The Crab Chronicles

How Boomers Can Reverse Declining Fertility Rates

I always knew I wanted to be a mother, and if you'd told me as a child that one day I would adopt two children over the age of ten I would have been astonished. I feel strongly that God gives us the children we were meant to have, though. I have LOVED being a mom. I wish I could have adopted or given birth to 2-3 more. Unfortunately, according to the CDC, the fertility rate here in the USA is at an all-time low. It has been declining for years but now, despite the heroic efforts of celebs like Nick Cannon and Elon Musk, and many pro basketball players, the sad fact remains: we ain't having enough babies, y'all.

This is the latest data, as of 2023, according to the CDC:

• 2023 birth rates
  • declined for women ages 20–39 years
  • were unchanged for females aged 10–14 and 40–49.
• The birth rate for teenagers aged 15–19 was down 3% in 2023 to 13.2 births per 1,000 women.
• The birth rate for women ages 20–24 (55.4) reached a record low.

According to the Pew Foundation:

"Among the cultural shifts affecting fertility rates, one of the more prominent changes has been Americans delaying or forgoing marriage. Women are marrying later in life, and birth rates for single women are less than half that of those who are married.¹⁹ Women are also delaying having children until later in life—part of the reason why fertility rates have dropped among women in their 20s, which has more than offset increases for women in their late 30s and 40s.²⁰ A recent analysis by the Brookings Institution projected that for young women today, the average number of children they have over their lifetimes would fall compared with the average number for women in prior generations.²¹ A recent Pew Research Center survey found an increasing share of U.S. adults without children reporting they were unlikely to ever have children.^22"

My son is 28 and he cannot afford his own home, much less the expense of getting married and having a family. Many in his age group [20-40] are choosing not to have children because of the expense, and a general fearfulness about the world, including climate change fears. I get it. Student loan debt is crushing. Childcare costs are enormous. Many cannot afford to buy homes. It makes me really sad to think that young people feel like they just cannot afford children, for whatever reason.

Worse, though, is that if we don't make new people, all ages will eventually suffer, as explained in this article from the Pew Charitable Foundation. We need new people to fund the tax base, to do important jobs, to advance science and technology. Speaking as a Baby Boomer, we need the youngsters to take care of us in our old age!

According to ABC News, we need youngsters because:

"They’ll not only staff the hospitals and nursing homes we’ll use in old age but also sustain the economy by funding our pensions when we retire, paying the taxes that finance Social Security, Medicare, and many other government programs we’ll rely on, and buying the homes and stocks we invested in to build our savings."

 

I feel strongly that my generation (Baby Boomers) needs to step up and help our young folks. Let them live at home. Help them with childcare. Loan them funds at no interest. Encourage them to view parenthood as a beautiful experience. My kids greatly benefited from having their Granny in their lives, in the same house, and I think it's part of why she lived to age 86. I would be happy to help if my son had a serious girlfriend or wife and they asked me to help in their parenthood journey. I am SO ready to be a memaw! Boomers, step up and get creative. Let's help our kids embark on the hardest job they'll ever love.

 

 

left, me as a baby, and my older brother

 

right, me and my kids and mother in 2007

Pushing Children to Live Out Their Parents' Dreams

I am cursed with the ability to see things really TOO clearly sometimes. I understand both sides of issues, which means of course that I refuse to join either of the two main political parties in this country because I disagree with things in both parties. [Don't worry this isn't a political post.]

I saw a video early this morning that gave me pause, about a young fashion designer named Max. I've seen several of his videos. Check out his Instagram page, couture.to.the.max -- it's a revelation. Max's parents recognized when he was only 4 years old that he was passionate about fashion design and they encouraged him, giving him sewing lessons and really helping him by nurturing his talent. He is only 8 now but his fashion designs are mature and remarkable.

I applaud Max's parents!

Thank God Max was born in the 21st century.

I am 62 years old and I know this for a sad fact: if Max had been born to my parents in the 1960's his talent in fashion would NOT have been encouraged. My dad was a hunter and a fisherman and he would have been horrified to have a son into something as feminine as fashion. Mom would have tried to shield Max from being  bullied or discouraged but she likely would have failed. My brother was encouraged to be a hunter and to join the Army and he was taken on hunting trips starting at age 3. Before he started school he had his own rifle and knew how to shoot it, load it, and clean it.

I'm not saying doing those things is a bad thing, if a child truly has a passion for guns and hunting and the like. I have always wondered, however, how different things might have been if my dad hadn't pushed my brother into everything hyper masculine.

