First Valentine

 I have a picture that was taken when I was six years old.  I remember the day, at least in the way anyone can remember forty years past.  My dad had just taught me my very first song, ‘Lovesick Blues’ by Hank Williams, and told me if I kept practicing, I could be a professional yodeler someday.  In the picture, he is sitting in a chair and I have my arms around his neck.  He always had a way of making me feel special.

 

I have another, taken when I was twenty.  There was a party going on, I don’t remember the occasion, but he and I had ended up in the kitchen, away from the crowd, having a drink and telling each other jokes.  He made fun of my boyish haircut.  I called him Sonny Bono.  He’s sitting in a chair and I have my arms around his neck.  He always had a way of letting me know that he loved me.

The night before he died, he told me how proud he was that I had grown into a good mother. A good woman.  I put my arms around his neck.  I remember it well.  I don’t need a picture.

 

It has been twelve years and Valentine’s Day has never been the same.  It was his birthday and this year would have been his seventy-fourth.  If he were still here, we'd have a drink and tell a few jokes.  He would make me yodel for him and I would make fun of him for being so old.  Then I would walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his neck.

 

I still think of him every single day.  My father, my daddy, my friend...

My first valentine.

Holidays and Deadlines

I'm not a big fan of holidays.  I have a reason to dislike each, but I'll example the upcoming Valentine's Day.  Lucky for me, I am someone's Valentine, which means flowers and an overpriced dinner out.  Chances are, I'll feel more like a bowl of soup that night, but, I'll go out.  I'd much rather have flowers on, let's say, February 7.  Why the 7th?  Because absolutely nothing is on the calendar for that day, which means if I got flowers it would be because someone wanted to send them, not because 'everyone else was doing it.'  And I don't even want to think about that feeling of 'nobody loves me' that comes from a February 14th when you aren't someone's Valentine.  Lame. Lame holiday.

           

I am a big fan of organization. I make lists, I keep up a calendar, I plan just about everything ahead.  If I go somewhere for more than a day, I guarantee you I will have a binder with brochures, schedules, maps, travel information and the like.  Yes, a binder, tabbed and color-coded.  And I'm serious about it.  If something makes it on my schedule, I can guarantee, save malicious intent or an act of God, that that task will be performed by said date and time.   

While I was in school, I had deadlines to meet for manuscript submissions.  Never missed one, didn't even come close, in fact, I think I was ahead by more than a month a few times. 

But school is out, and I have no more deadlines.  I have instead, holidays, coming at regular intervals throughout the year; and did I mention I hate holidays? 

So I have decided, in my dislike of holidays, to embrace them and use them for good instead of evil.  I am a writer, and I want deadlines.  It forces me to say, "I have work to do, got a deadline to meet," and in just saying that, I will work. Hard.  So my holiday schedule for this year looks something like this:

Valentine's Day-First draft done on WIP

St. Patrick's Day-1st half revised

Easter-2nd half revised

Etc., etc. etc.

And in doing nothing more than coming up with this little idea, I've done two things. I've committed myself to writing and I have found a reason to celebrate every month. 

So as each holiday rolls around this year, I won't be the Debbie Downer who goes on and on about how disgusting green beer really is or how Columbus didn't actually discover America.  Instead, I will raise my glass to whatever it is we are supposed to be celebrating.  Another deadline met.  Now that is a reason to celebrate.