When I first began my writing journey, I thought people wrote from where they were at - meaning, a thriller author lived an exciting life, and a romance author enjoyed the bliss of perfect relationships. I'm not sure what I thought about science fiction and horror authors.

Then I heard a speaker at a writers conference several years ago. The bestselling romance author gave an inspirational talk about how the tragedies and hardships in her life propelled her to continue writing. She was not writing from where she was at, but from where she wanted to be.

As a cozy mystery author and reader, I crave happy endings. That doesn't mean my life is rainbows and unicorns. (I touched on my family history in an article on Donis Casey's blog last month.) It means that I've found escape from the harsh realities of life in fiction that provides solutions to character problems.

The people in these stories have reliably happy endings. Well, the protagonist anyway. The bad guys and girls receive their comeuppance with astonishing speed, unlike real life.

What I'm realizing is that happy endings come in moments. It's not a permanent condition. Seize the victories, the peaceful hours, the harmonious family gatherings. Live in them, not looking to the past or anticipating (or dreading) the future.

Like the wild turkeys in the photo. Be a turkey.

I posted a two part article about my experience hiring a private investigator on the Type M for Murder blog:
Part One - What It's Like to Hire a PI
Part Two - I Hired a PI - conclusion

These wild turkeys are thankful they live in a safe neighborhood. We saw them during a recent drive through the Garden of the Gods park.

I'm thankful for a roof over my head, food on the table, and our wonderful daughters, son-in-law, and granddaughters. 

I'm grateful I've been able to pursue my dream of writing fiction. The publishing landscape feels like it becomes more difficult every year. At the same time, new opportunities for getting fiction to readers pop up. Just Keep Writing.

I'm thankful for writing groups where I feel I'm amongst my people. Pikes Peak Writers, the blog Type M for Murder, and Rocky Mountain Mystery Writers of America.

I'm thankful my husband and I continue to enjoy good heath, now that we're officially seniors. I love our walks and runs outdoors through the changing seasons. I'm thankful we have reconnected with our faith community.

Every day isn't perfect. Life has its trials and tribulations, aches and pains, highs and lows. But overall, there is much to be thankful for.

Combing through the family archives my siblings entrusted me with, I've found some nuggets. I'm sharing snippets with my middle granddaughter. She has an interest in history, and thinks our family's past is pretty crazy. She's not wrong.

I sent her one last week from my great-grandfather's 1931 journal. 

"Kenneth drove down and Pirate drove back. They are both good drivers. Kenneth is 14 Pirate 12."

These kids drove a car from Willow Lake, South Dakota, to Huron - a distance of almost 50 miles. Apparently this was legal in 1931. Granted, their uncle was in the car. But 12? I still haven't figured out who "Pirate" is, or how he fits into the family tree. 

My granddaughter's response to this blast from the past? "Dude you just know if someone tried that today CPS would step in so quick."

Child Protective Services. I doubt they had that agency in rural areas over 90 years ago. I was amused by my granddaughter's response. As a college student, she's not in a rush to jump into adult roles, although she did get her driver's license as soon as legally possible. 

It was a different world in 1931. The automobile was coming into common use, right alongside the horse and buggy in remote rural areas of the Great Plains. Right on the cusp of huge changes. The Good Old Days: better in some ways. Far worse in others. 

Wait until I share with her some of the child labor violations occurring on 1930s farms...

We've had a long, lingering autumn. I've appreciated the extra time with colorful leaves clinging stubbornly to trees. The unseasonably warm temperatures.

My husband and I are avid walkers. I do some running, too. We took advantage of the fall weather to keep on our walking schedule.

The snow finally arrived Tuesday night. Flakes began falling. And falling. And continued for the next three days. Our city nearly shut down. Schools closed. Highways closed.

Most of my time leading up to the storm had been spent being a polling place judge. Before that, we had other interruptions. I was looking forward to getting back into routine. The snow ended that idea. For my physical fitness, anyway. I do have a treadmill. No excuses!