My brother loved to draw, and he liked music, and Mom started teaching him how to cook when he was still a kid. None of that was shared with Dad, although I'm not sure there was any real conspiracy to keep him from knowing. I think my brother just knew from a young age that if he wanted to be close to his father he had to go along with the program Dad wanted.

I don't like the term "toxic masculinity" but it's very accurate sometimes.

I was allowed to play with toy guns AND with dolls. I ran around playing with Hot Wheels and playing football in the street, and Dad didn't care. If anything, I had the opposite problem from my brother -- a mother and grandmother who pressured me to be demure and "ladylike" and to conform to their ideas of how a little girl should be, which I always resisted. [You can read more about that in my memoir, Talking Back: Stories from the Big Hair and Pantyhose Years, on Amazon.]

My brother went along with Dad's program for him and graduated from high school and went into the Army, then majored in Political Science in college, graduated and spent 10 years in the Army. He went to Iraq in 2008.

The sad thing is that my brother's real passions are food, cooking, and nutrition. His mother and grandmother were also passionately interested in those things as well, so he comes by it honestly. Sadly, I'm quite certain that if he had rejected the Army in favor of a career focused on food, in some way, Dad would not have been supportive.

Dad grew up during the World War II years and he had a passion for everything military. There's nothing wrong with that, but why did he demand that my brother fulfill his dreams, instead of encouraging him to nurture what he found interesting?

I think very traditional men like my dad were always worried that their sons not appear "weak" and anything traditionally categorized as feminine was perceived as weak. I think some dads still think that way, and what a shame for their sons.

My brother was a highly active child, very bright. He started talking at 6 months. At age 2, Mom taught him to read, to entertain him while she was pregnant with me and on bedrest.

His teachers had no idea how to handle him because he was always so bored. Dad wouldn't let him skip a grade or go to a Montessori school, and as a result my brother hated school.

So I admire Max's parents very much. Even if Max ultimately decides to do something other than fashion, his parents will likely be supportive, I'm sure. I'm so glad that attitudes about what is appropriate for little boys are changing. Denying any child the opportunity to pursue what they really enjoy and feel passionate about is not healthy. Forcing children to conform to gender stereotypes is not healthy. Giving children the unspoken idea that a parent's love is conditional upon them conforming to the parents' will is really not healthy.

My daughter once took an aptitude test, in high school, and it said she should be a truck driver. Everyone thought it was funny -- she was a petite, very feminine blonde -- but I told her if she wanted to try for that I'd support her fully.

When I was through with college and having trouble finding a job I told Dad I wanted to be a bartender. He had a fit. He yelled at me. I explained I could tend bar at night and write during the day. He still wouldn't hear of it. The discussion ended with me in tears. A few months later he agreed to pay all my expenses to go to paralegal school. Then he tried to push me into going to law school. He had once been given a scholarship to law school and turned it down -- so I was supposed to fulfill his lawyer dreams. I will always wonder what would have happened if I had become a bartender...

 

Rescuing the Children

I try to avoid political discussions on here and I do not intend for this blog to focus on politics, but I have something to say about JD Vance. I didn't really know who he was until recently. Then he started being mentioned as a possible VP contender and I decided to do some research.

This interview he did 7 years ago with Megan Kelly [LINK] is where I started. She begins the interview in a powerful way, going through a list of adverse childhood consequences that some kids suffer -- being hit, living with alcoholic or drug-addicted parents, being sworn at or humiliated by your parents- and he answers "yep" to every one of the things Megan mentions.

I know a little something about that.

Both of my children are adopted. Both were born to alcoholic mothers, and they lived with their mothers the first 6 years [my daughter] or 8 years [my son] of their lives. Both my kids have struggled with low self-esteem, anxiety, Depression, sleep issues, social awkwardness, stunted growth, and more. 

In 2004 when I adopted my daughter I tried to do as much research as possible into older kids in Russian orphanages. She was 12 then. She had been in the orphanage 6 years. I found out that when the kids aged out of the orphanages they were often denied housing and jobs because of the stigma of being in an orphanage. I learned they often turned to crime, and often had babies who then ended up in an orphanage, and worst of all -- they often didn't make it. One study I read said that most orphans never lived past 30 because they were either killed (a consequence of a criminal life) or they committed suicide.

Now, JD Vance didn't go to an orphanage. His story is similar, though. He was taken away from his drug-addicted mother and sent to live with her parents, his grandparents, and they provided him with love and stability. How lucky for him.

I see so many parallels with his story and the stories of my kids.

I adopted my daughter and brought her home when she was 13 years old. Many people told me I was crazy to adopt her, because she wouldn't do well in a family. Truthfully, we had some issues. I won't lie. However, I do not regret adopting her. Not at all.

