What's the Story

Recently, on my morning walk in the woods, I approached a trash can on the side of the trail. Beside it was an empty garbage bag with books, notebooks and magazines scattered all around it. I stopped to take a closer look and saw that all the titles referred to God, the globe and missionary work, like The Way to God, World Evangelism, The Warm Heart of Africa, Mission Stories, The Voice of Truth International.

As I stared at the scene, my instincts as a storyteller instantly went into high gear and I began to conjure what might be the story behind this mess. Maybe…

·      A young man, planning to become an Evangelical missionary lost his faith. There was a scandal in his church that shattered him.

·      A mother did not share the beliefs of her son and in a moment of rage threw out all the resources he had collected.

·      A spouse could not convince her partner to join her faith and finally gave up. She would rather save her marriage than go on a mission.

·      A young woman, planning a mission to Africa, lost the chance and threw out her books, then changed her mind and came back to get them, then changed her mind again.

The options are endless, and the scene fascinating. When I went back today, all had been cleaned up. Who cleaned up the mess? Was this part of the story? Is there more to the story? Or was it just park maintenance? I wonder…

Mid-Century to Modern

While writing my memoir, From Mid-Century to Modern: One Woman’s Journey from Schoolteacher to Stockbroker, I did a lot of research on the decades when I was growing up. During those years, from the 1950’s to the turn of the century, there were massive legal and social changes for American women, changes we may now take for granted. But with the right to legal abortion being challenged in our country, this is a time to reflect on all we have gained, and what we could lose—If those who wish to see women as lesser gain more control.

To begin, the birth control pill was approved by the FDA in 1965, giving women the freedom to pursue careers, plan families and avoid forced marriage. This was followed by the Vietnam war years when many young men either enlisted or were drafted into service. Women, left on their own, became more self-sufficient and independent during these times and often were unwilling to return to traditional roles when the men came home. Between 1975-1988, in American families with children, it was the wife who filed for divorce in approximately 2/3 of cases.

• In 1968, with the passage of The Fair Housing Act, a woman could buy or rent a home in her own name. Just 13 years later, there were more single women homeowners than men.

•  Until the passage of the Equal Credit Opportunity Act in 1974, a woman could not have a checking account or credit card. Only joint accounts with males were allowed.

•  Prestigious Ivy League schools like Yale and Princeton didn’t accept female students until 1969. Harvard didn’t admit women until 1977.

•  Until 1978, a woman could be fired from her job for being pregnant.

•  And it wasn’t until 1988 that a woman was legally allowed to start her own business.                                                                                                                      

We’d best pay attention, stay strong and stick together during these times, lest we go backwards.

MOTHER

            In 1997, at age 76, my mother died from Leukemia. I was at her bedside singing ‘Amazing Grace’ softly in her ear as her breathing slowed, and then stopped. Her death was expected, and I was glad her suffering ended, but she was a treasure to me, and I felt the loss. She was an adventurous, creative spirit and for months I could feel her around me, hovering, only slowly letting go, moving on to her next magical journey.

            One night, months after her death, Dan and I were in a small hotel restaurant on San Juan Island where we lived. As we walked through the lobby after dinner, I saw a carved wooden statue of a woman, taller than me, with two children tucked behind her back. The sculptor was a local, Yates Lansing, and I’d seen his work before. He combed the local beaches looking for timber washed ashore from carrier ships and was able to see what that split and soggy piece of wood could be. In this one, it was Mother.

            I dedicated my small inheritance from my mother to purchase this sculpture in her memory. It will forever remind me of her and her simple, loving spirit, always chin held high, looking outward. Mother has lived in all our homes, on San Juan Island and in Austin’s Barton Creek, and now in an apartment in the Arboretum. In each setting, she has faced a window with a view. She gazes out to the future, with those children tucked safely behind her back.

The Barney Bears

In the fall of 1983, I was living in a condo in Southern California. Life was on restart. I was divorced, in a new career as a stockbroker with Merrill Lynch and had recently moved from Arizona to California. When my children were with their father, I spent many nights on my back porch, glass of wine in hand, wondering ‘What the hell happened to my life?’

