Atomic Baby


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I deliberately keep this blog apolitical, and this post is not meant to be political. Yet recent events have made me remember the Cold War era and have made me as uneasy about the possibility of nuclear war as I have been since I was a child.

I was a child of the atomic age. Growing up in Richland, Washington, which had been part of the Manhattan Project during World War II, I was aware of the possibility of nuclear war at a very young age. My father worked at the Hanford Engineering Works, doing research on the impact of plutonium on metals. From the time we returned to Richland when I was in the first grade, I knew Richland would be a target if the Russians ever attacked (at the time, we only worried about the Russians).


“Take cover” drill in Brooklyn in 1962, photo by Walter Albertin, from Library of Congress 

In the spring of 1963, which I now realize was shortly after the Cuban Missile Crisis, though I didn’t make the connection as a second grader, we had a drill. We’d done the duck and cover drills in the past, hiding under our desks, as if that would keep us safe from the bomb.

But this drill was different. We had to get from our school to our homes, or some other safe location, within a short period of time. I can’t recall how long we had, but it was no longer than twenty minutes from the time the siren sounded.

I lived three miles from my school. My mother drove me to and from school each day, unless she’d made other arrangements. We could not rely on vehicles for this drill. We had to get to our safe location on our own feet.

My mother made arrangements for me to walk to the home of one of her friends. This family lived not too far from my school. If I walked quickly, I could make it in fifteen or twenty minutes—within whatever the time allotted was.

My mother and I practiced. She walked with me one day from my school to her friend’s house.

On the day of the drill, I couldn’t eat because I was so nervous. I worried whether I could make the walk in time. What if I got lost? What if the friend wasn’t home? What if I misplaced the card the friend had to complete and sign verifying my arrival time? What if war really came and I never saw my parents again?

The siren sounded, startling me, even though I knew it was coming. Together with all my classmates, we scrambled to gather our belongings and head out the door. I recall wide eyes and silence as we did so, though the silence might have been because the nuns demanded it, rather than everyone’s fear of the drill.

I marched down the street as fast as I could, fast enough to get a stitch in my side. That made me slow a bit to catch my breath, but I was on a downhill stretch by then.

I made it on time. As I recall, I had a couple of minutes to spare. And I got to play with the friend’s kids until my mother could pick me up.

Despite the fear, there was some pride in Richland about our connection with atomic bombs. A decade after our drill, I attended Columbia High School in Richland, home of the Richland Bombers. Our mascot was a nuclear bomb. There are those who will tell you the mascot was a bomber plane, but the image in the middle of the high school commons was of a mushroom cloud.


Richland Bombers logo

By the time I was in high school, in the early 1970s, the threat of nuclear war seemed more distant than it had when I was smaller. And even later, in the 1980s, nuclear war seemed unlikely.

Now, with more and less stable nations having atomic weapons, with Russia’s recent aggressions in former satellites, with continuing unrest in the Middle East, with Fidel Castro’s death in Cuba, with the President-elect seeming less inclined to support international alliances, I recall the fear I had as a child.

I hope our school children in the next few years don’t find themselves racing down streets to “safe” locations, to places that would be of no use in shielding them from nuclear attack.

What do you remember of the Cold War era?

Why Were the Pioneers’ Wagon Wheels So Large?


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I have researched how and where the emigrants traveled along the Oregon Trail for ten years, and I’m still learning. Recently, I learned from an article in The Wall Street Journal about why the wheel is round. The article contained the sentence:

“The difficulty of moving a wheeled object increases to the point of impossibility when the bumps that a wheel encounters approach one-quarter its diameter.”

That, the author said, is why wheels on Conestoga wagons were so big and those on steam locomotives so small.


Emigrant wagon exhibit in Oregon Trail Interpretive Center, Baker City, OR

Now, keep in mind that the travelers to Oregon did not use Conestogas, which were too heavy to pull over mountains (Conestogas were used primarily in the flatter eastern United States and Canada). But the principle applies to the prairie schooners that were used in travel to the West.

Also, the front wheels on covered wagons were often smaller than the rear wheels. I’m not an engineer, but I suppose the front wheels were the limiting factor on how rocky a road the wagon could traverse.

