Navigating Hectivity

What happened to Fall

2019-11-16T11:52:00.004-05:00

What happened to Fall is not a question. Rather, I believe I know exactly what happened to Fall.

Holding on to Fall with our windsock.

And my theory has nothing to do with global warming or the environmental impact of humans.

Have you ever heard of self-fulfilling prophecies? Or speaking things into existence?

The Universe is listening, my friends. Just like Alexa and Google, it sees and hears all.

Therefore, when you go from planning, decorating, and celebrating Halloween to planning, decorating, and celebrating Christmas, you've glossed right over Thanksgiving. And Fall.

Don't blame the retailers. They stock shelves and dress windows based on consumer demand. I know because I took an economics course in college. We've been demanding Christmas whilst still handing out candy to goblins and superheroes.

If we demanded Fall and Thanksgiving decorations and made a big deal about celebrating gratitude and thankfulness, we'd still be wearing light jackets and enjoying gorgeous Fall weather.

Looking through my windshield on Nov. 14.

Instead, Christmas displays are in full bloom, Christmas carols are blaring from the radio, Christmas movies are streaming, and people are posting photos of their already-decorated Christmas trees.

Meanwhile, I'm scraping ice off my windshield like it's winter—the season in which Christmas occurs. If I lived in the Northeast or Midwest, ice-scraping in the first half of November would be expected. I live in the South. We just closed our pool.

I've been doing my best to stave off winter and push Christmas to post-Thanksgiving. We are flying out thankful turkey flag and still have our autumn tree with orange and red leaves wind sock twirling. I've got pumpkin and Thanksgiving decorations adorning our home.

I'm doing my best to hang on to Fall. To appreciate its glory. To enjoy its uniqueness.

It hasn't been easy.

I've had to keep my head down and blinders on to protect myself from early Christmas and Old-Man Winter, who have been frolicking hand-in-hand through the neighborhood like kids at a carnival.

It's Fall. Let's embrace it.

There's plenty of time AFTER THANKSGIVING for Christmas trees, Christmas carols, Christmas movies, Christmas lights, ice, snow, and Santa.

Let's make cornucopias and list our blessings and express appreciation and compassion for each other and all that we have.

Let's rake and jump into piles of leaves and slather pine cones with peanut butter for migrating birds.

Christmas can wait. It'll still be there when we've packed all the Thanksgiving dinner leftovers into our recycled Chinese food containers.

Let's will Fall back into existence.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
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Dry Erase Brain

2019-09-17T18:41:00.002-04:00

When you finish* a manuscript and are awaiting critique and coaching meetings with real live agents before querying a group of carefully researched agents that might be interested in representing you, what do you do with your time?

An example of my creative brain
as it spills out onto a dry erase board.

For the past 16 months, I've poured endless hours, creativity, and chunks of my soul into a middle grades fantasy novel. Toward the end, I'd settled into a writer's routine — that is to say, a writer who still works full time because other people require money in trade for food, clothing, and shelter.

As a result of my new routine, I have at least 30 minutes each morning to devote to my writing, as well as time in the evenings and on weekends.

Some of that time absolutely must be spent on social media. But when you finish* a manuscript, and you're a writer — even one who works full time elsewhere — something begins to stir. It rumbles down deep in the heart and soul. It stirs the brain. It calls out; quietly at first, and then gradually louder.

My internal stirrings goaded me to visit the store. I was compelled to purchase a variety pack of dry erase markers and a new dry erase eraser. Just prior to my jaunt to the store, I was driven venture into our hot, humid attic during a 90-degree it's-still-summer spell to dig out the dry erase board that once hung in my home office. A home office that has since been transformed into Hubby's man cave.

Once I had my supplies, the ideas that had been swirling in my head in the pre-dawn hours spilled out in an array of colored ink.

Now, as I come up with other tidbits of information on where the story will go in the sequels to the aforementioned manuscript, they are jotted in the spaces between the already recorded notes, scribbles, and bullet points.

Having the messy, unorganized, colorful representation of ideas in my face day in and day out helps me work out details. Eventually, I'll know what's going to happen in book two and I'll begin to write it.

The dry erase board is an external extension of my brain. Someday, I hope to have an entire dry erase wall (or maybe two). For that, I'll need a home office again. As soon as our grown kids pick up all there stuff and settle into their lives, that's exactly what I plan to do with one of the spare bedrooms.

*In this use of "finish," I mean ready for professional critiquing, after which adjustments will likely be made (more editing and re-writing), so it can be pitched in query emails. Then, once contracted with an agent, there will be more editing and re-writing. Then, once sold to a publisher, there will be more editing and re-writing.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
Email mickibare (at) gmail (dot) com
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Morning Routine

2019-09-12T07:34:00.000-04:00

When you have a goal, you develop a plan that moves you toward reaching it.

Morning routine

My goal is to have my middle grades fantasy novel completed by the time I get to Charlotte for the SCBWI-Carolinas fall conference at the end of the month.

Steps on my plan include:

Get up at 6 a.m. every weekday, and then
Work out for 30 minutes, and then
Get showered and dressed, and then
Write and edit until it's time to leave.
Also, write and edit as much as possible at night and on the weekends.

Huge thanks to Hubby, who has been doing the bulk of the cooking, cleaning, and pet care during the process.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
Email mickibare (at) gmail (dot) com
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Why I'm a writer

2019-09-08T15:17:00.000-04:00

It was a sunny, warm day filled with people who love books. I was set up in booth number 38 with seven of my writer friends — all members of Published Authors Network or PAN.

We had a great time in booth #38.
We loved our neighbors in booth #39!

This was my first author event with the group and I was just happy to be be there. For much of the year, the Bookmarks Festival had been a topic of discussion at our meetings — along with writing project updates, conference experiences, process discussions, and how to efficiently construct dessert in the tiny bowls they provide at the dessert bar in the restaurant that serves as our monthly meeting place.

It was a tight squeeze to get eight of us set up at two tables in our booth space, but we made it work. A couple of us actually spilled over into the next booth thanks to some amazing booth neighbors.

Here we are, from left, Mike Axsom, me, Karen McCullough,
Karen Hall, Karen Fritz, Agnes Alexander, Lynn Chandler Willis,
and (not pictured because he took the photo) Ross Cavins.
Also, if you like the hand-crafted wood signs (left), contact Ross for pricing!

Networking, meeting new people, a coffee shop thirty feet away, access to nice bathrooms, and sunny weather conspired to make it the perfect atmosphere for selling and signing books.

And had none of that happened; if it had been a cold, drizzly day; if our booth neighbors been possessive of space and patrons; if we had to use port-o-potties; or if we had no access to iced mocha lattes; it still would have been the most amazing day.

What made the day so incredibly special — one that I will always remember and cherish — was my last sale late in the afternoon.

My display. Thanks to Lynn pushing me to
create and bring bookmarks, and Staples'
quick and pleasant service, I had something
to give away to prospective readers.

Earlier in the day, a mom stopped by our table with her son. He was the perfect age for Thurston T. Turtle. He had just started reading chapter books. His mother told him he could purchase a book at the Bookmarks Festival. But rather than just tell him to find one, she had him visit the booths with children's authors and "interview" each one.

I was one of the first authors he met that day. It was a pleasure talking with him about each of my books. I let him flip through the pages as I briefly described the plots. He listened intently. With some prompting by his mom, he asked when and why I wrote the books.

It was a pleasant, easy conversation. I gave him a Thurston T. Turtle bookmark (thank you Lynn Chandler Willis for insisting I get those made before the event). He thanked me and then he and his mom left to discover other authors.

Considering the festival was filled with children's writers, including a few that boasted best-selling books, I didn't expect to see my young visitor again.

Several hours later, I'd moved to a shadier spot in our booth after a couple of authors in our group left early. It was getting late and the crowds were thinning. I'd done well and was enjoying the light banter among friends.

In a late-day resurgence, our booth became crowded again as my fellow writers conversed with readers looking for mystery, crime, and science fiction. That's when I saw the boy from earlier in the day making his way through the crowd to my spot at the table. With a big grin, he said, "I'd like to buy your book!" His mom was not far behind.

As it turned out, he'd been looking all over for the "Turtle Lady," which I quickly learned was me. After perusing the offerings of other children's authors, conducting interviews, and flipping through books, he decided the one book he was going to buy would be a Thurston T. Turtle book.

I was shocked and honored and humbled all at once. I asked which book he wanted. He quickly settled on the first in the three-book series. His mom asked me how much it cost. When I told her the price per book, then mentioned the discount for buying all three as a set, she decided to let him buy them all.

