September, 2001, was a busy time in this then-bustling household. Our youngest child, then twelve-year-old David, had recently started seventh grade. Our oldest daughter, Courtney, was just beginning her post-graduate microbiology training in Little Rock and was living with us until she found an apartment closer to her graduate school, a half hour commute from here on the best traffic days. Middle child, Kerry, was ensconced in a dormitory an hour away from home for her freshman year of college. I was on deadline, as always, and my husband was busy with his woodworking and other always-ongoing projects.

The morning of September 11 was hectic. I’d gotten David up, fed him breakfast, made sure he had either a sack lunch or lunch money (I don’t remember which), and had waved to him as he’d climbed onto the school bus. Courtney rushed around the house getting ready to leave for grad school, hoping the early rush hour traffic would have eased a bit by the time she reached the Arkansas River bridge. I remember very clearly sitting in my recliner with a cup of coffee, taking a moment to breathe before starting work, watching Good Morning, America with Charles Gibson and Diane Sawyer. Jack Hanna was scheduled to appear with some of his cute animals, and I always enjoyed those segments.

Just as Courtney was gathering her backpack and keys, an announcement came on the TV that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. I was shocked, but the details were sketchy, and for all I knew it was a small plane in a tragic accident. I called my husband in to listen, and he sat in his recliner next to mine to learn the details. Courtney hesitated a moment, but she had to leave. The news went to live coverage, showing smoke billowing out of the first tower, and I divided my attention between watching that broadcast and watching through the patio door as Courtney dashed out to her car. Just as she drove away, I looked back at the screen — only to watch in horror as a plane hit the second tower. I wasn’t even sure that was what I had seen, I remember asking John if he’d seen it, too. He had — as had the stunned reporters covering the event.

My first reaction was that something must have gone wrong in a control tower. I asked John if there could be some sort of computer glitch causing the planes to be so horribly off-course.  He looked at me sadly and just shook his head. It was a naive question, of course. I simply could not fathom the kind of evil intent that would have deliberately led to those heinous actions. And then the reports came from the Pentagon. And a field in Pennsylvania. And scene after scene of unimaginable terror flashed across the television screen.

I thought of my friends in New York — my agent and her staff, my editors, other writers. I prayed they were safe. I reached for the phone and called my mother, like a frightened child needing my mother’s reassurance that everything would somehow be all right, when we both knew our world would never be quite the same. I called Courtney, needing to know she had arrived at school safely, and then Kerry, to make sure she was okay at college. I couldn’t call David at the junior high, but I had to trust he was being well cared for there. My first instinct was to reach out to the ones I loved most.

I did no writing that day, nor for the next week. It took a while before I could concentrate on light-hearted fiction again, and many of my writer friends admitted they had the same difficulty. Though I was far from the tragedy, safe in Arkansas, my heart — like the rest of the country’s — was in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania with the heroes and victims there. Our skies were empty, as were our spirits for those few bleak days, and we could think of nothing else. For a few days, we were a country united in grief and anger, our petty differences set aside.

Now, on the tenth anniversary of that day, so much has changed — in the world and in my own life. My mother lost her battle with pancreatic cancer four years ago, and there are so many days I wish I could call her again for her encouragement and reassurance. I am fortunate to still have my dad, and I know I can call on him whenever I need him. I’ve written quite a few light-hearted romances in the past ten years. I believe there is value in occasional hours of escapist entertainment, and always in the celebration of love.

I remember Courtney dashing out to her car; now she spends most of her days in a wheelchair still working to recuperate from the stroke she suffered last October. She is back to work full-time in medical research, searching for information that will lead to better treatments for hepatitis C while dealing with her own physical limitations with grace and courage 2400 miles from her family here. John and I could not be more proud of the brave and independent young woman she has become.

Kerry married a fine young man she met at the university she had just begun to attend ten years ago, completed medical school, and is now a third-year child and adult psychiatry resident in Massachusetts while her husband, Justin, attends graduate school.  Every day she works with people who struggle to survive trauma and addiction and chemical imbalances that make their lives so difficult, and I know she is making a difference there. She knows we are extremely proud of her, too.

David is now a first-year medical student, preparing to begin his own career of service to his community. At the risk of redundancy, I have to admit we’re very proud of him, too.

Our children are so fortunate to live in a country where they are free to pursue their dreams. I hope they comprehend and will always appreciate the sacrifices so many have made to keep that freedom alive.