            Before I quite made it to the next question, ‘What do I want my life to be now?’ a friend called. We’d been working together at Merrill Lynch, then both left when he joined Smith Barney as a manager, and I moved closer to family on the west coast. He’d told me he’d met a guy at a manager’s meeting, and thought I’d like him. I replied, “I don’t want to meet any guys.” But he was persistent, called, and called, and called again. …His office is just down the street from where you live… he was named Broker of the Year… he’s single… he’s a good guy… he has a good reputation… you should go by and meet him.

            A lonely Christmas passed, my first without my two kids. I could not bear to celebrate with my own family, so went back to my condo, built a fire and sulked.

            Just across town, that guy I had yet to meet had a ski trip with his son cancelled at the last minute. He too was home alone and sad, staring at the fireplace. Early in January, I was driving home from work, saw his office up on the hill and thought, “What the hell. I’ll go meet that guy.” He wasn’t there. But I left my card: Came by to introduce myself. We have a friend in common, Bill Myers. He called Bill, then called me and invited me to come back in.

            He later told me as I stood outside his office window that day waiting for him to get off the phone, he wasn’t really on the phone, but watching me. The vision he had in his head of the right woman for him was standing outside his office. He’d been single 3 years, dated a lot, knew what he wanted, and it was me. He told me on our second date, “I want an equal, a woman who will stand shoulder to shoulder, eyeball to eyeball with me. I’ve looked, a lot, you are the woman I’ve been looking for.” I replied, “Don’t you think you are moving a bit quickly here?”

            It didn’t take him long—this solid, persistent, determined man—to convince me his vision was correct. Before we married in 1985, he hired me into his office and we bought a lakeside house together, with room for all 5 of our kids. We married on the deck surrounded by them, our extended family, and colleagues. The wedding cake was topped with 2 Barney Bears. We worked together, added another daughter who was 15 and needed a safer home, opened an office for the firm on San Juan Island, and retired in Austin in 2001. For all these 40 years he has been that same loyal, loving, solid man, standing shoulder to shoulder, eyeball to eyeball. Thank you, Dan Selak, for seeing in us what I had yet to see. I see it all now.

On World Kindness Day, A Gift to be Shared by Young & Old

The novel, CeeGee’s Gift, has been recognized with 5 national awards and has a 90% rating on Amazon Reviews. It is available in bookstores, and on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and JoyWrites, and the Author Website, where autographed copies can be ordered. Also on the site is Joy’s other book, You Don’t LOOK Sick! Living Well with Invisible Chronic Illness. A guide to help those living with chronic illness build a life of meaning.

Amazon Reader Reviews for CeeGee’s Gift

            “By the time I was only halfway through I knew I had to order this book for my children and grandchildren. This book offers all the wisdom I would most like to pass on to my family.”

            “I loved this story, it was engaging and pulled me right in—the prose is so honest and simple. I finished the book and then realized that each of my three teenagers, aged 13, 16, and 17, had passed it around and read it as well! So, it's definitely for all ages.” 

            “I chose a 5-star rating because there wasn't a 10-star available. This book breaks your heart, lifts you up, gives you hope & smiles through your tears. I haven't been this touched by a story in a long time. I can't recommend it high enough. It's amazing!”

Summary: 12-year-old Celia Gene Williamson, known as CeeGee, has a gift. But to her, not a good one. Knowing what the future holds for the folks in her south Texas island town of Southport is too heavy a burden. She tries to block her Knowings, but when she goes to help old Mr. Tindale with his garden, she blurts out to him. “You better get your affairs in order, ‘cause your time is short!”

Mr. Tindale takes her warning, orders a custom-made casket, then decides to spend any time he has left helping CeeGee learn to share her gift with kindness and generosity. The people of Southport begin to learn that if they change the direction they are headed, they can change their entire future. And CeeGee, with Mr. Tindale’s help, learns what she thought was a curse is really a blessing.

Japanese Sampuru

I found much to love in Japan when we visited in 2001. Our cruise was headlined, The Treasures of Japan, and we took many detours off the beaten path to see monuments, temples, gardens, and traditional performance art. But there were smaller items of interest that captured me, like the manhole covers. They were their own works of art, brilliantly designed and unique to each community.