I asked him his name and had him spell it three times so I wouldn't make a mistake. Then I carefully signed each one. Handing him those books, and seeing his big smile, is a moment I will never forget.

This is why I love being a writer.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
Email mickibare (at) gmail (dot) com
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Instant Love

2019-05-31T18:17:00.001-04:00

When my parents retired, my mom put her foot down. You see, they moved further south. Dad's job brought our family to North Carolina. His love to tax relief, mountains, and lakes landed the retirees in South Carolina.

Further south meant longer, warmer summers and fewer cool evenings. To my dad, that meant less oven use. The oven heated the house, which in turn made it harder to keep cool. Dad was able to keep a house cool—in the South—without using air conditioning.

Less oven use to a first-gen Sicilian was unacceptable. The compromise was an outdoor oven. Not a built-in brick oven for upscale outdoor living. An actual oven.

Our first attempt at instant pot
baked penne. Perfect!

Dad installed it on their covered deck. When she wanted to make a pan of lasagna or bake a batch of biscotti, she had to do it outside nine months of the year. They used that little oven regularly, except on Friday. Dad grilled the Friday-night homemade pizzas on the grill he'd kept workable for 30 years.

I tell you this to illustrate how much we all, as a society, needed the Instant Pot.

They are all the rage now. We thought we were something when we waited out the initial craze and got ours at the discounted price of $99. The same model is on sale this week for less than $80 according to an ad I heard while jamming to '80s music on the way to work.

Everyone—the sales lady, a close friend, my aunt, my sister, random online trolls—said we had to make hard boiled eggs first. After the box sat in the kitchen collecting dust and providing a place for our cat Freya to nap, Hubby finally broke down, unpacked it, and made six eggs.

I scoffed. I could do twice as many in the same amount of time. The Instant Pot device has to 'get to pressure' and then cook and then the steam has to be released just so before the eggs are transferred to an ice bath. And my eggs are just as easily peel-able as the Instant Pot eggs.

Then we were discussing what we wanted for supper one night. We had all the fixings for baked penne. However, it was 95 degrees outside. I was not going to heat up the kitchen by ramping up the stove to 375 degrees and make our air conditioning work harder. I did NOT inherit Dad's ability to manually cool a house.

Then I remembered. We had an Instant Pot. Then I remembered more. I didn't know how to use it. So I did what any working woman in the 2010s would do. I shared a Pinterest recipe for Instant Pot baked penne to Hubby's phone.

From start to finish, it took 25 minutes for him to make the baked penne. It was al dente. It was delicious. It didn't have any hard, crusty pieces. It. Was. Perfect!

That was the moment I fell in love with our Instant Pot. I might've also fallen in love with Hubby all over again.

I wish my dad could have lived to see it. I wish my mom was still able to cook and could experience it. I'm so appreciative of this technology. And of Hubby!

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
Email mickibare (at) gmail (dot) com
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Lessons from Florence

2018-10-10T11:15:00.000-04:00

Flooding in Asheboro from Hurricane Florence

Four days stuck in the house after four days of fretting over predictions of a potentially catastrophic weather event provided the opportunity for reflection.

Here's what I learned from Hurricane Florence:

Don't get carried away cleaning ahead of the storm. The amount of mud, leaves and pollen that will track inside as we go in and out to take photos worthy of Instagram and Facebook is enormous. Once the storm and social media posting subsides, there will be plenty of dusting and mopping to do.

Maintain emergency supplies. Don't be that person who heads to Walmart right before the storm and has to settle for canned ham-like substances because all the Spaghetti-Os are gone. And there will be no D batteries in the hours before the storm hits. You'll want to already have those. And water.

The radio is NOT obsolete. You might only use it during power outages caused by catastrophic storms, but until there's a better means of public emergency communication that doesn't require an electrical outlet to re-charge, have that radio at the ready.

Worrying is exhausting. We had to stop watching the news and Googling the storm. Not because we didn't want to know what to expect, but because there was SO MUCH information out there being constantly updated, that we worried ourselves sick over what could happen. Just be prepared (see above about those supplies) and evacuate if they tell you to. Otherwise, what's going to happen is going to happen. No need to worry.

I will miss this butterfly bush's purple blooms.

Beware the integrity of the small trees. The big ones are likely going to be okay. We worried needlessly (see above about not worrying) over a giant oak tree in our yard. What were felled by the storm and the ensuing saturated grounds were a large butterfly bush and a maple tree that was much smaller than the oak.

The post-storm dog walk is the best. After being cooped up in the house with dogs that don't like to relieve themselves in the rain while it rained and rained and rained, we all needed to get out. That first walk around the block with the beagle and pug was wonderful. We all thoroughly enjoyed the fresh air, stretching our legs and seeing the neighborhood.

The post-storm world seems brighter, lighter and filled with love and gratitude. People really do come together to help each other when disaster strikes. It was a scary, devastating storm. Many people lost everything. And that's when many more people generously step in to provide relief, comfort and support. The stories of compassion and hope are my favorite.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director, is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's chapter books.
Email mickibare (at) gmail (dot) com
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Writing Samples

Surgical recovery reality

2018-08-13T12:42:00.000-04:00

When my "it's a simple procedure" outpatient surgery was scheduled, I assumed it'd be a simple recovery.

A few minutes post-surgery.

I know, I know. Assuming is a good way to get into trouble.

In my defense, Hubby doesn't like it when I Google my ailments. He has a point. The more knowledge I collect, the more anxiety I'm able to conjure. So I resisted the urge to conduct online research.

Also, I didn't get a lot of solid information on what to expect once they sent me home. My providers debriefed me on everything from causes and symptoms to where the incision would be made and how well IV sedation would work.

No one mentioned how long recovery would take or what to physically expect. Then again, I didn't ask.

My surgery was planned for a Wednesday. I took off the rest of the week. Honestly, I felt a little guilty for requesting three whole days of sick leave. It was, after all, going to be a "simple procedure."

As my surgery date grew closer, I excitedly began planning activities for my recovery period. There were movies I wanted to watch, like "Aviator" and others that are way too long to watch on a weeknight when you have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day.

I was going to write. I'd knock out a few chapters of a book. I'm currently writing a middle grades chapter book in 15-20-minute increments before and after work and between activities on weekends. Thanks to my simple procedure, I'd have several days during which I could write to my hearts content.

My plants were going to get lots of attention, as well. I'd recently bought two purple passion angel plants — one for work, one for my fairy room — that needed to be potted. I've also got begonia clippings rooting in cups.

The surgery went terrifically well. No complications. Excellent vitals. I was home by lunchtime.

Hubby kept the ibuprofen and acetaminophen coming and I took a nice long afternoon nap.

The next day, I felt great. When Hubby offered pain meds, I declined. I was getting my own food, filling my own water bottle, and enjoying life. When the surgery center called to see how I was doing, I reported that I was doing extremely well. I may have giggled a bit during the conversation.

Other than that call and feeling confident about getting back to work by Monday morning, I don't remember much from that day.

On Friday, I woke up and immediately cried out for ibuprofen. Also, it was time to remove the motion sickness patch.

It might be worth mentioning here that the surgery was on my ear. That particular ear was stitched up and packed with what I can only describe as a tampon. And to think, I assumed I was done with tampons back when my uterus was removed. When will I ever learn?

One of my newly potted
purple passion angel plants.

Hubby helped me pot my purple passion angel plants. My shaky hands spattered potting soil everywhere. The hour I spent on that 15-minute job wore me slam out.

I've been on a cruise ship ever since, unable to stay steady whilst walking through the house back and forth to the bathroom. Thanks to a medicine that reduces saliva production and a facial nerve that was temporarily disturbed, I've been drinking a couple of gallons of water a day.

I did not make it back to work on Monday. And Hubby must drive me to and from work for at least a week.

In hindsight, I asked the wrong questions. If I ever have to go under the knife again, I will ask detailed questions about the recovery time as well as what to expect once the hospital drugs wear off.

I will also assume I need a solid week or more with no activities planned other than "get well" — like what all the cards and social media sentiments said.

Meanwhile, now that I'm relatively adjusted to the foam packing in my ear — or is it gauze? — Hubby noted that when they take it out during my follow-up appointment, my equilibrium will be thrown off again. I'll have to re-adjust. Again.

Note to self: No potting plants that week.

"Simple procedure" is a relative term. It wasn't a highly invasive, six-hour-long surgery that required a hospital stay and physical therapy during recovery. Therefore, for the surgical team, it was simple.

But it was surgery. Any way you slice it, surgery is traumatic to the body. And when it's the ear, recovery is a dizzying, weeks-long adventure.

