh or sneeze), can no longer tie your shoes or find a position that is comfortable. None of your clothes fit, you think your ankles are swelling but you can’t be sure because you can no longer see them, and you get kicked, punched and pummeled by the beast....er precious baby inside. Then after what feels like a two-year pregnancy it’s finally time to deliver. The grand finale in which you try to push a watermelon through the eye of a needle. The contractions you experience to push that little angel out leave you begging for a bullet to end your misery while your nether regions are saying, “ain’t no way that oversize beach ball is gonna fit down this narrow hallway”. But alas, not to worry. Because before you know it, the littles you birthed will be all grown and you’ll be dealing with perimenopause. That idyllic time in your late 30s/early 40s where your body starts preparing for the “big” change. This one isn’t a quick change as this phase can last two to eight years, with the average duration of four years. Four long years of being blessed with hot flashes, weight gain, anxiety, insomnia, headaches, difficulty concentrating, mood swings, memory issues, and so on. The gift of being a woman, the gift that keeps on giving. And this is one of the phases that no one talks about. It’s like the best kept secret. Even most medical professionals don’t discuss it unless you demand answers for why your body is betraying you in this way, and it usually takes several office visits and phone calls to get answers. All the recognition about this time of your life is sitting in that damn “things we don’t talk about” bucket. That really needs to change. We need to have good healthy discussions about it, and we need our doctors to find ways to help us through it. Because on the heels of perimenopause, comes menopause and post-menopause. The latter hanging with you till you die. What a cruel joke. Things don’t improve when perimenopause turns into menopause other than your periods start becoming less frequent. Nor do they change when you move into post-menopause. You still have all the horrible symptoms from perimenopause with the added joys of urinary incontinence, bone loss and libido issues. You feel like an old dried-up cow just waiting to die. (Okay, that may be a tad dramatic). But we should be talking about this, supporting each other, demanding help from the medical field, tipping those damn buckets over. We need physical and mental support to navigate this betrayal of our bodies. So, my dear friends, if you need a shoulder to lean on, or an ear to bend, or a heating pad delivered, don’t hesitate to reach out. And I encourage you all to talk about the “things we’re not supposed to talk about” and demand the support you deserve. If you’re a man and you’re still reading this, please love on the females in your life. Support them, demand answers from the medical field for them, and lastly...thank your lucky stars you were born without a uterus. |
AuthorTammy Bulson Archives
June 2025
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