A Hard Habit to Break

It was all so innocent in the beginning....

Or not.

He wanted bread clips; lots of them. They weren’t for a ‘collection’ to compare colour, expiry date or sturdiness. They weren’t for trading with friends; whoever had the most of any one colour would be the ‘king of the world.’ They weren’t to fulfill a neurotic need; no obsessive compulsive desire needed to be satisfied.

They were meant for one thing and one thing only – to be flicked.

The plastic bread clips as we know them today was first created in 1952 by Floyd Paxton. As the story goes, Floyd was travelling home on an airliner when he couldn’t seal-close his half-eaten bag of in flight peanuts. Frustrated and concerned about preserving their freshness, an idea struck all those thousands of miles up in the air. Floyd pulled out an expired cardboard credit card from his wallet and with a pocketknife (allowed in those days), he proceeded to carve a crude version of what we now know as a bread clip to seal the bag. A business man at heart, his invention caught the eye of food processors and he had orders for more. The tiny little discs could be mass produced by the thousands and an expiry date was soon added to their functionality.

Sadly, Floyd would never obtain the patent for his invention we so readily take for granted.

Then in the pre-internet times when kids were bored more often and had only their own imaginations as entertainment some kid somewhere found another use for the easily disposed of clips. Break them in half, wedge the inside half on the tip of your pointer finger ‘just so,’ draw back your finger, use your thumb for extra catapult-like-thrust, and let ‘er rip! FLICK! The little plastic clip-half goes flying through the air at warp-like speed, annoyingly hitting someone in the head, ear, face or wherever the aim-practiced clip launcher intended. The weapon is not meant to maim or kill, but to annoy. The well-practiced gains notoriety for bulls-eye-like accuracy, only to be beaten up by brother, sister, friend or foe.

Mission accomplished.

So in my son’s case, this was actually the intent. When he discovered the easily mastered, ammunition-readily-available sport, he threw himself into the sport and made it his mission to obtain the largest arsenal of bread clips possible. A mug was ceremoniously placed in the corner of the kitchen counter, and instructions were issued to all the bread consumers in the house to SAVE THOSE BREAD CLIPS. One by one we started tossing them in the cup, and on nights where boredom was all-consuming, he’d sit and prepare his ammunition. SNAP, SNAP, SNAP – he’d break them in half one by one. Then, when the time was right and when the right enemy was near, FLICK – and someone would be nailed in the head.

Of course this would only result in nagging from the general (me) to collect all the shell casings (flicked clips) from the carpet and/or couches, but it was all in fun – all in the name of family bonding.

As all things in life grow and change, so did he and his methods of brotherly annoying. The flicking ceased and new methods were contrived. But the clips were still insisted upon being saved. The cup would overflow so I’d put them in a baggie and put the cup back in its place for continued collecting.

Over time he forgot about the clips – but I didn’t. I couldn’t stop savings them. It became a habit; saving them, automatic. As soon as a loaf of bread or buns was done, the bag would be recycled and the clip tossed in the cup. I couldn’t bring myself to throw out the clip or recycle it – but what was I saving them for? He started something I couldn’t stop, and I suspect my saving them was a way of saving a little bit of my boys’ childhood innocence; their boyish antics I don’t want to let go of just yet.

And so I keep saving them.

Sure there are numerous reuse-it ideas for the little plastic discs – crafts, framed art, power cord labellers, jewelry (!), flip-flop repairing, wine-glass markers – the list goes on. But even the crafty person I am doesn’t want to make anything with them, altering them into something other than what they are to me: a memory.

I can’t get rid of them, and I can’t stop saving them. It’s a habit I don’t want to break anytime soon. I know I have to ‘let go’ – it’s the hardest thing to do for any mother – but I’m not ready to let go of the bread clips just yet.

IF and WHEN I do break the habit and stop saving them – I shiver at the thought – I know I will forever relate them to the boyish ways of my kids; when annoying anyone, namely each other, was paramount to their existence and when the worst worry we had was ducking from all the halved bread clips flying through the air. I would give anything to pick one out of my hair right now.

So I’ll keep saving them and likely become the weird little old lady with a zillion bread clips hoarded in her house...

