If you enjoy this story and think you might like to read other Angel Ridge Novels, there are four: Only You, A Home for Christmas, What the Heart Wants (2011 Winner of the Holt Medallion-Honoring Outstanding Literary Talent for Single Title/Contemporary fiction), and I’ll Be There. All are available at Amazon.com and BN.com in trade paperback and for electronic download. A Home for Christmas is currently an Amazon Bestseller in Contemporary Romance. A link will be provided at the end of this post for you to go to either Amazon or Barnes & Noble to purchase.

Additionally, today for those who comment on this blog AND “like” my Facebook fan page, I will select a winner who will receive an autographed copy of an Angel Ridge novel. Winner’s choice!

So, sit back with a mug of hot cocoa, read, and enjoy!

–Deborah

My Christmas Angel

A Story of Angel Ridge

Angel Ridge, Tennessee

Christmas Eve, 1853

I smoothed my hands over the soft, red velvet dress Grandma had made me, admiring my reflection in the dresser mirror. It fit perfectly and had transformed a schoolgirl into a poised young woman.

“Mary! Let’s go. We’re late!”

“Coming, Mama.” I took a deep breath, trying desperately to slow my pounding heart.

Moments later, wrapped in our warmest coats, we all climbed into the wagon and settled in for the short ride to the church. My mind raced with possibilities as snowflakes swirled about my head. Would he be there? Seated with his parents in the back pew just like he had been every year since I could remember? Please God, I prayed, I have to find a way to meet him this year.

Christmas Eve was the only time he and his family ever came to church. I didn’t know who they were and didn’t dare ask. He was too special to even speak of. I secretly called him my Christmas angel. Sometimes I wondered if I hadn’t conjured him up every year, right out of my imagination . . . my hopes. . . my dreams.

Because we always sat in the third pew from the front, one good look at him was all I ever got. Last year, while the preacher was going on with one of his typical long prayers, I turned around to steal a look at my angel. All I caught was Mama’s sharp elbow in my ribs. I swear, that woman has eyes clear around her head. Even on her eyelids!

When our wagon at last rolled to a halt in front of the church, winking candles in the windows invited us to come worship. But I had other things on my mind. My hands began to shake when my brother helped me down, and I nearly fainted as a cold breeze stole my breath. Somehow, I made it all the way to the front porch. Papa held the door as Mama walked inside, but my feet seemed frozen in place when I heard the organ music filter out into the crisp, winter night air.

“Mary?”

“I . . . I . . . ”

“Close the door,” Mama said sternly. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”

I had to do something quick. I didn’t want this Christmas Eve to be like all the rest. “I . . . left my Bible . . . in the wagon.”

“I’ll get it, honey.” Papa patted my gloved hand. “You come on inside where it’s warm.”

“No! I mean, I’ll get it.” I dashed off before Papa had a chance to argue. Of course, my Bible wasn’t in the wagon. I had to go in by myself, or I’d be doomed to only another brief glimpse of my angel as Mama ushered me to her pew.

Had he ever paid me any mind as I made my way up the aisle with my parents each year? Probably not. I must have seemed like a child to his older eyes. But tonight would be different. I was a woman now, almost eighteen, and nearly finished with school. He’d notice me in my new red velvet dress that Grandma said brought out the color of my hair and eyes like never before.

Leaving my coat in the wagon, I hurried back to the church. I hid from Mama’s searching eyes just outside the sanctuary doors. The choir softly hummed Silent Night as Miss Ruth made her way to the front of the stage for her solo. Miss Ruth had the best voice of anybody, and I knew when she started singing, no one would see me slip in. I’d have scant time to put my plan in motion, which was good. That way, I wouldn’t have time to change my mind.

I slid into the little space at the end of the pew, right beside my Christmas angel. He seemed surprised, then scooted over to make room. I shivered, not from cold, mind you, but from at last catching his attention.

