Copper Descent Interview

I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Erin Britt this week. Charlie ate my chocolate cinnamon bears, but we mostly talked about my upcoming release:

http://erinrbritt.com/2014/04/01/author-corner-angela-hartley/

Failing with Trees and Children

When my husband and I decided to start a family, we went into it knowing the path wouldn't be very easy. Parenting is a thankless job on a road full of disappointments and endless setbacks. Sometimes it's hard to keep trudging forward when I feel like I'm failing in every aspect, and then there are the days of elation that make all of the tears and sleepless nights worthwhile. I try to hold this course, but the stupid map never reads the same. Just when I think I've learned how to follow the compass, the center of gravity shifts, pulling the needle in another direction. I spend more time hopelessly lost than on point, but I'm a stubborn person with a one track mind. I'm their mom, and I'm committed to raising these little versions of us to be fully functional adults. Believe me when I say that I don't have all the answers. I screw up all the time, but I think sometimes this might be a good thing. It teaches them that I am human, and there is also some validity in this statement:

            Through failure, strength is gained, and in this strength, confidence grows.

Three flowering pear trees grow in our front yard. My husband and I planted them soon after we moved in. A year later, we discovered they didn't move very well when a truck backed into the first one and it laid over. I didn't think the poor little thing would survive the trauma, but seven years later it's not only living but thriving better than the other two. The smallest of the three sits in the middle. Protected and sheltered from the brunt of the elements it didn't need wander out of its comfortable little space.

As parents, our natural instinct is to shelter our children, but I think it's time to ask ourselves a very important question. Are we stunting their growth by doing so? I'll admit I'm guilty of going mama bear at times, but the challenge runs even deeper than that. Our schools have started carrying policies like 'no child left behind', sexual harassment charges are brought up on five-year-olds for a simple game of kissing tag, and youth competitive sports teams award mediocrity in fear of damaging self-esteem. Even the word self-esteem is so integrated into our society that we don't stop to reflect on its meaning. The definition is to hold yourself in a high regard. Think of the message of entitlement using this term is sending out.

I prefer to use self-confidence, which is faith in one's abilities. Children need to fail. They need to make mistakes, and then try again, and again, and again until they finally taste success, but why would anyone want to put forth so much effort if the reward at the end is exactly the same? This is the root of the problem. The difference between self-esteem and self-confidence isn't recognized in our youth, but they do realize when they gain something that isn't earned. It eats away and taints their perception of the world they live in.

Instead of enforcing this sense of privilege, we need honor true accomplishment. Allow them to travel their own crazy, imperfect paths with a comfortable awareness of their limitations, and a humble appreciation for their gifts. They will only grow as far as they believe they can reach, as far as we push them to thrive. Let’s back the truck up and bump them out of their comfort zones from time to time. Teach them solve their messy problems, and live with the consequences of those decisions. Hand them a compass that only works some of the time while they still have a guide to lead the way.

I truly believe that all children are resilient, and capable of amazing feats. They are the future of our world. I will encourage mine to screw up as often and spectacularly as I do.

 

A Tribute to Paul Columbo

Paul Columbo was significant to many of us, and I was deeply saddened to hear of his passing this last week. My high school existence wouldn’t have had the same topography without his friendship. He had a light in his soul and one of those personalities that always gravitated people in his direction.

For those of you who didn't know me when I was younger, I first have to explain that I was painfully back then. This will be a shocker to some of you, I know, but it is true none the less. I first met Paul at R&A Market in Helper when I worked at my parents’ pie shop down the street. He asked me out a week before my sophomore year began, I think mostly because his parents, Richard and Kathy liked me and prompted him to do so. I don't think I said more than two or three words that entire first date, but Paul didn't make it awkward. He filled the silence, talking about his ’57 Chevy, car shows, and football training. For weeks afterwards, I ducked around corners avoiding any contact. It wasn’t very logical, but this was how my adolescent mind dealt with most things, including crushes. I kept hidden until he had a girlfriend, and then (phew!) I could talk to him like a normal human being once again.

