The program is titled Remaking America: From Poverty to Prosperity and is moderated by PBS talk show host Tavis Smiley.

The panel is diverse and features some familiar names as well as some I’d never heard before, all of whom have impressive credentials. They are (alphabetically): Majora Carter, Roger A. Clay Jr., Barbara Ehrenreich, Vicki B. Escarra, Michael Moore, Suze Orman, Tavis Smiley, Cornel West.

I can’t remember when I’ve heard a more intelligent, articulate and passionate group of people discussing issues of great importance without the entire thing devolving into petty argument and one-upmanship.

Yes, there are a few odd moments when you have to ignore the egos and overblown rhetoric and just focus on the content. I think that’s to be expected with a group like this. I mean, c’mon, Michael Moore and Cornel West on the same stage? But those moments are rare and Smiley as moderator does a masterful job.

The focus is on how we got here and what we can do about it. They discuss the demonization and criminalization of poverty, the inescapable downward spiral of debt, the peril and permanence of student loans, the connection of food stamp application information to criminal databases, the impossibility of improving a bad FICO score, the implications of poverty on hunger and malnutrition and obesity, the effect on education and innovation. On and on, connecting one issue after another like dominoes on a giant game board of failure. The discussion is fascinating and sobering.

Some of the facts are shocking. There are currently 150 million people in the United States who are living in or near poverty. That’s half our population. Half. How can that not be at the top of our list of concerns? How can that not be at the forefront of national debate? Yet it’s a problem that is largely ignored. The poor and near poor are a group that always has been and still is marginalized. Allowing, expecting them to struggle daily, perennially, hopelessly, with the crushing debilitating effects of poverty verges on criminal negligence and it is indefensible.

Yet the composition of that group who are poor, especially the racial makeup, is changing. The middle class is disappearing and poverty is fast approaching a tipping point where it will no longer be possible, or politic, to ignore the problem. How shameful for us as a society that this problem might now gain wider attention and perhaps attract solutions simply because it currently affects more white people than ever before.

This discussion is frank, if unfailingly polite, and might make you uncomfortable. That’s a good thing. Probably it’s a necessary thing.

I don’t want to debate politics here. This shouldn’t even be a political issue. It’s an issue of social injustice. A matter of human decency. Poverty is a huge festering sore that we must address, regardless of political leanings.

Watching this symposium and digesting the facts and opinion presented by the participants is a damn good place to start. Yes, it’s 2-1/2 hours long. So bookmark the page and pause and re-start as you are able.

If you’re like me and find articulate thoughtful discussion to be compelling and can’t hit the pause button in spite of your best intentions to do so, I suggest you not start watching it at 2:30 AM. Really.

But given what’s at stake, I don’t think any of us can claim we are too busy to give this issue a mere half hour of our attention every day for a week. That’s the least we can do.

Part of my brain apparently thinks they’re still here. I’ve had to stop myself three times now from getting up to let the dog in from the backyard. Their dog loved my backyard. Well, she loved the sticks. Which she piled up on the deck, right outside the door, like an offering to the tree gods. Or a barricade to keep us in.

I find myself waiting for the escalating volume of the spit-hiss-growl that meant the cats were having another close encounter of the curmudgeonly kind. And I swear I can still hear the faint chiming riiiiing of that Civ5 computer game — not quite a bell tone, more like someone running a wet fingertip around the rim of a wine glass. Over and over and over and over. Bells bells bells.

It’s not just me. My cat enters every room with extreme caution, not convinced the enemy has abandoned the field. She’s still spending the entire night snuggled up to my side instead of resuming her duties stalking odd noises in the night. This morning she hissed at a pair of shoes. Poor thing, she’s half-blind with old age and has to get right up next to a piece of furniture before she’s sure it isn’t occupied by The Intruder Cat, who is sort of like the Spanish Inquisition of cats. As you can see below. Totally unexpected.

I’ve been trying to get back into writing the past few days [yay. go, me] but the silence is distracting and I’m having trouble concentrating. Even as I sit here writing about how they’re gone, I half expect to hear the whir of a hair-dryer or the slam of a closet door or the sound of my DD yelling from upstairs, “Mom? Is there more laundry detergent somewhere?”

I know, wishful thinking on my part. But as much as I miss all that noise, I have to admit, the silence is rather . . . blissful.

Probably I’d enjoy it more if I weren’t suffering miserably with this sniffling sneezing aching shivering head cold from hell.

I’m telling you, allowing people to invade your solitude has consequences.