But at least I’ll have something to nail my grandkids in the head with. They’ll never see it coming.

Thanks for reading!

Lisa xo

Here, there and everywhere - catching up!

Wow - I've been so busy the last while; here, there and everywhere! If it's not work, then it's dealing with some personal matters that are soon to be on the mend! I've been writing, just unfortunately not here - so much has been going on! I'm working on a fantasy for teens, have been writing for Chicken Soup for the Soul, and have a book to be released this month by Evernight Teen which has required lots of prepping, planning and excitement. I hope you'll stop by my website for young adults at www.lisamcmanus.com

In the meantime, I have been reflecting on how fortunate I am to do what I do, and that is write AND have someone read my work AND like it enough to include it in an anthology of fabulous authors I am humbled to be in the company of. Chicken Soup for the Soul's latest release 'Think Possible' is full of 101 stories by authors who overcame challenges and adversity in various degrees to turn what they thought IMpossible into something possible. I have been fortunate to have previous work published by the fabulous folks at Chicken Soup for the Soul; the opportunities and experiences that have come with being published with them, and many other publishers who have seen something of interest in what I do, are countless. So it's a thrill when you're shopping at Costco filling your shopping cart of warehouse-size groceries for your family and you see copies of the book your work is in for sale - very cool.

Happy reading!

Lisa xo

A New Word About Words

It was a normal Friday morning…..or at least I thought.

I was thrilled that it was Friday, despite anticipating at busy workday ahead, but the knowledge that the weekend was right around the corner (despite inevitable laundry and chores) had me all but skipping to Starbucks for my celebratory early-morning-Friday-latte.

As I ordered my drink from the dear, sweet barista-girl who I always chat with, we exchanged pleasantries about the fact that it was Friday and what our plans were for the day. She said she had a test later that day. I knew she was in school for writing…or journalism…or…something – something to do with words. But it was early, you see, and I was in a fog. My ‘wheels’ weren’t working yet, I hadn’t had my coffee yet, but I knew I was correct in remembering what she was in school for – how could I not? We were sisters in the literary world.

The nearby gargantuan coffee machine got its own wheels working, what with all the grinding and churning and steaming that it does to make fancy drinks. But when I asked her what her test was for (puffing out my chest a bit as I wondered if I – the writerly person I am – might be able to help her), the coffee machine chose that moment to execute the grand finale of my latte; a final loud whir and whoosh and burst of steam and the machine was done making my hot latte.

“It’s a test on mor *STEAM/WHOOSH* phines…” was all I heard. I saw her mouth move, and I couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but….WHAT?

“Morphines?” I asked, instantly awake. I didn’t think pharmaceuticals had much to do with the written word (well, maybe for some folks) – or maybe she had switched class and was now going to school to be a doctor, or a pharmacist or….

She patiently repeated ‘morphines,’ but by then the coffee machine was at it again, performing al its’ whirring, whooshing and steaming for someone else’s drink.

“Morphines?” I asked over the coffee/milk-milk-steamer-thing. “Like as in the medicine?” If I furrowed my brow any harder, I was gonna need surgery to unfurrow it – a perfect time for morphine, indeed.

“No,” she started again. If she was counting to ten on my account, she hid it well. “M O R P H E M E,” she spelled out. “It’s the smallest unit of a word.”

HUH?

I unfurrowed my brow so fast I think it nearly fell off.

She tried to explain a morpheme and I kind of ‘got’ her explanation – but I didn’t. I had her write down the word so I could research it (aka GOOGLE it).

I would later learn that, according to the Miriam Webster dictionary, a morpheme is a word or a part of a word that has a meaning and that contains no smaller part that has a meaning. Wikipedia says a morpheme is the smallest grammatical unit in a language – the smallest meaningful unit of a language.

I was intrigued – I didn’t expect to learn about MORPHEMES when I got up that morning. Where she is studying linguistics which is the scientific study of a language, I am a writer and I play with words and jumble them around trying to set them into an order that is entertaining and perhaps meaningful: our interest in the written word and language the same….but different. With departing words of wishes of luck on her test, I had left the coffee shop with my latte in hand intrigued and inspired about what had happened. Where we had had a somewhat (ahem) confusing (on my part) exchange using language, about language, I wondered: do we hear what we want, or assume we think we know what we heard? Words, no matter what size, shape, form or meaning, are powerful yet confusing. They intrigue us enough to study them, dissect them, or play with them. Or, in our case that morning in the shop, share them.

