Dear Reader

Dear Reader Column - February 28, 2023

Dear Reader,

Lori Stanley Roeleveld, today’s guest author (who wrote a wonderful column), is a professional coach, author, speaker, and disturber of hobbits. She has a couple degrees, but learned most of what she knows in life's trenches, raising children and working with families in crisis. 

She's authored four award-winning books, co-authored a fifth, and has a sixth in process. In her latest release, Colorful

Connections: 12 Questions about Race that Open Healthy Conversations, she and co-author, Dr. Saundra Dalton-Smith, dialog about being black and white in America. The book explores questions that can facilitate productive conversation and includes practical suggestions for engaging with others around race and ethnicity. 

You can reach out to Lori at lorisroel@gmail.com

I Grew Up Useless

My grandfather used to call me useless.

He was the butcher in our corner store. At ten, I was sent to work the register.

Gramp had a checklist of tasks I finished quickly so that between customers, I could write, or read my newest library book.

That's what made me useless--my love of words.

I understand it now from his perspective. Gramp could do practical things. Cut meat. Manage a business. Mix a drink.

Our small town was full of useful people--carpenters, seamstresses, farmers. Words paled.

It frustrated Gramp that I couldn't see work that could be done instead of reading. It frustrated me that he couldn't see the power of words.

After a time, I couldn't see it either.

That uselessness followed me into adulthood. I kept trying to learn practical skills--to excel at something others would find useful. In my spare moments, I returned to words. Even if they rendered me useless, I couldn't abandon them.

Eventually, I accepted that words were my lot in life. I spotted a library book with the title: Too Lazy to Work, Too Nervous to Steal:  How to Have a Great Life As a Freelance Writer. It sounded like an ideal calling for someone useless like me.

So, I wrote.

Then, somewhere around my fourth book, I had to grapple with this old tape my grandfather uploaded to my fragile identity. He was long gone, and I was well into midlife. Time to move on.

My book was on hard conversations, and I was invited to speak about it at a conference whose theme was "Less Talk, More Action." The other keynote speaker was a Hollywood actor famous for his work in action films. How was I going to talk about words at a conference designed to inspire action? How could I, a woman of words, hold the stage beside a living, breathing action-figure?

As I wrestled, however, what dawned on me was the damage done to my heart, mind, and soul by what? My grandfather's words. The incredible power of that wound changed my thinking immediately.

If words can be weapons, they can be tools. If they can be poison, they can be the remedy. If they can create life-long destruction, they can inspire lasting change.

And I had the passion and skill to tame them. From that moment, I was no longer useless.

I am a writer. I work with hazardous material so combustible it builds careers, incites revolutions, and changes minds.

Useful work if you know your way around words.

-- Lori Stanley Roeleveld

Email Lori at: lorisroel@gmail.com

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 27, 2023

Dear Reader,

I decided once and a while, while writing my column, I should go live. Just give it to you--first draft. No editing, no worrying every word made sense, and that it all wrapped up in the end in a tidy nice "Dear Reader" piece. Instead I'd just jot down my thoughts, send it to you and you'd have to muddle through. ( I am correcting my spelling--I figure that at least I need to give you a fighting chance.)

In case you haven't caught on by now. I'm just writing to you this morning--no editing or changes. You want to know the really weird stuff that floated through my mind, well....be my guest this a.m.

I like to do it my way. I admit it. I'm not saying that I'm always right--though I do frequently have to remind myself of this concept. Maybe it comes from being an only child, or hey, maybe I just am pretty smart? I’m my own boss and I have the final say. Of course, whenever something gets screwed up--whether I did it or someone else involved in the process goofed, ultimately it's my problem. So I guess if one thinks the freedom to do it "my way" looks appealing then be prepared to do it 'your' way when you're cleaning up someone else's mess, too.

When I start writing down confessions I have to work very, very hard not to start editing myself because I'm always concerned in the back of my mind, 'What will people think of me? What will this look like in print?'

It's really risky business telling hundreds of thousands of people, about your personal shortcomings but I figure that everyone has some. So either you are right now at this very minute thinking, 'Well, I'm not as bad as Suzanne is.' Or, you're thinking, 'Thank heavens I'm not the only one who has that problem and I've just made you feel a whole lot better about yourself." --you're welcome.

Lately I've experienced a new working situation. I've had to work with other people. People who edit what I say or to be specific, what I write. My writing has always been my writing. Little musings that pop into my head and just have to come out. It's not important that anyone read them. I just have to get them out. I have an editor but let's face it when you're writing a daily column like I am, I only have so much time that I can devote to anyone day so it's kind of written, "quick and dirty" as we used to say in the typesetting business. Quick and dirty meaning that a body doesn't have the luxury to linger over words and phrases and write and rewrite. Sometimes you've just got to go with what is before you even if I know that if I spent a couple more hours with it or let a day go by and look at it again that it could be so much better.