But that’s for another day. I’m sure you all are as tired of hearing about it as I am of telling you about it. Even so, this post is related to that effort.

Every year, Neil Gaiman writes a wish for the New Year. These posts are unfailingly excellent, in their simplicity and honesty and charm, but also in their ability to inspire the artist in each of us.

Drawing attention to something Gaiman wrote on his blog feels as absurd and presumptuous as re-tweeting something he said on twitter. I mean, really, the man has 1.67 million followers on twitter. Probably more than that read his blog. Is there anyone who hasn’t seen this?

Actually, yes. I suspect there are a few people who read my blog who don’t read his. Who might not even be entirely sure of who he is. In other words, people who don’t read any of the forty-billion genres in which he writes and people who are not writers.

There are two or three. And yes, they read my blog. Probably.

But the main reason I want to share a part of Gaiman’s 2012 post over here is because it struck a very personal chord with me this year, more so even than other years, and that’s saying something. Because this is something I decided for myself last fall. Not to set out to make a mistake, necessarily — I doubt anyone intends to do that — but to be willing to do something that might be a mistake. And do it anyway. With the intention that if it turned out to be a mistake, it would be the most awesome and remarkable and unique mistake in the entire history of– well, of all my mistakes at least. So far.

Hell, Gaiman says it better:

And for this year, my wish for each of us is small and very simple.

And it’s this.

I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.

So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever.

Feels amazing to realize Neil Gaiman finally caught up with me. [I'm kidding, people] But it does feel like a small benediction. And sometimes that’s all we need.

The rest of his post — yes, there’s more to it, including wishes from past years — can be found here. Go read it. There’s a reason he has all those followers.

And then go out and make some mistakes of your own. Because I could use the company. But mostly because it feels incredibly good to Do Something.

Sorry. Got a bit carried away.

It really is exciting, seeing my book over there looking all official. I sort of feel like Pinocchio, becoming a “real boy” after years of wistful dreaming. And telling lies making stuff up.

Here’s the link at Amazon:

How Did This Happen? Lunch with Imaginary Friends and other (mostly) True Stories

I hope it will also be available over at Barnes & Noble . . . someday. Maybe even one day soon. I’m currently in limbo there, waiting for approval. I can’t decide whether this means they have higher standards than Amazon or simply a more convoluted process. Or maybe they’ve already closed up shop for the holiday break and my book won’t get processed until after the New Year.

For those of you curious about the process, Amazon had it online in about two hours. Not that I’m impatient or anything.

UPDATE: My book is now also available for Nook at B&N: go HERE to buy it!

I was mistaken.

It’s an awesome feeling, well worth gushing about!

I LOVE this cover! It’s weird and quirky and irreverent and a perfect fit for my sense of humour. It is exactly what I wanted for this book. Jeroen ten Berge is amazing to work with and I’d recommend him to anyone.

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
Lunch with Imaginary Friends and Other (mostly) True Stories

I love it. The cover designer I hired is hard at work on a cover and I should have something to show you all in about a week. But I can tell you right now, this guy “gets” my sense of humour and I’m very excited about the concept we discussed and can’t wait to see the final product.

Which brings us to that dreaded necessity:  The Blurb.

A blurb (or product description) is not an easy thing. I’ve written a couple for friends and I tell you, it is damn near impossible to be persuasively concise about a 100,000-word story. But to summarize a book like this that doesn’t even have a plot, let alone a protagonist and antagonist? What is there to say? How do you convince people to even consider buying it?

I looked at descriptions of similar books for ideas. But I just can’t see how it would be helpful (or, you know, legal) for me to describe my book as:  “A delightful collection of essays from NYT Bestselling author Lisa Scottoline…”

And it’s not like I’m going to have reviews from Publishers Weekly or Library Journal to help me out. Or cover quotes from famous authors saying how much they loved it. Or… anything… else.

I figure all I’ve got going for me is my writing. And if that’s not enough, I’m doomed no matter what. So I sucked it up and wrote a blurb and coerced asked my daughter and five imaginary reader friends to give me feedback. And you know what? Every Single One of them said something different. All very helpful, mind you, but no overlap in opinion AT ALL.

This was daunting as hell.

So after much thought and even more brutal bloody cutting of words, this is what I’ve got:

This is the space where I’m supposed to tell you why you should buy this book. Honestly? I have no idea.