A few months later, Paul and his girlfriend broke up right before Preference. I still had a little crush and I decided this was my big chance! I would ask him to the dance, and I wouldn’t be a blundering idiot this time around. It was certainly a nice theory, but of course, it didn’t go quite the way I had planned in my head. I had to start out by making the experience as excruciatingly uncomfortable as I possibly could. You see, I wasn’t aware of ‘dance asking etiquette.’ Apparently, you’re supposed to send the question in a cutsie sort of way and wait for a reply a few days later, but not me.  No siree. This would have been too easy, and certainly couldn’t roll that way.  I decided to run up in front of all of his friends in Grand Canyon hallway and shouted at him like a person suffering from Tourettes. “Will you go to Preference with me?!” After a moment of shock, he smiled and answered “Yes.” We stood there in silence for a minute or so while Stephanie Jarvi laughed her butt off, and then I was like, “I think I’m gonna go now.”

Despite my lovely start, we actually had a really fun night, but never tried our hand at dating again. We did attempt to kiss a few years later, but it didn’t work. We both cracked up laughing so hard in the middle that my stomach stitched for days. We’d fallen into a brother and sister role, and mutually agreed that it was too bizarre to consider being anything else.

We lost touch over the years, but I am so grateful for the modern technology that has brought so many amazing people back into my life. It was fun catching up with him over the past couple of years. My heart is breaking for his wife, Christy and their four children. The pictures he’s shared show how much he loved them all. Even though I haven’t spoken to Rich and Kathy for a very long time, I still care for both of them. Words of comfort are eluding me, but I wanted to share this memory and say he was a really great guy who’ll be missed by so many. To all of those who loved him, you will remain in my thought and prayers.

Book Review: On Shark, No Swim

The Niuhi Shark Saga

One Shark, No Swim

by Lehua Parker

There’s something bugging adopted Zader Westin, something more troubling than his water allergies where one drop on his skin burns like hot lava. It’s bigger than his new obsession with knives, designing the new murals for the pavilion with Mr. Halpert, or dealing with Char Siu’s Lauele Girlz scotch tape makeover. Zader can’t stop thinking about a dream, the dream that might not have been a dream where Lē‘ia called him brother then jumped into the ocean and turned into a shark.

Zader’s got a lot of questions, not the least being why he’s hungry all the time, restless at night, and why he feels a constant itch on the back of his neck. It’s making him feel like teri chicken on a pūpū platter, but Zader doesn’t want to think about chicken, not with his growing compulsion to slip it down his throat—raw.

With Jay busy at surf camp and Uncle Kahana pretending nothing’s happening, Zader’s left alone to figure things out, including why someone—something—is stalking him before it’s too late.

Summer in Lauele Town, Hawaii just got a little more interesting…


The weather turned a little colder this week, and I needed a vacation, so I decided to spend the weekend in Hawaii...in my mind at least. Lehua Parker's second book, One Shark, No Swim, in The Niuhi Shark Saga just came out, and I thought it was a good excuse to curl up on the couch with my son and a warm blanket to see what Zader, Jay, and Uncle Kahana are up to.

Let me tell you why I love this series. For me, the greatest part is Lehua’s connection to not only the Hawaii culture, but the twelve-year-old boy experience. Sure, Zader’s a Niuhi god, but he still has to deal with the same growing pains as all boys, like impressing his art teacher, always being hungry, deciding if he likes make-up on girls, and how to be a bully blocker without becoming too aggressive himself.

I have a son who is close to Zader’s age, and I find it difficult to find good literature both appealing to this middle-grade boy market and a mom’s sensibilities. This book does! My son loves the sharks and the supernatural element. I love the cultural diversity and Lehua’s witty, wry humor. If you like to read with your kids, it’s a win for everyone.

One Boy, No Water can be purchased at bookstores and via:            

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

One Shark, No Swim can be purchased at bookstores and via:         

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Connect with Lehua Parker:

Blog & Free Short Stories: http://www.lehuaparker.com/

All things Niuhi Shark Saga: http://www.niuhisharksaga.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LehuaParker

Twitter: @LehuaParker
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6426317.Lehua_Parker
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/lehuaparker/
Email: AuntyLehua@LehuaParker.com

Book Review - Beatrysel

For the past two days, I’ve been haunted by a demon.  She has consumed my every waking moment, either with deep thoughts or tentative looks over my shoulder to see if there was more to the shadow lurking in the hallway.  Her name—Beatrysel. 

