For Goodness Sakes, It’s My Turn

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I didn’t really forget this was my day to blog. I have it on my calendar, but for some reason I thought I’d already done it and posted it to appear today. Obviously that’s not what happened.

So, here I am, late and apologetic.

Because I haven’t planned, I have no idea what to write about. I’ve been really busy lately, planning for the Public Safety Writers Association conference which I’m leaving for tomorrow. I’m the program chairman so I’m excited and a tad nervous.

PSWA’s conferences have been small, partly due to the fact that it had to be reorganized for reasons I don’t need to go into. Last year we had 15 people in attendance. I can assure everyone that the small number made absolutely no difference, we had great speakers and a tremendous amount of fun. We’ve doubled the number plus three this year. Our speakers are fantastic, everyone who wanted to is on a panel. People are coming from as far away as New York and Florida. The good thing about Las Vegas where the conference is held, it’s easy for everyone to get there and airfares are reasonable.

A plus for me is my sis lives in Vegas as does her entire family–four kids, a bunch of grandkids and greats. We’ll spend our first evening and night and morning with her, then onto the conference. Oh did I tell you, I also do the registration, so I have to arrive at the hotel fairly early.

Before I leave, I hope to add some to my w-i-p, which is another Rocky Bluff P.D. crime novel. I’m at the most exciting part, so it’s fun writing except I have to make myself slow down. It’s in my head and I can’t wait to put it into the computer.

Anyway, that’s what distracted me from doing my blog as I was supposed to.

Marilyn
a.k.a. F. M. Meredith

The Power of the Word

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I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.

I thought it was one of the Founding Fathers who made that declaration, but it was actually Voltaire. Maybe you knew that.

I’ve been thinking about Free Speech a lot lately. As a writer, of course I have always supported the First Amendment, with the caveat that as Oliver Wendell Holmes ruled: The most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man falsely shouting fire in a theater and causing a panic.

I grew up chanting sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. And yet, in the last few weeks, we’ve seen deadly action spring from vicious, hateful language. In my zeal to protect free speech, I am left with the horrific results when the debate ends and the gunfire erupts. James W. von Brunn, who murdered a security guard at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, had a web site that spewed hatred. He was, in some ways, an equal-opportunity bigot – willing to kill anyone who didn’t fit his vision of a “pure” American, e.g., white.

Eugene Robinson, columnist for The Washington Post, certainly a free speech supporter, raised a valid question. When does “blast-furnace rhetoric,” which though ugly is legal, cross the line because it incites others to violence? You can make the argument that neither the far right nor the far left is responsible for the nutjob who moves from advocating to shooting bullets. But Robinson suggests that many talking heads on all-news cable shows are riling up some dangerous people when they call President Obama a “socialist,” label Sonia Sotomayor a “racist Latina,” and claim that Democrats want to “take away your guns.”

As with all of our guaranteed freedoms, they depend on people never abusing them. Each of us has the right to her own opinion. We can and should make cogent arguments to defend our positions, and work within the political system to effect change. BUT we also need to avoid demonizing the opposition – and we must vote with the remote and turn off the television when a talking head tries to spike his ratings with rants designed to appeal to the fears and prejudices of the audience.

These are serious times that demand serious discussion. There’s no room at the table – or on television or radio – for those who aren’t willing to talk about issues without resorting to scare tactics or hyperbole.

I’m a realist. I know there are crazy people out there. But the media must stop providing these nutjobs with the “ammunition” that they then use to justify their violent actions.

Evelyn David

Fuse Beads, a Metaphor for Writing

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My kids are gung-ho these days for an arts-and-craft activity called fuse beads. This involves a tub of 10,000 multi-colored plastic beads that the kids meticulously place on forms to create rainbow colored dogs, fish, or other designs of their choice.