I didn’t know this information as I wrote Lead Me Home and Now I’m Found. I wrote about the jostling wagons, but never thought about the physics behind why—other than that the trails were unimproved ruts and bumpy. Now when I write about travel to the West, I’ll think about the necessity of moving large rocks out of the way so the wheels could physically maneuver. (I did have a scene in Lead Me Home about having to cut down trees to get the wagons through the mountains.)

The article made me ponder once again the difficulty faced by the emigrants to Oregon. The more rocks a wagon was likely to encounter, the larger the wheels needed to be. If a wagon wheel had a diameter of four feet, then it conceivably could get over rocks that are one foot in diameter. But I imagine that ride would have been extremely uncomfortable.

Most likely the emigrants would have worked to go around large rocks, or move them, or otherwise avoid the rattling about that the uneven terrain would have caused. The wheels weren’t the only problem with wagon travel. The axles could break and the boards could loosen and crack. The emigrant diaries talk of frequent wagon repairs, often with only rudimentary tools and replacement parts.

Still, finding references like this one to wheel size is one of the things I love about writing historical fiction. I never know what I’ll learn—some of it necessary in the moment, some of it perhaps will be important in the future, and some of it I’ll never use. But I think again about the difficulties our ancestors encountered in their quest for a better life.

What have you read recently that taught you something?

Pixels and PEBKAC


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Me buying a new cell phone

My husband and I recently began having cell phone problems. My phone was almost three years old, and its storage capacity was exhausted. I periodically had to delete apps and empty caches and the like so I could download my email. I couldn’t take more than a few pictures before I needed to offload them to my PC. I had already replaced the battery once, and it seemed to be discharging more quickly.

My husband’s phone was a generation newer than mine. He bought it six months after I got mine, and it had just passed its two-year contract expiration. But his screen randomly flashed and went black. He could get the visuals back, but all signs indicated a developing illness in his phone. Probably fatal.

So I decided it was time to buy new phones. I did some Internet research and identified several acceptable options. Then I read that Verizon (our provider) was offering a BOGO50 sale. My husband wasn’t eager to upgrade, but he knew we had to do something soon. I convinced him to set a shopping date for a recent Friday afternoon.

That Friday I raced home after my lunch appointment to meet him. He wasn’t there. A note on our kitchen table revealed he had a hastily scheduled meeting and might miss our phone excursion.

He showed up about 4:30pm. We decided there was still time to head to the Verizon store, though I warned him it was likely to take until about 6:00 or so to handle all the paperwork and phone setup. Neither of us does well with extended shopping events. I also emphasized that we didn’t have to buy anything that day, if we didn’t like their choices and prices.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I saw a TV camera inside the store. Uh, oh. I was afraid the salespeople would be tied up with publicity and wouldn’t focus on us. But we’d made it this far, so in we went.

A very nice sales clerk talked us through our options and showed us how all their deals could be “stacked” (as she put it) to allow us to get two latest-technology Google Pixel phones—the second for around $200. She said for the same monthly bill we’d been paying, with the same shared data level, we could get two brand new Google Pixel phones with protection plans.

Of the options I had identified, the Google Pixel was the phone I secretly wanted, so I was happy. We proceeded to pick colors, cases, etc., and she transferred all our old data to the phones.

Meanwhile, the TV cameraman asked my husband and me if we would be willing to be interviewed about our phone-buying experience. We didn’t want to be curmudgeons, so we agreed.

And about 6:15pm, interviews recorded, we walked out of the store with a box of chargers and our new Pixels still downloading the apps we’d had on the old phones. We went to out to dinner, ran another errand, and got home just before 8:00pm, phones still downloading apps.

“We’ve used 75% of our monthly data already!” I exclaimed. “And we’re only two days into our billing cycle.”

I immediately logged both phones onto our home wi-fi to stanch the data bleed. Then I texted our kids, proud to report we had brand new Google Pixels. We’re rarely the coolest people in the family, but I thought this might upgrade our status with the next generation.

Our daughter called me back. It took me five swipes to figure out how to answer the phone.

Two days later I was on my way to the airport to retrieve our son. He called me, and I still couldn’t answer my phone. Of course, I was driving so I couldn’t look at the screen for instructions.

And when I later tried to hook up the Pixel to my car via Bluetooth, it didn’t work.

I had to install the fingerprint reader on my Pixel, because pushing the power button every time the phone went into screen saver mode hurt my thumb.