You’ve probably figured out by now that I tend to be both sentimental and nostalgic. As I write this, it’s late afternoon and a yellow school bus just rattled past the house on this second day of a new school year in Arkansas. That sound and that flash of yellow through the leaded glass in the front door take me back to the days when I’d be waiting for my three children to jump off their school bus and run eagerly toward the house. Snacks, homework and piano practice awaited them – and while I never had to nag my academically ambitious offspring to do homework, the same wasn’t true of piano practice time. I can still hear the sounds of clanging keys from irritable little fingers that would much rather be busy with something else. I don’t miss the piano practice battles, but I do miss the music.

With just over nine years between my oldest and youngest, they were rarely in the same schools, and their home arrival times were staggered. A few years were crazy hectic — one child in elementary school, another in junior high, another in senior high, all busy with activities, sometimes all in the same evening. My husband and I somehow learned to split our two selves into three directions. I can still remember so many of those drama and choir performances, math competitions, academic open houses, piano recitals, drill team practices, prom meetings and other extracurricular activities. Our kids weren’t involved in sports, other than as spectators at the school football games, but they stayed quite busy, for the most part — which meant that we did, too. There are times when I wonder how we got it all done — and times when I miss those days very much.

Last week John and I had the pleasure of having all our “kids” home for the first time since last Christmas. Kerry and her husband came from Massachusetts to spend a few days with his family and a few days with ours, while Courtney flew in from Seattle. Courtney is still recuperating from the stroke she suffered at the end of October last year, still using a wheelchair most of the time and unable to use her right hand, but she gets by remarkably well and has continued making strides in her medical research career. Traveling alone in a wheelchair is a challenge, but she had plenty of help along the way from courteous airline employees, and she enjoyed a week away from work and therapy sessions and doctor visits.

David’s new apartment is close enough that he was able to spend a few evenings with us, though medical school orientation kept him busy during the days. Arkansas was in the middle of a record heatwave — the temperature soaring to 114 degrees one of those days — so our activities were pretty much confined to indoors during the week. We had several good meals (John prepared his famous smoked meatloaf one day, which is always a hit), played some games, talked a lot. One evening we all saw a movie together in a small, nearby theater; we saw “Cowboys and Aliens.” The film was fun, but mostly I enjoyed being in a theater with my entire immediate family for the first time in longer than I could remember. The girls and I went shopping one afternoon – another treat for me. At the end of the week, we all attended David’s “white coat ceremony,” a touching ceremony in which the incoming medical school class of 2015 recited an oath of professionalism, compassion and commitment. All other physicians in attendance were invited to renew their own oaths, so Kerry stood to recite along, causing a woman behind us to whisper loudly, to our amusement, “She can’t be old enough to be a doctor!”

Needless to say, John and I cherished every minute we were able to spend with our busy daughters and son during their visit with us.  Now the girls are back in their jobs, our son-in-law is preparing to start a new semester of graduate school, David’s immersed in medical school — and the nest is empty again. We aren’t sad — we’re so proud of all of them for pursuing the careers they have worked so hard toward. This was always our goal as parents, to see them independent and self-sufficient and productive. Still, because I am sentimental and nostalgic, I can’t help sighing a little when I hear that yellow bus clatter by, or when I wipe the dust from the piano keys or vacuum the three rarely-used bedrooms that still hold a few dolls and stuffed animals and plastic robots.

I’ve mentioned before that my husband and I don’t entirely share the same taste in entertainment — especially when it comes to television programming. Neither of us cares for “reality” TV, preferring scripted shows for the most part, though I do rather like some of the talent competitions. “So You Think You Can Dance” is my favorite non-scripted program, but I also enjoy “American Idol,” “Project Runway” and several of the Food Network competitions, such as “Chopped” and “Iron Chef America.” I watch hours of American football in season, whereas John’s preference in non-scripted entertainment would be found on the History or Discovery Channel when he isn’t watching twenty-four hour news coverage (yawn). We both enjoy “Mythbusters” and “Dirty Jobs.”

As for scripted programming, we share a few favorites. We’re currently watching summer series such as “Eureka,” “Warehouse 13,” “White Collar” and — my favorite — “Burn Notice.” While John enjoys all of these for the most part, I probably like them even better than he does. All are a little too “light and fluffy” for his taste. His favorite shows are gritty, rather grim (in my view) procedurals. I prefer clever repartee, happy endings, romance — and okay, cute guys with guns. Give me “Castle” over “Law and Order” any time.

