turbulence

If you’ve been following my online life, you know I’m the walking definition of a glamorous existence. Relaxing by the pool. Hobnobbing in casinos. Hiking new (to me) trails. Jetting to Europe. Scouring old palaces. Cementing friendships.

FACT: Most people only share the
“Don’t You Wish You Were Me”
bits of life on social media.

ALSO FACT: I’m like most people.

I dragged my glasses from my tuckered face near midnight on my second day in Kansas City, never realizing glasses could pop in two. I held one lens in each hand, thinking No worries. I’ll get MTM to overnight me a spare pair.

Because I’m a champ.

The next morning, I popped contacts into bloodshot eyes and flogged books at the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation Convention. The day before, I sold almost thirty books. I schmoozed and small talked and listened and elevator pitched and bonded and begged and guilted everyone who came near me.

My glasses must’ve been my good luck charm.

The last day, browsers must’ve read panic behind my mask of confidence. Nothing I tried moved my sales beyond five books. Not buttering up William Clark’s several-greats grandson and his impressive mustache. Not offering buy-one, get-one-free. Not telling my sob story about the US Postal Service losing my spare pair of glasses, leaving me on my way to England with two contacts as my only eyes.

I was upstaged by another author,
but that’s another post for a different day.

As I taxied to the airport, I realized another sickening fact: I couldn’t see much with my right eye.

But I’m a champ, right?

With shaking hands, I tried every configuration of tape to coax my glasses together, but alas, even mummification-by-tape wouldn’t fix them. And sight continued to diminish in my right eye, another flare-up of the parasite that plagues me.

What do champs do when they break their glasses
and can’t see out of one eye?

They go to the bar, knock back two gin-and-tonics and board their scheduled flight to London, sure they will awaken on the other side of the pond to nothing more than an en route nightmare.

But when I landed, I had a hangover to match my blind right eye and still-broken glasses. My dear English hostess Kate Shrewsday met me. She called pharmacies, asked about doctors’ appointments  and even let me sleep late, while she found the perfect super glue for my glasses. I sat under the skylight in my attic haven, ready to cement my way to Ms. Fix-It glory.

Super glue spewed from the bottle
like pea soup crossed with The Exorcist.

In less than two seconds, it coated one lens and stuck my fingers to the frame. Champ-like, I vaulted to the bathroom, groped for scalding water and dislodged my digits whilst tearing away chunks of skin. At least, I think that’s what happened. I really couldn’t see much.

I groped my way downstairs and collapsed at the kitchen table. Bits of glue clung to bloody fingers, and my lens was caked with layers of dried cement. Another call to the optometrist revealed a week wait for new glasses.

Defeated. Pulverized. Drowned. Annihilated. Washed out. Hosed. I flew to England to record Not Without My Father for audio with a professional (Kate), but I was ready to cancel my trip and fly home.

Sometimes friends are the champs.

Kate brewed a cup of perfect tea. The perfect proportion of milk. And the perfect response: I’m calling my dad. He’ll know what to do.

The next morning, I came downstairs to functional glasses. My right eye recovered somewhat from its parasitic tantrum. I started working to master the vocal moves necessary to wow the audiobook aficionado.

My travels are seldom glamorous, Dear Reader. But on my last trip, I learned how to navigate life’s turbulence like a champ: Call Kate Shrewsday’s dad. He can work miracles with anything.

CLICK THE IMAGE TO SHARE.

grand stair at hampton court palace*****Photo: The Grand Staircase at Hampton Court Palace

I know. I know. This is the title of a drug addled Talking Heads song.

But she was.

My friend when I needed one. She was there even when I didn’t know what I needed.

Kristin and I don’t get together nearly enough. But last night, we made it happen. And on the eve of leaving home for a while, I’m so glad I could cocoon with her and just be.

Our friends can be biased cheerleaders.

That’s true.

But they can also cut through the crap and help us realize the magic of who we are. Of what we’ve made. Of who we could be if we only had the audacity to dream.

Kristin is one of those friends to me. I’m grateful for her.

Every single day.

Do you have friends who make you a better person? Tell us about them in a comment today.

Okay. Maybe it doesn’t take a village to WRITE a book, but it sure does take one to make sure the book doesn’t suck. While I got tons of valuable feedback on my book (as well as lots of pretentious/elitist/ridiculous drivel), Jessie Powell saved my sanity.

At a pivotal moment, Jessie agreed to read my book and give me con crit. Few appreciate what a sacrifice of time she made for a fellow writer. She teaches English at the college level. She’s a swamped mom with two active, energetic, and at times challenging, kids. In fact, she was in the midst of something major with one of them when I approached her to read.

She said yes. Immediately. Even though we’d never met.

Jessie gave me enthusiastic notes of support, comprehensive explanations of what didn’t work and multiple ideas to fix holes in my manuscript. To Live Forever is a better book because of her selfless reading.

And, during my walk, I got to meet her. To give her a big hug. To sit and talk writing for several hours. She trekked from Montgomery, Alabama, and gave me one of the biggest gifts of my journey.

We form connections in The Great Blogosphere. Sometimes, we even call people we’ve never met friends. Jessie IS my friend, a dynamo whose voice I can now hear every time I read the words she writes.

Jessie has a book coming out this July, The Marriage at the Rue Morgue, from Five Star Press. I can’t wait to repay her for all the help she’s given me.

.

You KNOW you’re a WINNER! Tweet, Facebook, type and review your way to Charleston, South Carolina in the To Live Forever Journey to Charleston Contest. The more you enter, the better your chance to WIN. Click here to find out more: Support My Aching Feet.

Some people read my novel in a day. Beat me to the finish line. To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis is available in paperback and e-book formats at these outlets: Click to Purchase To Live Forever.

 


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