The heavenly chorus surely was smiling on Miss Ruth, for her voice reached every corner of the candle-lit room, filling it with that special glow only a Christmas carol can bring. Or maybe it was my angel, so close that I could feel his warmth, smell his clean scent. I chanced another look at him then, and stopped breathing. He had the unearthly beauty of an archangel who’d just left the presence of the Almighty. His long golden hair hung in silken waves to his shoulders. And when his clear blue eyes met mine, the tender look he gave me went straight to my heart.

For an endless moment we stared at each other, then he smiled hesitantly and shifted his gaze back to the cap crushed between his hands. I trained my eyes on Miss Ruth and took a shaky breath. Two things registered: he’d smiled at me; and he was alone. In fact, there wasn’t a single person nearby. The church was always filled to capacity on Christmas Eve. But tonight, it was as if God had dropped two empty pews between the Joneses’ six squirming kids and the last row where we sat.

As Miss Ruth began another verse, he leaned toward me and whispered, “Why aren’t you sitting with your parents?”

Unable to come up with a proper answer, I asked a question of my own. “Why aren’t you?”

His focus returned to the cap, which he had wrung into a mangled line. “They died…back in the summer.”

“I’m sorry.” Without thought, I reached out and covered his hand with mine.

His cap fell to the floor as he enfolded my fingers in a warm, tight grip. “Will you come out with me, Mary?” he asked softly as Miss Ruth launched into the third verse.

“Now?” Lordy, Mama surely would see the two of us sneaking out the back like a couple of thieves. I looked up to where she sat with Papa, my brothers, and my sister. They seemed to be in some kind of trance. As did everyone else, I realized suddenly as I looked around. Even the Jones children had ceased their fidgeting. Except for Miss Ruth, the entire congregation remained perfectly still.

He stood, and I did as well. We moved soundlessly through the doors into the still night. Strange, I thought, it wasn’t nearly as cold now as it had been earlier. I didn’t even feel the need to fetch my coat from the wagon.

He took my hand and placed it in the bend of his arm as we walked toward the deserted town square. Though a layer of snow crunched beneath our feet, the flakes had stopped falling. I looked up to a sky filled with more stars than I had ever seen in my life, and thanked God for suspending the snow and replacing the dark, gray cold with an ideal night.

“How did you know my name?” I asked at last.

He gave me a shy, sideways look. “Everyone knows the name of the prettiest girl in Angel Ridge.”

I blushed at his compliment. My heart beat so loudly, I feared he must surely hear it. “Thank you,” I managed. “What’s your name?”

“John.”

John. Such a common name. His name should be Michael or Gabriel, I thought. For this man was far from common.

When we reached the center of town square, he invited me to sit on the park bench near the bronze angel monument. I did and spread out the skirt of my dress. He watched me and smiled. “You look very fetching tonight, Mary. Your grandma is the best seamstress in Angel Ridge.”

I frowned. “How’d you know my grammy made this?”

He shrugged. “All the folks who can afford it hire her to make their dresses at Christmas and Easter, don’t they?”

“Yes. That’s how she manages to give all her twenty-seven grandchildren Christmas presents.”

“She’s a good woman. You’re blessed with a fine family, Mary.”

I thought he must be missing his parents somethin’ fierce tonight. “Would you like to come back to my house for dinner? Mama always puts out a big spread on Christmas Eve.” One more would hardly even be noticed.

“Thank you, but I’ll have to be gettin’ on.”

“Where do you live, John?”

“Up in the tall pines.” He nodded to the hills just north of town.

“You know, it’s strange. I’ve lived here all my life, but the only time I’ve ever seen you and your family was on Christmas Eve.”

John smiled sadly. He slid his arm around behind me, resting it against the bench. “My pa didn’t like comin’ into town or goin’ to church. But my ma, she always said that as long as we were alive and able, we ought to honor the Creator at least one day a year.” He turned away then, but not before I saw the wistful look in his pale eyes. “Christmas was her favorite time of the year. She so loved seein’ the town all gussied up. It was nice livin’ with them these past years.”

He made it sound as if he wasn’t really a part of their family. “Were you adopted?” I asked.

“I guess you could say they took me in,” he said evasively. “Come on. There’s somethin’ I’d like to show you.”