That said, I'm quite thankful for the miracle of modern medicine, the skilled hands of my surgeon and the amazing staff at the hospital.

The teddy bear Hubby handed me in the recovery room was pretty awesome, too.

Michele "Micki" Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and an aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Copyright 2018 Michele Bare

Downtime in the Fairy Room

2018-04-06T18:22:00.000-04:00

As I settle into my new routine, which was driven by the start of my career reboot as director of marketing & community engagement and outreach — not only is that a mouthful, it creates the need for magnifying glasses to read my business card — I discovered something awesome about Fridays.

Mother Nature by my
awesome mom, Ella Schramm

Hubby typically rolls in about an hour and 45 minutes after I'm done with work for the week. That means, to start my weekend, I have a solid hour and a half of downtime before he arrives home.

During that hour, I can write, read or even take a nap. And for those preciously important activities, I have the perfect venue — my fairy room.

The room is actually a sunroom, or for my northern relatives a three-season room, over which Hubby gave me complete decorative control.

My inspiration comes from one of my mother's amazing cloth dolls. My mom, for those who don't know, is an amazing artist who created many beautiful cloth dolls that adorn not only our house, but those of relatives and friends who were fortunate enough to receive such dolls as gifts over the years.

But I digress.

My mom's Mother Nature doll was already in the sunroom. Mother Nature seemed to want to live in an enchanted forest. And in that forest, she longed for the companionship of fairies, butterflies and other mystical woodland creatures.

Or maybe that was me channeling my needs through a doll.

Either way, I have begun my collection of fairies. They all reside in the sunroom with various enchanted forest and fairy garden accessories. Once I began collecting items for the room, I had a place for the love tree paintings that Hubby and I created at The Preppy Possum.

And this is the warm, inspirational, relatively quiet place to which I retreat at the end of a productive week. It's where I can recap experiences, like visiting local farm where sheep are herded by beautiful Border Collies.

Or where I can get lost in a book. Or write.

I absolutely love my new job. And I adore walking home on a Friday afternoon and chillaxing amongst the mystical matriarchs of my sunroom.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and an aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Writing Samples

Copyright 2018 Michele Bare

All neighborhoods need an ocean

2018-03-23T20:45:00.002-04:00

When we visit the coast, we walk. We mosey along the beach enjoying the sound of the breaking waves and browsing the shells the ocean has spit onto the shore.

We walk in the morning glow of sunrise, watching rays of light bounce off of the sea in glittery reflective sparkles. We walk after lunch and again after supper — especially if we shared a slice of decadent chocolate cake.

We walk to the pier and back. Sometimes we take the time to walk the length of the pier and observe the regulars as they pull croakers and stingrays from the water.

At home, we think we're doing great if we carve out 20 minutes a couple of times a week to walk the dogs around the block.

That's why, I believe we should design neighborhoods with oceans. Understandably, they'd have to be much smaller than oceans that occur naturally in the wild. Even so, I believe artificial mini-oceans are the key to combating obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, high cholesterol and heart disease.

Stay with me. I've been to Wet -N- Wild/Emerald Pointe. Well, not recently, but when I was there 30+ years ago, they had a wave pool. We were able to ride our rafts from the center of the pool right up to the concrete "beach" where the waves dissipated.

Now, if we had the technology and engineering to create wave pools 30+ years ago, we have what it would take to create mini-oceans with sandy beaches, tides and even some seashells.

These mini-oceans need to be big enough to support at least one fishing pier with a restaurant and arcade.

Apache Pier, Myrtle Beach, S.C.

Think about it. If such a water feature was within walking distance from your house, wouldn't you do a lot more walking? And fishing? And skee-ball playing?

I'm telling you, ocean-centric neighborhoods are the wave of the future (pun absolutely intended). It's what we need for a healthier, happier America.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & marketing director is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and an aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

Connect with Micki on Google+

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Writing Samples

Copyright 2018 Michele Bare

The Signal

2017-03-20T21:16:00.000-04:00

The Signal between parents and teens
is at least as old as the invention of the phone.

In a FaithIt.com post recently shared by a Facebook friend, a brilliant new way for parents to keep teens safe developed by Minister Bert Fulks was discussed. And while brilliant appropriately describes the idea, it is not at all new.

What is new is the technology used to implement the system, which I like to call The Signal.

How it works

Basically, parents create an understanding, whether through a texted code, such as the "x" used in the post, or a word or conversation that signals the parent to do two things.

1. Immediately rescue the teen from an uncomfortable or unsafe situation.

2. Spare the child grief or embarrassment among his or her peers by shifting the blame to the parents.

The system works because teens have an innate need to roll their eyes and declare, "I can't. My dumb parent's won't let me."

Why it works

The system is brilliant because it fosters open communication and a sense of camaraderie between parents and their teens.

It's critical because it gives teens an escape route for situations in which they feel threatened, unsafe, uncomfortable or simply dislike.

Yes, disliking an activity and feeling bored are perfectly good reasons to initiate The Signal system. That's part of the agreement and a key to making it work — the teen is allowed to use The Signal system for any reason.

Once the parent receives the agreed upon signal, the parent must intervene and take the heat. It's a promise the teen will come to depend on and appreciate.

Historical proof

My siblings and I had a similar arrangement with my parents when we were teens, well before cell phones. We'd just tell our peers we had to check in — call home from the hosts phone or a pay phone. While an initial check-in call was made to assure our parents we'd arrived safely, an additional check-in call immediately signaled to Mom that we needed to be rescued.

Mom made it clear that she was always happy to take the blame if we needed an out. We always carried a quarter with us in case we needed to use a pay phone. We even had a plan for making collect calls if we lost or forgot the quarter. As a teen, I loved knowing I could use my parent's as scapegoats.

When my mom was a young girl growing up in New York City, she carried a dime with her. Hubby and I used the Signal system with our boys, as well. They carried 45 cents until they were old enough for cell phones.

I'm glad The Signal is catching on. It truly is an excellent safety net. I know, because I'm 100 percent sure it is an old, tried and true system that dates back to at least the early 1950s.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

Connect with Micki on Google+

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Writing Samples

Birth of a Food Truck Groupie

2017-03-19T13:37:00.002-04:00

Food trucks in Asheboro's Bicentennial Park
during the annual St. Patrick's Day festival.

During the second annual St. Patrick's Day festival in downtown Asheboro, Bicentennial Park was lined with food trucks. Admittedly, I've been slow to embrace food truck cuisine. How could delicious, safe food be produced in a tiny kitchen within a truck inundated with fuel exhaust and road grime? When Hubby and I arrived at the festival, however, we realized we were hungry.

The aromas swirling around the park were difficult to resist. I found myself looking at the food passers-by were balancing in their hands as they walked, talked and tasted. Even the food splattered on the ground after failed walk, talk and taste attempts looked vibrant and delicious. Hunger was overtaking my senses and sensibilities.

I pulled myself together. Rather than give into temptation and dive in, I opted to do a research before making a final purchase decision. I strolled around the park and checked out every truck, every menu, every sanitation rating.

Yes, the barrier between my foodie personality and ability to get on board with food trucks has always been my imagination. When I pictured a food truck kitchen, my stomach turned at images of tiny college apartment kitchens and a camper kitchen or two from the seventies.

Displayed in each food truck window was a sanitation rating. Among the offerings in the park were several highly-rated trucks. There were several boasting a 100 percent. Many ratings were better than area restaurants.

As an aside, there was also a man wandering around downtown for two days trying to drum up business for his friend's food truck. We'd heard the pitch a few times. It was hard to avoid the persistent marketer. Unfortunately, the sanitation rating for his friend's truck was among the lowest. While the man aptly described a delicious-sounding menu, I chose not to take the risk.

Now, the food truck in question may have been marked down for infractions that could never affect the quality of the food. Also, he may have already corrected every single issue. However, I've been hospitalized for food poisoning in the past from a restaurant with a higher rating. I did not want to chance a repeat of that experience.

Hubby and I chose a couple of different trucks on our first go. The food was delicious. We were pleased.

We spent the next few hours perusing vendor booths, catching up with friends and neighbors and patronizing the beer garden.

All that did was work up our appetites once again. So, after our pleasant lunch experience, we decided to enjoy dinner in the park as well. And that was when we stepped up to the best food truck at the event. With a 100 percent rating and yuca fritas on the menu —I'd fallen in love with yuca during a visit to Ecuador — I couldn't resist.

This is the half that was left of my chicken
quesadillas and yuca fritas from the
QSPRESSO food truck. The green stuff
is their amazing cilantro sauce!