My son came from a similar background, but he had spent 8 years with his birthmom and only 2 years in the orphanage. His right hand was amputated due to frostbite, after he was beaten unconscious by some boys when he was 5 years old. His much older brother committed suicide and that was even more traumatic because Michael adored his brother.

Children who are raised in homes that are unstable, who are neglected or abused, etc. -- they suffer because trauma actually changes their brains. This is a fact. They cannot be blamed for what happened to them, but they will live with the consequences for the rest of their lives. I adopted my children in hopes that by loving them and giving them a stable family life that they would have a chance at normal, successful lives. Both of my children are grown now, and both are doing well, but they have struggled with substance abuse issues in the past. They have had a lot to overcome, but none of it was their fault.

I love my kids and I am proud of them. They are not in jail. They aren't in mental institutions. They have stability, and love. In my book, those are wins.

JD Vance's journey began with terrible instability and trauma, but his beloved Mamaw instilled in him the idea that he must make good grades and work hard to make something of himself. She loved him and believed in him, and that love pulled him through. The military also helped him focus, and gave him a way to get a college degree, and then he could attend Yale law school. He also married a loving and supportive partner, also an attorney. So there were many blessings in his life but he also had to work very hard.

My son is a loving and kind man who works hard and has a natural kindness and magnetism.I hope and pray one day my son will find a loving and supportive partner.

JD Vance is shining a light on the plight of kids raised in unstable homes by drug-addicted parents, and his memoir Hillbilly Elegy shows how he made it out of poverty and made something of himself. I applaud him. He is the proof of how a loving parent [or grandparent] can transform a child. JD Vance could easily have ended up in a life of drugs, a life of crime, working some unfulfilling tedious job and struggling. Instead, he is a senator and he may one day be our Vice President, or even our President.

JD's life gives me hope -- not just for my kids, but for all kids in similarly sad childhoods, who are worth rescuing, and who can be transformed.

Best Friends Forever

When my mother died in 2020, I felt like a ship without a rudder, drifting aimlessly in the very choppy sea of life.

I had lost my dad young. I was 33. He was 65 and riddled with cancer. Seeing him in terrible pain, being unable to alleviate it, shook me. God was merciful, however, because my mother lived another 24 years, so I wasn’t fully orphaned until I was in my late 50’s. However, no matter how old one is, losing a mother is a primal pain, unlike any other kind of grief.

Yesterday, I was reminded of that pain, when my friend Debra texted me that her mother had passed away.

Lots of tears. I felt like I had lost my second mother.

For four years, from my infancy to kindergarten, my family lived in an old Victorian home in Augusta Georgia that my mother lovingly restored and my father referred to as “the money pit.”

Next door, a couple lived with their daughter, who was right between me and my brother in age. Mom and Dad became friends with Gwendolyn and Jack. Brother and I became friends with their daughter Debra. [Note: these are not their real names, to protect their privacy.]

Brother, Debra and I were the three fearless musketeers. Some of my happiest childhood memories center around those days. We were busy and active kids, always outside unless it was raining. We climbed the tall trees in the backyard, played in the sprinkler, and slid down the bannister of the grand staircase in the entrance hall.

One of my earliest memories is “going to ride” with Gwendolyn and Debra in Gwendolyn’s new Mustang, zipping around the streets of Augusta listening to the radio. Gwendolyn’s bouffant would be in a scarf, and she wore sporty sunglasses. I admired her beauty.

Debra always wore lovely little dresses and she was always polite and ladylike, unlike me. I was a Hot Mess. (You can learn more in my memoir, Talking Back: Stories from the Big Hair and Pantyhose Years)

Gwendolyn and Jack’s house, next door to ours, impressed me. It was elegant, kept immaculate by Rosa, a tiny housekeeper who didn’t put up with any nonsense. Debra had a lovely, dainty little girl’s beautifully decorated room that I admired. My room had an old chenille bedspread and linoleum on the floor -- but we spent a lot of time playing in there.

Unlike Gwendolyn’s elegant and sedate home, our house was noisy and messy. (Of course, we had a boy and a big mutt dog.) One memorable afternoon all of us kids cleaned out a large old cotton basket that normally held toys and took turns riding it down the stairs. Mom discovered us and was initially upset -- but when she saw that we weren’t getting hurt, she shrugged and just let us play.

The friendship was so close, Debra was like Mom and Dad’s third child. She often ate with us, spent the night, accompanied us on family outings. It worked both ways. We spent time at her house. Gwendolyn was my other mom. I obeyed her just as I obeyed my mother.

When Gwendolyn got divorced and sold her home I felt bad for her, and bad for Debra. I knew nothing about divorce, which was not as common back then. Gwendolyn seemed to come through it well, in my eyes, and my parents took her side although they remained cordial with Jack because they liked him, too.