This book is a compilation of the best of several short essays I wrote over the course of the past five years. Mostly, they’re funny. A few are a bit more introspective. But ninety percent of this content is available over on my blog. Of course, it’s scattered among more than 200 other posts and you’d spend an awful lot of time sorting the wheat from the chaff over there.

So there’s one reason — I’ve already saved you at least five hours and a massive headache by gathering the best of them into a collection. Plus, there’s that ten percent no one has ever seen before. Which might be for the best, but still.

What’s that? You want another reason? Um… well… oh, I know! Pictures! This book has pictures. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Some of them hand-drawn by Yours Truly.

Oh, you want a compelling reason? Of course you do. Hmmm. Well, you get to meet the characters who populate my real life:  my son (DS) and my daughter (DD) and Quincy the Wonder Dog (QtWD) and the cat (the cat). Also, The Dog’s Favourite Person (to whom I am no longer married) (it’s okay, we’re friends now) and all of my awesome Imaginary Internet Friends (who are not as imaginary as my kids seem to think).

If that’s not compelling enough, maybe you’ll be convinced by early reaction from others, which has been… emphatic, if mixed:

“Woohoo! Hooray! About damn time you published something. We get free copies, right?” -My Imaginary Friends

“That’s lovely, dear. Is this going to be a real book? I’ve never read an ebook.” -My Mom

“Yay, mom! That is awesome. Wait. You are going to mention me in the acknowledgements, aren’t you?” – My Daughter

“Mom. I thought we agreed that you’re not allowed to talk about your blog in public.” -My Son

I should mention that there is mild profanity in this book, just as there is in my life. If that kind of thing offends you, please consider buying something else to read. Really.

Then again, you might decide a wee bit of profanity is to be expected when you’re telling (mostly) true stories. Like the one about the time my air conditioner died in the middle of an epic heat wave. And the time I woke up to find blood all over the kitchen floor. And there was the time I called the police when one of my Imaginary Friends went missing. Plus, OMG, BEARS!

But I guess you’ll have to read it and decide for yourself. Go click on that “sample” button over there and I’ll just sit here with my fingers crossed that you might end up wanting to read the entire thing. And maybe even want to share it with your imaginary friends. Or, you know, your mom.

So… tell me, would that make you want to buy this book? Or am I doomed.

My daughter is thankful that the nasty intestinal virus didn’t attack while she was still on the airplane yesterday.

I’m thankful that we had planned to have our big turkey meal today and that the turkey is still frozen enough that we can wait and cook it tomorrow instead.

My daughter and I both are thankful that, after almost seven hours of her being violently ill last night, it seemed the worst was finally over and we went to bed at 4:00 AM and slept for four hours without incident.

I am thankful that my bucket-emptying duties appear to be over.

My daughter is thankful to be home where her mommy can take care of her.

My daughter is also thankful for gatorade and chamomile tea.

Did I mention I’m thankful she stopped throwing up?

Both of us are about to be thankful for a quiet house and a long afternoon nap.

And I will be extremely thankful if I get through the next several days without needing anyone to empty a bucket for me.

It’s not something I was interested in doing, but I could see its value to writers who didn’t have a support group of other writers. And I’m the last one who would ever question the value of an online community. So I pretty much shrugged, wished them all the best, and went on my way.

But I admit, I was still suspicious. Because Penguin had invested what seemed to me to be an inordinate amount of time and effort (i.e., money) in the venture. For what? Were they really that dedicated to helping writers become better at their craft? I mean, sure, that would be a generous and benevolent goal, but it didn’t seem like a viable business objective.

So I wasn’t truly surprised when Penguin/Book Country announced last week that they were now offering to “help” writers who want to “self-publish.”

I’m not going to go into all the details when others have already done so, and done it very well, but I will say that if you’re a writer and you haven’t read the related posts by JA Konrath and David Gaughran and Kristine Rusch you should go read them. Really. There is no excuse for ignorance when information is a click away.

So now people are all agitated about Penguin taking advantage of writers who are presumably new to the business and don’t have a support group of other writers (well, other than Book Country) who are willing to tie them up and sit on them until they come to their senses.

And they’re upset about Penguin charging exorbitant fees for doing nothing more than basically clicking a button to upload work onto Amazon. No editing. No copyediting. No proofreading. No custom cover art. No marketing or promotion, other than some vague advice about how to do it yourself.

There are other disadvantages, such as the three-week delay before ebooks are available, not being able to make ANY changes to an ebook once it’s published, pricing changes only allowed every 60 days, inability to include pictures or images in the text and, if you choose the less expensive option of distribution only on the BC site, it will be available only in ePub format, which can’t be read on a Kindle.