I think my rose bush near the front of the house is going to bloom today.

Well, I better stop writing. I only have so much space.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Live from my desk....

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 24, 2023

Dear Reader, 

Everyone dressed up for Picture Day, when I was in elementary school. In fact, some of us girls would go over to each other's houses two weeks ahead of time and have a 'try-on' Saturday. We worked diligently putting together the perfect outfits for the Big Day.

You'd think after all that preparation I would have been able to get Picture Day right the first time, but I never did. I always had to have a 'retake' done. Retake Day was supposed to be for kids who were absent on the original day. I was never absent, but I always hated--I mean HATED--my picture and I wanted another shot at looking good. I secretly dreaded the results of Picture Day every year. My stomach would ache for days ahead of time because I knew I would be facing a major embarrassment soon.

Three weeks later when the teacher started passing out the envelopes filled with one 8x10, two 5x7's, and four sheets of wallet-size photos, I started sweating. The wait seemed endless and it was, because my last name then was Tindell and the envelopes were handed out alphabetically.

Sigh, every year I'd get the same results: embarrassing pictures. I really wasn't an ugly kid--at least I didn't think I was--but I sure wasn’t photogenic and the proof was in those school pictures.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 23, 2023

Dear Reader,

I went out to dinner by myself the other night at one of my favorite outdoor cafes. It was the perfect evening. The food was excellent, the weather was picturesque and there was a woman singing and playing a guitar. I always bring my notebook with me wherever I go, just in case I'm inspired to write and I did find inspiration.

It may sound funny, but when I started eating the spaghetti and meatballs that I'd ordered I paused, looked at the tablespoon in my left hand, and I thought of my mother. One of the best things Mom ever taught me was how to eat spaghetti with grace and style. Most people don't even like to eat spaghetti in public because of the inevitable mishaps. And certainly it must be the number one entrée "not" to order on a first date. From my observations, a majority of people either pucker up and suck in the long spaghetti strands, or they cut the pasta "kid-style" with a knife and fork.

But my mother taught me to eat the delicate pasta using a tablespoon in my left hand and a fork in my right. The "how-to" is very simple: Gently lift the long strands of pasta with your fork, then center it in the middle of your tablespoon and perform short, clockwise, turns with your fork.

With your fork gently pressing and rolling against the tablespoon, you're an artist who's in complete control. If there's a pause in the table conversation, you can also pause in the middle of your pasta rolling (for effect) and not a single strand will fall off your fork. Your dinner companions will definitely be impressed.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 22, 2023

Dear Reader,

I'm not one of those people who can shop early for Christmas or birthday gifts, because I don't have any willpower when it comes to gift-giving. I always try to buy things for people that I would love to have myself--which makes me really excited about the gift--so I can't wait to give it away. I've even tried to cover up my precocious gift giving by including a note saying, "This is an early warm-up birthday gift. You're so special, you should celebrate the entire week of your birthday, not just one day."

Everyone loves to get a present, so at this point my cover story hasn't been exposed, except to my immediate family members. But that's ok, they understand--I think it must be in our genes because none of us can keep the secret and hang on to a gift until the "big day."

There's only been one time when I was able to keep quiet about a gift but the problem is, it's "still" a secret. I bought my daughter something four months in advance of her birthday. I tucked the present away and made a pact with myself that I wouldn't break down and give it to her early. But the week before her birthday I bought her another present, because I'd forgotten about the original gift that I'd purchased and hidden away. About two weeks after her birthday I remembered the first gift, but to this day, I still can't remember where it is.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 21, 2023

Dear Reader,

Today’s guest author, Patricia Raybon, is a writer of faith by day and mystery by night. Patricia Raybon is a Christy Award-winning Colorado author, essayist, and novelist who writes daring and exciting novels and books at the intersection of faith and race. After a notable career in newspaper journalism, Patricia turned to fiction with the release of a 1920s mystery series about a prim, poor, but clever Black theologian--a fan of Sherlock Holmes--who solves murder and crime in Colorado's dangerous Klan era. Double the Lies, the second installment in the Annalee Spain Mysteries, is "a fast-moving mystery [whose]...mix of history and intrigue will captivate readers," says Publishers Weekly. The series debut, All That Is Secret, won a 2022 Christy Award.

