Author: Gina Wilkins

Today is Veteran’s Day in the U.S., a day to honor those who have served our country in the military. I’ve mentioned that I live near an Air Force base, so the sight of men and women in fatigues and blue uniforms is common around here. That doesn’t mean we take these American heroes and heroines for granted. We are aware that even as we go about our usual routines here, our military are putting their lives in danger on a daily basis overseas. I have a young cousin serving in the Middle East now; I pray that Dan returns home safely to his parents, Mark and Susan.

Among my mother’s cherished belongings were several letters written by her uncle during World War II. The letters were written to his mother and his sister (Mom’s mother). Some of them were heavily censored with black bars. All expressed his love for his family and his longing for home. I now treasure those pages of history written by my great uncle Henry.

My husband’s father was a veteran of two wars, World War II and Korea. He served as an Army tank commander in World War II, surviving the Battle of the Bulge — one of 6 out of 125 in his unit to do so. He saw and heard horrific things. He was an Air Force cook in Korea, and would later retire from the Air Force.

He rarely spoke of the wars. Even when my husband asked as a curious teenager, Waymon chose to keep his experiences buried inside him. He did admit not long before he died in 1994 that after almost fifty years, he still had nightmares about the things he had seen in battle.

He earned two Purple Hearts — one of which was stolen from him years later. He paid for his service with the shrapnel scars he carried on his body until the day he died, and with a battle against alcohol he waged his entire adult life. Like many young soldiers, he had turned to that escape and it refused to release him when he returned home. He retired from the Air Force, but he was always an “old soldier.” His service defined him.

Waymon loved his family — his parents, his sisters, his much younger brother, his wife, daughter and son — though he was of the generation that found it difficult to express that love. He loved his five grandchildren and enjoyed spoiling them. And he loved the country he served for so long. We honor his memory today, and I know my husband still misses his dad very much.

I hope everyone who reads this takes the time to thank a veteran today.

I was recently struck by an article I read in the Arkansas state newspaper about a 91 year old woman who ran into her first grade teacher at a doctor’s visit. Yes, 91 — the teacher is now 102. She was only 17 when she taught this student. The student still remembered her teacher so clearly as a major influence in her life and a true role model. The teacher remembered the student as a “sweet little girl.”

Good teachers can have a life-long influence on their students — often, perhaps, without ever knowing how important they were. I had several teachers in grade school and high school who influenced my love of reading and writing; I was particularly swayed by my journalism teacher, Mr. Paulus, in high school. He named me editor of the school paper, which was a huge honor for me, and taught me the importance of clarity and ethics. My freshman English professor in college was one of the first people who ever told me that I could make a living with my writing. Her praise and encouragement meant a great deal to me.

But it was after I became a mother and had three children of my own in schools that I truly learned the value of a dedicated, passionate teacher. I saw the enthusiasm my children had for learning and achievement when they had teachers who challenged them and supported them and encouraged them. I saw, also, the waning of enthusiasm when their teachers were burned-out or not completely committed to their important, but admittedly difficult careers. We were fortunate to have many good teachers during our years in central Arkansas public schools, but there was one in particular whose influence will be visible in my family for the rest of our lives.

Bob Koorstad is an AP Biology teacher at Jacksonville High School. His dedication to his career is the first thing anyone learns about him upon meeting him. Though he has struggled with a visual impairment, he has never let that hold him back, and has never uttered a word of complaint that I’ve heard in the almost fifteen years that I’ve known him. He’s made himself available to my kids and his other students at seven in the morning, or after school in the afternoons. He loves his job, and his students.

He’s not an “easy” teacher. Some students don’t want to take his class because he makes them work and expects them to learn. But he is always there if they struggle, always available to help those who want the help and are willing to take the extra step to excel in his class. When my oldest daughter was critically injured in a college lab accident two years after she graduated from high school, Mr. Koorstad called every day to check on her.  When she obtained her PhD in microbiology/immunology last May, eight years after that accident, he was at her defense, beaming like the proudest of parents. She will always be one of “his” kids.

Because of Mr. Koorstad, Courtney is pursuing a career in virology research and has excelled in her studies. Because of Mr. Koorstad, Kerry attended medical school, and will graduate with her MD in May ’09. Because of Mr. Koorstad, David is a biology major in college with the goal of attending medical school and becoming an opthamologist. Because of Mr. Koorstad, my nephew is finishing his residency in medicine/pediatrics. Because of Mr. Koorstad, quite a few other students have gone on to pursue degrees in science and medicine; while still others went into different careers but were at an advantage in college because they learned how to study in his class.

I thought of Mr. Koorstad today because this morning my husband and I attended “family day” at my son’s Honors College. I met several of his professors, and saw the enthusiasm and commitment on their faces as they mingled with their students and families. I know he’s fortunate enough to have more good teachers in his college classes. Our children need more Mr. Koorstads. More teachers like the one who lingered in a student’s mind for 85 years. And as parents, we need to express our gratitude whenever our children are lucky enough to encounter these very special professionals.