Then I read a November 20 article in The Wall Street Journal on the language of start-ups and found the term PEBCAK—an acronym I’d never heard before. It stands for “Problem Exists Between Chair and Keyboard” or “Problems Emerge Between Chair and Keyboard.” A variation is PIBCAK (”Problem Is Between Chair and Keyboard”). According to The Wall Street Journal, these phrases are a “programmer term for what happens when users are too dumb to use software correctly.” Though I think it applies to hardware as well.

Count me as a PEBCAK when it comes to cell phones.

I don’t like telephones, and my dislike of faceless oral communication has extended to cell phones. I like smart phones as data devices—for checking email, giving me driving directions, and taking pictures. I like having the safety of a phone for emergency calls.

But I don’t want to be accessible to anyone anywhere anytime the other person wants to contact me. I only want my smart phone for my convenience.

So call me PEBCAK about cell phones. Just don’t call me on the phone.

Still, I’m getting to like the Google Pixel. It’s taken days of playing with screen savers and apps and home screens to get the Pixel to look almost the way I want. I managed to turn on the Safe Mode to avoid data surcharges until I decide whether to buy more data for this month. It took three tries, but I figured out how to connect the phone to my car.

Soon I may be functional with my phone again. As functional as I want to be.

What PEBCAK experiences have you had with technology?

My Earliest Thanksgiving Memories


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I’ve written before (see here and here) about how glad I am that my children spent so much time with their cousins growing up, because I didn’t have that experience as a kid. But I do remember one Thanksgiving my family spent with my cousins. It’s the earliest Thanksgiving I remember—1958, when I was two-and-a-half years old.

My paternal grandparents lived in Seattle at the time, and Daddy, Mommy, my year-old brother, and I went to visit them. We stayed at their house for a few days over the Thanksgiving holiday.


My younger brother and me, Christmas 1958, just a few weeks after this Thanksgiving story

My father’s sister and her family lived in the Seattle area also. My aunt had three children at the time—two girls who were four and two, and a baby boy who wasn’t even a year old yet. Although my brother had celebrated his first birthday and was walking, I thought he was almost as much a baby as my boy cousin.

I have two vivid memories of that Thanksgiving holiday. Both took place in the bathroom.


Santa brought me my own ironing board that Christmas

My brother, who had only started walking a couple of months earlier, had burned his hand a week or so before Thanksgiving. While he was toddling around our house, he pulled Mommy’s iron off the ironing board. It hit his palm on the way to the floor. It may have burned him elsewhere, but the hand was his worst injury.

I was with him when it happened. I was petrified when he started screaming. Mommy was not there—she’d gone to answer the telephone, leaving the iron on the board. (Bad Mommy, but these things happen.)

What was I supposed to do? Mommy had told me not to bother her when she was on the phone. But my baby brother was sobbing. I sat there, worrying about whether to go get her. Thankfully, Mommy came running right away, so my dilemma was quickly resolved.

On Thanksgiving, my brother’s hand was still bandaged. He wasn’t supposed to get it wet. He was in the bathtub before the holiday dinner. My two girl cousins and I were all in the bathroom watching. The cousins were asking questions—“Why is his hand all wrapped up?” “Why can’t he get it wet?” “When will it be better?” And on and on.

Mommy patiently answered their questions, and soon his bath was over. We all dressed in our finery for the Thanksgiving dinner. I had a pretty party dress to wear, and everyone said I looked beautiful. They probably told my girl cousins the same thing, but I don’t remember that.

Later in the afternoon, I had to use the potty. I was well along in potty training at two-and-a-half. I knew what to do and when to do it. But I used a potty chair at home. There was a potty chair in the bathroom at my grandparents’ home, but I wanted no part of it that day.

My four-year-old cousin didn’t use a potty chair, and I wasn’t going to either. I wanted to use the real toilet. I wanted to be grown-up like her.

So what if my two-year-old cousin still used the potty chair? She was littler than me. By two whole months. I was certain I could do what the four-year-old did.

So I tried. And promptly fell in. And got my pretty party dress all wet.

All the grown-ups laughed at me. I had to change into another dress, and was humiliated for the rest of the day.

Most of the people present that day have died. The cousins are still around, but I hope they have long forgotten my embarrassment.

Happy Thanksgiving to readers everywhere! Be grateful for family.