I thought I should be getting back, but couldn’t bring myself to leave him. Not yet, anyway. He drew me close. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He seemed to radiate an inner light that made me all warm inside. Made me want to stay with him now, and always.

I stood and placed my hand in his. It was soft and warm, his fingers long and well-shaped, like a musician’s. I felt safe with John, despite the fact that I knew next to nothing about him, and instinctively knew I could trust him with my very life.

We entered the woods and followed a well-worn path to a clearing, where we stopped and gazed up at the starry night sky. Tall trees surrounded us on all sides, creating an opening that looked like it could take a body straight to Heaven.

“It’s beautiful,” I said reverently.

“Close your eyes.”

With my hand still in his, and my head tipped back, I did as he asked.

“Listen.”

I tried, but heard nothing more than the sound of my own heart beating. He moved around behind me and wrapped his arms about my waist. I rested my head on his shoulder, my eyes still closed.

“Now, breathe in . . . deep and slow. Then breathe out.”

I placed my arms atop his and moved my fingers along the back of his hands. His cheek felt like the smoothest silk against mine. A sense of contentment came over me such as I had never known. Absolute serenity. Perfect peace.

“Do you hear it now?” I felt his lips brush against my ear when he spoke.

It was when I felt his breath on my face that I heard it… A chorus of perfectly blended voices singing praises. It floated down on us in a charmed moment suspended in time.

I wanted to open my eyes, to look into his and tell him of the joy I felt, but a pleasant lethargy that dictated I keep them closed overcame me.

The voices lifted to a distant hum almost like the sound of crickets in summertime. John’s warm, soft lips caressed my cheek, murmuring words of love that he wrote on my heart. His beautiful hand trailed up the curve of my neck to tilt my head slightly until his lips hovered above mine. When our lips at last touched, our souls eternally intertwined. In that moment, I knew I belonged to John. Then, and forevermore.

Wanting to share my feelings with him, I at last opened my eyes. To my profound dismay, I found myself alone in the woods, my hands holding nothing more substantial than a bough of mistletoe.

“John?” I called out, as I looked all about the clearing. The cold of the chill December night pressed in on me, making me shiver uncontrollably. “John!” I called again, but the sound of my voice echoed and fell into the oppressive silence that surrounded me.

Next year . . .  the wind seemed to whisper the words from the tall pines. On Christmas Eve . . . always on Christmas Eve.

As I made my way back to the church on legs numbed by the cold, I puzzled over what had just happened. I should have been desolate, having found my one true love, only to lose him. But instead, the contentment and peace I had experienced while in the clearing with John, remained with me.

When I re-entered the church, I walked to the third pew and sat next to my father.

“Where’s your Bible, sweetie?” he asked just as Miss Ruth finished singing her carol.

I looked about the church and frowned. The Jones children squirmed as their mother scolded and their father just looked tired. The two pews behind them were filled. The back pew was filled as well, save the one spot at the end where John and I had sat.

“Did you leave it at home?” Papa pressed me when I didn’t respond.

I looked back to him and said, “Yes. I must have.”

He squeezed my cold hand and said, “That’s all right. You can look at mine. Where’d you get the mistletoe?”

“What? Oh.” I looked down at the rich green sprig I held in my hand. “Outside.” I smiled a secret smile and touched my fingertips to my lips as I remembered the kiss I’d shared with John just before…

The preacher stood and began to read the Christmas story. The sermon about God’s gift of love at Christmastime held a new meaning for me. I thank God for showing the world His love, and for giving me John’s.

He came to me again the next Christmas Eve, and every Christmas Eve since. The gift of John’s love has sustained me all the days of my long life. Although I only have him with me one day a year, he’s never far away. When I need him, his presence surrounds me like a comforting hug. When I long to see him, I catch a glimpse of him as he disappears around a corner. When I ache for him, he comes to me in my dreams.

He promises that someday we’ll be together for eternity. Oh, how I long for that time to come when, at last, our love will be complete. But until then, we’ll have Christmas Eve.