Hubby was drooling over the word cubano on their sandwich board menu. He was so excited about the prospect of enjoying a Cuban sandwich that he pulled out his wallet and told me to order whatever I wanted. I love it when Hubby does that. They were sold out of chicken empanadas, so I ordered chicken quesadillas to go with the yuca.

The food was phenomenal. We were in heaven. Several other folks who saw us making love to our food truck cuisine and smelled the aroma swirling around us headed over to order their own meals. It was too much to eat, so we carried it home and heated it up a few hours later. Our reheated snack was just as delicious.

The food truck in question was QSPRESSO. Based out of Durham, N.C., the truck is in its second year of traveling around the state providing mouthwatering food for the masses. I now follow them on social media. The food is well worth the drive to wherever they may roam.

I'm a changed woman. I no longer fear the food truck. QSPRESSO transformed me into a food truck groupie.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Those Who Broke My Heart

2017-03-18T12:03:00.001-04:00

Time to release the baggage
back into the Universe.

Watching a video clip of women who were more than 100 years old and counting, I wondered what really made the difference between illness and longevity. I watched the video again. They had little grooming and healthy living tips to share, but the common thread was their genuine happiness.

What does it take to be that happy? Conversely, what causes all the unhappiness?

Over the years, I've struggled with various forms of grief over the loss of loved ones, whether it be the loss of a relationship or the loss of life. Unfortunately, I've carried much of that with me, letting each new sense of loss pile into my increasingly expanding baggage.

It's difficult to be happy all the time when you're focused on balancing a tower of grief.

Of course, I had to let it all go. Between inspirational GIFs on social media and daytime television, we all know we need to "simply" let go and move on to find peace and happiness.

I decided to start by envisioning each of the centenarians opening their bags of grief and loss and tossing them into the wind, out a window or overboard. If they could empty their bags and maintain lighter loads, certainly I could, too. While I might be an emotional hoarder, I am also rather competitive and stubborn.

The next step had to be finding a way to access the baggage in order to let go of all that I'd acquired over the years. It was time to step out of the metaphor and into my reality.

As a writer, I knew what I had to do. The only way to let go was to face those who broke my heart, take ownership for my own shortcomings, give back to them and the universe what was theirs, and be done with the grief. And I had to do it through the vessel of words. Once the exercise was done, there would be plenty of room or the happy memories to fill my sails and catapult me through to a long, happy, healthy, fulfilled life.

So, here they are — my written messages to all those who broke my heart, filling the bags that have been weighing me down; my releases back to the Universe; and my plans for moving forward.

To my childhood friend, who died and broke my heart: It was not anyone's fault. You never intended to leave. I accept, and apologize for, the fact that I was too young to understand the immensely deep sense of loss felt by your family. I also know my life became richer for knowing you, and for that I am grateful. I give the shock and sorrow back to the Universe. The hours of carefree childhood happiness I will always keep close to my heart.

To my high school boyfriend, who decided he wanted to see someone else and broke my heart: I know we were young and that love was not meant to be. My expectations weren't realistic. I release the pain, confusion and embarrassment into the Universe. I remain grateful for the lessons and good times, as well as the part that relationship played in my life's path.

To my first child, who passed away before we could ever see his or her face: I know you would have stayed if you could. Selfishly, I've thought often about the notion that had you stayed, I would not have the three amazing children, your brothers, that came after you left. I release the grief, guilt, pain and fear back to the Universe. I'll always be grateful for the role you played in ushering me into motherhood.

To my ex-husband, who shattered my naive perceptions of love, marriage and family: Nearly two decades after the fact, I let go of blame, hurt, anger and a myriad of other emotions that plagued me for so long. I let go of insecurities, cynicism and an inability to trust as I send it all back to the Universe. I will be eternally grateful for the three children that our faulty union created and the role it played on my path toward strength, success and love.

To my father, who succumbed to cancer: The emotions are still so raw, but I have to let the Universe peal away the frustration, anger, sadness, emptiness and grief. You were an amazing dad who believed in us, set the bar high while helping us reach it, demanded our best, provided for us and loved us unconditionally. Rather than let the grief weigh me down, I will stand tall on the foundation you so selflessly built.

To Charlie, Seven, Tiger, Stout, Trixie and all of the beloved pets I've lost over the years, who breezed in and out of my life: You provided comfort, companionship and unconditional love. Those are the things I will keep close to my heart. The rest, the sadness and grief, may go back to the Universe.

To my siblings, who I naively assumed were built-in lifetime friends: I apologize for expecting us to all be close, measuring our relationships against other families' sibling relationships. I take responsibility for refusing for so long to acknowledge how very different we all truly are. I release into the Universe my expectations and the need to try so hard to make everything perfect. Life isn't perfect. I am grateful for the shared experiences and the many good times. I carry forward only happy memories and a respect for your individuality. I am at peace knowing it's perfectly okay to be relatives, rather than close friends.

To my mother, who is battling Alzheimer's: None of us asked for this, yet it is our shared destiny — you the patient and me the caretaker. To the Universe, I open my tight fist and let go of the anger, confusion, stress, weariness and questions. You have been an amazing mom, one that rivaled the likes of June Cleaver and Carol Brady, but with a feisty flair of Sicilian personality. Much of my success as a mother and a person I owe to your examples and love. Moving forward, I will focus on drinking in your smile, enjoying your laughter and continuing to care and advocate for you as you did for me.

To my boys, who are growing up and finding their own way: I take full responsibility for your independence, success and self-sufficiency. I give back to the Universe the pangs of sadness and emptiness that creep up beside me in our much emptier house. My focus will be on pride and love as I keep close to my heart the memories of your growing-up years and look forward to watching you make your ways in this world with success, good health and love.

To my husband: We've had our ups and downs, but you have proven to be my best friend, biggest fan and partner in crime. You helped me raise three amazing men. To the Universe, I release the struggles and strife, the disagreements and disappointments. in my heart, mind and soul, I will focus on all that we have built and all that we are as a couple and family.

To me: It is okay to be human, to make mistakes, to be different, to struggle and to fail. I release my shortcomings into the Universe and will do my best to use the experiences to rise above, grow and become the best me possible.

Every step I've taken has brought me to this place, and I am grateful for every single one, good and bad. The good was mild and easy, like an early spring day. The bad carved out the character, strength and beauty, like the tedious and unrelenting erosion that created the Grand Canyon.

Check back in about 55 years to see if this exercise worked, setting me on that path toward happy, healthy longevity!

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books and aspiring novelist.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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An Apple in Your Sack

2017-03-05T12:27:00.001-05:00

On a recent visit to hang out with our nieces, I was inspired by something my oldest niece said as she was pulling things out of her pocketbook. We were preparing to grab a bite to eat and then enjoy a local Mardi Gras parade — the Eve Parade to be precise —when she began reorganizing.

"This is the book I just can't get into," she said as she placed it on a table. "I need to put it on a shelf and stop carrying it around already."

She pulled out another book — the one she is nearly finished reading — and then grabbed two apples. I followed her into the kitchen, where she deposited them in the produce drawer.

"I always keep at least one apple with me. If I'm not hungry enough for an apple, I'm not hungry."

Her statement was so matter-of-fact. She offered it as a reason for having fruit in her bag. And while she owed me no explanation, I was grateful she shared. She is petite and fit. And now I had one of they keys to how she maintained good health.

The first thing I bought when we returned home was a bag of granny smith apples.

Snacking is one of my downfalls. I'm sure boredom plays a role, as does watching TV. With this new bit of youthful wisdom, however, I could finally overcome my weakness.

Now, before I leave the house to head to the newsroom and visit Mom, I toss an apple in my bag. I also have them piled in a piece of nice pottery on our coffee table where we watch TV. If I'm not hungry enough to grab an apple, I'm not really hungry.

I've eaten a few apples since we returned from Louisiana. However, I have yet to buy a new bag of tortilla chips. My in-between-meals snacking has diminished greatly. My niece is a genius.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.
And let us also remember:
An apple in your sack deters an unhealthy snack.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

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Nobody's Sock

2017-01-17T09:12:00.000-05:00

The mysterious lone sock found in my laundry.

Typically, during laundry time, one sock that belongs to a pair of socks mysteriously goes missing. It happens to 100 percent of everyone who both owns socks and does laundry. On the rare occasions when all my socks pair up during my laundry-folding chore, I feel celebratory. Then I toast my success with a glass of cabernet sauvignon. Sometimes it's cabernet franc or zinfandel, but you get the picture.