This morning, the sun came out strong. We waited until the expected peak heat of the day, then went to the park.

A stretch of the sidewalk was a deathtrap. Kids had hard-packed the snow with their sleds. I waddled like a geriatric penguin across ice, slush, and snow as hard as concrete. 

That was about it, though. The city had plowed the walking paths, and the sun took care of the rest. Except for this bridge. The walk across it was a little dicey, but we made it.

Today was a reminder that winter weather will disrupt our fitness routine. Time to make sure I have entertainment for use on the treadmill, like my favorite true crime podcasts I can listen to while putting miles on the treadmill. Other days, the sun will come out, melt the snow, and dry the walking paths, even in the depths of winter.

I was discouraged when the big storm delayed my return to routine. But only for a few days. The melting snow reminded me that fresh starts are always just around the next corner.  

Please be kind to your polling place staff. They're working hard to ensure your right to vote. They're taking time away from regular day jobs, family, or retirement to perform what they see as a duty to their community and nation.

I should know. I'm an election judge this November.

Our county clerk sent out a call for staff in September. Their office was recruiting in expectation of a 90% turnout for this election. I volunteered, then learned it's a paid position. Civic duty plus a paycheck.

Even with mail-in voting being the norm in my state, plenty of people prefer to vote in person. Or didn't receive their ballot, moved, need to register, etc. etc. Issues that can be addressed at the neighborhood polling station.

I applied, passed a security check, was accepted, and attended training. Behind the scenes of any election, there are a lot of moving parts. The election staff is divided into different tasks. In my county, each polling site, or Voter Service and Polling Center, has a site coordinator and assistant coordinator.

On the busiest two days, greeters assist voters as the first point of contact, ensuring folks queue up in an organized manner. Registration judges are the people who check you in, verifying your registration status, assisting with change of address, registering new voters, and issuing approval for a ballot.

Then comes the Ballot on Demand Judge. This is my job, printing ballots after the registration judges determine the individual is eligible to vote. The position is "computer-based." My background as a corporate drone with attention to detail and data entry experience made me the ideal candidate for standing at a laptop and printer all day, pushing buttons and churning out ballots. 

Finally, the Ballot Judges maintain the voting area, steering people to registration, voting booths, and finally to dropping their ballots in a locked box. 

The county clerk's office requires both major political parties be equally represented, as well as non-affiliated and third-party voters. In my county and city, there seems to be a genuine effort by the powers-that-be to ensure a fair election. Voters requiring extra assistance were given the tools they needed to be able to complete a ballot. We saw it all, from first time voters to senior citizens, folks in canvas work clothes to formal suit and tie, young parents packing toddlers on their hips to college students with rainbow hair and book bags, young men with that distinctive military recruit haircut and stance to those sporting long hair and cargo shorts.  

Absolutely no guidance is given concerning how to vote. We all have an opinion, but we can't give it to voters, even when they ask for explanation of an issue. We have booklets issued by the state describing pros and cons that voters may use while they make their decisions.

My previous experience as an election judge was decades ago. No computers were involved. Just a thick dot-matrix printout - does anyone remember dot-matrix printers? At my site, all voting is on paper ballots. Registration is done on laptop computers connected to the county database. At the close of each day, computer counts, registration cards, and ballots must tally correctly.

Our first day of early in-person voting was hectic. Despite the training, most of us had a learning curve. By day two, we all had a handle on our duties. We learned the hard way that the ballot printer is temperamental. I named her Agnes. Leave her alone when she has a hiccup. Agnes will straighten out, and print off that precious ballot in her own time.

I voted early by mail, since I figured I'd be too busy working at the polling station to vote in person. My vote has been counted already. 