Published in 2009 by Bell Bridge Books,an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 by Deborah Grace Staley

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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In anticipation of tomorrow’s posting of an Angel Ridge short story, “My Christmas Angel,” I thought I’d share a little Angel Ridge history lesson for those of you have not read any of the Angel Ridge Novels. All of the books have a Welcome from the town’s diner maven, Dixie Ferguson. I like to say she gets the first and last word in all the books, which, if you know Dixie, is as it should be.

The following is Dixie’s welcome as it appears in my latest Angel Ridge Novel, I’ll Be There, which features intrepid newspaper reporter, Jenny Thompson and mountain man, Cord Goins.

DIXIE’S WELCOME

“Hi, y’all. Welcome to Angel Ridge and what could be the worst winter on record here. Dixie Ferguson’s the name, and I run Ferguson’s, the town diner and finest eating establishment in town, if I do say so myself.

“I have to say that you’ve chosen to visit us at an unusual time. Normally, I’d say this is a sleepy little picturesque town that sits high on a ridge above Tellassee Lake, but things aren’t always like they seem on the surface. Why, around here, the guy who wears overalls and no shirt in the summer is just as likely to be a millionaire as he is to be down on his luck. Take the newcomer who moved to town last fall. She wasn’t at all like she seemed either. Why, she had family secrets even she didn’t know about.

“Before I go into that, let me take a second to tell you a bit about the place I’ve called home for most of my life. Angel Ridge. Population three hundred forty. It’s located in the valley of the Little Tennessee River, established in 1785. In the early days, its first families—the McKays, the Wallaces, the Houstons, the Jonses, and the Craigs—staked their claims on hundreds of acres of the richest bottomland anyone had ever seen. They built big ol’ homes near the meandering river and operated prosperous plantations. Well, all except for the Craigs. They were traders and craftsmen. Men of commerce, as it were. Meanwhile, the town developed above the river on a high ridge.

“In the early 1970’s, the Flood Control Board came in and bought up most of the property along the flood prone river, and those stately homes that some called relics of a bygone era, were inundated in the name of progress. But those who built more modest Victorians near town up on the ridge? Well, their homes are still standin’. Of course, the families who lost theirs to the newly formed Tellassee Lake moved up to the ridge as well and built elaborate Victorian mansions such as this quaint little town had never seen.

“Most of the families I mentioned earlier are still around. These are hardy folks. Why, in all the time they’ve lived here, they’ve endured Indian attacks, floods, divided loyalties in the Civil War, and yes, even feuds. The older folks are still marked by the hardships of the past, but the young people of the town hope to move beyond old hurts to create a new generation made strong because of their roots, yet free of the past.

“As I said, last fall Candi Heart rented the old beauty shop across the way on Main Street and opened up a girly shop called, ‘Heart’s Desire’ and along with it, a closet full of skeletons. Her shop’s a fun place that sells a bit of everything a girl loves: flowers, candy, lingerie, clothing, perfumes and lotions. Why, she even serves tea in the back. It’s a nice place where girls can get together and talk. I just love the place and Candi, but she had no idea that her coming here would rattle some old, rusty chains. Yes, trouble followed that girl to town and Jenny Thompson, who runs our newspaper, The Angel Ridge Chronicle, got tangled up in the mess.

“I’ve lived here most of my life, and I can’t remember ever locking my doors at night, but I confess to locking up now and checking them again before I go to bed. I’ve even caught myself looking over my shoulder as I walk down Main for anyone that might seem suspicious. I hate feeling this way. I never thought things in Angel Ridge would come to this, but that just goes to show you that every town, even a picture-postcard one, has its troubles.

“Not much goes on around here in the winter. After Christmas, folks usually hunker down and wait for spring to come. Given recent events, I’d say people in town are understandably on edge. I guess you could say that’s where our heroine, Jenny Thompson, and hero, Cord Goins, are—on edge, hunkered down and waiting. Stuck between a beginning and an ending, and both of them powerless to control the situations they’ve found themselves in. But that’s when a person can also find themselves in uncharted territory just waiting to venture out and make their own way. I’ve got a feeling Jenny and Cord will find their way.

“So keep safe and warm during your visit to Angel Ridge, and if you have time, come by the diner and have yourself a cup of hot chocolate on me.”