One of my chief memories of Gwendolyn is her smiling and laughing. We made her laugh. Mom made her laugh. Their conversations were always frequently punctuated by laughter. There was a deep reserve of shared memories and stories.

After we moved to Tennessee, when I was 8 years old, we saw Gwendolyn at least once or twice a year when she and her second husband came to Knoxville to visit his daughter. I would often spend time with Debra at the daughter’s swanky home.

Sometimes our family went back to Augusta for visits with our relatives there, but we always made time to see Gwendolyn and Debra.

I spent a lot of time at Gwendolyn’s home where she lived with her second husband for more than 40 years. It was more familiar to me than any other home but my own. Debra and I loved to play dress up and traipse all over the house pretending to be fairies, carrying “wands” made of drinking straws with paper stars taped to the ends. We played the grand piano in the living room. We played games. One afternoon when we were teenagers and Gwendolyn was gone we made a cake and ate most of it ourselves. [photo below, me and Debra in our best 1970's fashions]

One of my favorite memories is a weekend when Mom and Dad and I met Gwendolyn and Debra in Atlanta for the weekend. We stayed at the new and impressive Omni Hotel, in the summer of 1977. (My brother wasn’t with us – he was in boot camp that summer.)

The hotel was in the same building as a mall with an ice-skating rink in the center. (It’s now the CNN Center) Debra and I were young teens and Mom and Gwendolyn let us walk all over the mall without parental supervision. We all had dinner at a French restaurant there in the building, and Debra and I were allowed to sit at a separate table from the grownups while we ate. I felt so mature. Debra ordered French Onion Soup, which I tasted and ended up ordering. (At that point I never ate onions so it was the first step in my developing a more mature palate.) It became one of my all-time favorite foods.

When I got to college, there were times when I really missed my mother and I couldn’t find her at home, (this was years before anyone had a cell phone) so I would call Gwendolyn. She would always patiently listen to my tales of angst and give me wise counsel. She also encouraged me as a writer.

Gwendolyn went to Northwestern and majored in Writing for the Radio. There was no television then, and radio was considered high-tech.

Gwendolyn was a schoolteacher and a scholar. She knew more about the bible than anyone I’ve ever known. Over the years I would sometimes call her to discuss something I’d learned in Sunday School and get her take on it. Gwendolyn approached the bible as a scholar, with great respect for its historical and cultural underpinnings. She taught Sunday School at First Baptist in Augusta for more than fifty years. After Gwendolyn’s husband passed away and she moved to assisted living she stopped teaching, but the popular class was named after her and still exists.

She didn’t just study the bible though. Gwendolyn lived it. I visited Gwendolyn in Augusta once after Debra had grown up and moved away with her husband. I watched, fascinated, as Gwendolyn made and professionally decorated a multi-tiered wedding cake for a young couple in her church who couldn’t afford to buy such a beautiful cake.

Gwendolyn was much more than simply a friend to Mom. She was like a sister. Debra was (and still is) like a sister to me. There are so many happy memories that involve Mom, Gwen and Debra. So much laughter.

 

When I heard Gwendolyn had passed away yesterday, I burst into tears, even though I was happy that she is free from pain, and undoubtedly with Jesus. It was a good death. Debra and her daughter were holding Gendolyn’s hands. She was with us for 95 years.

I believe when we die, our untethered souls enter a place of great wisdom and peace. We encounter all those we’ve loved, who are there to welcome us home. In the midst of my tears, there is one comforting thought today. Gwendolyn and my mother are reunited in heaven now. If I concentrate, I can hear them both laughing.

Mother Daughter Drama

I don't know why exactly but books with a lot of mother and daughter drama are not appealing to me. They appeal to a lot of women, and I understand that, because the relationship with your mom is a crucial one, and if it's not good you are always going to feel the lack.

I have been very lucky in my life, because my mother and I got along really  well about 95% of the time. She died in 2020. I was a caretaker for her for the last 7 years of her life. We talked about everything.

My mother, Elva Hasty Thompson, was a consummate storyteller and her stories were always really interesting and often funny. I encouraged her to write blogs in her final years, and after she died I compiled them into a sort of memoir, Singing to the Cows. She talked a lot about her childhood and about topics of interest to her, like cooking. When I re-read the book I hear her voice clearly, and it's like she is sitting in the room with me telling the story, which I cherish.

Not all mothers and daughters get along as well, unfortunately.

