Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Hurricane House chapter one
Paradise Isle
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
HURRICANE HOUSE--Chapter One
Paradise Isle
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Beware: the narcissistic sociopath
I'm interested in what makes people tick and as a writer, I think I need to understand what makes people tick.
Although, I must admit, certain characters are hard to define. I'm referring to the outwardly charming, narcissistic sociopath.
Unfortunately, my daughter Rene married one. (She writes about her continuing nightmare in Jesus Loves Me But The Christians Tried To Kill Me: Memoirs From A Jezebel.
I wish she could have avoided the man she calls AntiChrist, but at least she's blogging about her experience, warning and entertaining others in the process.
However, I'm thinking I need to post some red flags that say look out for this sicko. Be warned the narcissistic sociopath can ruin your life.
With that in mind, I came across this quiz. If you answer yes to most of the questions below, run, run run away, end the relationship NOW. The narcissistic sociopath will NEVER change.
1. Does he or she act out in verbally aggressive behaviors, or does he or she have 'rages', especially if he or she feels insulted in some way? Does he or she blame 'you' or accuse you of being the one that is 'acting out' or 'out-of-control'?
2. In the beginning was he or she just 'too good to be true'?
3. Does he or she rely on you financially, or does he or she ask you to help fund things?
4. Does he or she often spend outside of the budget?
5. Is everything always about him or her and nothing ever about you? Does he or she seem insensitive to your needs, unappreciative of your input, or non-acknowledging of your accomplishments? Does he or she not recognize your giving, kindness, and thoughtfulness? Does he or she seem genuinely not interested in your life?
6. Is he or she controlling? Do you often feel manipulated?
7. Does he or she show one side (Dr. Jekyll) to the public (a perfected persona which you know is fake), and another side (Mr. Hyde) to you in private? Does he or she go out of the way to impress people?
8. Does his or her ego bruise easily, or is he or she hyper-vigilant to the slightest insult? Do you have to be careful how you word things or voice grievances?
9. Does he or she expect special treatment or feel 'entitled' to it?
10. Does he or she talk about himself or herself more than you feel is normal?
11. Does he or she avoid eye contact with you, or does he or she withhold sex or affection? Has he or she been unfaithful?
12. Does he or she seem to lack empathy or compassion for others, or does he or she 'fake' it to enhance 'public persona'?
13. Do you feel emotionally battered and confused?
14. Have you noticed your confidence or self-esteem slipping?
15. Is he or she histrionic? In other words, in public does he or she hog the limelight, putting on exaggerated shows and telling fascinating stories in order to be the center of attraction?
16. Is he or she loud or does he or she become center stage when engaging in simple conversations with other people?
Although, I must admit, certain characters are hard to define. I'm referring to the outwardly charming, narcissistic sociopath.
Unfortunately, my daughter Rene married one. (She writes about her continuing nightmare in Jesus Loves Me But The Christians Tried To Kill Me: Memoirs From A Jezebel.
I wish she could have avoided the man she calls AntiChrist, but at least she's blogging about her experience, warning and entertaining others in the process.
However, I'm thinking I need to post some red flags that say look out for this sicko. Be warned the narcissistic sociopath can ruin your life.
With that in mind, I came across this quiz. If you answer yes to most of the questions below, run, run run away, end the relationship NOW. The narcissistic sociopath will NEVER change.
1. Does he or she act out in verbally aggressive behaviors, or does he or she have 'rages', especially if he or she feels insulted in some way? Does he or she blame 'you' or accuse you of being the one that is 'acting out' or 'out-of-control'?
2. In the beginning was he or she just 'too good to be true'?
3. Does he or she rely on you financially, or does he or she ask you to help fund things?
4. Does he or she often spend outside of the budget?
5. Is everything always about him or her and nothing ever about you? Does he or she seem insensitive to your needs, unappreciative of your input, or non-acknowledging of your accomplishments? Does he or she not recognize your giving, kindness, and thoughtfulness? Does he or she seem genuinely not interested in your life?
6. Is he or she controlling? Do you often feel manipulated?
7. Does he or she show one side (Dr. Jekyll) to the public (a perfected persona which you know is fake), and another side (Mr. Hyde) to you in private? Does he or she go out of the way to impress people?
8. Does his or her ego bruise easily, or is he or she hyper-vigilant to the slightest insult? Do you have to be careful how you word things or voice grievances?
9. Does he or she expect special treatment or feel 'entitled' to it?
10. Does he or she talk about himself or herself more than you feel is normal?
11. Does he or she avoid eye contact with you, or does he or she withhold sex or affection? Has he or she been unfaithful?