I have mixed feelings about this craft. When the kids are using them, the beads inevitably roll en masse onto my kitchen floor and scatter, creating a spectacular mess that apparently disturbs only me. Worse, no fuse bead creation is complete until it has been covered with wax paper and ironed. The heat melts the beads together so that each lovely creation can be preserved forever. That’s nice and everything, but kids can’t iron so we all know who gets this job.

I tolerate these inconveniences because as a mother and a writer, I believe it’s important to foster creativity in kids. It takes my three-year-old son about a half hour to complete a design. His intense concentration during this time is incredible and when I watch him dig for the right color, or move a bead from one peg to another because the first choice wasn’t satisfactory, I know I’ve chosen a good use for his time. It’s great for his coordination and imagination and beats the heck out of watching TV.

The other day we sat at opposite ends of our kitchen table. My son worked on a multi-colored bead fish while I caught up on bills and letters. A 10,000 Maniacs CD played on the stereo and each of us worked without talking, both concentrating. Then he looked up and said, “Mom, want to see my fish?” It was barely started, but I told him how nice it looked and we returned to our work.

A few minutes later, he broke his silence again, wanting only my approval and encouragement before carrying on. It occurred to me then that, except for the mess involved, my little boy and his beads are much like me and my writing. We both have an idea how we want our project to turn out. We’re willing to spend the time it takes. Rearranging pieces to get the right effect is not only necessary, but fun. And we both want an outside opinion partway through, just to be sure.

Usually, I feel what I call “Mom Guilt” where my writing is concerned. My kids are still young (ages 3, 7, and 8) and even if I’m not at my laptop writing, I’m frequently away somewhere in my thoughts, plotting. Since my mental energy is often divided between my children and my work-in-progress, I sometimes feel I’m letting the kids down. This exchange at the table was the first time I recognized that being a writer had the potential to improve my ability to parent.

In the half hour we sat together, he must have asked my thoughts on his fish at least a half a dozen times. Having the same conversation with a three-year-old every few minutes is tedious. There are only so many ways I can express that a fish is pretty or colorful or awesome or cool. What previously would have been a repetitive exchange became meaningful when I finally made the connection between his pursuit and mine. Empathizing with his need for input, I became more patient, encouraging, and sincere. It felt really good to have an old conversation in a new way with my little boy.

The revelation helped with the Mom Guilt issue, but didn’t address the gazillion fuse bead creations overrunning my house. It was here I found the second parallel between fuse beads and writing. With three kids, all craft zealots, artwork piles up around my house all the time. I save my favorites but have to remind myself as I’m clearing out paintings, sketches, or bead creations, that there’s simply not enough room to keep it all. “It was the experience that mattered,” I tell myself, anytime I’m gathering up craft shrapnel for covert disposal. The value is not always in the art itself but in the time spent making it—the exercise in creativity, constructive use of their time, and the satisfaction of bringing a mental image to physical form.

I’m beginning to view my scenes like my kids’ copious artwork—as creative exercises, constructive uses of my time, and a physical manifestation of something imagined. Whether I use those scenes or cut them, the time spent exploring ideas is golden. I learned a lot from those obnoxious little beads.

Rachel Brady

Rachel Brady’s debut suspense novel, Final Approach, will be released in October or can be pre-ordered from Amazon. A graduate of Wright State University and The Ohio State University, Rachel works as a biomedical engineer when she’s not writing mystery and suspense fiction. Her interests include health and fitness, acoustic guitar, and books of all kinds. She lives outside of Houston, Texas, with her husband and their three children. Visit her on-line at http://www.rachelbrady.net/ or read about her experiences as a new author at her blog, Write It Anyway. Fellow internet junkies can follow her on Twitter or add her as a friend on Goodreads.

Is it Thursday? Already?

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Time for me to blog again.

And again, my thoughts are scattered. Just got home from Oklahoma City. I was there for the day to meet with my federal counterparts. The topic was hydrology structures on coal mining sites and the need to correct a conflict in the text of our state regulations. Sometimes figuring out the mystery of environmental regulations that were drafted and passed 30 years ago is impossible, even for a mystery writer.