However, as they say — "they" being the elusive group of wisdom seekers who said, rather than wrote, much of what we quote —there is a first time for everything.

During my last laundry catch-up adventure, after having folded all my pants and shirts, piled up all my underthings for which folding would be futile, and paired all my socks, there was one sock left over. What made it different from all the other times was that this sock was not my sock. It was a boy sock.

Faced with an alien stray boy sock, I did what most parents of a certain age with a smartphone do. I snapped a picture and sent an SMS to the grown son that lives upstairs.

"Is this your sock?" I captioned the photo.

"No," was his response. Well, that made sense. The sock really wasn't his style. But he had finished his laundry just before I'd started mine, so it stood to reason it could have been a stray that stuck to the drum and then dislodged when introduced to my jeggings.

Next, I asked my college student, who'd done piles of laundry just a few days before in preparation for returning to campus after the holidays.

"Is this your sock?" I queried once more with the image.

"Not mine," he replied. I was surprised, because, while the colors were not as bright as most of his foot wear, I thought it might have been one of his business-dress socks. I thought it could be from a pair he selected during those times when he had to wear a suit and neon yellow and green would be less than appropriate.

Lastly, I decided to ask the one who lives a few towns away in the outer reaches of the county in the condo he bought close to where he works. Or, as the younger generation describes it, the condo he bought to finally free himself of the drudgery of living at home after college.

"Is this your sock?" I asked, doubtful it could belong to him.

Although, he did do laundry when he was visiting during Christmas weekend. I was surprised he brought laundry, as he owns his own washer and dryer. He explained, however, that it was cheaper for him to use our utilities. At least he has and sticks to a budget.

"Nope, it's not. But when can I pick up that couch you said I could have?" was his response.

After suggesting the next weekend for the couch pick-up, I sat perplexed. Hubby was in his recliner during the entire ordeal. He had been the first to deny sock ownership.

There the sock sat alone for days on the coffee table. How did a stray sock that belongs to no one end up in my laundry?

I'm not sure if it was the fact that he was tired of looking at it, or if he had genuinely not recognized the sock as his when the mystery began. However, one day, as we headed to the den with our gourmet homemade, empty-nester, healthy, low-carb meals, Hubby surprised me.

"You know, I think that is my sock." Then he picked it up and took it to the bedroom.

"Seriously?" I thought to myself, the words ricocheting off the sides of my brain. I said nothing. I put my plate on a high shelf where our bubby wubby doggies couldn't reach it, and then headed back to the kitchen for a glass of dry, red wine.

It was partly celebratory — the sock mystery was solved! — and partly the need to soothe the frustration. Then again, had he recognized the sock as his evening I found it, I wouldn't have had an excuse to communicate with all my boys.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

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7 Reasons I Voted Early

2016-10-27T12:13:00.000-04:00

My 2016 sticker for voting!

There is a thrill that accompanies waiting until election day to vote. Waking up early, heading out to your designated polling station, waiting in a very long line for hours, being late to work, enduring bladder cramps because if you head to the restroom you'll lose your place in line — you know the drill.

I used to love the excitement of voting on election day. But as I grew older and my life grew more hectic, the excitement dissolved into intense stress. Now I vote early. Here's why.

1. It is less stressful. As I said, there is no pressure to get to work on time, the lines aren't as long, and I won't miss out on voting if I have to leave and come back the next day. I don't go on the first or last day of early voting, because of the crowds. Rather, I find an odd time, usually mid-morning, during which crowds are likely low at the same time my schedule is less hectic.

2. Someone on Facebook pissed me off. Yes, I admit I let someone's stupid, asinine post get under my skin. Basically, he told those who don't support his candidates not to vote. One of his "friends" then posted in the comments, "...or procreate." This upset me greatly and motivated me to want to vote as soon as possible. What was even more disturbing was the fact that this was an educated person who is well-respected in the community — or should I say "was" well-respected.

3. I like to be early. When I show up for a hair, doctor, work or any other kind of appointment, I have to wait at least 15 minutes because I arrive so early. I get this from my father, who was always early enough to snag the first parking place at a major event — I learned to stow snacks in my pockets, as this also meant it'd be forever before it was time to eat again.

4. I like to be done. I do not like tasks hanging over my head. I love the feeling of accomplishment. I make lists so I can strike through what I've completed. Being done gives me a rush almost as great as that first cup of coffee.

5. The parking is better. This year, the early voting poll nearest my house was in a large, old shopping center with tons of parking. It was easy to access and I had no problem finding a place to park. When I was done, I slipped right back out. It was gloriously accessible.

6. There is less harassment. There were no candidates or candidate representatives hovering outside the polls during early voting — at least not where I voted. I did not head into the polls with pockets full of magnets, post cards, stickers, emory boards, pens or other junk-drawer fillers that have no shot at swaying my vote. Rather, one of the business owners in the shopping center was handing out free one-week passes to his gym. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate to give voters during this year's election.

7. The feeling of hope lingers. Rather than packing all the excitement into one day, I have a couple of weeks to draw out the euphoria one feels after having voted. I tie that feeling to the glimmer of hope that those I supported just might win as I mute campaign commercials and toss campaign mailbox fillers in the recycling bin without giving them a glance. I liken it to celebrating one's birthday for an entire birthday month rather than just one day.

Whether you vote early, like I did, or you wait until Nov. 8, please make time to vote. Regardless of who you support for each office, you should always exercise your right as an American and vote.

And if you do wait until election day, you can think of me while you're waiting in line wishing you hadn't had that second cup of coffee. I'll be having a less-hectic day as I watch it all from afar. I might even be watching from the gym as I work off election year stress — for free.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

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Chocolate Flavored Drink Lifts Panthers to Win

2016-09-19T06:47:00.000-04:00

Our "lucky charm" game day soft drink
helps Cam and team win games.

There will be many iterations of analysis to explain why the Panthers won yesterday against the 49ers. While we heard about the heat and humidity factor during the game, as well as who was connecting with whom and which players were having an off day, you have to know by now there is more to winning a football game than how well the players played.

When you listen to the commentators and read what the sports writers have to say, you are only getting half the story. The journalists, you see, are merely reporting on the athletes. And we all know it takes more than highly paid, muscularly fit athletes to win games. It also takes dedicated fans.

And that is why I must apologize to our beloved home team, the Carolina Panthers. To understand where I, as a fan, went wrong, I must take you back to last season.

During my youngest child's freshman year in college, he started football season with a case of Yoo-hoo drinks and a dream. That dream was to see the Carolina Panthers make it to the Super Bowl. They were on a hot winning streak and, a year ago, my son was sure they could make it all the way to the big game.

Around game three, my son called me in a panic. "I'm out of Yoo-hoo!" he exclaimed. While most college kids simply cry out for more money, my child was in desperate need of more Yoo-hoo. Why? Because he began associating the chocolate flavored soft drink with Panther wins.

After that call, our whole family got into the Yoo-hoo spirit. When the Panthers played, we wore our team gear, put our chips and salsa in Carolina Panther blue bowls and broke out a case of chilled Yoo-hoo.

Our pups don Panther gear on
game day now, as well.

For the record, we were out of Yoo-hoo during that heart-and-soul-crushing loss to the Falcons.

We did, in fact, have plenty of Yoo-hoo on hand for the Super Bowl, but I'm guessing there were other fans who fell short on that frustratingly sad evening.

But I digress. During the 2016 season opener, my youngest child was busily toiling away in class while we watched the game against Denver. We had no Yoo-hoo in the house. I wasn't even wearing my Panthers t-shirt.

Blame it on it being a busy weeknight game, our hectic lives — it doesn't really matter. Bottom line, we were a disappointment to our team. We let them down. Say what you will about what the players might have done wrong that evening, they were clearly not fully to blame. I am deeply sorry.

Even as the final seconds drifted off the clock in Denver, I knew what had happened. Therefore, when the 49ers came to town, we were ready. We had a brand new case of Yoo-hoo just for Sunday's game. I baked cheesy ranch chicken bread balls. We even bought our dogs Panthers jerseys. And, as you witnessed, the Panthers pulled together for the win.

While we suffered one loss at the beginning of the season, the rest of this year can still be as magical as last year. But fans, we need to keep our heads in the game. Your family's secret weapon might not be Yoo-hoo. Maybe it's a special appetizer or the particular seats in which you sit around the big screen.

Whatever your ritual, make sure you prepare for and do it, religiously, every week for our Panthers. They can't win alone. They need us. So what do you say fans? Are you with me? Are you committed to making this another magical Panthers season?