I had a friend growing up who was constantly fighting with her mother, and I couldn't understand why. I got along great with her mom, and she was always incredibly nice to me. I think she loved her daughter deeply, but she could not figure her out. When I found out the daughter had been diagnosed as bipolar it made perfect sense to me. I always felt sorry for both mother and daughter, and I felt like if they had just gotten some therapy things would have been much better. They were greatly suspicious of any sort of mental health treatment, and one of the hallmarks of being bipolar is a resistance to any sort of therapy.

I digressed. Your mother is your first teacher, your first friend, your confidante, and also your example of what it means to be a woman.

Most of us grow up either emulating our mother or wanting to be the total opposite of our mother. It's always a multi-layered, complex relationship.

I didn't realize until this morning that several of my books prominently feature mother/daughter relationships. Fascinating topic. Below I explain this in more detail.

 

The Garland BellesThis is my newest novel and it centers on the relationship between a mother and a daughter. When Hadley's mother Grace dies, Hadley learns a lot of starting things about her prim and proper mother's life, astonishing things. As a result, Hadley gradually gains a new acceptance of herself, and finds the strength to reassess and reorganize her own life, which looks idyllic on the surface but isn't at all, in reality.

I found when I was writing about Grace that I really liked her, and it was somewhat sad for me to write about the many mistakes she made in her life. She is a bright, dynamic character, who felt constrained by the social etiquette of her small southern hometown.

I don't want to give away the book's ending, but it was deeply satisfying to tie up the loose ends. My mother was a voracious reader and she would get really angry if a book didn't "end up right." There is something emotionally satisfying about resolving conflicts by the end of the book; in fact I think as humans we crave that.

 

Dancing in the WreckageMothers and daughters feature prominently in this novel about a group of characters who all learn new truths about their lives when a freewheeling and somewhat dangerous attorney dies, setting in motion a set of events that change many lives for the better -- eventually.

The main character, Amy, has an awkward and frustrating relationship with her mother because her mother refuses to tell Amy anything about her father, who was never present in her life. There is a distance there that causes Amy a lot of grief, but she is lucky because she has a very close relationship with her aunt who was very prominent in her childhood, in a positive way.

 

Ghosts in the Garden CityThis was my first novel and I started it with the idea that the entire plot would center around the revelations that occur when Leigh inherits an old suitcase that was her grandmother's, and sets out to solve a mystery. As I wrote it I began to realize that I really wanted to make it about Leigh's mother Peggy, too, because she's a very complex woman who tries to lead a very respectable, proper life, but is forced to confront some really awkward truths about herself as her daughter learns more and more about her grandmother.

 

Return to Marietta This book centers around a marriage, but there is a mother/daughter dynamic between the main character, Lillian, and her own mother, Victoria, who feels helpless and frustrated by the Great Depression and its effects on her daughter. Victoria stays awake all night cooking food for her daughter to take on the long car trip that is the centerpiece of the book.

Lillian is based on my grandmother, Wilma Butler Hasty, and Victoria is based on her mother Beulah Butler, a lady I never met but heard a lot about over the years. Below, my grandmother's family around 1921. My grandmother is on the far right, with the big hair. Granny is the older lady with glasses, seated.

 

If you like to read novels that explore the complicated relationships between mothers and daughters, check out these books.

#motherdaughternovels, #storiesofmothersanddaughters, #daughtersandmothers, #dramabetweenmothersanddaughters, #familydrama

Storytellers at a Dinner Party

The older I get the less I crave travel or seeing sights and the more I crave the company of interesting people, and/or my friends. Human interactions are far more fascinating to me than any natural or man-made big deal thing. I have no interest in going to the Grand Canyon, for instance, but I would love to listen to someone tell stories about it. My uncle Lewis Thompson took an extended rafting trip down the Colorado River and then wrote an account of his trip and to me that was enough, because I felt as though I had made the trip. He always wrote great stories about his travels, and he was a terrific storyteller in person, too.

I saw an interview with the historian Doris Kearns Goodwin where she was asked which three storytellers she would invite to a dinner party and she said Abe Lincoln, FDR [Franklin Roosevelt], and LBJ [Lyndon Johnson]. Excellent answer. I would love to be a fly on the wall at that dinner party!

It got me to thinking about storytellers -- admittedly a favorite topic of mine.

I have been richly blessed to come from two incredible storytellers, my mother and father.

Mom told stories liked she breathed air. They just came out of her naturally, and they always had a point and were often funny. She lived with me the last fifteen years of her life and told me a ton of stories. Many of her stories about her parents were used to make the characters vivid in my book Return to Marietta. Maybe that's why I love stories and anecdotes, because they certainly make it more fun and easier to write my novels. Her memoir, Singing to the Cows contains most of the stories she ever told and it's very entertaining.