My new office (remember the move I mentioned a few weeks ago?) is still not finished. All our desks, files, computers, etc. are in storage. My staff and I are working from our homes, vehicles, and another field office located about 50 miles away. Although working at home sounds like fun – for me it’s not. I already have an unorganized mess in my living room involving the next Evelyn David book and the promotion materials for the one published last month. Adding in mining reports, mining mail, and copies of regulations and forms, has pushed me right over the edge. My living room is officially a national disaster area.

Tomorrow morning I will drive 15 miles to the new office space, stand outside the half-finished building, tap my foot and glare at the contractor. Then I’ll head to the post office, pick up the agency mail, date stamp it and log it into a notebook while sitting in the parking lot, then drive home. After some lunch (or a late breakfast), I’ll return phone calls (all our office calls are being forwarded to our Oklahoma City office) and deal with e-mailed mining inspection reports that I have to approve.

Since it might be two more weeks (sigh) before we can move into the new space, I’ve set up a weekly Tuesday meeting with my staff at the Pizza Hut. The meeting conditions are primitive (no buffet except on Fridays – the buffet being another causality of the poor economy) but we’re a hardy bunch. We’ll manage.

It was raining off and on all day. My two hour drive home was grey and long. Since my work routine has been totally destroyed, I’m having trouble keeping track of what day it is. I think the painting is supposed to start tomorrow on the new office. And since tomorrow is my blog day, it must be Thursday, which is also trash day – meaning I need to go outside tonight – in the rain – and drag the trash bin to the curb.

On a positive note, both Evelyn David books are selling well. So well they keep going out of stock at Amazon and Ingrams. This means when I promote the book, 50% of the time the buyer has to wait, which makes both halves of Evelyn David very nervous. Our publisher told us today that we had two choices: sell less books or mentally learn to deal with the “out of stock” issue. I may have to take up some kind of meditation or maybe medication! (Note: Barnes & Noble still copies of both Murder Off the Books and Murder Takes the Cake available to ship now.)

I got my latest Amazon order in the mail today. No, I’m not the one buying up all the copies of Murder Takes the Cake! In a mad splurge, I ordered season one of True Blood on dvd and a book recommended by the DorothyL listserve – The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. The book looks good! It’s a hardback, yet didn’t come with a dust jacket. Is that a new practice? Or did Amazon just forget to send it to me?

On an unrelated note – buyers beware. I purchased a blackberry curve from T-Mobile. After three months I’m still waiting for my $100 rebate. Several weeks ago, they wrote and asked for another number off the cell phone box. I think this is the point where most people give up, having tossed the box after filling out the rebate form. Not me. I kept everything. It was still in a pile near my desk. I put the additional information in the next day’s mail to T-Mobile. I also kept copies of all the correspondence. I’m going to get that promised rebate! The rest of my life may be out of control – but if necessary I will make getting that rebate my mission in life! Hear that T-Mobile? You’ve been warned!

Next week I’ll blog about something important. Maybe North Korea and those two American journalists that are being held hostage there. Or maybe the economy. Did I mention the state agency I work for just got a 7% budget cut for next year? It seems clear that in Oklahoma the economy is going to get worse, before it gets better.

Nothing seems to come easy anymore. Maybe it never did and I just didn’t notice.

I’m sure tomorrow will be a better day.

Right! At least it will be a different day.

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Reunion Weekend

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I had the pleasure of spending Saturday evening into Sunday at my alma mater’s annual Reunion celebration. Although it is only my 24th year out of college, my three best college friends—with whom I roomed during my sophomore and their junior years—were attending their 25th jubilee. I was also honored to be a guest presenter there and had the pleasure of speaking to a dozen or so women from the class of ’59, one of whom is the mother of a friend here in the Village. I spoke about the Murder 101 series and these wonderful women restored my belief in my own public speaking skills.