12. Does he or she seem to lack empathy or compassion for others, or does he or she 'fake' it to enhance 'public persona'?
13. Do you feel emotionally battered and confused?
14. Have you noticed your confidence or self-esteem slipping?
15. Is he or she histrionic? In other words, in public does he or she hog the limelight, putting on exaggerated shows and telling fascinating stories in order to be the center of attraction?
16. Is he or she loud or does he or she become center stage when engaging in simple conversations with other people?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Lane Cake Recipe
Ingredients
For Lake Cake
1 cup butter or margarine, softened
2 cups sugar
3 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
8 egg whites, stiffly beaten
For Filling
8 egg yolks
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 cup chopped pecans
1 cup raisins
1 cup flaked coconut
1/4-1/2 cup bourbon
1/2 cup sliced maraschino cherry
For Frosting
3/4 cup sugar
8 teaspoons water
1 egg white
1/2 tablespoon light corn syrup
1 dash salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
pecan halves (optional)
Directions
1FOR CAKE:Cream butter: gradually add sugar, beatin well.
2Combine dry ingredients, add to creamed mixture alternately with milk, beginning and ending with flour mixture.
3Mix well after each addition.
4Stir in vanilla.
5Fold in egg whites.
6Pour batter into 3 greased and floured 9 in round cake pans.
7Bake at 325 degrees for 25 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean.
8Cool in pans 10 minutes; remove from pans and cool completely.
9FOR FILLING:Combine egg yolks, sugar and butter in a 2 quart saucepan.
10Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, about 20 minutes until thickened.
11Remove from heat, and stir in remaining ingredients.
12Cool completely.
13FOR Frosting: Combine the first 5 ingredients in top of a double boiler; beat 30 seconds at low speed of electric mixer or just until blended.
14Place over boiling water; beat constantly on high speed 7 minutes or until stiff peaks form.
15Remove from heat.
16Add vanilla; beat an additional 1 minute or until the mixture is thick enough to spread.
17To assemble cake: Spread filling between layers and on top of cake; spread sides with frosting.
18Garnish with pecan halves, if desired.
For Lake Cake
1 cup butter or margarine, softened
2 cups sugar
3 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
8 egg whites, stiffly beaten
For Filling
8 egg yolks
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 cup chopped pecans
1 cup raisins
1 cup flaked coconut
1/4-1/2 cup bourbon
1/2 cup sliced maraschino cherry
For Frosting
3/4 cup sugar
8 teaspoons water
1 egg white
1/2 tablespoon light corn syrup
1 dash salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
pecan halves (optional)
Directions
1FOR CAKE:Cream butter: gradually add sugar, beatin well.
2Combine dry ingredients, add to creamed mixture alternately with milk, beginning and ending with flour mixture.
3Mix well after each addition.
4Stir in vanilla.
5Fold in egg whites.
6Pour batter into 3 greased and floured 9 in round cake pans.
7Bake at 325 degrees for 25 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean.
8Cool in pans 10 minutes; remove from pans and cool completely.
9FOR FILLING:Combine egg yolks, sugar and butter in a 2 quart saucepan.
10Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, about 20 minutes until thickened.
11Remove from heat, and stir in remaining ingredients.
12Cool completely.
13FOR Frosting: Combine the first 5 ingredients in top of a double boiler; beat 30 seconds at low speed of electric mixer or just until blended.
14Place over boiling water; beat constantly on high speed 7 minutes or until stiff peaks form.
15Remove from heat.
16Add vanilla; beat an additional 1 minute or until the mixture is thick enough to spread.
17To assemble cake: Spread filling between layers and on top of cake; spread sides with frosting.
18Garnish with pecan halves, if desired.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Memories of Elvis
Elvis memorabilia is being auctioned off, I heard on the news the other day: his scarf, a cape he threw out to the audience and several other items.
For me, Elvis' music and my memories of "The King," are more precious than mere things.
I can still hear myself swoon. It was a hot, summer night near Sarasota, Florida.
I had not reached puberty yet, but I realized I was close to it when I saw the lean, mean "Memphis flash" walk out on a rickety stage, attack the microphone, eat the mike, hike up the right side of his mouth, shimmy down into a split, look handsome and pure one minute, animalistic and sexy the next while singing in the voice of an angel.
I didn't know it then, but he personified American rock and roll. How could I know? I was a kid, attending a day camp. Mother drove me and members of my swim team to see our heartthrob, because his songs inspired us while performing our water ballets.