My father was a terrific storyteller, too, and his stories were the most entertaining when he was around his brothers, telling stories about Hephzibah, their hometown. For more on those stories, check out my piece Cordelia's Giggle on Salvation South's website.

Back to the point of this blog. This sentence intrigued me:

You’re organizing a dinner party. Which three storytellers, dead or alive, do you invite?

I'm going to not say my parents, just because they are the obvious answers. Truthfully, I would give anything in the world just to be in their presence once again for an hour, because I still miss them both.

"My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call." - Pat Conroy

I would definitely invite Pat Conroy. I have read everything he ever wrote, because he was a masterful storyteller. He also loved to cook and I would fix seafood just for him, probably a shrimp dish I memorized years ago, plus fresh asparagus and some kind of pasta dish because he lived in Italy for years. I would make fresh pasta. For dessert, something simple like peach cobbler or pound cake, or maybe both.

"It really is possible to disagree with someone's politics without hating them. Grown-ups can do that." - Molly Ivins

It really is possible to disagree with someone's policies without hating them. Grown-ups can do that
Read more at https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/molly-ivins-quotes

I would have to invite a journalist, and Molly Ivins was incredibly sharp and witty. I was really sad when she died. I didn't always agree with her politics but I had great respect for her. I would fix her a steak and baked potato, and whatever kind of alcoholic drink she preferred. I'd probably make a pecan pie for dessert.

"A lot of movie stars are not great actors; they're just very good-looking. And when they start to age and they don't have the looks any more, then it's over." - Michael Caine

Michael Caine would be my third dinner guest. He is 91 years old now, but he knows how to tell a witty and/or interesting story. I have seen him on the Graham Norton show telling stories and he is wonderful. He did an interview a few years back where he talked about being evacuated during World War II and living on a farm. For him, I would serve some fresh vegetables, perhaps Brussels sprouts -- and homemade blueberry muffins, which are one of my specialties.

I am quite sure it would be a rollicking good time, and I would record it and watch it over and over.

below, an occasion when my dad and uncles were telling stories to us in 1974

Love and War

Years ago I saw a movie with Sandra Bullock and Chris O'Donnell, In Love and War. I have always been fascinated by Ernest Hemingway and by World War I, plus I studied Italian for two years so it checked a lot of my boxes. It's an excellent movie. Bullock plays a serious character, and it's a real departure from her comedic roles. My opinion of her skills went up 1,000% when I saw that movie. It got me to thinking recently, about the two big themes we find in most of literature.

Love and War

The two things that fascinate most human beings are, quite simply, Love and War. Those subjects are prominent in many bestselling books.

The book Gone With the Wind proved this in 1936 when it was published and went on to become a huge bestseller. (Yes, I know it has a lot of racism, but I don't condemn writers who had no control over the world they were born into. Mitchell became far less racist later in her life when she observed the disparity between medical care available to black and white folks in Atlanta, and went on the personally fund many scholarships for black doctors at Morehouse School of Medicine, as you can read about here.)

Another favorite book of mine, The Winds of War by Herman Wouk, and its sequel, explore love and war from a male perspective. Excellent books.

In my own writing, I've written a lot about Love, but I've written very little about war. There are some chapters in my book Heart of My Own Heart that are set during the Civil War, but I didn't try to write battle scenes or say much about the war itself.

 

As women, we tend to be far more interested in the small wars that make up life for most of us -- wars with our parents, our boyfriends, lovers, husbands, children, etc. We have to fight personal wars for career advancement, for our right to be creative and nonconformist, for respect as intellectuals and caretakers, and more. We fight to get our children what they need, so they can have better childhoods than we had. We fight for respect if we choose to stay home and take care of our families and not work.

The truth is, most women are quiet warriors.

We have to learn how to get what we want and what we need in a world that so often judges us harshly if we are too beautiful or if we are not beautiful enough -- exactly why the Barbie movie resonates so strongly with so many people. We are supposed to not sacrifice femininity for aggressiveness. We are supposed to be perfect wives, mothers, sisters, friends, etc. and look perfect and work, and do it ALL. In a way, Scarlet O'Hara broke new ground because she is the first woman to express so many things no women expressed publicly in 1936.

In Gone With the Wind, Scarlet represents a strong, flawed female main character. She isn't beautiful -- it says so in the very first sentence of the book. She is manipulative and impulsive and immature, like most 16 year olds. Scarlet is 16 when the book opens. However, she grows up fast when the Civil War gets to Atlanta and she has to deliver a baby and try to get home. Then she takes on the task of trying to farm and make enough money to support herself and her family members. For the first time, readers were shown a world behind the scenes of war, where the fighting was very real, the stakes very high, and courage was displayed by those who had no choice but to be brave -- and yet the main character/hero wore skirts and wasn't "ladylike."