Meet Patricia at: patriciaraybon.com and contact her via: https://www.patriciaraybon.com/contact/

Thanks for visiting Patricia…

I heard the request. But I despaired of it.

"Send me a video."

I groaned. Nothing tests me more than a techy task for social media. As a woman of "a certain age," I write "history mystery" and I know of L'Oreal. I'm not a digital native. I didn't grow up with smartphones and tablets or the savvy to use them. Instead, I'm all thumbs and not in a good way.

"Send me a video"?

That's like telling me to climb Mount Everest, circumvent the globe, and cross the Serengeti--all while recording myself on my phone and looking great doing it.

Okay, I exaggerate. Except countless folks these days accomplish such feats while recording themselves on their phones--and look great doing it.

Then there's me. I'm neither camera ready nor IG natural. Those folks roll out of bed, or a sleeping bag, and look phenomenal and normal. On Instagram, of course.

For me, a video request meant figuring out which button to push on my not-so-new phone, finding something "dope" to wear, parsing the best background in my house, applying the right makeup, fixing my hair--and then saying something so effortless and cool it takes only a few brilliant seconds.

I groaned, indeed.

Then something clicked. I'm trying here to process it. Did I arrive at some mental milestone? Cross over an emotional line in the sand where I saw the wisdom--or kindness--in giving myself a break? Not stressing over whether I did the video "right" or looked or sounded "right" in it?

This particular time, I simply held up my faithful little Samsung and said, "Let's do this." I was having a full week anyway. 

Thus, I didn't have hours to mess around recording a nineteen-second video. Or worry whether nineteen seconds was too long.

Instead, I pulled on my favorite sweater (bright orange), swiped on lipstick, patted my hair, stood in front of a favorite piece of ordinary artwork, pushed the Video button. Then I said apparently enough. No stress. No mess. No fuss. No muss.

Well, I smiled. My dear late mother always said people look better that way. Then I hit the Share button and sent the video to where it needed to go. I smiled, indeed, realizing that this is what the IG and TikTok cognoscenti understand.

Or maybe Nike said it first. Just do it. Gratefully, what comes next--for me, for you--takes care of itself.

-- Patricia Raybon

https://www.patriciaraybon.com/contact/

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 20, 2023

Dear Reader,

I'm changing my routine this morning. I'm supposed to meet someone at 8:30 for coffee. I'm usually early for appointments, so I'm sitting here in Starbucks writing my "Dear Reader," but my body is crying out louder than the words I'm putting down on paper.

A funny thing seems to happen to me when I'm used to drinking my first cup of coffee at 6:00 a.m. and I still haven't had my caffeine jump-start by 8:30. My body starts asking me a lot of questions--not verbal utterances--apparently it likes to cut right to the chase; aches, pains, and I feel a headache coming on. 

I might be getting just a tad bit grumpy too...where is that woman anyway? My watch says 8:30 on the nose.

I wonder if it would be rude if I went ahead and got my coffee before she arrives? I better wait...okay...it's 8:32 and I've waited long enough. I don't want to be rude, but everyone in this place is drinking coffee... except me.

Finally, cup in hand, I raise it to my lips...wow, I'd forgotten just how hot this coffee is. Patience Suzanne, patience. Hold on girl, caffeine is on its way.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Signing off with a caffeine buzz......

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

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Go to: http://authorbuzz.com/dearreader click on MORAL CODE to read more and to email authors Lois and Ross Melbourne, you'll get a reply.

Dear Reader Column - February 17, 2023

Dear Reader,

It's my pleasure to share another Honorable Mention column from this year's Write a DearReader Contest. Today's piece was written by Laura Heyer. Thank you for your entry, Laura… 

My Visit from Heaven

It was my last semester of my second year of seminary (graduate school) and I had signed up for a semester-long practicum, “Pastoral Care in Ministry in the Hospital Setting”. My assignment was to work a 40-hour week on the Closed Adolescent Male Ward (which meant that these were severely disturbed adolescents) of Southeast Louisiana State Hospital in Mandeville, La. I settled well into my new position there and actually found it to be quite gratifying as I developed supportive relationships with several of the young men there.

After a couple of months, it had become routine to make the necessary drive between the seminary in New Orleans and Mandeville, Louisiana, which included the once-very-daunting-to-me round-trip drive across the almost 24-mile Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. On this particular overcast and foggy Spring afternoon as I was just about half-way across the bridge, suddenly a horde of moths descended upon my windshield, completely obscuring the view ahead. In my panic at being unable to see in front of me, I made the unwise decision to use my windshield wipers, turning the mass of quivering moths into smashed ones, now smeared across the windshield, making my obstructed view even denser. There was no shoulder on the bridge, so I was forced to stop where I was, while in my mind, I replayed my father’s caution that if my car were ever to become disabled on the road I should stay in it and wait for help to arrive. Fearing that I couldn’t be seen until the vehicles behind me were right upon me, I put my blinkers on, bowed my head and prayed this simple prayer, “Lord, help me!”