Penguin is also, in addition to the upfront fees, staking a claim to 30% royalties, in perpetuity. If you choose the “wide” distribution option (not limited to the BC site), that percentage is calculated on the amount left after other distributors take their 30%. So the 70% Penguin pays a writer is substantially less than the 70% Amazon or B&N would pay a writer.

Why would any writer in their right mind add a restrictive middleman to the self-pub process, especially one demanding royalties for what should be one-time flat-fee services, when it is so ridiculously easy to contract it out or do this stuff yourself? They wouldn’t, unless they didn’t know any better.

So yes, all of that is upsetting to me too. Of course it is. I hate the prospect of writers getting screwed due to lack of experience or dearth of information, and there is vast potential for that to happen here. Then again, if you’re a writer and you want to do business with the big boys (and that includes Amazon and B&N), you’d damn well better learn how to educate and protect yourself.

[And this is precisely why I wasn't offended by that whole "Be The Monkey" nonsense on Konrath's blog a while back. Getting "screwed" is a familiar concept in business. Crude? Yes. But it's standard terminology. In some businesses, being able to screw the competition is cause for celebration. Bonuses. Promotions. It happens when one party to a transaction is more knowledgeable, more powerful, or has greater leverage than another. It results in people saying things like, "Did you hear about the contract Susie Q just signed with that vanity publisher? Boy, did she ever get screwed." And that's only if they're being polite about it.]

As troubling and opportunistic and disingenuous as all of this is, what struck me as ironic — and by ironic, I mean mind-bogglingly unbelievable — is that Penguin is now apparently prepared to pay self-pubbed writers 70% of net for ebook sales. While they’re reportedly paying their traditionally pubbed writers, those with “real” publishing contracts, 25% of net for ebook sales. Less, of course, the 15% cut that goes to an agent.

If I had a standard publishing contract with Penguin right now, my head would be exploding with furious disbelief.

How did this happen? I have no idea, and I’m totally making this up (hey, it’s what I do), but I can imagine the conversation between a bunch of corporate bean counters sitting around a conference table and saying things like:

“We need to cut costs and increase income. If only we could figure out a way to get writers to pay US an advance.”

“HAHAHA! Right. It wouldn’t even have to be a big advance, if we could get enough of them to do it.”

“Yeah, and if only we could do away with those pesky editing and cover art expenses.”

“Have you seen the crap that’s selling in the self-pub ebook market? Those ignorant click-happy Kindle owners will buy anything.”

“I don’t think they even read half those ebooks, they just see a low price and buy buy buy.”

“Y’know, we could publish crap too. Readers don’t look at the name of the publisher — they’d blame the writer if they hated the book.”

“And god knows, we’ve got an endless supply of desperate gullible writers in the slush pile.”

And I can just imagine the stunned silence in the room as they process all of this. And come up with a plan. A profitable plan. A plan that looks an awful lot like . . . Book Country.

I hate it when the suspicious side of my nature is validated. It just makes me more cynical.

I’m not saying the writers over at BC are bad writers. I’m sure they’re a mix of good, bad and mediocre, just like any other group. But probably the majority of them have not yet spent enough time writing to become excellent. Yet. I put myself in the same category. And I have nothing against self-publishing. But at a minimum, you need a good editor. That’s not optional. It’s also not offered at Book Country, where they’re ready, willing and able to publish unedited fiction.

I feel sorry for the true professionals at Penguin — and I know they exist — who really do love books and are passionate about good writing and captivating storytelling and who care about taking the time and making the effort to publish the best of the best. Because, with this latest venture, the bean counters at Penguin have grabbed that reputation for excellence by the throat with both hands and strangled it to within an inch of its life and then thrown it under the bus.

Penguin can put whatever spin they want on this venture, but actions speak louder than words. Corporations spend money on (and pay higher royalties for) the things that are important to them. In this case, that appears to be mass quantities of ebooks with low production costs. Period. It’s like they’ve become the puppy mill of publishing.

To hell with experienced writers who consistently produce quality work. To hell with agents who seek out and nurture those writers. To hell with editors who help refine and hone that work. To hell with cover artists and formatters who make it all look good. And, most damning of all, to hell with readers who expect quality and value for their hard-earned dollars.