Women could identify with Scarlet because in 1936 women were still struggling to deal with the Great Depression and with trying to hold their families together. They had children to feed. They had to work, though most weren't raised to work away from home. The 19th century view of women was that we were fragile, delicate creatures. By 1936 those stereotypes had to be scrapped and we had to become tough and resilient, like Scarlet.

My grandmothers, Wilma Butler and Cordelia Henderson, came from well-to-do, socially prominent families. They were raised to get married and have children and nothing else. They both had to work hard to keep their families together during some very hard times in the 1930's. Cordelia helped her husband run a store, and then went back to teaching. Memaw [Wilma Butler Hasty] took all kinds of jobs to help support her family. The most compelling family story I heard about my Memaw driving alone to New York in 1933 to get her husband back inspired me to write Return to Marietta.

I don't write about war the way men write about war. Descriptions of battles where people are violently killed don't appeal to me. I much prefer to write about the little "wars" we all fight, as human beings. Women are fighters because we have to fight. I don't know any women who have been raised in the lap of luxury and had easy lives. Every woman I know has had to adapt and learn to fight, whether she wanted to or not.

I am proud to come from a long line of fighters, female warriors who retained their femininity and the respect of folks in their communities. We all live in a world of Love and War, and as God is my witness, I'll never back down from showing that in everything I write. There are all kinds of weapons used in all kinds of wars, and as women we are experts in fighting for ourselves and our families. God Bless us all.

Below left, Mom and me as a baby. Below right, the only photo I have of me and my mother and grandmother [Memaw] -- if you don't see it, click on the number.

#femaleempowerment, #girlpower, #womenwarriors, #strongwomen, #femalerolemodels, #scarletohara, #strongwomen

Dancing in the Wreckage and Adoption

When I started this blog in 2005 it was a way for me to update friends and relatives about how my daughter was doing post-adoption, and how I was coping. Nobody in my circle of friends and family had ever adopted a 13 year old girl from Russia who spoke almost no English. She was nearly as tall as me. To say it was a huge challenge would be a massive understatement.

Blogging every day was like journaling every day. It helped me cope. I blogged daily for years.

In recent years, since both my kids are now grown and have their own lives I have stopped blogging about them.

However, as a friend pointed out to me not long ago, my novel Dancing in the Wreckage, while not ostensibly a novel centering around adoption, actually has a main storyline from the point of view of an adopted guy. One of the main characters, Zak, is adopted as an infant but not told he is adopted until his 18th birthday, which rocks him, and sends him into a personal tailspin for several years.

Also at the heart of this book, it's about motherhood.

One of the main characters was abandoned as an infant and grew up in an orphanage. Another character was the result of an accidental teen pregnancy but kept in the birth family and raised with great love, albeit not a lot of money.

Another main character was conceived outside of a marriage and never told the true identity of his father until after he was grown.

I have never been faced with an unintended pregnancy but I've had friends who went through that and had to make really tough choices. It's never an easy situation, whether you are married or single. Women have always had to pay a high price for loving someone outside of marriage, and oftentimes their children pay a high price also. Until recently, shame played a big part in separating mothers and children. Shame is toxic.

Back to adoption. There are lot of ways to be a parent without giving birth, and those are valid choices too.

In the book, Amy is raised without a father but in a household with her very loving aunt who is as much a parent to her as her mother. She also gets parented by her grandmother, who also lives with them.

Carson [another main character] is raised in a loving family with plenty of money but he has issues. His nanny mothers him more than his mother.

I never set out to write a book about motherhood or adoption but those themes found their way into my quirky little book, probably because they are at the heart of my own life and I understand so well that even seemingly "normal"/traditional families can be very flawed and very unconventional homes can be very healthy and nurturing. There is no "one size fits all" when it comes to parenting.

Full disclosure: I was raised in a very traditional home, with a stay at home mom and a banker dad who worked hard. We lived in the suburbs. We were very middle class. (We still had issues.)

My mother had to get a hysterectomy when I was five years old and my parents were pretty open about the consequences. They said they would not be able to have more children. I begged them to adopt a little sister for me. I cried. I threw a tantrum. Mom and Dad said no, two children were enough. I'm sure many years later when I was 40 years old and hadn't found a husband or become a mom yet that heavily influenced my decision to adopt.

I also talk in this novel about the beauty of friends who accept you for who you are. Amy has a lot of fear around intimate relationships and eventually gives up looking for Mr. Right. She gets a lot of love and support from friends who are gay and bi. I have dear friends and family members I love who are gay. They  have been there for me in my toughest times, and I like to think that by writing about them I am honoring them in some small way. It's my way of promoting love and acceptance of all kinds of love. 