Here’s the thing—I bomb with some groups. There have been several presentations I’ve given where I’ve laughed at my own jokes in front of a room of people who looked like they had come to attend the annual Mortuary Science convention. They do not find my jokes funny, my stories amusing, nor me laughing at my own jokes and/or stories at all humorous. I’ve given a few of these lackluster presentations in a row and was starting to lose faith in myself.

But the class of ’59 was a game crowd. This was a group of extremely interested, mystery-loving women. They ate up everything there was to be heard about Alison Bergeron and the books in the series. And they laughed where you were supposed to laugh and even some places where you weren’t. But that’s ok. Rather have laughing than the alternative.

It was a gorgeous weekend here on the East Coast and my alma mater sits on the Hudson River. The Half Moon was sailing past the college just about the time that I was presenting so many reunion goers went out to see it so as not to miss what turned out to be quite a spectacle. (See here for details and some nice pictures of the replica of Henry Hudson’s ship) Being a huge fan of the Hudson—I’ve lived near it my entire life and enjoyed its beauty—I didn’t mind that I had been ditched in favor of the historic flotilla that sailed past the college and toward my home town, where it sailed past Sunday morning. Missed that one, too.

The girls and I spent Saturday afternoon walking around campus, marveling at how little had changed but also at the improvements that had been made. We had some champagne to celebrate our annual weekend together and then a cosmopolitan right before the dinner dance we were to attend that evening. Before heading over to the dining hall, we ventured into the beautiful chapel—where many key scenes from the movie “Doubt” were filmed—and drank in the smell of bees’ wax, floor polish, and incense. It was there that I got a little overwhelmed, thinking about the four of us, the time that had passed, and the struggles we had gone through. When I told my friends what I was thinking, one of the four, my gal Trixie, turned to me and said, “You’re cut off.” (My reputation as a weepy imbiber is legendary among this crew.)

It’s amazing how after a quarter decade it can feel as if no time has passed. At the same time, it can feel like almost twice that time has passed. It’s a weird conundrum. We had a great time at the dinner dance, dancing among graduates going as far back as the class of ’39—ok, maybe they weren’t dancing, but they were there—and meeting new people with whom we shared the bond of being “Mounties” (our college nickname). The camaraderie that existed among women much older than we are impressed me and again, made me weepy. Seeing women who had cultivated the bonds of friendship over the course of thirty, forty, and even fifty years was impressive indeed. We all have different histories and backgrounds but our love of our friends, and the school that brought us together, will keep us together forever.

Maggie Barbieri

Family, Great-Grandma’s Writing Adventures

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This is a photo of my granddaughter, Jessi, who lives next door, and my great-granddaughter, Kay’Lee. Jessi is Kay’Lee’s aunt. They were together to celebrate Kay’Lee’s 6th birthday. I mainly put the photo in to brighten today’s post–and I like it.

Because Jessi lives so close, we’ve been in on a lot of her life. She even stayed with us during her grammar school days. Now she’s in college, engaged and just landed her first real job.

Now on to my adventures. I can honestly tell you that as a child and even a mom raising five kids, I had no idea what I’d be doing in my so-called golden years. I really didn’t like to drive outside of the town we lived in. I’d only flown once in my life and that was to take my two babies back to the east coast to be with my husband. The plane had trouble on the way, we had to make an emergency landing and I vowed never to fly again.

I’ve always been a writer, had several articles and other things published, but my first book not until I was in my late forties.

That book had been submitted to nearly 30 publishers before it was finally accepted. (I’m the poster grandma for perseverance.) While that one was being rejected I was busy writing another, and another.

Finally, as a published writer, I began going to conferences. My first mystery conferences were held in a mountain retreat with such big name writers as Sue Grafton and Mary Higgins Clark! I don’t think there were more than 30 or 40 people in attendance at either one. What a great opportunity.

I was a founding member of the San Joaquin chapter of Sisters in Crime. Through Sisters I met more wonderful people and learned about Left Coast Crime and Bouchercon. Of course the Internet introduced me to other mystery cons of one sort or another.