#KeepPounding

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the associate editor of Piedmont Parent and author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

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Only the Beginning: Pitching My Novel

2016-08-27T11:34:00.001-04:00

I began counting down the days in February.

Six months prior to the 2016 Writer's Digest Conference in New York City, I was sitting on my bed on a Saturday morning with a cup of tea and my laptop. Hubby was milling about the room, doing this and that with dogs and laundry and other lazy Saturday morning tasks. Suddenly, something deep inside my soul distracted me from sharing my weekly column on social media. I opened a new window in my browser and searched "writer's conferences."

The timing was right for the 2016 Writer's Digest Conference. It was six months away, but I could go ahead and register — I could commit, right then and there. I looked up through the top lens of my bifocals at Hubby and coyly asked, "Do you mind if I go to New York City in August for a writer's conference?"

Five months prior to this need to push my writing to the next level, I'd heard a debut "New York Times" bestselling author speak at a book festival. Robert Beatty talked that day about going to a writer's conference and pitching his book. His story inspired me. So, on a cold February morning, I registered for my first writer's conference. I also registered for the pitch slam event. Then I began researching how to pitch to agents during a pitch slam.

I stayed in the hotel, took what I had and
what I was learning and made my
pitch the best it could be. I also researched
the agents at the conference and selected
the ones to whom I wanted to pitch.

For six months, I practiced my pitch while I put my novel through another round of editing. I asked folks to beta read and provide feedback. I followed agents on Twitter. I tweaked and restructured.

For six months, I counted down the days. My office white board had daily tasks listed:

Practice Pitch x2
Workout 45 min.
Journal
Work on Manuscript at Least 20 min.

That last one probably seemed a bit thin. Only 20 minutes? Yes, I could find 20 minutes in a day to pull up my manuscript on my laptop and work on it. The 20-minute goal got me started. Most days, once I began, I worked well past 20 minutes, sometimes logging hours as I toiled on chapter after chapter.

During the final weeks before the conference, I practiced my pitch incessantly. Hubby could recite it verbatim, as he'd heard it several times a day for two weeks. My dog, Lily, was also an attentive recipient of the pitch.

Before the conference, my pitch included a 50-second description of the protagonist, antagonist and general plot, and a 10-second description of the genre and mechanics. I had done my research. I thought I was ready.

Over 400 conference registrants were planning
to attend one of four pitch slam sessions.
This is me at the pitch slam workshop session
the day before the pitch slam.

Then I arrived in New York. After the session on pitch slams, I had some tweaking to do. And, after receiving the final list of agents present for the pitch slam, I had some research to do. Four of the agents on my top-8 list of those to whom I endeavored to pitch were not at the conference.

I spent my first three days in New York holed up in the conference hotel learning, tweaking, researching and practicing. My revised pitch was a full 90 seconds and included the following:

genre and mechanics
logline
description of protagonist, antagonist, plot and venues
comps

And while I had originally intended to dive into the pitch slam without any written version of my pitch, I chose instead to bring along speech notes and evoke all the speech-making skills I'd learned 25 years ago while a speech communication major at NCSU.

The intense work paid off. Of the seven agents who heard my pitch, six requested my query and a number of pages.

I was about halfway between the
front and the end of the line
to enter my pitch slam session
on Saturday morning.

When I returned home, having learned quite a bit about writing, my own book, publishing, marketing, agents and more, I was compelled to add just a bit to my already completed manuscript. You might say I filled in a small plot hole. Other than that three-page tweak, I've decided to give that manuscript a rest.

While waiting to hear from agents, the sequel has decided to emerge. I'm barely one chapter in and thrilled about the process and where this story might take me. In the depths of my mind, the prequel is looming, as are other installations that provide the stories of other characters that emerged in the book that I pitched in New York.

Will I land an agent? I am a better writer who now has a clearer understanding of the publishing process. So, yes, eventually, I will land an agent. It may or may not be one who listened to my pitch in New York City. But whether one makes an offer or they were all merely stepping stones to my eventual agent, I can honestly say the experience was well worth the effort, expense, work and wait.

The day I finally got out
to see a little bit of NYC,
I walked right by this
gorgeous building.

And now that the 2016 Writer's Digest Conference is behind me, I realize it was not the end of my experience with a novel I began writing three years ago. Rather, it was only the beginning.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the associate editor of Piedmont Parent and author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Chance Meeting

2016-08-20T12:01:00.000-04:00

Traveling by train is relaxing and scenic.

One week after surgery, I knew I was not going to be able to drive myself up the Eastern Seaboard to New York City for the Writer's Digest Conference I'd been planning to attend for the past six months. So, while still relegated to my recliner for the sake of healing, I researched train tickets. According to my research, traveling by train from North Carolina to New York would be slightly quicker than driving and somewhat cheaper than flying. I purchased a roundtrip Amtrak e-ticket two and a half weeks before my big adventure.

I had only traveled by train two other times in my life — once at the tender age of 18 on the way back to North Carolina from visiting relatives in the New York area; and once with my mom a few years ago when we rode from Sacramento to Lake Tahoe during a tour-group trip to Northern California. I'm really not sure why I haven't chosen trains more often. It is a romantic, scenic, low-key way to travel – especially for a writer.

When I boarded the train in Greensboro on August 11, I was running on an hour and a half of sleep. I expected to doze on the train, but I should have known better. I'm not a traveling dozer. I can't sleep in any type of vehicle. Instead, I wrote in my journal and watched the sun rise through the passing landscape. Then, when the café car finally opened, I made my way to breakfast.

As a lone traveler, I was not seated at a table alone. That would be inefficient. Rather, I was seated with another lone traveler. The gentleman with whom I was seated had a broad smile and was more than happy to share his table. He immediate asked where I was headed. I told him I was on my way to a writer's conference.

He smiled again. "I'm a writer," he said. "I'm on my way home after a book tour." He introduced himself as Zaid, we exchanged names and pleasantries over a quick handshake, and then dove into writer talk.

Over the next couple of hours, we enjoyed a leisurely, delicious breakfast and shared stories of writing, books, dreams, experiences, family and life. I bought his book, which he signed for me. He also generously offered several nuggets of wisdom. The most important of which was that of attitude when it came to my impending adventure in New York.

Basically, he encouraged me to learn all I could, network and meet people, and use the experiences — good and bad — as stepping stones to the next levels of my writing and life. If my experiences with the agents I was about to pitch were positive, I needed to follow up and see each through to the next phase on the path toward publication. If it did not go so well, I was to learn, adjust and try again next year. Regardless, I was to always believe in myself.

Moving trains result in blurry pictures,
but I will still cherish this as one
my all-time favorite selfies.

We exchanged contact information, took a blurry selfie — moving trains are not the best for picture-taking — and parted ways.

When I arrived in New York, I knew I was going to have a great experience at my first writer's conference. I knew it because I'd met an angel of sorts — a fellow writer with an amazing soul and infectious smile who made sure I was in the right frame of mind to get the most out of the experience, regardless of how well my pitch was received.

It didn't hurt that Zaid, as he prepared to depart the train at his stop in Washington, DC, turned back toward me and said, "Look at you, you're glowing! Good things are going to happen in New York!" Then he smiled that amazing smile, turned toward the door and followed the attendant off the train.

Good things did happen in New York. Will I end up with an agent and eventually a publishing contract as a result? I don't know, yet. But I've been learning and loving life on a level I've never before experienced. And it all started with breakfast on a train with Zaid Abdul-Aziz.

And while many of you might know him as a basketball legend, I an honored to know him as a fellow writer and life mentor. Of course, it's pretty cool that he played for the Celtics back when I used to watch them with my dad, too.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the associate editor of Piedmont Parent and author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Zipping Through the Trees, Cheaply

2016-07-27T13:50:00.003-04:00

One of the adventures on our summer list was to head out to the mountains and zip our way through the trees for some amazing views. I'd already enjoyed my first "flying" adventure when I got my feet wet for the sport at the coast. In my mind, the mountains offered the polar opposite of my coastal experience, so I specifically wrote "Zip line in the North Carolina Mountains" on our Summer Experiences Checklist.

However, when I began perusing websites for mountain region canopy tours, sticker shock knocked me into reality. While the views are no doubt spectacular, we did not want to drop $200 just on admission fees to tick off one thing on our list. We did have other things we wanted to do this summer and we also wanted to be able to buy groceries.

Therefore, I checked out zip line venues in the Piedmont. I found one much closer to where we live, so we would save on gas. Admission would cost less for both of us than the cost of one admission anywhere else. And we would save even more by eating lunch at home rather than at a restaurant. I made an executive decision to zip line close to home and called for a reservation. When I explained to Hubby that we were not headed to the mountains, but we were saving over $150, he was perfectly content. Saving money is never bad news.

