Living the Dream

Since my mother passed away, Mother’s Day has felt somewhat different. My husband gets me a card and flowers, my children always make a point of contacting me, as do my grandchildren, but I no longer have a card or a gift to buy, no one to visit, although I’ll probably stop by the cemetery. Those who live nearby will take me to supper tonight, maybe buy me flowers, but I will have no one to honor anywhere but here and in my heart.

My mother and I didn’t always get along, not that that is unusual. A lot of people have mother issues, but it took me a very long time to understand that just because we didn’t always get along, it didn’t mean that she didn’t love me in her own way, just as I loved her.

This morning, I was playing one of those silly games online where they use your picture to create something else. In this case it was mini you, you, and older you.

I was surprised to see that in the photo, older me resembled my mother so completely that I could be her and yet, no one has ever suggested that I resembled her–my sister, yes, but I was always told that I took after my father’s side.

Mom was my age when this picture was taken. I try to see the resemblance in it, and I suppose I do around the eyes and the shape of the chin, but her eyes were a much darker brown then mine, almost black, especially when she was angry or off in another world, one of her own making, as she frequently was in her latter years.

And suddenly, I miss her. I miss the good times. I wish she were here to see what wonderful things her great-grandchildren are doing, to see how I’ve grown as an author, using the imagination I must credit to her since she showed a lot of it in the world she created for herself. She never forgot who we were, always knew my sister and I, but her memories rarely were accurate. Was she unhappy in the nursing home? I don’t think so. She had a private room with everything she wanted, including her own television set. She had her hair done weekly, buweekly manicures and pedicures. The staff treated her well, even when she was less than gracious about it, and every two weeks, we sent flowers to brighten her room. We visited twice a week, and while she could, she participated in several activities, including BINGO! How she loved to win. We never knew how artistic and creative she was, and while things were good, she loved being part of things. She was 96 when she died.

So, today, I remember Mom. I choose not to focus on the sad moments, but to recall the good ones, and there were many of those.

No one is perfect, and being a mother is one of the most difficult jobs a woman can ever have. Your body gives a lot of itself to the child growing inside you for nine months, and then when you bring it into the world, a tiny, helpless, bundle, the love you feel overwhelms you. There’s no manual to help you deal with this tiny creature as it moved through stage afte stage of development. You simply have to trust that you’re doing the best you can. It isn’t always easy, sometimes it feels as if you’ve failed over and over again, but the joy and pride you feel when things turn out well is priceless.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Here we are in May of 2026. Four months down, eight months to go. The calendar assures me it’s spring; the weather does not.

May 6 question – What was the most inspiring feedback you received from readers, including agents, editors, and beta readers?

The answer is easy. The best feedback I get is being told that readers enjoy my work. That’s what keeps me writing, what keeps me slogging away at the computer day after day because that’s what I intended to do when I started this journey. I didn’t expect to make a lot of money, although that would’ve been nice. I wanted to entertain people, to share the stories and characters that occupied my mind. I wanted to take readers out of the world they were in and give them something else to think about, restore their ability to dream and home. Did I make them laugh or cry? Did I inspire them to learn a bit more about something? Did I help to change their perspective on my country, my values, my beliefs? Did I make them want to read or listen to more of my work? If I touched them in any way, then I succeeded.

See what others said here: https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Welcome to the month of May and Tuesday Tales. Around here, spring is still struggling to find her footing. Each week, a select group of author friends share a snippet from their current works in process with you, creating a scene designed around a specific word prompt. This week, our word prompt is SUNSHINE. Each scene is approxinmately 400 words long. I’m working on a cozy mystery called The Case of the Missing Prince. It’s a cold case filled with secrets and political intrigue which will require every ounce of my sleuth’s abilities to solve.

This week’s scene introduces you to Banff National Park’s denizen living legend. For the record, had I known about this guy, there is no way on Earth that my sister-in-law would’ve gotten me to go on a hike on the other side of the bear gates! Lucky for us, the Boss, was occupied elsewhere that day. Enjoy!

“This place is new and privately owned,” Hank stated. “They’re the top rehab center but mighty pricey. Got family in there?”

“No,” I shook my head at him since I could see his eyes in the rearview mirror. “When Leo disappeared, he was climbing with four other men, including Viktor here who broke his leg.” No need to go into details about crush injuries. “While two of the others are back home recuperating, one was more severely injured and required additional care.” I was careful not to mention where home was.

He nodded. “A couple of people were killed, too. My nephew—he’s in the last year of his forestry management degree—does a lot of hiking out that way. He and the other people in his class assisted in the perimeter search.” He chuckled. “Ned and a couple of his friends worked the ten to fifteen kilometer section. Didn’t find anything, not that they expected to. Lots of rough terrain there. Their last day, they spotted the Boss out fishing. They stayed a safe distance away, believe me.”

Viktor turned in his seat. “The Boss?”

“Yeah. He’s what you might call Banff National Park’s living legend and dominant grizzly bear. Officially, he’s Bear 122. He’s close to 30 years old, big, even for a grizzly, weighing about seven hundred pounds, and a horny bugger since they figure he’s sired 70 percent of the cubs in the park. He’s usually the first bear to come out of hibernation each year, lured by the early rays of sunshine in his cave. Folks in the area set spring by him not some damn rodent back east. A few years back, he got hit by a train and walked away from the collision. He’s learned to stay away from the rails when he hears the whistles. My nephew often hikes in that section of the park, but it was the first time he saw him. It seems the Boss, like Big Foot, is a mite shy when it comes to humans, but he won’t walk away from a fight with another Bear. The park rangers claim there was quite a dust-up this past summer between him and old Split Lip who occasionally wanders into his territory. While he’s been known to eat black bears, as a rule, he sticks to berries, roots, smaller mammals, and whatever he can steal from the wolf pack in the area, especially at this time of year when he’s fattening up for winter. Not sure how your man would’ve fared if he’d come across him.”

Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.

Good morning. Another day of sunshine is upon us. Not much in the way of heat, but I’ll take it. Eyes continue to improve, although I’m thinking the arms won’t get any longer, so I will probably need dollar store reading glasses in the end.

Today’s letter is the letter V. I contemplated what I would do for this letter. There were many choices, everything from vision quests, to vendettas and vindictive people, but I chose to make fun of vision tests.

I’ve had eye problems essentially from birth, diagnosed at the age of three with a lazy eye, so lazy in fact that it preferred to stay in the corner of my eye. With bottle-coke bottom thick glasses, exercises, and patching, they fixed that aspect, but they never fixed the ability to focus–not until now. So. suddenly at age 75, I can see out of both eyes, and as soon as the brain fully comprehends that, it will be a marvellous thing. One eye has a lens for distance, the lazy eye for up close. When I close my good eye as I always called it, I used to see just a blur, now I actually see things. For example, I’m typing this sentence with my good eye closed. Only made one typo–which I fixed. Let’s hear it for othomologists and optometrists who help us see the beauty and wonder around us.