Last week, my husband, Charlie, showed me a Disney advertisement of a journal with a front that looked like the stained-glass art of Beauty and the Beast on Cinderella's Castle at the Magic Kingdom. I commented that I loved it but moved on with my day, not thinking twice about it. 

A few days later, Charlie handed me a package wrapped in blue and white Disney tissue paper. I opened it, and there, to my surprise, was the journal. There was no occasion. He wasn't in the dog house. He wasn't trying to bribe me for something. He just loves me. He knew I'd use this gorgeous journal for writing my book outlines and how much I'd enjoy it. And he was right!

I just had to share. The pictures don't do it justice, of course. It's absolutely stunning and the finishing touches including the pages of the fairytale scenes and rose accents are wonderful. It also has a bookmark with a stained-glass rose trinket, so I don't lose my page. 

I can't wait to start creating new stories in this journal! Maybe I'll write a nicer novel this time (Nah!) ;-)

Thank you to my Hon-Hon.

All my love,

Sandie

It's hard to find the words to celebrate one's life when going through mourning. In 2016, I lost three special people in my life including my dad in May, my sister-in-law in November, and my Uncle John in December. Thinking of them and all they are missing just makes my heart ache.

But something has surfaced since Uncle John's passing that has given us all comfort. His words. He wrote poetry and short stories, and I never knew. Here I am, a writer myself, and we never shared thoughts on tapping into our own emotions or the emotions of others. I always knew Uncle John was a wonderful husband, father and grandfather, but I didn't know we shared a love for words. They've been surfacing on Facebook, though - posts from loved ones with photos of poems I've never read. How excited I've been to read these!

​So, this is a tribute to you, Uncle John. I'm so happy I've been able to enjoy your writing. It's wonderful to have a personal part of you that we can hold so close to our hearts. What an incredible gift!

Here are a few of his poems.

Love you, Uncle John 

Obituary of John Van Voorhis

John Vincent Van Voorhis, 73, passed away on December 13, 2016 surrounded by his family. Born in Wappingers Falls on January 19, 1943, he was the son of the late John “Jack” Van Voorhis and Virginia Hoyt Van Voorhis. On April 14, 1963, he married Gloria Jean Hauver, who survives at home. John served in the United States Army and was retired from IBM in Poughkeepsie after over 30 years of employment. He spent the last 20 years dedicating his services to the American Legion, fulfilling many different positions from treasurer to Commander of Post 1302. John was a wonderful storyteller who could always make you laugh. He had a story or joke for every situation and was quite the entertainer. He had a wealth of knowledge of just about everything. He enjoyed many sports throughout his life and was instrumental in founding the first Dutchess County Girls softball league. John was a loving and caring person who treasured his family and friends above all. He had a love of nature, gardening, music and reading, even writing short stories and poetry of his own.

Hi everyone - this is a continuation of my blog series titled, "First Book Cover Reveal." I chose to do this so that you can see the posts from this Facebook event in case you weren't able to go and to help other authors. This was a special post to me, because I talk about my dad - the inspiration for the story.

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POST #3 - COVER REVEAL FOR THE CAGING AT DEADWATER MANOR

When I was brainstorming for the book, I thought I was going to write a ghost story because I wanted to see if I could write a dark novel. Since my dad used to work at a psych hospital, I asked him if he saw anything strange there. His discovery in the hospital is the basis for the book, hence “Inspired by true events” is on the cover. 

He recently died of Alzheimer’s but while he had a lucid moment, I was able to tell him I dedicated the book to him. He became emotional, so he I knew he understood. He’ll never get to see the book in print, but at least I know he knew the book was dedicated to him. 

He always wanted me to make sure I tell everyone that the father I wrote about in the book was NOT him!  My dad was a wonderful, caring, funny man who would do anything for us. Here’s a couple pictures of my dad:

I miss him very much - such a good man. 

Take care, everyone.  Sandie

The Writing Desk Saga (see "A Cat with a View" and "A Jewel of a View" for the sequels)

I seem to be good for several things including holding paper, pens and books of all flavors. For providing storage. A place to lay the newspaper. I am my writer’s old oak desk. We do not speak, but how I wish I could. She sits at me in the early morning sometimes with a laptop, sometimes with a pad. I hold her glasses, coffee mug and phone. And I support her as she writes for hours.