Be sure to tune in tomorrow for “My Christmas Angel,” an historical short story of Angel Ridge.

To read the Angel Ridge Novels, visit Amazon.com or BN.com to download them to your eReader or to purchase them in trade paperback. One lucky commenter will receive their choice of an autographed Angel Ridge novel when they comment on the short story AND like my Facebook Fan page. Just click on the “like” button to the right before you comment.

See you tomorrow!

Deborah

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It’s an odd thing we do, we artists. Pull ideas and notions out of the ether and interpret them in such a way that they become the written word, art, music, lyrics, a song, a dance.

In the past 24 hours, I’ve listened to two artists talk about their lives and how they maneuver this thing called life while communing with the ether. Some let the process become a torturous affair. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, sees the process much as ancient civilizations who believed that something outside of the artist was responsible for the success or failure of a work—that the artist was just a vehicle. Wouldn’t that be awesome if we could put the success or failure on someone or something other than ourselves!

Singer Keith Urban, who has dealt with alcoholism, said in a recent interview, “When I stopped fighting, life ceased to be a war.” Doesn’t that bring into focus the image of the tortured artist? Just let it be. This resonates with me. I fight against myself and the process of creating. I allow external circumstances dictate my ability to create. It’s the darkness that pulls me down toward the depression against which I struggle. A lot of people have to be inspired. Well, I got over that pretty early on, finding that if I put my behind in the chair and fingers on the keyboard, that it would come. And experience tells me that it always does. But I find struggle in quieting my mind so that when I sit with computer in my lap, it can come.

I’m fascinated with the notion of meditation and the meditator’s ability to sit for hours quieting their mind so that a blank canvas emerges on which God can write the message He wants you to receive. I operate from the belief that He is the power outside me, the only one, that drives the process. He alone determines the success or failure of the work He has given my hands. My weakness is in the quieting that comes in believing and letting Him have sovereignty over those things I cannot control.

I lost my job last year. I had no control over that circumstance. I now write full-time. I have no control over how many or how few people buy my books. I have no control over my income. I don’t even know how much it’s going to be when that royalty check comes twice a year. This vexes my husband, and because it vexes him, it vexes me. I keep thinking I need to do more, figure it out, get another job that pays a set amount each week. But then, that too can go away…

So, how do we sit with fingers on keyboards, or stand on a stage ready to interpret the writers’ words with our voices, or make the first stroke on the canvas, or form the clay from nothing? How do we quiet our mind to receive the message when so many voices compete to be heard above the message it is our work to bring into the world?

I once did a workshop where we had to write a physical description for our muse. I chose a warrior who secured the perimeter, making a safe space for me to work. As long as he stood sentinel, sword at the ready fighting my demons and distractions, I could deal solely with the interpretation of the message into my medium—the novel. I need that safe space. I long to find it and sit in it. But how to find that space . . .

Maybe Keith Urban has it right. Stop fighting. Let go and Let it come. Maybe today will be the day, maybe tomorrow. But it will come. It always does when I get out of the way.

I know you must be thinking it’s terrible that I let those boxes sit so long. Truth be told, in the past, I haven’t used my parlor much. However, I recently put a small daybed in this room for overnight guests who have trouble with the stairs or who like to be on the same floor as the bathroom! So, I’ve been cleaning out the room, which involves unpacking.

Old Handkerchiefs

A friend of mine wrote a lovely paragraph this week about grief that was published on a website. She talked about finding her grandmother’s old handkerchief and wondering about what events she had mourned while crying into that handkerchief. I wonder that as well as whose little noses were wiped with that hanky–maybe my husband’s or my son’s. Was she holding one of these when she buried her husband only two months after I married their grandson? They’re beautiful and colorful. Some looked well-used, while others were clearly for special occasions. Lots of rich colors–purples, reds, blues and oranges. That was Mamaw. She was colorful. She loved being the center of attention and always brimmed with energy and smiles. My sister-in-law suggested I put them in a shadow box. I’m working on that. I had one that I’d been saving for just the right project. I also have some costume jewelry that belonged to Mamaw. So, I thought I’d put those in the box as well. One small box contained a broken strand of pearls and another that resembled Mardi Gras beads. Nothing exceptional about these necklaces, but when I opened that small box, I was struck by the scent. That small box that held those faux pearls held the rich, strong scent of her perfume. How could it be that after ten years, the scent could be so strong, and still so memorable. What unexpected treasures and memories that box held!