I’ve been to Alaska twice to LCC and then Bouchercon–and of course I flew. The first time, after the con, I traveled in a big Suburban on a frozen river to visit and talk to students at a school in a small village. Exciting. I met two Native women at the con–and kept in touch with them via email. When I went to Alaska the second time, after Bouchercon, I went to one of the Native women’s home in Wasilla, stayed with her for three days and visited a middle school where I talked about how to write a mystery.

With a friend I met through the Internet, I flew to New York to attend the Edgars. Wow, what an experience. From there we took the train to DC and went to Malice Domestic, and flew home afterwards.

With hubby, I’ve flown to all sorts of places in the U.S. we would never have even thought to visit if it hadn’t been a mystery conference or other conference being held there.

I’ve been a part of and am now on the board of the Public Safety Writers Association–a group of people who write non-fiction or fiction about any type of public safety. Through this group I’ve met so many people in law-enforcement, forensic experts, people who are great for picking their brains but who’ve also become good friends.

I’ve gone on ride-alongs with police officers, including a son-in-law.

I’ve had the privilege of talking about writing and my books at several libraries in California, done book signings, put on fun book launches here in Springville where I live and also in Crescent City where I shared the signing duties with the Tolowa woman I wrote about in my book, Kindred Spirits.

Best of all, I’ve met so many interesting people, readers and other authors–including a couple of the authors on this blog.

Who ever knew I’d be having so much fun as a great-grandma? When will I slow down? Only when I have to.

Marilyn a.k.a. F. M. Meredith

Two is Definitely More than One

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I’m the mother of four children, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Moms know that when you have a second child, the amount of work grows exponentially. So I should have realized that two dogs is definitely more than twice the amount of wear and tear. And don’t get me started on how they’ll entertain each other…unless tearing around the house like it was the dragway at Daytona Beach is your definition of entertainment.

Our oldest and his wife are on vacation, and we, the grandparents to adorable Nook, are babysitting for two weeks. Nook is a Portugese Water Dog, all black curly hair except for her right front paw, which is white. She is four years old, so just past adolescence. She loves adult companionship, which translates to mean, let me sit on your feet so you can’t go anywhere without me.

Clio, the resident Irish terrier, is nine years old, so let’s call a spade a spade – she’s eligible for Social Security. She entered this household when there were four kids still living at home – and she learned quite early to pick her battles in terms of what she needed. She wanted her dinner promptly at 5 pm (and seriously you can set the clock by it). She wanted her sheepskin blankie from her days in the litter to sleep on. And she wanted Honey Nut Cheerios on top of her kibble in the morning. Otherwise, she was happy to watch television with whomever had gotten the remote, and had no preference whether it was a Mets game or Masterpiece Theater. The likelihood of some popcorn hitting the ground under either scenario was excellent, and she is always ready to serve as a canine vacuum cleaner.

Clio has taken seriously her role as big sister. She’s taught Nook that when you come in from the backyard, you have to walk down the steps to the basement and then right back up again (to get rid of any lingering dirt). She’s also clearly informed little sister that going outside to do your “business,” entitles you to a doggie treat. Clio was incredulous, and her face showed it, when Nook wandered off the other morning without the biscuit. Of course, Clio immediately rose to the occasion and was happy to oblige by polishing off a second treat in under five seconds. Making sure everyone knows that she is the alpha dog of the pack is accomplished by immediately doing her business wherever Nook has done hers. What this means is that any walk with the two of them takes double the amount of time because Clio has to mark the previously marked spots. Oy!

Still, as with the two-legged children I’ve known, these furry companions have their moments. Growling one minute, snuggling up the next. But do I have any interest in permanently growing the canine population in this house? Nope. Like grandparents everywhere, I love to indulge this little one – and then send her home!