Grandpa’s Stories Still Sustain Us


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I’ve spent most of my Thanksgivings since 1979 with my in-laws, and most of those in their home. Occasionally, I prepared the Thanksgiving dinner at our house (typically with my father’s help, when he visited) and my in-laws joined us. But most of the time, we had our holiday meal in Marshall, Missouri.

My mother-in-law set a formal dining table, and we carved the turkey and filled the plates at the table. The meal was lengthy. After we ate our fill, the table was cleared, dessert served (plates filled in the kitchen with pie and whipped cream . . . lots of whipped cream), and coffee offered.


Thanksgiving 2004, when Grandpa could still carve the turkey

At some point came the stories. Grandpa was the consummate story-teller. He’d led an eventful life, most of it spent in the small town of Marshall where he was born, went to school, and worked for almost all his career.

There was the story about walking along the roof line of a neighbor’s house with his brother and assorted other children, throwing paintings from the attic to the ground.

And the time the boys made root beer and stashed the bottles under the bed—their mother was surprised by the explosions a few weeks later.

His recollections of Jim the Wonder Dog.

And when he and his brother “borrowed” some beer off a truck as they drove behind it down the country road.

War stories from Guam during World War II.

And the time his son (my husband) poked him with a cattle prod—that one made him mad every time he told it. “It hurt!” the story ended.

And on and on the stories flowed. I might not have all the details right, but my point is that these stories were as much a part of Thanksgiving (and other holidays) as the food we ate. The stories fed our hearts and souls while the food fed our bodies.

And the stories sustained us for far longer than the turkey and pumpkin pie.


Thanksgiving 2008, when Grandpa could no longer carve, but could still enjoy the meal and tell the stories

Grandpa has been gone for over four years now. We still tell stories over holiday meals. We tell his stories, and we tell stories about him. And we tell new stories of happenings since he has left us. Our stories will evolve and change over time, but always they will sustain us.

Which are your favorite family stories? Tell them again. And write them down.

Little Brother as Mother’s Escort


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My husband and I will celebrate our thirty-ninth wedding anniversary soon. We were married just days after my youngest brother turned ten. His role during our wedding was to escort my mother into the church. He wore a tuxedo and looked so cute, as little boys usually do when they wash up, comb their hair, and dress nicely.

Here is one of my favorite pictures from our wedding day, of my mother and my brother walking up the side aisle to their seats. It’s not the best picture of my mother, but I love how solemnly my brother took his responsibility.


My brother escorting our mother on my wedding day

This ten-year-old grew up to be a pediatrician. Our mother always said that it was because he liked the doctors he went to when he was about this ten-year-old size. They took the time to talk with him and he decided he wanted to be like them.

He’s also a great husband and dad now, and he’s always been a great brother. (And he’s been taller than our mother—and me—since he was about twelve.)

Happy Birthday, little brother!

Writing Memoir: From Zero to Sixty in Half a Day


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Although many posts on this blog are about my life, I don’t aspire to write a memoir. I’m interested in my life, but I don’t know how many other people would be. I might be able to tell amusing anecdotes, but I doubt I’d be able to develop an overall arc to my life—at least not one I’d be willing to write about. As an attorney and a human resources professional, I know a lot of stories I can never tell.


Woodneath Branch of Mid-Continent Public Library

Nevertheless, I attended a program on writing memoir recently at The Story Center, which is sponsored by the Mid-Continent Public Library in the Kansas City area and operates out of the library’s Woodneath Branch, about a fifteen minute drive from my home. I want to support writing programs in my part of the metropolitan area, and The Story Center is doing an excellent job of providing developmental opportunities for writers.

So off I went to the memoir program, with low expectations of usefulness. Maybe I would learn something about story structure that I could apply to writing novels. Or maybe I’d get some ideas for blog posts.

The first part of the program involved a series of prompts to help the participants think about memoir. The instructor, Matthew Frederick, a writer and literary agent at Fairbank Literary Representation, started us by asking for a title of our memoir. Since I had no intention of writing a memoir, I had no title.

The next prompt was to list a few vignettes from our past. That I could do. Then, after we reflected a bit on the vignettes we had listed, he asked us to articulate “the big reveal” in our project.

By this time, I was into the exercise. I had decided I wanted to write about my relationship with my mother, I had a list of stories about her, and my reveal was “I’m a lot more like my mother than I ever wanted to be . . . and that’s OK with me.”