The comedian George Carlin was credited with saying, "If you don't vote, you lose the right to complain." But I don't think it's as simple as checking boxes based on a whim. John Kennedy said, "The ignorance of one voter in a democracy impairs the security of all." The important part is not the voting. It's making an informed decision.

I did research, seeking out original sources of information, not just biased blather from campaigns or opinions drifting around social media. Whatever the results of this election, I hope we can turn the passion of this cycle into working to improve our country.

​Let's not rely on politicians to make good on their promises. It's our civic duty to hold their feet to the fire, requiring their honesty, vision, intelligence, and hard work on our behalf.

We have roles to play, too, whether great or small. I'll be doing my small bit Monday and Tuesday. I pray it all goes smoothly, not just at my polling center, but all across our nation.

While hiking in the Colorado mountains this month, I saw the full cycle of tree life. 

A pine tree caught my attention. The bark had fallen off the lower trunk. No pine needles adorned its bare branches. A huge crack indicated the tree was ready to fall down under any pressure from strong wind to a heavy snow. 

This is a large tree, compared to others nearby, but not close to record-setting. If you want to know more about ancient or giant trees, check out the Monumental Trees website.

As we walked, we saw hillsides covered in trees in every condition, from pinecone to sapling, from vigorous growth to the end of their lives. 

Even when they topple to the ground, trees still provide life to the forest. The Rocky Mountains in my area are dry. The soil is poor to non-existent. Weather is harsh. The plants and animals living here must be tenacious.  

There is beauty in life and growth. But there is also beauty in the end of a cycle. I found one fallen tree, slowly decaying in a climate not conducive to rapid decomposition, with new life sprouting from its ruins. One tree falls, and another takes its place.

Last week my siblings and I transported our parents' ashes to South Dakota, bringing the long lives of two people full circle.

Ruth Jane (Chase) Grotta was born in Willow Lake. She didn't talk about "final wishes" with us, but had mentioned to my younger sister the desire to be buried beside her mother in the Collins Cemetery. It was not until after Mom's passing that I understood the significance of this. Her mother, the grandmother I never knew, Avis Allegra (Berry) Chase died young. My mother's entire life played out against the backdrop of this early childhood trauma. Now she has returned to her home town on the eastern prairie of South Dakota, and her mother's side.

Gerald Lou Grotta was born in Esmond. The town no longer exists. We placed his ashes, along with his second wife Alpha's, in the cemetery where Dad's parents are interred. It seems fitting for a man who left behind Depression-era rural poverty to strive for success in the big wide world. Sioux Falls is the largest city in South Dakota. Dad would be comfortable knowing he's close to his parents - his roots - and yet in the "big city," not tucked away in a forgotten pasture.

Two very different people, finding rest in two very different places. Their four children are each distinctly unique from each other, and yet we share those same South Dakota roots. I felt the tug of the history and the land as we made this journey.

On September 28, I arrived at the small Colorado town of Palmer Lake just before dawn. I wasn't alone. 137 other souls entered the 24 hour race. Volunteer staff, the race organizer, the race timer, pacers, and friends and family also braved the crisp morning air.

An "Ultra" is any footrace that exceeds the marathon distance of 26.2 miles. Runners enter the 24 Hours of Palmer Lake to test their endurance in a slightly more forgiving environment than the typical Ultra trail race. The route is a 0.82 mile loop around the lake in the center of town. Flat. Mostly smooth, hard-packed gravel.

The weather was perfect. Highs in the 70s, lows in the 50s. Runners set up canopies and tents, or just a camp chair and a cooler. The aid station was well-stocked with water, electrolyte drinks, and at night - coffee. The snacks ranged from gummy worms, cookies, and Doritos to watermelon, bananas, and sweet potato chips.

When the start was announced, people did not dart off at lightning fast paces. We all knew we were going to be here a long time. This is a distance competition. Speed is only necessary to ensure you complete the number of miles you want within that 24 hours.