Although I was more confused than ever, I would later realize after spending much too much time doing research (Googling) that I would have to get someone to sit down and explain morphemes to me – over a cup of coffee. I had learned a new word about words, and although I don't claim to know everything about everything, it just goes to show you never know what you’re gonna learn – and when.

Cover Reveal!

I'm proud to share the cover for my upcoming young adult novel, 'That Night', published by Evernight Teen (Evernight Publishing). The tentative release date of this ebook is December 2015 so stay tuned! Hope you'll hop over to my young adult site at www.lisamcmanus.com where I talk about the book and my other writing for teens.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Possible - new release!

I've been away from here for a bit - life had gotten in the way of my writing. Or, I realize upon much-needed reflection, I allowed life to get in the way of my writing. Bad me.

I allowed challenges to get in the way - but at the same time I had to, unfortunately, 'let things go' in order to keep up with some of those all-consuming challenges. But as the dark clouds have finally started to lift - despite it being fall and rainy season upon us (hee, hee - I made a joke!) - good things ARE starting to happen once again...

My story 'Taking Aim at Excuses' is along with many other stories in the newest release 'Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Possible.' The book is full of 101 stories about possibilities and doing (at least often what one might have thought) the unthinkable - the unimaginable - despite adversity, challenges, roadblocks or...ourselves. Sometimes life throws us life-altering challenges that are out of our control and we have to work with what we've got. Sometimes we are our own worst enemy, perspective hard to come by. Either way, no matter what the reason, doing what we can with what we've got and coming out bigger, stronger, tougher and better than what we were in the beginning is what really counts.

My story about archery that I am proud to have in this inspirational book has been published at the other side of a challenging time in my life. This story I wrote reminded me that no matter what clouds may hover, I have to keep shooting, take aim at excuses, and keep perspective. I should practice what I preach.

Now to be not so hum-drum and glum:

Something cool with this release - I participated in a 'Twitter Party' with publisher Amy Newmark and co-author, Deborah Norville of the syndicated show, Inside Edition (on which she had a segment about the book but I missed it!). Anyways, the 'party' lasted for an hour, and Amy, Deborah, other authors from the book twitter-chatted about the book. If you're on twitter go to #CSSThinkPossible to see our chat, or find me at @LisaMcManusLang

I hope you find the book a help to you and remember - anything's possible.

(Coach Bradley helping me shoot a bow for the first time - he's mentioned in my story :) )

Thank you all for reading - hope you'll come back soon!

Finding Gold on My Lunch Break

There’s GOLD at the Royal BC Museum!

But it wasn't gold that had me running through the museum one particular afternoon....

I was on my lunch break from work and although I very much look forward to my break when I can hide away somewhere with a good book, that day I knew it was to be ‘just another’ lunch break....

Or so I thought.

As I trekked through the museum with my book in my purse (I work near the museum, not IN the museum as so some people have thought from my past stories surrounding events there), I dodged the dozens of museum-goers from far and wide who were waiting in line to gain access to the museum’s current Gold Rush exhibit (http://royalbcmuseum.bc.ca/goldrush on now until November 1, 2015). I picked my way through the crowds anxious to carry on with my own non-museum-related lunch-break plans, but something stopped me in my tracks – and it wasn’t GOLD in them thar hills....!

The tell-tale, saloon-type tinkling of a piano drew me away from my lunch-break mission. I’m not a musician at all, but I could tell this wasn’t just some recorded piano music. As I followed the sound through the lobby of the museum, I imagined myself in an old western/gold rush movie, my corsets straining (I wish), and my potential suitors/cowboys/gold panners offering me bad whiskey in exchange for my attentions.

But alas – no corsets, suitors, cowboys or gold panners were to be found...

Two museum staff sat playing a piano – and a very old one at that. As one girl played, without using her hands, the other tended to what looked like a bunch of old scrolls piled high on a trolley.

Of course I stopped, and of course I bothered them.