Even as I cleanse my house with incense and holy water, I’m struck with the mastery in which this story was delivered.  I’ve never actually read a novel where the premise was written in present tense third person before, and I must admit the style threw me for a loop at first.  But once I got the hang of the delivery (about three chapters in), I realized it was brilliant.  The pacing gave a sense of urgency to Julian’s plight all the way to the last page.

The plot was terrifying in a way that only possession can be.  Mr. Worthen obviously has a vast knowledge of the occult arts, and his descriptions of this secretive society could place even a novice into the sense of a practitioner’s rites and rituals.  This awareness of course adds an extra layer of fear to an already emotionally charged tale, leaving the reader jumping at every little bump in the night and questioning reality.  So, grab a bag of chocolate, your favorite talisman (believe me, you’re going to need it), and allow Julian to introduce you to his creation.  She’s beautiful, she’s deadly, and her love for her maker knows no bounds.  Don’t speak her name, don’t even think it.  Forget you've ever heard of Beatrysel.

Pot of Gold

 I wrote this piece for my daughter to perform at a Debate competition.  She never used it, but I fell in love with the piece and wanted to share it:

              

         When I was a child, I always looked up, searching the sky for a double rainbow and the happier days finding one would certainly bring.  Daddy once told me a pot of gold sat in between the identical bands right at the base and it was mine for the taking.

“If you can just imagine it, lassie,” He’d say and I was convinced I would be the one to change our luck.  Our family was unfortunate in the luck department, but I was going to change all that.  We would never want for anything and our heartache would be replaced with a contented feeling swallowing up the empty spaces.  

Momma called the idea ridiculous, but she was too busy looking at the rain falling over her head to ever notice hope.  She didn’t like living in a shabby trailer in the middle of a pile of garbage.  The ugliness blinded her.  She never saw the flash when clouds would separate—how the light filtered through the grey, coloring away the drab, if only temporarily.  In those sacred moments, something stirred within me.  The colors were magnificent—a divine gift restoring my faith that anything was possible.

Yes, I believed in the pot of gold.  Daddy was the only one who understood why—I believed because I was born with a dreamer’s heart. 

Once upon a time, Daddy had been a dreamer too.  Maybe that’s why Momma pursed her lips whenever I showed any signs of sky-gazing, but it wasn’t always so.  There were old photos of their younger days hidden inside a chest.  Sometimes, I would sneak into their room to steal a glance when Momma was busy frowning at clouds.  When Daddy and Momma were first married, his head tilted upwards.  Staring at the heavens, he was waiting for his big chance, but with each passing year, disappointment had his eyes lowering ever so slightly.  Until one day, he barely managed to look past the soles of his shoes.  All of his aspirations were lost, torn away by the storm inside of Momma.  My eyes had seen firsthand, just how destructive she could be.

“You’re dreams will never amount to anything.  You’re a loser, just like your father was before you!” she would scream at him, pointing at an empty refrigerator, or waived past due notices under his nose.

He never stood up to her, just stared at the ground as the tears ran down his cheeks.  It’s hard to raise your head when someone is always pulling you down with expectations you will never live up to. 

“Why do you love her?” I once asked.

“Your mother is my rock,” he replied—like the word “rock” explained everything.  The answer made me angry.  He wanted me to chase rainbows, but he wasn’t strong enough to weather the storm.

He started drinking when I was ten and I wanted blame him for checking out, but Momma did enough finger-pointing for both of us.  Funny, how her contentment grew as the lines of despair creased into his leathered face, like his unhappiness fed her storm.  Didn’t she notice the way he was suffocating under all her pressure?  Daddy was a bird, broken and lost.  He was meant to soar, but Momma’s turbulence had torn his wings.  He had survived, but he would never fly again.