My daughter's goal was to complete a little over 40 miles. Mine was to do a marathon. Both of us wanted to pack in as many miles as we could before noon. As the day wore on, we inevitably slowed down and took more breaks. Our husbands were pacers for brief stints - a pacer being a person encouraging the runner, but not entered in the race. Even two granddaughters did a lap around the lake.

When the sun went down, we were excited. We'd made it this long. Then 12 hours passed. When we reached midnight - 16 hours - and we were still circling the lake, we felt accomplished. Neither of us had trained with the distances required to make this possible. Despite a lack of training, we felt strangely... good.

(Shout out to Judy Fellhauer and the Women's FIT Team for years of coaching, giving us a strong fitness base to enable us to run/walk much farther than we should have been able. We'd both been following Coach Judy's program consistently, just not at Ultra levels.)

Then around 1am, things got weird. Sasquatch appeared. Runners and pacers donned blinking colored lights. A local guy set up his RV next to the trail and played DJ, dressed in a different costume every few laps. Headlamps bobbed like fireflies bouncing along the trail. When a rainbow unicorn trotted by, I asked my daughter if I was seeing things. 

At one point, I lost my confidence I was really at the lake, walking brisk laps in the middle of the night. Then, despite the smooth path, I feared I might stumble and fall. I felt wobbly. Unstable both mentally and physically.

I wrapped up in the giant gray blanket my husband insisted I bring, and took a break on a comfy camp chair. Cocooned in its fluffy depths, I began to consider calling it quits. I had achieved a marathon distance.  My daughter kept going. During one stop at our camp, she reminded me I was sooo close to a 50K (30 miles) that if I walked just a pinch more, I could complete my first Ultra. I unfurled myself from the blanket and continued a few more loops.

At 2:30, my son-in-law called to check on my daughter. Both husbands had offered to come get us at any time that night, although we thought we could make it to 8am and the official end of the race. My daughter continued a few more laps, to surpass her own goal of over 40 miles. Then we hemmed and hawed for 20 minutes, discussing whether we needed to stay after reaching our mileage goals.

Common sense won out. We accepted rescue by a wonderful guy willing to sacrifice his own sleep to come get his crazy wife and mother-in-law. At 3:30 am we turned in our timing chip shoe tags, accepted our finisher awards, and went home.

Rather than curing me of the running bug, I am crazier than ever about distance running and walking. Maybe it's partly the excellent leadership behind the 24 Hours of Palmer Lake Ultra event, making it so much fun. Maybe it's the intensity of pushing myself so hard. Whatever the reason, I'll be back out on the trails soon. After another recovery day. Or two...

This summer, I noticed a pair of nice outdoor-style chairs tucked beneath the trees. Not in someone's yard. Between the walking trail and Cottonwood Creek.

People have created dirt trails parallel to the official trail and the creek. Or maybe deer originally carved them out, and people just discovered and made use of them. I like running on these because there's more shade, the trail surface is softer, and the scenery is more interesting. There are more curves, dips, and obstacles to keep me alert.

The two chairs became a curiosity for me. I enjoyed seeing them and imagining who put them there. Why? I mused about the possibilities in a previous post.

Then one day, the chairs moved! They were relocated to a new spot under the trees. A couple weeks later, they moved yet again. 

Then one day, they were gone. I watched anxiously as I jogged by, hoping they'd simply been moved to a fresh location. But they were nowhere I could see. I wondered whether the owners had taken the chairs home. The overnight temperatures are in the 50s now. If the chairs were used for a morning coffee break, maybe the owners decided it was too chilly for this routine.

I have a neighborhood app. People report happenings, good or bad. Kind of an electronic neighborhood watch. To my surprise, the chairs were reported!
​
"Missing folding chairs?If anyone is missing these cute folding bistro chairs LMK. They were in the woods behind Timberwood Ct"

So far, no one has claimed them. I will miss seeing the chairs in the woods. Perhaps the changing season will provide new entertainment.