They were playing a player piano from 1910 – the same kind that would have typically been found in saloons or musical halls. Able to be played traditionally, this piano can also be played to read sheet music. While pumping the foot pedals, the action sets the inner workings in motion reading the hole-punched scroll inserted in the front. The holes in the paper are placed ‘just so’ so that when each hole is ‘read’ by the mechanics inside the piano, the corresponding musical note of the key is played and out comes a perfectly played song - if you pump the pedals at just the right speed.

So enamoured I was with the whole thing I stayed and chatted with the girls, surely annoying them. But they were more than accommodating and patient, and were keen to show me this entertaining piece of history. As the one girl played, I asked if it was equal to a good workout.

“When it’s not tuned up, it sure is! Better than a treadmill!” was her response.

I snapped photo after photo as the girls entertained and informed, then I hesitantly asked if they could take a photo of my feet on the pedals (I knew a story was there, somewhere, and how could I leave without a few pictures?)

So I sat on the bench and positioned my feet ‘just so.’ The contrast of my ‘Keds’ brand runners with the turn-of-the-century instrument pedals was not lost on me.

Just as I was admiring the look of my feet on the pedals, and idly hoping my legs didn’t look too fat, one of the girls drew my attention to a manufacturers warning just inside the piano. It read:

Notice:
Positively no oil, graphite, Vaseline, or grease should be used on the slide
valves or wooden surface of this motor.
If the bushed bearings should squeak use unsalted beef tallow.

Well, was I ever disappointed I only had SALTED beef tallow with me!

Just as I was sharing a giggle with one of the girls about the ‘warning,’ the other replaced the music scroll with a new one.

Thinking they were gearing-up for their next performance I started to get up but then stopped when they asked me if I wanted to play! ME!

After a bit of back and forth – ‘Oh I just POSSIBLY couldn’t!’ I humbly exclaimed – at their final urging I sat back down and again placed my feet just so. After a bit of instruction – ‘keep pumping at an even speed’ – I started. It took a few beats to get the right rhythm and speed, but the next thing I knew I was playing “Oh Joe With Your Fiddle and Bow,” a foxtrot by ‘Donaldson,’ the original sheet music scroll originally priced at 25 cents (can’t get THAT on iTunes!).

I played and pumped and played and pumped, lost in complete awe of the experience. My legs didn’t get tired, but my face hurt from the non-stop grin I knew was plastered there.

“I sure didn’t think I’d be playing a piano like this on my lunch-break from work when I got up this morning!” I told the girls in excitement. They, too, grinned back – they knew how special playing this instrument, was.

Sadly and all-too-quickly the foxtrot came to an end and the girls, and a few onlookers, applauded my performance. With a switch the rolling-feature was set into ‘rewind’ and I pumped the scroll back to the beginning.

Needless to say I was, and still am, beyond grateful to the staff allowing me the opportunity to do something completely different and unexpected during my lunch-break. I skipped back to work with a foxtrot-spring in my step, and thrilled at having done something totally unexpected.

Oh, and I didn't read a page of my book and my 'corsets' stayed intact. :)

(Author’s note: during my research for tidbits about pianos during the gold rush, I found this article. If you read through, you will find a reference to an accomplished pianist ‘Mrs. Lange’ who, with her husband, opened a music hall way back way when..... spooky finding! http://bcheritage.ca/cariboo/barker/lorna.htm)

Keepin' it Simple...

“THAT’S IT!” I said one day after I lost yet another sock. “I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!”

Yup - I had had enough.

Our washer and dryer sit side-by-side in a little closet: folding closet doors hide them away. To get the washer or dryer out, say if you chose to do something odd like clean the lint and dust out from behind them, you have to take the closet doors right off their hinges then ploy one of your in-house strong men with ice-cream to come pull out the washer or dryer for you. The closet is so tiny – so perfectly measured for the average washer and dryer – that whoever built the house sure wasn’t generous with their measurements. There is JUST enough room for both machines to fit.