Lessons learned from this particular adventure:

It's not necessarily where you go, but who you are with and how much you can save.
You don't need to empty your bank account to be adventurous.
Wear jeans when you head out to the zip line (anything else, like yoga pants, and you are subjecting yourself to chafing).
When they ask if you want to bounce, say YES!

Here are some pictures from our zip line tour.

Ready to get up in the trees.

Hubby on approach to landing spot.

Exploring Richland Creek during our break.

A little butterfly hung out with us at the creek.

Heading to a higher platform.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the associate editor of Piedmont Parent and author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Goodbye Gallbladder

2016-07-17T12:57:00.000-04:00

This was supposed to be our summer of adventure. Hubby and I created a list of things we wanted to do before the leaves begin to change. My intent was to blog about each experience. So far, we've checked three experiences off our list. I've blogged about one.

The reason we're behind on having fun this summer and my excuse for not writing all about the adventures we did experience are tied to my love of cheese and onion rings. It doesn't hurt that I also adore pasta.

When half your genes are Italian, you tend to serve a lot of cheese-topped and cheese-filled pastas. Also, we've had to travel up and down the coast a lot in recent years. A certain gas station, which also boasts made-to-order food, happens to serve excellent onion rings. When you are on the road headed to a funeral, excellent onion rings make for excellent comfort food.

However, when you also inherit genes that are not the best at processing cholesterol, cheeses and fried onion rings end up taxing a little thing called your gallbladder.

For the past few months, I've been experiencing chronic headaches, weight gain, stomach aches, upper abdominal pain and back pain. My annual physical also revealed another spike in my cholesterol and triglycerides, which I had had under control. I was surprised that one bucket of onion rings in a weak moment could undo all my dietary good work, but alas, I had other symptoms that could not be ignored.

An ultrasound revealed what two doctors suspected after office exams. My gallbladder was inflamed and filled with stones. According to information on the Mayo Clinic's website, the bile that the gallbladder moves through the digestive system breaks down cholesterol. But if there's too much cholesterol, stones can form. There are other causes for gallstones, but mine were most likely caused by excess cholesterol.

Now, my poor gallbladder, who was only trying to do her job, must be removed. She tried, but my German-English (from my dad's side) gallbladder just could not withstand the workload from my Mediterranean (from my mom's side) palate, combined with the influence of southern cooking to which I've been exposed since my teen years.

It is with great remorse that, on this last day with my gallbladder, I offer these words of apology and a sincere promise for the future:

My Dearest Gallbladder,

I am so very sorry for all the cheese that passed through my lips. I could have stopped at one cube or a few sprinkles atop my spaghetti. But I let my savory desires get the best of me. For all those wedges I ate by myself, I apologize. For all the times my homemade pizza included four or five kinds of cheese, I am deeply sorry.

I regret also all of the buttery, melt-in-my-mouth homemade biscuits that passed through my lips. And the fried vegetables — okra, squash, green tomato slices, green beans, pickles.

Over the years, I put you through so much. And what did you do? You worked even harder. You tried. But it became too much. When the stones began forming, did you complain? Not at first, no. You just pushed them aside and kept working. But eventually, there were too many stones. Too much swelling.

And now, it's too late.

I cannot undo what has been done. I cannot stop what must happen. But your existence and your untimely end will not be in vain. I will always remember you and all of your hard work. And I will honor your memory each and every day for the rest my life.

Moving forward, I will stick to a healthy, low-fat diet in which moderation is a key factor. No more fried foods, not matter the occasion. Fresh fruits and vegetables, lean chicken and turkey, fish, nuts and oatmeal will nourish me. I will also exercise regularly in your memory.

You, my precious gallbladder, did what you could to help me. Now I will spend the rest of my days doing everything I can to help myself in your absence.

Had I started this decades ago, maybe you could have been saved. I will have to live with that knowledge. And while that is sad, your demise may have saved many other organs. Healthier eating and regular exercise will serve to keep all of the rest of your fellow organs working well for as long as possible.

Thank you for all you have done for me and my body for nearly five decades. May you rest in peace with the knowledge that the rest of me is better off for having known you.

All my best,
Micki

While I'm home recovering from surgery, maybe I'll catch up on my summer experiences blogs. Before the symptoms got too bad, we did happen to make it to Zoofari and a zip line tour.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the associate editor of Piedmont Parent and author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Movie and a Dinner

2016-06-26T15:31:00.000-04:00

Reclined in the Red Cinemas luxury seating
with our beer and wine, awaiting
the start of "Now You See Me 2."

One of the experiences on our summer checklist — a seasonal bucket list, if you will — was to see a movie at Greensboro's Red Cinemas and then enjoy dinner at Burger Warfare. We checked that experience off our list during Father's Day weekend. We intended to tackle either Zoofari or Hanging Rock that weekend, but neither panned out. So we took a gander at our list and realized we could easily fit the movie and dinner into our schedule.

The purpose of seeing a movie at Red Cinemas was to take advantage of its luxury seating. But only a few auditoriums have luxury seating, so we checked the movie listings to see what was playing. It just so happened "Now You See Me 2" was playing in luxury auditorium six.

A giant war bot at
Burger Warfare

"Have we seen the first 'Now You See Me' movie?" I asked Hubby.

"Yes, we watched it last year," he assured me.

"Are you sure? Isn't that the movie that Santa brought us?"

"Yes," he answered.

I countered, "Well, that movie is still shrink-wrapped. We haven't opened it yet. We haven't seen it."

"I promise, we all watched it."

"Well, I don't think so, but let's see the sequel anyway. If I like it, we can watch the first one. Kind of like as a prequel."

Hubby agreed to see "Now You See Me 2," but was adamant about our having seen the original.

A "hole" in the wall
between the two dining
areas at Burger Warfare.

When we arrived, we bought our tickets and then headed to the concession stand. I ordered a glass of zinfandel and Hubby ordered a craft beer. The wine and beer selections are another reason we like this particular theater.

Three minutes into the movie, I remembered first movie. We had seen it. We must have streamed in on Netflix, because the DVD Santa brought sat unopened in the movie cabinet.

As we walked from the movie theater to Burger Warfare — the proximity of the restaurant and theater makes it a great date-night venue — Hubby mentioned he did not remember much of the first movie and suggested we watch it soon. I spent the rest of the walk recounting the entire plot of the first movie, while ignoring the fact that he was right — we had seen it already.

We then stepped into a war zone. Not because Hubby was right about something, but rather because Burger Warfare is a themed, gourmet burger place with giant robot sculptures and canned war-type sounds periodically blasting out of speakers.

My return to Burger Warfare to
retrieve my debit card. Lesson learned!

Not only was the atmosphere futuristically and whimsically fun, the food was fantastic. I couldn't quite finish my sweet potato bot tots, but I was somehow able to polish off my The Governator chicken sandwich.

Adventures not only broaden our horizons, they teach us life lessons, too. Had I not inadvertently left my debit card at the restaurant, it would have been a nearly perfect outing. I learned a valuable lesson. Always check that you received your debit or credit card back from the server and put it back in your wallet before you leave the restaurant and drive home, especially if you live in another town in another county. A few days later, I had to drive back to Burger Warfare and pick up my debit card. That little adventure had me stuck behind a train cross arm on the way there, and then stuck in rush hour traffic on the way back. However, I was nothing but grateful. The Burger Warfare staff had immediately found my debit card and secured it in the safe until I could return.

One summer experience down. Eleven more to go. It's shaping up to be an interesting summer.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Summer Experiences Checklist

2016-06-15T15:28:00.000-04:00

Last year, I had the opportunity to kayak
in North Carolina's Intracoastal Waterway.
After that adventure, kayaking had to be
on our Summer Experiences Checklist!

Summer is just about to begin and, before it's already gone as typically happens before we ever do anything cool, Hubby and I decided to create a list. On it, we've included all the seasonal, fun things we want to do together over the next three months.

The idea stemmed from missing Valentine's Day. I was sick. But it was our 15th Valentine's Day, so I really wanted to mark it as a milestone occasion. Armed with a box of tissues and lots of chicken soup, I made out a plan for the next weekend, when I was sure to be healed of the ferocious virus that plagued my body. The plan included a checklist of 15 things Hubby and I could do together for our belated celebration. We spent the next Saturday checking off all the activities — which included a hike, a breakfast picnic, a museum visit, a sushi lunch, go carts and so much more — until we were pleasantly exhausted at the end of one of the best days we've had as a couple. We recorded the day's adventures with pictures that were posted in an album on my Facebook page.