Another box I unpacked held treasures from my youth. Trophies from when I played softball in middle school, danced with the Golden Girls in high school, a talent competition in middle school where I danced and pantomimed the Good Ship Lollipop dressed like Shirley Temple! That box also contained candles I’d collected when I was little: a pink mouse, a red dog with long ears, a yellow duck, and a candy apple. I wondered why I kept them all these years. Why had I wanted them in the first place?They were whimsical, shiny, and smooth to the touch. I remembered that looking at them when I was little made me smile and allowed my imagination to take flight. Such simple things, these candles, yet they accomplished things that I now find difficult. Now when I’m looking for my imagination to activate, I think of taking a trip. When I was young, all I needed was a colorful, shiny, smooth candle.

Unpacking makes room for old as well as new thoughts and ideas to generate. It also makes old memories fresh, and takes us back to perhaps a simpler time where we can remember and revisit people and things we loved so that we can love them anew through a scent, a texture, a thought. Take time to remember and wonder about something this week and see where the memories take you. Maybe you, too, have an old box waiting for you to unlock its treasures.

In the meantime, it’s exciting to have the book available now in any format. It’s exciting every time. That feeling will never grow old. This book is special to me for several reasons. First, it was the thesis for my MFA in Creative Writing program at Goddard College. It was also the second novel I wrote in the program. Not done to impress, but rather out of necessity, I had two publishing deadlines in the two years I was in the program. My thesis advisors were the incomparable Victoria Nelson and Darrah Cloud. What a privilege to work with two such fine writers! Second, this book is dedicated to my dear friend, Katy Zirbel. Katy’s mom has become a great fan of the Angel Ridge series. I can’t wait to send her a copy!

In order of publication, the books in the series are Only You, A Home for Christmas, What the Heart Wants, and I’ll Be There. But the inside information, just for you, is that chronologically, they go like this: What the Heart Wants, I’ll Be There, Only You and A Home for Christmas. The last two books published are prequels to the first two. Confused? Don’t be. You can really read them in any order. They were each written to stand alone.

There are challenges that come with writing a series. Some people do spreadsheets with all the information about what happened in each of the books in a series. I probably should have done that, but I didn’t. There are some discrepancies in the books, minor details really, that do not detract from the stories unless you are a stickler for detail. They’re fun books all set in a small East Tennessee town called Angel Ridge. I came up with the idea for the town when I moved into my historic farmhouse located in the Little Tennessee River Valley. It was built sometime around 1867 by W.B. Howard. He lived here with his wife, Mary Montgomery Howard, until 1900. The Little Tennessee River Valley has a rich and interesting history which includes plantation homes, paddle boats, week long extravagant parties, fast horses, private schools, flooding, a volatile relationship with the Cherokee Indian Nation, and feuds. I took all this history, and put it in the history of Angel Ridge. Those plantation homes were destroyed by a dam that flooded the river valley that is now a lake. I forced my make-believe families from those homes up into the town that formed high on a ridge, safe from the flooding. What results is an interesting mix of traditional older folks and non-traditional younger people who want to move Angel Ridge into a more modern era.

Only You and A Home for Christmas, acquaint the reader with this little town that time has forgotten. What the Heart Wants and I’ll Be There feature skeletons falling out of the closet, revealing a past that most residents of Angel Ridge would rather forget. As a writer, this allowed me to flex my writing muscles and venture into the territory of action-adventure/suspense. It was difficult, but great fun. Moving in this direction also allowed me to bring more depth to Angel Ridge and its characters.

Visit my newly revamped website to read an excerpt from each of the novels: www.deborahgracestaley.com

Visit www.amazon.come to purchase the novels of Angel Ridge.

Happy reading!

Debbie

Still thinking about my friend Katy today, and remembering her.