Evelyn David

Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Ah, the Joys of Home Work

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by Susan McBride

My husband thinks I’m so lucky. As a full-time writer, I work at home, which means I don’t have to fight rush-hour traffic in the morning or change out of my pajamas until noon. He’s jealous, too, that the cats can hang out in my office, their furry lengths draped across my lap or my desk. Only there are drawbacks to being a work-at-homer, kind of along the lines of “anything too good to be true usually is.”

Like when you realize your home is your office so there’s no leaving work at work. I’m envious that Ed gets to put being a software engineering team manager out of his head once he drives out of the company lot. Once he’s kicking back on the sofa in front of the widescreen, he’s ready to chill (unless it’s the weekend, and the list of chores on the fridge is making him cross-eyed).

When I’m on deadline for a first draft, revisions, copy-edits, whatever, my work is constantly calling to me, 24/7. I don’t get to turn it off, shift “job” to another part of my brain, and relax. I know that everytime I walk upstairs past my office, there’s more to be done. So I frequently find myself saying, “I just need to write for a bit,” and I’ll disappear for hours. It’s no wonder I sometimes forget what day of the week it is since I’m often at the keyboard pounding away even on weekends.

Oh, yeah, and there’s that lovely side effect of home-as-office which awards the lucky work-at-homer the opportunity to wait on and (for lack of a better word) supervise every repairman and delivery. So, let’s say, when it’s time for an AC check and the dude “will arrive sometime between eight and noon” or the new dishwasher is coming “anytime next Thursday,” yep, yours truly gets to meet-and-greet. It’s hard to write when someone’s installing an appliance, which entails a good amount of banging noises and switching off of electrical circuits. I can’t seem to get deeply into a scene when a stranger in my house keeps calling, “Ma’am?” from downstairs. Even on no-repairman days, there are always loads of laundry, vacuuming, mopping, trips to the grocery store and bank, and other miscellaneous chores that fall to me. I do try to squeeze in the treadmill occassionally, too, even if it’s the middle of the afternoon. More often than not, the doorbell rings right after I’ve stepped out of the shower, and it’s the UPS guy. I’ve actually signed for packages with a towel wrapped around my middle and one hastily wound around my dripping head. (Well, like that old Wells Fargo Wagon song from “Music Man,” it might be somethin’ special just for me! Most recently, it was hot-off-the-press copies of LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS…Oooo!!!)

As for our cats sweetly purring in my lap as I type…ha! That’s only in my husband’s wild imagination. Usually, they’re chasing each other around the house, howling and spitting as they fling themselves atop my desk and swat at each other, knocking papers to the floor and often stepping on various keys on my keyboard. Once Munch plopped down on the “Enter” key and suddenly a 10-page chapter turned into hundreds of blank pages. This weekend, Max hopped up and clicked the mouse with his paw, sending an email I was writing in reply to a blogger doing a contest for one of my books…before I’d half-finished it. Thanks, Maxwell.

It’s a wonder anything ever gets done. Speaking of which, excuse me a minute while I dump another load in the washing machine, throw some clothes in the dryer, and let the plumber in. I have a feeling Munch and Max will attempt some very interesting revisions for me while I’m gone.

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EXCITING NEWS: My second Debs novel, LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS, will be released on June 9. I’m giving away five copies on my web site so drop by and enter!

Have Your Cake & Eat It Too!

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As Murder Takes the Cake is making its way onto library shelves across the U.S. we’d like to celebrate with a SPECIAL DRAWING JUST FOR LIBRARIANS.

Sign up for our newsletter at our website. The sign up block is on the right column, just scroll down a few inches. Indicate on the sign up form that you are a librarian or work/volunteer in a library. You’ll be automatically entered into the June, July, and August 2009 drawing for an autographed copy of Murder Takes the Cake and a Smith Island Cake.

If you are already an Evelyn David Newsletter subscriber and need to update your subscription to indicate that you are a librarian, just follow the same procedure.

3 months – 3 drawings. Sign up today and have 3 chances to win!

Good luck!