The session continued, with discussions about who is the protagonist in a memoir (almost always the writer), who are the antagonists (both internal and external—because we are often our own worst enemy, though we may think others are thwarting us), how to place one’s own life in the broader social and historical context, and how to choose a lens through which to tell the story.

That’s a lot to think about in two hours.

After lunch, we returned to discuss story structure as it applies to memoir. I had anticipated getting more out of this part of the day than the writing prompt session, but it turned out that a lot of what Mr. Frederick had to say about structuring a memoir I’d heard before in learning to structure a novel—the three act model, the hero’s journey, etc. Besides, when I’d started the day without even a kernel of an idea, getting to structuring a book seemed a monumental task.

Mr. Frederick’s basic advice was to start with the details, then pull the structure of the story out of the details. Only then will you know which details are relevant. He told us that a memoir has a public story and a private story—why we had thought earlier about placing our lives in a social and historical context. Some memoirs focus on the public story and others on the private story, but both should be included in some fashion. And the climax of a memoir is where the public and private stories come together.

stocksnap_py7ewskyr3I did develop a structure for a book about my changing relationship with my mother over the span of my life. (Though Mr. Frederick said that a memoir should not cover an entire life.) I don’t know whether I will ever write this story. I still don’t aspire to. But I was able to spend the day thinking about my life and my mother. Many of the insights I had might find their way into this blog over time. Therefore, program was worth it. (All The Story Center programs are free, so the cost was a day of my life. We can all use a day now and then to reconsider our lives.)

Have you ever thought about the social and historical context of your own life? What is the public story in which you have participated?

First Wedding Present: Mixing Bowls


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Sometime during the summer between our first and second years of law school, my husband-to-be and I decided to get married. We set the date for Thanksgiving weekend that autumn, back in my home town of Richland, Washington. Then we went about our graduate-student lives—going to classes, working on law review (me) and an international law journal (him), and getting through the pre-Cana program at a parish in California that my home parish would accept as the required pre-marital counseling needed to marry a Catholic girl and Protestant guy.

During an early week in that crazy period in our lives, two of my college friends visited me. Knowing that my fiancé and I would be married a couple of months later, they gave us an early wedding present—a set of mixing bowls.

I still have those bowls.


The largest mixing bowl during cookie baking

The largest one is our go-to bowl for cookie dough. My husband (the primary cookie-baker in our family) used it this last weekend to make chocolate oatmeal cookies for his rowing club’s regatta. He also makes his pie crust in that bowl and pancake batter some Sunday mornings.

I sometimes use that large bowl for pasta casseroles. A couple of months ago, I made a meatball pasta dish for my sister-in-law and her two grandchildren when they stayed with us for the night. The kids later told their mother that, “Aunt Theresa’s house was the best part of the trip.” When asked why, it had something to do with sleeping bags on the floor and meatballs. That’s what five- and seven-year-olds like.


The middle two bowls on the cupboard shelf

The bowl that is the next size down is perfect for many dishes, like pie filling or fruit salad. And down in size from that one, the third bowl is good for warming up leftovers. These middle two bowls probably get the most use, but the smallest one is best for mixing sauces and for warming up single servings.

The point is that we use one or more of these bowls almost daily. At least several times a week.


The smallest bowl in the dishwasher

And every time I pull a bowl down from the cupboard, or put one back in the stack from the dishwasher, I think of my two friends. I remember our college days—the laughter and drama and evening chats in the dorm.

I remember also my family’s meals over the years—the harried suppers thrown together after days at work and school, the holiday pies, the weekend breakfasts of pancakes and bacon.

In retrospect, these mixing bowls proved to be one of the best wedding presents we received. A gift that began in friendship and love and built memories that deepened our family relationships and wove the web of our lives. Thirty-nine years later, this gift keeps on giving.

I hope that the wedding presents I’ve given have had a tenth of the impact on friends that this set of mixing bowls has had on me.

Which of your wedding presents were most meaningful to you?

The Rest of the Part-Time Story


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A few months ago I wrote a post about my father telling me I should take “a nice part-time job” and how angry that made me. This post is a confession—I asked for that advice. Well, not for that advice specifically, but for any advice he could give me during a very difficult period in my life. So I shouldn’t have gotten mad at him for telling me what he thought.