During my daily phone call with my oldest daughter yesterday, she told me she was sad because Michael Crichton had died of cancer. That was the first I’d heard of it, and it made me sad, too.

Michael Crichton was a storyteller. Critics would not call his books “liter-a-chure,” perhaps — but they were great stories. Rampant viruses. Dinosaurs on the loose. Time travel. Nanotechnology gone awry. A long-running television medical show that launched several stellar acting careers. What an imagination he had. And how much entertainment he provided for so many. His death came only days after the loss of Tony Hillerman, another writer who entranced millions.

When popular writers pass away, we’re sad, not because we knew the authors personally, in most cases, but because those authors touched our lives and sparked our imaginations. We mourn the creativity silenced and the stories that will never be told, because we’re sure there were so many more to share. The storytellers made us smile, sometimes laugh out loud. They made us think. They made us sure we heard a velociraptor lurking in the shadows of our kitchen at midnight. They made our lives a little more fun.

I never met Michael Crichton, but I’ll miss the stories he never had the chance to tell.

Ten years ago a stray tabby showed up on our patio with three kittens. The mama cat was barely more than a kitten herself, less than a year old. She was thin and very skittish, but the kittens were chubby and friendly, easily tamed. We found homes for the kittens rather quickly, but it took us a little while to win the mama cat’s trust – especially after we put her in a cage and took her to a vet to be spayed (we are big proponents of spaying and neutering all pets, especially ones that will be outside making more homeless litters).

We were a little leery of bringing the cat we’d named Izzie into our house. At the time, all three of our kids lived at home, and several of us suffer with allergies, especially my oldest daughter. But our neighbor had an unfenced dog that had already killed two cats, a pet rabbit and a young goat — just that we knew about — so we were afraid to leave her outside. I’d read that the average life of a cat outside is 18 months and inside is 18 years. So, she moved inside.

Within a few weeks, Izzie owned the house and we were simply here to serve her wishes. If there is such a thing as a “Stepford cat,” Izzie is it. She uses her litter box. She eats only dry cat food out of her bowl, is not picky about the brands, and won’t even touch any other food that is left out on counters or table. She has never even wanted to step outside since we brought her in; she actively avoids open doors. Maybe she remembers how hard it was out there, especially compared to how very easy it is for her inside.

From the start, Izzie became my son’s cat. Actually, he became hers. If he is in the house, she is at his heels or in his lap. She loves all of us, and will sit in whatever lap is handy — if David’s isn’t available. Now that he is a sophomore in college, she soaks up his company when he’s home on the weekends. I took the photo above yesterday when he was here, stretched out on the couch with his laptop on his chest in a typical teenage pose and Izzie was on his legs, hugging him as if she knew he’d be leaving again in a few hours.

Continue reading “A cat’s life” →

Happy Halloween. I hope it’s a fun and safe day for everyone.

Halloween always makes me think of a couple of ghost story romances I wrote back in 1996 for Harlequin Temptation. Titled A VALENTINE WISH and A WISH FOR LOVE, they were the stories of two ghosts, twin sister and brother, who were murdered in the 1920s and found love — and a second chance at life — in the present. This was a totally different type of story for me, and I know my editor was surprised when I told her about my idea. I still remember that call:

“Er, um, I have this idea for a new book.”

“Great. What’s it about?”

“Well, the heroine is, um, dead.”

“She’s … dead?”

“Yeah. And she has this twin brother who’s also dead. And who’ll be the hero of the following book.”

“So, er, Gina — have you hit your head lately?”

Okay, so maybe it didn’t go quite like that. My editors at Harlequin and Silhouette have always been wonderfully receptive to new ideas. But I think she was surprised, since I hadn’t written any woo-woo type stories before that.

From my conversations with other writers, I know that I’m not alone in being thrilled and surprised when a book is “easy” to write. Most books are hard-fought, every word a battle to get on the page. As “Red” Smith said: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” But every once in a very long while, a story comes fully formed to our mind. The words flow and the characters come to life, seemingly directing their story on their own. This is what happened to me with those two books. I don’t know where the idea came from, but it was suddenly just there. Almost as if Anna and Ian — my two ghost twins — were whispering what to write in my ear. I’ve never written any two books more quickly or more easily, not before or since. It was … well, almost spooky.

I’ve heard many writers complain about characters who “took over” their books. Who behaved in ways the author never expected. Said things the author never intended for them to say. Secondary characters who were supposed to remain quietly in the background, and yet refused to be ignored, becoming more and more insistent until they almost overshadowed the present story, often demanding follow-up books of their own. Yes, I’ll admit it. This has happened to me. Often. No one said writers are quite … well, normal. As Stephen King has said, “Most fiction writers are schizophrenic. Which makes us crazy, I suppose.” He adds that we create these worlds and these people – and then we come to believe in them. (I have to admit, I’d rather live in the world I create than his. As much as I admire his ability to tell a great story, his imagination is decidedly twisted).

So now it’s Halloween again, and I’m writing a Christmas story. Which means that it’s time for me to leave the blog and go open a vein to begin my work day. So, again, happy Halloween everyone. May all your own projects come easy today.