He and I have talked often about what draws us to different shows. We’ve come to the conclusion that there is one particular criterion that makes the difference for us. I absolutely have to like the main characters portrayed in the programs I watch. They have to be people I’d want to know, maybe to hang out with, people who make me care if they stay safe until the end of each episode, and who make me want to see them ultimately happy at the end of the series. Sometimes I’ll decide within the first few minutes of a new show that I can’t stand anyone in it and have no interest in spending more time with them. There’s an ad campaign now for an upcoming Fox comedy that features a character I developed an instant and irrational dislike for — needless to say, I won’t be watching that show. Probably won’t even give it a chance, I’ll admit somewhat sheepishly.

That drives John crazy. He doesn’t really care if he likes the characters as long as their stories are interesting. When he crashes in front of the tube at the end of a day, he simply wants to be entertained with a reasonably well-crafted plot. He can’t even always tell you the names of the characters. I can tell your their names, their back stories, their clothing style and their motivation (maybe I embellish a little in my own mind).

There have been series that I’ve watched regularly … until the writers take the characters past a point I can’t forgive, what I’ve heard referred to as character assassination. Once that line is crossed, I turn the channel and never return, even if I have been a regular watcher to that point. For example, when initially sweet and charming Adam cheated on “Jane” in Joan of Arcadia — not only cheated on her, but was cruelly hurtful  to the emotionally-disturbed girl he was using — I turned off the TV and never watched that show again. I might have ranted. There have been a few other series I’ve abandoned because central characters became unlikeable to me, even though I had watched and enjoyed the programs until that point. I actually get angry in some of those situations — which bewilders poor John no end. “You know they aren’t real?” he’ll ask tentatively.

That’s the problem. They’re a little too real to me. And I have to like them to watch them — or read about them, in the case of books. The characters can have flaws — in fact, I prefer them a little less than perfect — but ultimately, there has to be something within them that makes me care about them. I’m not actually that hard to please; both in real life and in fiction I tend to be easily intrigued by people. I watch a bit too much TV and too many movies and read too many books, because I like spending time with all those imaginary friends. I’ll watch reruns of my favorite series or repeatedly watch movies I like or reread favorite books just so I can revisit those old pals and be entertained by them again. But I have to like them.

Is the difference between my preference and John’s due to gender? Am I more interested in characterization and he in plot because of the difference in female/male brain wiring? Is it because I’m a writer? I create characters every day, and they become entirely too real to me — if they weren’t real to me, I couldn’t bring them to life for my readers. I hope the readers like them — though I’m sure certain characters didn’t resonate at times for some readers, even if they like my other books. After all, differences in tastes and preferences (even between myself and my hubs of 34 years), regardless of the reason, explains why there is such a wide selection of entertainment available — and I, for one, am grateful for that variety.

The winner of the July 1 drawing is Barb Steinmetz. Congratulations, Barb! I’ll post details for the next drawing soon.

Happy Canada Day to all my friends up north. This day also kicks off the long Independence Day weekend celebration here in the U.S. We’ll be celebrating rather quietly here. Tonight my husband, son and I will follow a family tradition and watch the fireworks display at the high school football field in our town in central Arkansas, usually followed by an ice cream treat at the local Sonic. With our daughters living on different coasts now, it’s just the three of us. Our son will be in his own apartment and a busy medical student this time next year, so we’ll savor this little family ritual with him tonight.

Whatever holiday you’re celebrating this weekend, I hope you find time to appreciate the simple pleasures. Stay safe! I hope you’ll visit me here again soon.

I have a weakness for estate sales. Not garage sales or tag sales, but those events at which an entire house is opened to the public and everything inside is tagged with little price stickers. Sometimes the homes are fairly new, the contents department-store tidy; perhaps the owners are moving away and either can’t take everything with them or want all new decor. I’ve been to quite a few of those, especially when I’ve accompanied my three kids as they looked for good, used furnishing for their first apartments. Sometimes I go with my woodworker husband on his never-ending search for tools. But that sort of sale doesn’t draw me often.

I’m especially intrigued by older homes that were occupied for many years by the same family. Often, they’re crammed full of “stuff” for sale. Furniture, appliances, kitchen items — including partially used boxes of food or jars of spices in the pantry. Bric-a-brac, books, yard tools, clothes, shoes, Christmas decorations. Wrapping paper, office supplies, linens. Half-used bottles of cologne, old gloves and hats and purses and costume jewelry. Creased black and white photos of unidentified men, women and children in clothes from the ‘forties, ‘fifties and ‘sixties. Old records and eight-track tapes, battered dolls and board games.  Unopened gift sets of body lotions and stationery, coffee mugs stamped with “Grandma” or “Papa.” Canes and walkers and shower benches giving evidence of the aging of the former homeowners. Even, once, a set of dentures hanging from a shoestring in the bathroom.