That last one is the transgression I can’t forgive. All the rest is just business. Bad business, to be sure, but business just the same. It’s rare that a manufacturer is willing to screw its entire supply chain, but if supply is plentiful and quality control is no longer a consideration, it can be done. Profitably, even. Just maybe not indefinitely.

But as a writer, my contract is with readers. It might be unwritten, but it’s binding and it’s non-negotiable. That’s a trust I’m not willing to betray. And I wouldn’t hesitate for even a New York minute to turn my back on anyone who is willing to screw readers.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have been thrilled to be published by Penguin, to have that name on the spine of my books. It seems that time has passed.

What a damn shame.

Where I keep getting bogged down is when I hear people talk about how hard it is. Because the next person goes on and on about how easy it is. There doesn’t seem to be a reliable consensus here. And when you’re a writer who is considering all her options, it’s extremely frustrating to have conflicting information. It’s impossible to decide what you want — and can we please stipulate that every writer wants slightly different things? — when you have no idea what’s involved with getting what you want.

This all came to a head last weekend when I finally made time to read the lengthy conversations between Jenny Crusie and Barbara Samuel that were posted on Argh Ink, waaaay back in early May. What? I’ve been busy.

Jenny Crusie is one of the smartest people I know and one point she made in the second post was how excited she is about the prospect of self-publishing non-traditional projects, things a publisher wouldn’t want. Not novels, other stuff. And then she said,

“But all of a sudden there’s a place for whatever weirdness I want to do.”

And I thought, Hmmm. I wish I could say I spent a great deal of time thinking about this, but sometimes when an idea clicks it just seems right and you don’t really need to agonize over it.

So I have decided to conduct an experiment. I’ve got a good deal of weirdness right here on this blog. Not Crusie-quality weirdness, but still. There are more than 200 posts written over a period of five years. The majority of them are unremarkable. Some of them are about writing and not appropriate for what I have in mind. Some of them are plain awful. But several of them are really not that bad. Several of them were well-received and evoked a favourable response from readers.

Obviously, a 30,000-word ebook of short essays already published on the internet by a completely unknown writer is not the sort of thing any publisher would be interested in acquiring. Unless, you know, it turns out to be a big hit. Then maybe.

But I don’t see any reason not to publish it myself. If it’s a huge flop and doesn’t sell more than 50 copies to friends and relatives, oh well. There will be one more thing out there with my name on it to make a small dent in obscurity. Who knows, maybe I’ll connect with a few new readers who like my writing and want more. But at least I’ll know exactly how easy or difficult this process is. Not for someone else, but for me.

I’ll choose the content and do the formatting and find a cover artist and write the blurb/product description and set the price and do the marketing myself. I hope I’ll have a wee bit of help with promotion, but I’m not counting on it. I’m even trying to figure out how to include pictures, because a couple posts really need the visuals and I’d hate to omit them, and everything I’ve read says you can include them. I’m just not sure how, exactly. Yet.

I’ve pretty much decided which posts to use, but I’m in the process of tracking down my former editor (a man I respect and for whom I wrote dozens of op/ed type newspaper columns, years ago) to solicit his editorial advice. It feels dishonest to edit or re-write the posts, so I won’t do that. Plus, I think they’re pretty clean. But there are other editorial things to consider.

I’ve studied the guidelines over at Amazon and have so far read most of Mark Coker’s excellent book Smashwords Style Guide. And I’ve watched the tutorials for Scrivener — I’ll tell you right now, they make this process sound ridiculously easy. I’m skeptically hopeful.

I have an idea for a title but it needs a subtitle (really, long titles are common for books like this) and I might need help with that. I want to call it: HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? (which was the title of my first blog post, when I accidentally ended up with a blog). For a subtitle, I thought maybe: Talking to Imaginary Friends about kids and pets and BEARS! Any feedback would be very much welcomed. Suggestions, anyone?

I have a very rough idea of what I want for a cover, but we all know I’m not an artist. And now that I know what a glyph is, I want one. Bad. So I’ll research that.

So that’s what I’ve been up to the past week or so. I’m surprised by how excited I am about this project. Also extremely nervous, but mostly excited.

Does this have implications for what I might do with my first* novel once I finish it? Well, yes, of course it does. How could it not? But a book of essays is not a novel. I’m looking at this as a learning experience. A necessary part of being a smart businessperson and gathering the tools I need to make informed decisions about my career. What I do with that knowledge will depend on what I learn. The entire process might turn out to be a complete pain in the ass, never to be repeated. Or it might not. But at least then I’ll know.