And for all the rest of us who are not lucky enough to work in a library? Check back, we’ve got another great contest coming this summer!

Evelyn David

Men–and Women–Behaving Badly

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I have now experienced the phenomenon common in suburban sports known as “parents behaving badly.” To this point, because I am married to the most mellow man on the planet, and he has coached baseball with two other mellow guys in town, we have been immune to the things I read about, hear about, and don’t believe can actually happen in a town of 7,500 people. After all, I always thought, in a town this small, where you run into almost every inhabitant at least once a month—if not week—why would people behave badly? We don’t take our sports that seriously, do we?

Apparently, we do.

Without going into detail, suffice it to say that at child #2’s baseball game on Saturday, there was a dispute involving a call. The call went in our favor, and two runs on the opposing team were considered invalid. The coaches on the other team—to put it mildly—heartily disagreed. And disagreed. And disagreed. Until all three of them were practically blue in the face and taking issue in a vociferous manner with the umpire, who clearly knew his stuff and had a relatively cool head. It got so bad that words were exchanged during the clean-up of the field after the game. Fortunately, our head coach had the good sense to pick up home plate and walk away, thereby avoiding any additional conflict about a play that had happened oh, somewhere around the third inning. Me, husband, and kid #2 were so focused on eating lunch (the game had gone on for more than two hours in the hot sun) that we beat a hasty getaway lest anyone get in front of us at the deli; that was our only concern.

But I have to admit, I was pretty riled up myself as I plowed into my fried eggplant and mozzarella sandwich. My son, however, upon diving into his ham on a roll, asked me if I had seen him steal home. Fortunately, I had. This was the one time I wasn’t exchanging recipes with Melissa on the bleachers or talking about which hair dye lasted the longest. The joy on his face, and the lift that he got from doing something he considered to be the absolute most exciting thing one can do on a baseball field, made me forget that anything had happened in the game between the adults. The kids, in general, had clearly had a great time. The adults? Not so much. So, we spent the rest of the day talking about the home plate steal, and the artistry that accompanied it. Kid #2 was so overjoyed that he told his sister the minute we entered the house, his enthusiasm was contagious. She, too, was equally excited by his feat and asked him about every single detail of this amazing act of athleticism.

That’s what it should be about.

But it’s not and we all know it. The next day, I drove with a friend to our sons’ lacrosse game. We made the mistake—not knowing any better—of sitting with the opposing team’s parents who proceeded to critique, berate, and heckle our kids who range in age from eight to ten. When one of our kids inadvertently knocked someone down (hey, it’s lacrosse—little boys, sticks, and running. What do you think is going to happen?), they would scream for a technical penalty or even for the kid to be thrown out of the game. When one of their little wonders did the same? It was aggressive play. It was how you played the game. It was “go, get ‘em, Tiger.” My friend and I tried to tune the whole thing out and exchanged recipes and tips for hair dying, and tried desperately to find something to do on Thursday other than train with Trainer Shari, who was sitting in front of us and threatening us with severe training. (She’s taking us to the Gorge—where no one can hear us scream.) The game ended with one of our third graders taking the business end of someone’s lacrosse stick to the face. When he collapsed on the ground, in tears, waiting for his mom to come out and comfort him, the opposing team’s parents had the good sense to fall silent. Thankfully, the game ended shortly thereafter. My friend and I got back to my house and tried to forget we had ever been to the game with a lovely bottle of Chardonnay.

Kid #2 is young. He’ll be playing a lot more organized baseball and lacrosse. And despite my being the most competitive person on the planet (remind me to tell you how I turned square dancing into a competitive event), I just want him to have fun. Seeing him smile while running around the bases—bugs flying into this teeth—gives me more joy than anything. And seeing him shrug his shoulders when he’s tagged out makes me proud of him. He moves on very quickly, as he should. There’s been a lot written on this subject and probably no more to say but I will leave you with this: Parents, please take it down a notch.

Maggie Barbieri