Time went by, and I watched daddy sink a little lower each day.  One day I found him lying in the street.  It was raining but there were no rainbows in sight.  He was sick and miserable and I wondered if dreaming would bring me the same fate.  I started to doubt in the pot of gold.  What if momma was right and thoughts of more contented days were silly?  What if daddy’s aspirations really were his downfall?  The thought made my dreamer’s heart heavy with disappointment.  Suddenly, my head started pulling down under the weight of my feelings, and momma was happy.  Of course she was happy.  My mind was growing more sensible, more like her.  Daddy became even gaunter with illness and I hated him!  I hated him for making me believe in rainbows!  I hated him for lying to me!  I hated him for dreaming, but most of all, I hated him for leaving me…

  I was only sixteen.  Certainly not old enough to weather the storm.

After daddy died, I never even looked to the sky.  What was the point?  There was no pot of gold waiting for me or any other form of hope.  My dreams weren’t special and even if I found my double rainbow, I’d never find my heart’s desire waiting for me.  The darkness descended in the form of rainclouds pouring misery over my hanging head. 

Years went by.  I married and had a child of my own. I forgot about rainbows and thoughts of better days.  Much to my dismay, I found my daughter to be foolhardy.  Her dreamer’s heart refused to be sensible.  I wanted her to be more like me—a practical woman who was constantly planning a way to weather the inevitable clouds.  

One day I went outside and my daughter was standing in the rain again, staring up at the sky in wonder.  I stalked after her and started to drag her in.

“You’re ridiculous, gawking at the sky in the middle of a storm!” I yelled at her, but she wouldn’t budge.  Frowning, I glared at her then up at the clouds in accusation. 

In that moment, something amazing happened and everything changed. 

The darkness separated ever so slightly, allowing a silver light to shine through, and there it was!  A double rainbow—shining over the crown of my daughter’s golden head.  My treasure sat in front of me for all those years, and I only had to gaze up. 

Finally, I saw her for the precious gift she was.  Laughing at myself, I grabbed her hands, spinning her around.  We giggled and danced as the droplets sprinkled our cheeks, masking my tears of happiness.  After a while I sat down on a blanket of wet grass.   I noticed it was green as I held her close, happy the storm had came and the rain had fallen.

“You see that double rainbow right there?” I whispered into her ear.  I thought of the day I learned about rainbows.  Thinking of my daddy, I shared my dreamer’s heart.

Building and Tearing Down Relationships

A while back, I heard this story.  From where or who escapes my memory, but the principle remained with me and I wanted to share with you:

There once was a fine architect who could design and build amazing structures.  He would spend years planning and finding the right craftsman to create his masterpieces.  Overseeing every part of development, he would finally begin building.  The entire process would take nearly ten years from start to finish and after construction was complete he would start the tedious, never-ending task of maintenance.  One day a man asked which part of the work was easiest and the architect replied, "Tearing down."  You see, the finest craftsman weren't needed to destroy, in fact, he preferred his breaking crew to be brutal and ruthless.  What takes ten years to build and lifetime to maintain could be reduced to rubble in a single afternoon, but the architect didn't like this part of his work.  Creating was much more rewarding.

You may be asking, "Why is Angela talking about construction in a post tagged to relationships?" and I assure you there is a correlation between the two.  Relationships are much the same as building and tearing down a structure.  To build, they need a sound foundation of respect and trust.  You have to plan and find the best tools to sculpt the camaraderie into something beautiful.  Love can take years to cultivate and a lifetime to maintain, but the benefits can certainly outweigh the labors.  Likewise, careless words can tear a friendship into pieces in the span of a single afternoon.

Baring this in mind, I made a decision this morning--to temporarily deactivate my facebook account.  Lately, it seems like there has been far too much tearing down and not enough building. I have felt myself slipping into unhealthy patterns and I am choosing to put an end to these destructive impulses by eliminating the source.  I want to clarify--this isn't about anyone but me.  I care about every one of you and I hope you will message me within the next few days with your contact information so I keep in touch.  It's been a rough week, and I've found myself reevaluating all aspects of my life.  Right now, I need to trim back and return to the basics again.  In a few months, I will reconsider.  Until then, I wish you all the best <3