I’ve been on YouTube looking at songs about remembering. I love this line from the Sarah MacLachlin song:

I will remember you

Will you remember me?

Don’t let your life

Pass you by

Weep not for the memories.

Weep not for the memories…so many sweet memories.

In a moment, read these lyrics from the Josh Groban song, “Remember Me,” then listen to him beautifully sing it in the video below that was put together by a mother dealing with the loss of her daughter.

My favorite line from the song is this:

I’m with you

Whenever you tell, my story

I’ve shared a lot of Katy stories with friends. I want to share one now with you.

Katy was brilliantly talented. She was a scientist and held a degree in biology. It always amazes me that people with left-brain capabilities can be creative, because my left-brain hardly functions at all. But she was not only a scientist, she was a writer and an artist.

She saw something in a gift shop. I don’t remember now what it was, but it was made of this special metal that when struck made the most beautiful, musical sound. She found out what the metal was—that was the scientist in her. She bought a roll of the wire and made magic wands. She made four of them: one for herself, me, Regina Tingle and Victoria Nelson.

She was so pleased with herself, as well she should have been. I remember over a Skype session that she was striking the wand so I could hear the sound it made. And she laughed—she had an amazing laugh. High and pure and infectious. There was no way anyone could listen to her laugh and not smile. Her laughed filled those who heard it with the joy she felt because it spilled out in the sound. And her smile, it was huge and bright. Combined, her laugh and smile were quite simply magical, like the magic wands she made for us.

So, today, I’m striking that magical wand, remembering and feeling the joy that was Katy. And I’m smiling. Are you?

Katy's Magic Wand

Remember Me by Josh Groban

Remember, I will still be here

As long as you hold me, in your memory

Remember, when your dreams have ended

Time can be transcended

Just remember me

I am the one star that keeps burning, so brightly,

It is the last light, to fade into the rising sun

I’m with you

Whenever you tell, my story

For I am all I’ve done

Remember, I will still be here

As long as you hold me, in your memory

Remember me

I am the one voice in the cold wind, that whispers

And if you listen, you’ll hear me call across the sky

As long as I still can reach out, and touch you

Then I will never die

Remember, I’ll never leave you

If you will only

Remember me

Remember me…

Remember, I will still be here

As long as you hold me

In your memory

Remember, when your dreams have ended

Time can be transcended

I live forever

Remember me

Remember me

Remember… me…

Here’s my offering on time.

Time is a feckless bitch

She’s here and she’s not

She’s blamed and praised

She never stands still

She moves ahead, relentlessly

Nothing stops her

She goes

Whether we go with her or not

She’s blamed and we grieve

When a child leaves us

By choice or too soon

We blame her and grieve

When a friend leaves us

At 50 or 80, we say

Where did the time go?

I wish we’d had more time

We talk about how they

Cared for the time they had

But still their time is gone

Along with our time with them

Gone

Time keeps moving

Despite our vain attempts

To stop or slow

Her unremitting march

Diet, exercise, surgery, chemo

Still she moves at the same tempo

We ignore her

Long for more of this feckless lover

But in the end

She always leaves

Time has only one

Against whom

she has no defense…

Now

Hold her

Embrace and caress her

Live in her

Appreciate her

Love her

Acknowledge her

And time loses her power

We think not of time

So absorbed and occupied

We become rather by

Now

© Deborah Grace Staley

About Writing

About Living with Depression

About Being a Mom

About Being a Wife

About Being a Friend

About, well, Anything!

I’m a woman of a certain age. Being such, there are a few things I’ve learned, some through traditional methods, some the hard way. Let’s just say, I’m not one of those people for whom things come easily. I am quite familiar with the circuitous route and often, I figure things out slowly and painstakingly through trial and error.

So, if you’ll indulge me, I thought as inspiration strikes, I might write about things I’ve learned along the way in this thing called life. I do not presume to think that what works for me will work for anyone else. But I do hope that by reading my posts, you might gain some insights that will help you think about how you’re walking your road.

P.S. Thanks to my friends Kim, Regina, and KaLyn for inspiring me!