Several established estate sale companies operate in central Arkansas, and my husband and I are on the email lists, so that we’re notified of upcoming sales. We don’t go every week — more like every few months, when a particular sale intrigues us or we simply need a day out of the house. Still, we’ve attended enough of them that we’ve actually made friends among the other “regulars” who line up a half hour or so before the doors open and spend that time chatting and laughing, comparing notes on the other sales scheduled for that day, frequently checking their watches. Some are dealers looking to make a profit in flea market booths or on-line auctions, others are collectors on a never ending quest for their own personal addiction. I have a thing for cut-glass toothpick holders; I don’t know why, they just seem to jump into my hand and follow me home. My husband bee-lines straight for the workshops and garages.

More often than not, we leave the sales empty-handed. I’m not usually there to buy. I enjoy the camaraderie, the rare time away from the computer, maybe lunch out afterward. And I am fascinated by the history I find within those walls, especially in the old homes. I’m not seeing an old rocker marked with a bright yellow price sticker. I see a mother rocking the child who played with that old doll on sale across the room. The set of old China displayed on a vintage dining room table was carefully chosen by someone — was it a wedding gift? Or collected a few pieces at a time over many years? The jaunty, net-trimmed hat and short white gloves from the ’50s would have been worn with some of the glittering costume jewelry for a special evening out.

This past week, my husband, son and I attended a sale in an old Victorian house on the Arkansas Historic Register. There were actually two old homes, side by side, that had been owned by the same family. Uneven wood floors, very high ceilings with dangling, tarnished brass fixtures, narrow wooden staircases, small rooms arranged in rabbit-warren confusion, tiny bathrooms with rust-sprinkled iron tubs, layers of peeling, yellowed wallpaper, the smell of must and dust and decades. I could hardly tell you now what was offered for sale; I was too preoccupied wondering what it would have been like to live in that house more than a hundred years ago, what views the family would have seen from the oddly-shaped windows, how many generations graced those rather dark, high-ceiling rooms. I spent quite a while time drifting through those old houses. Longer than my son would have liked, I’m sure, though he waited graciously enough while I daydreamed, even though he was impatient to visit a couple of nearby furniture stores on his search for a few more things for his new apartment. He’s not really interested in dusty, fussy antiques at this point in his life.

Some people I’ve talked with about my estate sale habit tell me they find those sales sad, all those now-abandoned mementos of lives gone by, often for sale now because the homes’ occupants have passed on or can no longer live alone. While I agree that there is an element of sadness, and perhaps of simple voyeurism, I like to think I’m paying tribute, in a way, to the owners of those things now for sale. I buy, occasionally, contributing to the estate, and I try to view the contents with respect toward those who once used them. And I can’t help imagining my own home and possessions opened to the public someday. What would it say about me if all the closets and cubbyholes of my life were set out on display, the things I’ve collected or used or stashed forgotten in a drawer, the few shopping mistakes crammed at the back of the closet, the little gifts or souvenirs admired briefly, then tucked away somewhere in this home where we’ve lived for more than twenty years? How much of me is revealed in the things I’ve bought or displayed or chosen to keep wrapped in tissue in boxes of memories from my youth and my children’s lives?

I’ll never forget attending a sale several years ago in a 1940s era home in an older Little Rock neighborhood and being immediately enthralled by the lovely antique furniture throughout the house. In a back bedroom, an old four-poster bed was covered with a beautiful, hand-tatted lace spread. Always drawn to bookcases, I moved to a particularly nice one that appeared to be walnut. At first, I was too busy studying the bookcase to notice the books it held. Then I realized it was filled with paperback romances, carefully arranged by author — including a section of my books, displayed in chronological order. As far as I know, I never met the woman who lived in that little house, who read my books in the bed with the lace spread. I hope those stories gave her a few hours of pleasure. I know I will always treasure the crystal bell I bought from the top of that bookcase. I like to think it serves as a continuing connection between us.

You never know what you’ll find at an estate sale.

♥♥♥

A HOME FOR THE M.D.,  on sale now — click Books Available Now! for more details.

Don’t forget to enter the drawing to be held July 1. Click Enter to Win! for instructions.