Today is the same. She hums as she sets up on my surface, brushing off pesky cat hair that has accumulated on me from a nuisance named “Sonny” and gently scolds this beast who’s blobbing out next to me on his feline post. She stares out the window at obnoxious birds who race by to find a perch in the trees prior to scooping down to the feeder before another has a chance. She mentions how she loves the old oak outside despite being crooked from age and the yard of green which causes her nothing but hours of labor. And she pets the useless, long-haired dog that loves to brush up against me, half the time with a wet nose that on a good morning doesn’t land on my leg. It’s downright inexcusable for all of these distractions to be bothering my writer at such important times, but alas, I cannot help, or do, or say anything. I am her desk. I am the unseen, unappreciated support, but I would rather be nothing else.

She plugs away at her characters and settings for an hour after things settle down and is now in full concentration mode. Her writing is going well. She’s living life through her characters, acting out scenes and feverishly jotting down lines. She’s talking to herself in jubilation, as if defendant Johnny Goldchild is pacing in the room or young Emma Fairsworth is running around. These are my favorite times.  

But as usual, this wonderfully serene time has to be interrupted by a cat paw that has just rested on my side and provides a perfect catapulting position for landing onto my shiny top only to bother my writer. With its purrs and cuddles, that puff ball Sonny ends up interrupting the flow and ruining the blow by blow scenes that are now nothing but a blur. And what does my writer do? Pets him once again. It is quite beyond me how these forced break times are acceptable by her, but it never fails that she inevitably and disgustingly baby talks him and lets his oversized body lay on mine with a tail whipping around like a viper ready to damage my almost pristine 50-year-old surface. I may have a ding or two on my curves, but overall, this old lady is in good shape.

Thank goodness, eventually, she tires of the cat and shoos him off so we can get back to business, wiping his hair onto the floor again that she’ll have to clean up later. She’ll then usually go back into her world for a few more hours, but now it seems she’s lost it. Her elbows are on me with her head in her hands, trying to find the characters again. When she gives up, she peers out the window. She sips on her coffee. She calls the dog. But she never notices me.  The one that is the old standby. The one she leans on. Her one constant.

I wish I could tell her to keep going. To not be discouraged. That it will all come together like it always does. To not listen to those annoying birds or be distracted by the view or the pets. But I know she’ll never hear me. All I can do is stand strong, holding her up when she needs it, providing support for her elbows, arms and various beverages.

She gets up from her chair and I know she’s going to leave. She looks out the window, then to the pets. She grabs her coffee and glasses with a sigh. Typical behavior for when my writer is frustrated. But then, something happens that never happens. She pauses before me and runs her fingers across the front of my surface. She grins ever so slightly and says, “Thank you, my old friend.” She finally sees me.

As she walks away, I can’t help but think better of that tub-o-lard cat and maybe his slight usefulness. After all, he’s just trying to comfort her, I suppose. And I guess I can see her attraction to our beautiful backyard and the nature that goes along with it, though I could live without the relentless chirps and thoughtless singing. But, they get her for only short moments in time. I, on the other hand, have the honor of her leaning on me every morning. And I will always be here to support her.

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I bet you will never look at your desk the same again. Next time, you might want to consider giving it a hug. ;-) Sandie

On this day, 27 years ago, I stood behind closed wooden doors, waiting anxiously for them to open and hoping I wouldn’t falter or stumble.  That the next steps I would take would be into a new life that would bring me peace, love and protection.  And as I waited, my hands shaking, a little white petal fell from my bouquet and slowly floated back and forth, until I caught it ever so gently in my hand.

One door opened and eyes peered back at me for a second to make sure I was ready.  After a nod from the doorman, the second door opened wide, and I was engulfed in the grandness of the space.  The red velvet and wooden benches.  The tall ceilings and brightly colored stained windows.  The onlooking of friends and family.  I grabbed my father’s hand tightly, and he squeezed my hand back and said, “Are you ready?” And I whispered, “Yes.”  

The music started and the daisies trembled with every step I took down the aisle that day, until I saw your eyes and your smile.  And at that moment, I didn’t care anymore if I faltered or stumbled.  Or tried new steps and failed.  Or let go of the one hand I knew all of my life to hold another.  To hold yours.

And this is the way it has been since the afternoon of May 2, 1987.  I’ve never worried about being me.  I’ve never worried about where we’d go.  Because I have always known that just like the little white petal floating safely from its home that you would always be there to support me ever so gently, holding my hand.  And I look forward to holding your hand for the rest of my life.

Your forever loving wife, Sandie

Dedicated to Charlie

May 2, 2014