I have had friends who are very conservative read this book and they've enjoyed it. A friend of my parents who is nearly 90 years old read this book recently and called me to tell me how much he loved it. He has no connection to adoption or unwed motherhood. He hasn't done DNA testing and learned anything unusual. That made me feel really good, knowing he liked the book, because I love the idea of writing as being instructive but also entertaining.

If you like quirky books about unusual families, books set in the South, books with adoption themes, etc. check out my book Dancing in the Wreckage. It's also just a plain old good read, with a lot of funny moments...

#booksaboutadoption, #booksaboutmothers, #humoraboutmothers, #bookswithLBGTQcharacters, #booksaboutdnatestresults, #adoptionbooks, #booksaboutunwedmotherhood, #humorousbookssetinthesouth, #novelsaboutadoption, #adoptionasathemeinanovel, #bookssetinatlanta, #quirkyfamilybooks

My Wonderful Son

When I adopted my son in 2007, almost exactly 17 years ago, many people told me he was a lucky little boy. They were wrong. I was the lucky one, and still am. We have had a lot of ups and downs over the years. His wild teenage years, the party years, lasted well into his 20's, but those are over. He is healthy and happy now. I wouldn't trade him for all the tea in China (quoting my mama).

Some people told me around 2006-07 that I was crazy to adopt a ten year old boy missing his right hand. I already had an adopted daughter, they said, and I should just stop there. They were wrong. 

Michael Thompson is brilliant, hilariously funny, and a true original. He draws people to him because of the incredible light from his beautiful heart.

He will be 28 years old this summer. He is still figuring out his life. He may or may not return to college. He may or may not stick with the cooking. He will figure it out, in his own time.

In case you were wondering, no, his missing hand isn't really a handicap. It barely slows him down. He does more with one hand [climbs mountains, is a professional cook, lifts weights, plays baseball] than many people do with two hands. He earned his lifeguard certification years ago. He has worked as a chef in a high-end restaurant on a busy Saturday night and given stellar service even after ten hours on his feet. He helped me take care of his grandmother for years, without complaint, and their relationship was a mutual adoration that was truly beautiful.

I couldn't love him more or be prouder if he had come from my body. The fact he didn't makes no difference to me whatsoever. When people ask me what I am most proud of in my life I don't say being a paralegal, or being a caretaker for my mother, or writing and publishing a dozen books. I say one word: Michael. (I take no credit for his beautiful heart, just for having the good sense to adopt him.)

below, the first photo of him I ever saw, made when he was 8, in the orphanage and below right, me visiting him in the orphanage in 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#adoptionhandicappedchild, #adoptolderchildren, #limbdifferencekids, #chooseadoption, #adoptionisthebestchoice

Love Your Changing Face

I just found myself looking in the bathroom mirror as I washed my hands and thinking, my eyes look green today. Then I immediately felt sad, because my mother used to say things like that to me. (FYI, my eyes are blue/green and sometimes they look blue, sometimes green, depending on the light and what I'm wearing -- see photo at right.)

Mom died in 2020, after 15 years of living with me and my children. Elva Hasty Thompson loved her children fiercely.

Nobody else in my life, even my own children, have ever studied my face the way Mom used to, on a daily basis. I guess it's understandable, since she created that face.

If she said "Did you get enough sleep last night?" that meant either I had dark circles under my eyes or I was being grumpy. (I now regret every time I was grumpy with her.)

If she said "You need some lipstick" that meant I looked tired and/or I was going somewhere. Like any lady who was young in the 1950's, my mother absolutely believed in the power of lipstick, not only to look more attractive but to brighten one's mood. 

My maternal grandmother, Memaw Hasty, never appeared at breakfast until she was fully dressed for the day, including full makeup, which meant lipstick, of course. I never once saw her without makeup until I was 14 and she had a massive stroke. Seeing her pale face and lips scared me profoundly.

I study my kids' faces, too, especially my son's face because he lives with me. (I rarely see my daughter, who lives in South Carolina.)

When my son is tired, or doesn't feel well, or is sad, grumpy, etc. I notice it. If he doesn't look chipper and happy I always wonder what I can do or say to brighten his mood. This is part of being a mama.

Sometimes people have made unkind remarks to me because my son is adopted and they think I am not his "real" mama. I assure you, I love my adopted kids as much as if they came from my body. Biology makes no difference when it comes to mama love.

I am not trying to make any profound points here with this little blog. Only this: study your kids' faces. Below is one of my favorite poems.

When You Are Old

by W. B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.