*Okay, I should clarify. Technically, this is not my first novel. It’s maybe the fourth. But it IS the first one to make it to the completed first draft stage and the first one that I think is good enough to be published.

Robin is also one hell of a writer, one of a handful of prolific writer friends who, inexplicably, remain unpublished. She writes both romantic suspense and paranormal romance and her stories are flavoured by the influence of her time spent “at the Bay” in the Tidewater region of Virginia. I’ve been fortunate enough to read and critique some of her work over the years and stand in awe of her talent and voice. She is that rare thing: a natural storyteller.

I was flattered when she asked me to give feedback on a piece she’d written about her Dad, who passed away on Friday. It’s a beautiful and moving tribute to a remarkable man. I loved it so much that, once I dried my tears, I asked whether she’d be willing to be a guest blogger and post it over here. Because writing this good, writing that tells a story of courage and optimism and a life well lived, is meant to be shared.

Please give Robin a warm welcome. I hope one day, very soon, you all will be able to enjoy her stories in published form.

Dad

by Robin Stafford Sorrentino

Life doesn’t always go as planned.  I guess that’s why there are so many clichés like: if life gives you lemons, make lemonade, and whenever a door closes a window opens.  When life slammed the door on my dad and showered him with lemons, he not only found the window, opened it and made lemonade, he did it blindfolded.

Once when I was struggling with some complicated long division homework in elementary school, Dad helped me figure it out.  But while I was using page after page of paper, he worked the problems in his head.  I said I guessed he’d made straight As in school.  He said he hadn’t been a very good student.  Not because he was lazy, one of his cousins told me later.  It was during the depression and he had to work before and after school to help his family out.  This didn’t leave much time to study.

He dreamed of being a mechanic, joined the National Guard and applied for training in the air corps.  He was accepted, but before he could get his training, his unit was called up in WWII.  Instead of working on or flying planes, he became an army medic.  In April of 1945, just a few weeks before VE day, the jeep he was riding in hit a land mine and shrapnel destroyed one eye and severed the other optic nerve.  He was 24 years old.  And he was blind.

When I was in high school, I found some newspaper articles written about him and one included a picture of him in his hospital bed.  Grinning.  Knowing Dad, he’d probably just told a joke or teased one of his nurses.  A childhood friend of his once told me that he and another friend went to see Dad when he came home on leave from the rehabilitation hospital.  He said they dreaded seeing him, didn’t know what to say, how to treat him.  Dad answered the door and said, “Paul, boy it’s great to see you,” and put them right at ease.  I imagine he was grinning then too.

With his dreams of being a mechanic dashed, he decided to take advantage of the GI Bill and go to college to get a business degree.  He figured, why sell pencils on the sidewalk when you could sell them and a lot more running a store.  A course in business law fascinated him and he applied to and was accepted at the University of Virginia Law School.  He completed his last year of college and his first year of law school at the same time.

Dad and Mom met one summer over a jetty on Stingray Point.  They married when he finished law school and he returned to his home town and opened a private law practice.  A few years later, he ran for Commonwealth Attorney and won.   I can’t imagine the courage that must have taken.  He served in that position until he retired at age 73.

My dad taught me more than long division.  He taught me how to fish, steer and dock a boat, drive a car, decipher all sorts of instruction manuals, and drag creosoted pilings with a huge set of ice tongs.  But the most important thing he taught me was not to be afraid to dream and to try to make those dreams come true.  He taught me that if a window doesn’t open when that door slams shut, all I have to do is grab a putty knife and shimmy the lock open.  And if it still won’t open, break the damn window.  Take a chance.  Work for what you want.  Crawl under, climb over, but never, never stop trying.  Add sugar to those lemons and grin.

When my dad died Friday morning, I didn’t lose him and I never will.  All day I’ve seen him.  Dancing in the living room with Mom to the music of the Tijuana Brass.  Wearing his Frank Buck hat and steering the boat in the Chesapeake Bay.  Rubbing his head after I walked him into another tree.  Grinning.  Working on the boat motor, rewiring the fuse box, digging up the septic system.  Listening to me read a book to his grandsons on the porch of his cottage.  Holding my children in his arms.  Grinning.

And I hear him.  Singing “C’mon over to my house and I’ll give you candy.”  “I’m Chiquita Banana and I’ve come to say…”  Laughing.  And saying “I love you.”

I love you too, Dad.  Thanks for teaching me to make lemonade.

George Woody Stafford

April 20, 1921 — October 7, 2011