So when a sock, a pair of underwear or a dishcloth goes tumbling down the tiny space between the dryer and the wall, that’s it, it’s gone. The dishes will have to stay unwashed and someone will have to go sockless or commando – the later most undesirable. My arms aren’t long enough to reach down to retrieve the sock/underwear/dishcloth, and no coat hanger or yardstick can ever get the lost item up close enough for me to reach down and grab it.

But when time is of the essence and my men are too busy, the whole unhook-the-closet-door-off-its-hinges-to-pull-out-the-dryer-procedure just can’t happen right away. It’s a bit of a task and frankly, a pain in the butt. So a pile of lost items collects down the side of the dryer, safely nestled in the dust-bunnies of lint – a fire hazard, to be sure.

So one Saturday when yet another sock met its fate down the dark, narrow abyss it was the final straw. I had had enough. Waiting for someone to come available for the whole door-removal procedure was just silly. I simply couldn’t keep waiting for help and it was time to take matters into my own hands. It was time to give myself a break, and the idea that grabbed me wouldn’t let go.

So off to my home-away-from-home I went. Canadian Tire is my one-stop-shop for all things gadgety, and I knew they would be able to save me. The ‘Gotcha’ reaching tool was what I needed. An extra arm, and a LONGER arm at that, was the answer for my constant lost-laundry quandary. Able to pick up almost anything out-of-reach with a simple pull of the trigger, and I knew my life would be complete.

But as I drove home, my ‘Gotcha’ tool in the passenger seat and me dreaming about all the other things I would be able to grab with my new gadget, I realized the long-arm actually meant so much more than it actually was.

I had recently changed jobs after almost eight years of being at the same job – which I loved by the way. I had been anxious yet excited for my new world and was ready and willing for a change of pace, scene, and situation. A seven-year-itch it was not.

And as I neared the start date of my new job, a wise friend gave me some advice I would not fully realize or appreciate until I was right in the throes of my ‘change.’ Laura Tobias, author of “What Lainey Sees,” advised me to take it easy during the first few weeks of my new job and to not be so hard on myself. She said to give myself permission NOT to do any writing, or do much of anything else for that matter, and to not beat myself up over things like house chores left unattended. I was gonna be tired and overwhelmed, she said, and with my routine turned upside down, things would take a while to settle. She then again reiterated to go easy on myself – to keep things simple.

I should have listened better to my friend’s warnings. In those first two weeks of my new job I DID get overwhelmed, and I DID try to do everything and I DID get frustrated at being tired and unable to keep up with other things. I didn’t realize how much my much-needed change would become more of a change than I realized.

That Saturday at Canadian Tire was after the first two weeks of being in my new job. I was tired and overwhelmed yet anxious to get on with the chores I had let slide. I had a lot to do, and only a weekend to do it in. So as I drove home that day, anxious to put my ‘Gotcha’ to good use, I realized the handy little gadget meant much more than something to retrieve socks or underwear. It was a reminder that it was OKAY give myself a break and that it was OKAY to sometimes make things simpler. Doing so was allowed, but I had to be the one to allow it; I didn’t have to be so hard on myself. My friend’s wise words echoed in my mind and with my ‘Gotcha’ at my side – a silly little symbol of so much, and more – I knew things would get better.

Change is hard – but needed. No one likes it, but it’s inevitable. But in times of change, good or bad, I learned how important it was to let go, and to allow for hiccups along the way. There always is an easier way of doing things – why keep life more difficult than it already is?

I raced in the house, my newfound freedom and excitement at being able to pick up things urging me faster down the stairs to my laundry room. I peeked down the side of the dryer and gave the pile of socks, underwear and cloths an evil ‘gotcha’ eye. With a practice ‘click click’ of my ‘Gotcha,’ the hand-like grip at the end working perfectly, I leaned over the dryer and took aim.

The handle caught on the edge of the dryer, the space between the wall and the dryer still too narrow for the handle of the gadget to fit. The ‘claw’ of my gadget was an inch away from the top of the laundry pile down the narrow abyss and no matter what I did – no matter which way I turned the gadget – it wasn’t gonna fit.

I slumped. All that excitement for nothing. But then I remembered what I had also recently learned during all this change and transition: I had to also allow for hiccups along the way.

It was time to head to the store for ice-cream; I had three men I had to hire for some washer and dryer moving. At least I was still keeping things simple.