We were certain Elvis loved women. His told us so in song. He was always wanting to love us and wanting us to forgive him. He never degraded us. How could we NOT love him?
That night so many moons ago, Elvis surveyed the crowd with an amused look. Our screams made him laugh.
But when the music began, he was transformed into another dimension. He was a wild man, a tiger out of control, stalking his prey with song.
He was the American dream, a sharecropper and truck driver's son who found fame and fortune. He represented the future, the integrated South. He seemed both black and white.
That night, the microphone and a string from his guitar gave way to his wild gyrating performance. I screamed myself hoarse and my knees felt week. Yet, I'm pleased to say I didn't faint as others in the crowd did.
It was a night I will never forget, and I feel fortunate I was able to see him then and a number of times after that, even though I later realized he was in trouble.
When he died, I came to the conclusion he was a bundle of contradictions, sort of like the American South.
He spoke out against drugs but he died from a heart attack brought about by drug abuse.
He loved Jesus and his mother yet he cheated on the women in his life.
He was a law and order man who broke the law when it suited him.
He was a tragic figure who has been idolized the world over in spite of the public's knowlege of his real life.
He was a millionaire many times over but the Southern abject poverty from which he sprang was always present.
He was America's first Southern rock hero yet he disdained rock music.
He gave the world and its people a part of the South we will never forget, and his fans don't want to let go of that.
I suppose that's why so many of them are willing to pay top dollar for any Elvis memorabilia. For me, my memories of the man and his music are better than material stuff.
For me, Elvis' music and my memories of "The King," are more precious than mere things.
I can still hear myself swoon. It was a hot, summer night near Sarasota, Florida.
I had not reached puberty yet, but I realized I was close to it when I saw the lean, mean "Memphis flash" walk out on a rickety stage, attack the microphone, eat the mike, hike up the right side of his mouth, shimmy down into a split, look handsome and pure one minute, animalistic and sexy the next while singing in the voice of an angel.
I didn't know it then, but he personified American rock and roll. How could I know? I was a kid, attending a day camp. Mother drove me and members of my swim team to see our heartthrob, because his songs inspired us while performing our water ballets.
We were certain Elvis loved women. His told us so in song. He was always wanting to love us and wanting us to forgive him. He never degraded us. How could we NOT love him?
That night so many moons ago, Elvis surveyed the crowd with an amused look. Our screams made him laugh.
But when the music began, he was transformed into another dimension. He was a wild man, a tiger out of control, stalking his prey with song.
He was the American dream, a sharecropper and truck driver's son who found fame and fortune. He represented the future, the integrated South. He seemed both black and white.
That night, the microphone and a string from his guitar gave way to his wild gyrating performance. I screamed myself hoarse and my knees felt week. Yet, I'm pleased to say I didn't faint as others in the crowd did.
It was a night I will never forget, and I feel fortunate I was able to see him then and a number of times after that, even though I later realized he was in trouble.
When he died, I came to the conclusion he was a bundle of contradictions, sort of like the American South.
He spoke out against drugs but he died from a heart attack brought about by drug abuse.
He loved Jesus and his mother yet he cheated on the women in his life.
He was a law and order man who broke the law when it suited him.
He was a tragic figure who has been idolized the world over in spite of the public's knowlege of his real life.
He was a millionaire many times over but the Southern abject poverty from which he sprang was always present.
He was America's first Southern rock hero yet he disdained rock music.
He gave the world and its people a part of the South we will never forget, and his fans don't want to let go of that.
I suppose that's why so many of them are willing to pay top dollar for any Elvis memorabilia. For me, my memories of the man and his music are better than material stuff.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Personal Power
A few years ago, author Vicki Hinze gave me a card with some great advice.
I think the advice applies to life in general and especially the writer's journey.
The advice can be particularly effective if you look at yourself in the mirror and say the following to yourself--a very unique person:
I am flexible and open to change.
I am responsible and act in good faith.
I embrace only positive attitudes.
I am grateful and respect my work.
I write with purpose, success is not hollow.
I focus on solutions not challenges.
I have my own vision of success.
I know trials always precede opportunities.
I permit myself to fail my way to success.
I think the advice applies to life in general and especially the writer's journey.
The advice can be particularly effective if you look at yourself in the mirror and say the following to yourself--a very unique person:
I am flexible and open to change.
I am responsible and act in good faith.
I embrace only positive attitudes.
I am grateful and respect my work.
I write with purpose, success is not hollow.
I focus on solutions not challenges.
I have my own vision of success.
I know trials always precede opportunities.
I permit myself to fail my way to success.
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