Here’s “the rest of the story,” as Paul Harvey used to say:


My letter and my dad’s notes on how to respond

I recently went through my father’s “brag file” about his career again. This time more carefully. Buried in the file, I found a letter I had written him in early 1986, shortly before I turned thirty. I had completely forgotten I wrote this letter, though as soon as I saw it, I recalled where I was and what I was doing the day I wrote it.

In the letter, I complained about the heavy workload I had and the corporate politics that complicated my job. I bemoaned the struggles I had coping with two toddler children. And I asked him what I should do to make my work and family balance better.

Included in the envelope with my letter were my father’s handwritten notes of how he thought he should respond to me.

But he never sent me a written response to my letter. Instead, we talked on the phone a week or so after he received it. (This was in the spring of 1986, not the summer, as I wrote in the earlier post.) The conversation took place during one of my regular weekend calls to my parents, with my mother on the phone also, and probably one or both of my children hanging around to say hello to their grandparents.

Maybe if my father had written his response, he would have included everything in his notes so I could reflect on his advice more carefully. Maybe if it had been just my dad and me on the phone, I would have listened to his comments more thoughtfully or asked more questions. His notes were very thoughtful—more philosophical and nuanced than I remember his conversation being.

Or maybe now that I am thirty years older than I was at the time, I can understand him better. I am seven years older now than he was in 1986. So maybe now I can appreciate the wisdom of what he intended to say, when before all I heard was what sounded like a belittling remark “go find a nice part-time job.” (Isn’t it funny that when we call something “nice” it makes it sound smaller?)

His notes contained a long reflection on career stages—(1) the point when you first stick your head out of the trenches and wonder whether you like what you do, (2) the mid-life crisis of realizing that if you don’t change you’ll never get to do or be anything different, and (3) the regrets near the end of your career when you wonder why you didn’t accomplish more. I was at the first point, he wrote, and a few years earlier, he had gone through his mid-life crisis and made a major career move, which he described in some detail.

More than thirty years after that 1986 letter and our conversation, both he and I have weathered all three career stages. Unfortunately, he isn’t here so I can discuss them with him, nor can I thank him for his wisdom. (Of course, if he were still alive, I would never have gone through his brag file.)

Here is the advice he intended to give me when I was a young mother overwhelmed by work and family, though not all of it came through to me during our conversation:

1. You have to decide what you want—(a) a full-time career with advancement, (b) a part-time position to help keep your interest in your field, or (c) no career and enjoy life as a wife and mother (not a bad career either).

2. If you are not having fun, that may be telling you something.

It went on a bit longer, but that’s the gist of it. Simple choices, yet very hard to make. But all I heard was “maybe you need to find a nice part-time job.”

I don’t know what advice I had expected from him. Maybe something on the rewards of being a workaholic like he was—it would be worth it to stick it out through the rough periods. Maybe an acknowledgment of how well I’d done to that point in my life—to be working in a demanding occupation that made use of the education he had paid for. Maybe thanks for giving him two fantastic grandchildren and appreciation for the sacrifices I felt I’d made as a working mom.

But all I heard was “maybe you need to find a nice part-time job.”

So what is my advice to any thirty-year-old parent who would ask me about work and family balance?

After thirty more years of living, I can see that my father’s advice—albeit thoughtful—was too simplistic and based on the perspective of a man who had never faced the cultural gender conflicts I faced. The choices aren’t quite as stark as he painted them. Maybe they were never so stark, though I agreed with him at the time that they were. Maybe the world has changed enough that they are less stark now they then were.

In reality, the choices are complicated. We can make different choices at different life stages. We can have some of everything (career, family, hobbies), though not all of everything. And not at once. There is no perfect job, no perfect family, no balance that stays in equilibrium. In reality, we muddle along, doing the best we can, day by day, hour by hour. Not soothing advice, but muddling through has been my answer.

Still, one thing my father said is true—if you are not having fun, that might be telling you something.

What advice do you have on managing work and family balance?

Guest Post on A Writer of History


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Last Thursday I had a guest post over on A Writer of History, which is an excellent blog on historical fiction written by M.K. Tod. I wrote about how I chose the time and place for my novels, Lead Me Home and Now I’m Found.

A Writer of History has a lot to offer both writers and readers. Writers will find good information on aspects of writing historical fiction. Readers will find reviews of wonderful novels about a variety of historical periods, as well as other guests posts by authors.

Check out my post on A Writer of History here, and I hope you browse a bit more on her blog after reading my post.