While traveling back from a visit to the Northeast a few weeks ago, I pulled out my smartphone to make another list. This time, our adventure list was going to include all the fun things we hope to do over the summer. I believe lists are magical. They have the inexplicable power to hold us accountable to our intentions. After creating the list, I feel confident we'll actually make the time to do all of the activities we included. It certainly worked for us during our belated Valentine's Day celebration.

Here is our list, which focuses on our home state of North Carolina and the many adventures and experiences it has to offer:

See the red pandas at the Greensboro Science Center

Feed butterflies at All-a-Flutter butterfly farm in High Point

Go on Zoofari at the North Carolina Zoo

Master the new ropes course at the North Carolina Zoo

Zip line in the North Carolina Mountains

Eat at Burger Warfare and watch a movie in the luxury seats at Red Cinemas in Greensboro

Pack a picnic and take a one-day beach trip to the North Carolina Coast

Kayak on a North Carolina lake

Hike at Hanging Rock State Park

Go on a one-day shopping and lunch outing to Blowing Rock, North Carolina

Visit one North Carolina vineyard we've never visited and taste wine we have never tried

Visit one North Carolina brewery we've never visited and taste craft beer we have never tried

By keeping our adventures in-state, we can support local tourism while getting to know our state better. Also, it makes every one of our planned adventures attainable. We don't want to break the bank, but we do want to have fun.

Our list includes a total of 12 things to do, which means we have to tackle at least four each month from now until the arrival of fall. If we can get a jump on the list over Father's Day weekend, we will, even though summer doesn't officially begin until Monday.

In addition to a personal Facebook photo album, I want to write about and post pictures of these adventures on this blog. I also challenge you to make your own list relevant to where you live. Copy as many ideas as you like. If your kids are not all grown up, make it a family adventure. Then, make a habit of going out and discovering all the great things to do near you — and take lots of pictures.

Our boys are older, but we will invite them to tag along with us when they're not working or otherwise engaged.

May you and yours have a happy, adventurous summer!
Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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3 Secrets to Homemade Lasagna for Fast-Paced Family Life

2016-06-05T11:29:00.002-04:00

Years ago, we had lasagna only on the very rare occasion during which I had enough time to spend half a day cooking. All day if I didn't have any homemade sauce on hand. However, my family loves lasagna. They'll drag themselves away from video games and clear their busy schedules to eat it hot. They'll eat the leftovers. They don't even complain about what could be better about it. They just eat it.

Layering: 10 minutes
Baking: 30 minutes
Less than an hour to lasagna perfection!

Here are my secrets to quick, it-still-tastes-like-homemade lasagna.

1. Sauce from a jar. I know, it's just not the same as the stuff you spend all day stirring until it reduces by half, resulting in a silky, thick liquid that could cure many of the world's ailments. However, if you can read labels, you can find a simple marinara containing only the 3 to 5 ingredients — the ones you would use to make it homemade, if you had the time.

2. Pre-prep the meat. Had they a choice, my boys would want a sauce drenched in greasy browned ground beef. I use ground turkey, which I season when I brown it on a day I have a few minutes to spare in the kitchen. Then I put it in a container and refrigerate until it's time to make lasagna.

On lasagna day, I shred mozzarella cheese, open a tub of ricotta, combine the sauce with the already cooked ground turkey and then open a box of lasagna noodles. Then it's as easy as layer and bake, which brings me to my last secret.

3. Oven-ready pasta. Up until this past year, I was not a fan of oven-ready lasagna. I assumed it would make my lasagna dish pasty and gross. But my lack of time to cook along with repeated requests for "normal food" like my lasagna prompted me to take a risk.

My quick easy lasagna an hour after I
put it in front of my family.

There are two versions. I first tried the type that looks like normal lasagna noodles and takes an hour to bake. It turned out great. Everyone loved it.

The next time I went to the store to pick up some oven-ready lasagna noodles, the store did not have the ones I'd used with success. What I did find was a flat, shorter version of oven-ready lasagna, so I threw caution out of my grocery cart and bought it. The flat, stubby noodles required four layers instead of three, but only needed 30 minutes of baking time. If my family liked it, I was going to switch. They loved it. My baking time for my quick lasagna was reduced in half.

That's it. These three secrets changed my outlook on lasagna. Now, the dish is no longer a holiday only menu item I dread. Rather, it's in the regular rotation on our household dinner schedule. The best part? Family meals during which all the boys end up at the dinner table at the same time have increased dramatically. I can honestly report that I have fallen in love with lasagna all over again.

My Italian New Yorker grandmother, Granny, who worked full time throughout her adult life, would be proud.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Favorite Clutter

2015-12-10T13:07:00.002-05:00

My clutter has extended into social media. On Pinterest, I don't feel bad pinning posts to my boards. Having cluttered boards is the whole point of that platform. My problem of late is my saved posts on Facebook.

Folks with great recipes and life hacks suggest you share their posts so they will be on your wall for future reference. That bit of advice never worked for me. Not only would I not be able to find it again, but I would completely forget about it.

Enter the relatively new feature on Facebook that lets you save videos, links and other posts. Not only are the saved posts all in one place, but Facebook reminds me they are there. Admittedly, some of Facebook's reminders are annoying.

No, I have not yet checked my memories from last year, the year before that and the year before that. Do I really want to be reminded that I already had the house decorated or lights up or tree trimmed or presents sent so early in years past? Not particularly. But I do want to remember to try the no bake cookie dough chocolate cups when we bake for the holidays.

Once I head back to my saved posts, I have another reason to be distracted by social media as I scroll through all my saved posts. My excitement grows as I remember why I saved each one. I want to try this or go to that or share this on a page I manage. Like when I organize my dresser top and get rid of old receipts and broken costume jewelry, I do try to get rid of old posts I no longer need in an effort to tidy up a bit. But I inherited my dad's collecting gene. I refuse to call it a hoarding gene because, like my dad, I am organized and relatively neat with all the useless junk I save.

Here are some of my favorites of late. Maybe you'll want to clutter your social media with them as well.

No Bake Cookie Dough Chocolate Cups (to give out on Christmas)

No-Bake Cookie Dough Chocolate Cups
Posted by Tasty on Thursday, November 12, 2015

Cheesy Bacon Dip (for the boys, of course)

Cheesy Bacon Dip
YUM!
Posted by Tip Hero on Saturday, November 21, 2015

Breakfast Bake (although, I'd use my scratch-made biscuits)

Waooo!!
Posted by Otis Rutinel on Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Flu Fighting Miso Soup (because I LOVE miso soup)

Flu Fighting Miso Soup
Miso soup is so easy to make—and will keep you warm and healthy throughout the winter!
Posted by Tastemade on Saturday, December 5, 2015

I have others that are not food-related, but I'll save them for another day.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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Everyone is Famous in Southport

2015-10-03T11:30:00.002-04:00

In Southport, NC, anyone can be famous. I'm not referring to the possibility of landing an "extra" part in a Nicholas Sparks movie. I'm talking about the Wall of Fame at the Moore Street Market.

At Moore Street Market in Southport,
everyone is famous

The staff keep markers on hand for patrons who want to add their autograph to the wall. Of course, when my group arrived I immediately asked, "Where are the famous signatures?"

The barista pointed to the Wall of Fame and stated plainly, "At our coffee shop, everyone is famous." She then explained that we were welcome to personalize the wall with our own words of wisdom and signatures.

The Wall of Fame at Moore Street Market

While perusing the wall, I noticed a few notables among the scribes. My favorite was left by songwriter Louisa Branscomb, who was so inspired by Southport that she wrote lyrics on the Wall of Fame. Southport is certainly an inspiring place to spend time.

Beautiful lyrics inspired by Southport

There were several famous actors who passed through Southport, stopped for coffee and penned their mark on the wall, as well.

Zooey Deschanel was served by Emily
at the Moore Street Market

Josh Duhamel commented on
the caffeine content of the
Americano coffee

Imagine putting a pen to the same wall as these notables as well as the amazing characters who visit Moore Street Market, whether passing through or regularly because they are local. This was an opportunity I could not pass up.

The blue really pops, doesn't it?

Someday, as I walk the streets of Southport with a grandchild grasping my hand, we will stop for coffee and ice cream. He or she will look at the wall and eventually find Grandma's signature. Maybe he or she will even ask, "Are YOU famous Grandma?"

My answer will be, "Sweetheart, in this place, everyone is famous. Even you!"

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books.

Email: mickibare (at) gmail.com

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