No sooner had I prayed than a small car with a single occupant pulled up behind me and stopped. A bearded, middle-aged man got out, came up to my driver’s side window and asked if I could use some help. When he saw the condition of the windshield, thick with moths, he told me he had just the thing. He came back with a roll of paper towels and quickly removed all the moths and then cleaned up my windshield. He then said, “If you’d like, I can follow you to make sure you make it safely the rest of the way.” I thought that was a wonderful idea and very generous of him! When I asked how I could thank him as I reached into my purse to find some cash to offer him for his trouble, he kindly told me that no thanks were necessary; he was happy to help.

As soon as I crossed over into Mandeville, I pulled off the road, stopped, and looked behind me, wanting to thank the man properly. But, strangely enough, the car that had followed me to the other side of the causeway was no longer there. It seemed that both it and the “man” who was in it had disappeared into thin air!

– Laura Heyer, Honorable Mention, 2022 Write a DearReader Contest

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 16, 2023

Dear Reader,

Congratulations to the winners of February’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Giveaway. If you didn’t win this month, you can try again in March. I’m sending homemade cookies to Barbara W., Rhinelander District Library, Jeri D. and Kelly S.

My husband's always amazed at the things that people talk to me about. But I'm pretty much of an easy read myself, and I think It’s one of the things that make people feel comfortable enough to just start talking about what's on their mind. I've found that if I open the door, usually people are grateful--just itching--to walk through, because they need to talk.

But sometimes my open door policy hasn't been such a good idea. You know the adage, "Curiosity killed the cat." Well my curiosity killed the sale for me years ago when I was a salesperson for a few months…

The man I was presenting to was an executive at a major newspaper chain. I was selling software and I was there to show him a new program. After I sat down, immediately I noticed a photo near the edge of his desk. "Picture of your wife?" I asked.

With a heartbroken look on his face, he answered, "Yes, but we're divorced."

I don't remember exactly what I said next, something like I was sorry and that sometimes it was so sad when relationships ended. But whatever I said obviously touched something in him that needed to come out, and the gates to his heart opened.

"I don't know what went wrong," he said, "but I miss her dearly."

He continued talking about his feelings for about five minutes and then suddenly his voice trailed off, and as he looked down at the floor I could see that his eyes were filled with tears. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and that was when reality set in. He looked at me almost as if he were in shock.

"I can't believe I'm talking to you about this," he said. "I don't talk to anyone about this. I hardly know you. This is a business appointment. I'm sorry. I think you should go now. Thanks for coming to see me today."

No, I didn't make a sale. But perhaps it was never meant to be.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

* Congratulations to the winners of Dear Henry, Love Edith by Guest Author Becca Kinzer: Shelley L. and Pam N.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com

Dear Reader Column - February 15, 2023

Dear Reader,

I got all dressed up but had nowhere to go...

...on Monday, because my jury duty was canceled. Shucks. Any juror, including me, who was supposed to report to the Robert L. Anderson Center was excused for the week. Maybe they're painting or a water pipe broke? Or maybe the officials got wind of all the jury duty advice that I got from readers and were intimidated?

Thanks to all the readers who emailed advising me what to wear, what to say, and many of you were kind enough to share some of your own personal experiences and feelings from jury duty as well.

The majority of you recommended that I assemble a comfort bag. Items to ease any unforeseeable discomforts. (Kind of like the bag I packed in anticipation of labor?) Mine included bottled water, power bars, a sweater, books, notepads, pens, and a nail file. 

Karen, a book club reader, had suggestions which seemed to cover EVERYTHING: "Suzanne - bring lip balm, nail clippers (nothing worse than an annoying hangnail) and eye drops. Put all this in a tote bag along with rubber bands and paper clips to mark your place or to save a good quote, and keep your notes together. Wear comfortable shoes, and smile pleasantly."

But when I called in to check on my status. I got the bad news.

So what does a girl do when she's finished her work ahead of time, is all dressed up and ready for something different? This girl goes to the day spa. Pedicure, manicure, waxing, 90 minute massage...ah, this Jury Duty is all right.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

* Congratulations to the winners of Central Places by Guest Author Delia Cai: Kathy R., Steven C., Barbara R., MJ H. and  Barbara B.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com