Beyond this artistry, and beyond anything I’d ever seen before, was the Fake Food, known to the Japanese as Sampuru. Every restaurant window had dishes on display, and only after looking closely did I realize the food wasn’t real. I tried to find out how to buy some, even asked restaurant owners. I thought a Bento Box with a collection of fake sushi would make a lovely piece of art for our dining room wall. But I couldn’t find any for sale. When I got home and did more research, I did find there was one factory that supplied most of the Sampuru to restaurants across Japan, but they did not sell to the public, not then.

Legend has it this all began in 1932 when a Japanese businessman saw wax dripping from an apple and had the idea. He began to create wax food samples and soon the idea spread across the nation. As the restaurant business grew, every window had their full menu on display. The idea became even more popular during WW II when the American military occupied Japan, and our soldiers couldn’t read the menus. Tourists today, like those soldiers, can just point to the dish they want in most of Japan’s restaurants.

In the 1970’s the artists made another advance and switched from wax to plastic, giving the realistic models more color and durability. The models are still primarily made in Gujō Hachiman, a small mountain town about three hours from Tokyo where skilled artists use actual samples of food and photos sent by restaurants to make a mold, then with great skill and delicate detail, paint the mold to become an exact replica. While the Sampuru costs about 20 times more than the actual food, this process allows the models on display in each restaurant to be unique; the sushi displayed in one restaurant window is not the same as the one next door. It is now part of Japanese culture that the first taste of a dish is by sight, a unique concept that has been part of Japanese culture now for nearly a century.

She Believed She Could (So She Did)

This recently released book, with stories and images by Deborah Cole, profiles the lives of 35 women who began their own businesses and became entrepreneurs. They are stories of diverse and independent women, and I am honored to be included among them.

     As we begin National Women’s History Month, I want to focus on the elements of my life that allowed me to believe in myself. I want to acknowledge the primary advocates and lessons that shaped my decisions as I have travelled through my 70+ messy years. 

• First, oddly, since this month is about women finding success in life, I must credit my father for his unyielding belief in me. Every single time I expressed an aspiration, and there were many, including going to grad school, becoming a stockbroker, and writing a book, he would pause for a quick think and then say, “Yeah, that’s good, you could do that. You’d be good at that.”

• Second, I’m thankful for my mother’s fearless creativity. She was an artist and would try any new medium from acrylic to oils, from stitchery to collage. I never heard her express fear of failure, and this saturated her artistic life, her intellectual life and, perhaps most important, her spiritual life. She raised me in a home where all of life was an adventure, not a risk.

• Third, I’m grateful for my husband, and all the other male mentors that showed me the way. In the career paths I chose, there weren’t many female role models, but the men stepped up, particularly in grad school where I was coached and encouraged to publish articles and research, serve on boards, take on consulting roles. These men helped me walk through doors I did not know were open to me.

     And that brings me to the most important lesson I’ve learned as a woman entrepreneur. If you get through a door, hold it open for the next woman to come through. For me, the focus of this month goes beyond profiling all the amazing women whose courage and ambition led them to do great things. It is about our responsibility as women to hold the door open, make space in the lane, mentor, and guide all of those who come after us. For starters, I’ll be buying She (Believed She Could So She Did) for each of my 3 granddaughters. They’re doing great things and I know they have more, much more, ahead.

The Angel's Share

Many years ago, I visited an old French winery, deep in an underground cave. The barrels were lined up on stands side by side, made of old oak and covered with dust. There were cobwebs in the corners and the space had a musty smell. As the winemaker told us about the history of the winery, the region, and the varietals they made, I studied the barrels.

I was writing a novel about a California winery—and a young woman who came to work there to start her life anew. As she spent a year in the vineyard, she watched the tiny grapes mature and hang heavy on the vine. Then they were harvested and crushed, their juice separated from the seeds and stems. Next the mixture was moved to a huge vat, blended, stirred, and allowed to ferment. The skins, seeds and stems were kept in this mix, or not, depending on the varietal. At last, the pure, strained wine was moved into wooden barrels to age to perfection. 

As my character watches this process, she sees the rebuilding of her own life. Planting the seeds, allowing for growth, then harvesting, blending all she had learned, and allowing time to age, to learn. What neither I, nor my character, had observed was the roughly made, and sometimes cracked or broken corks that plugged the barrels as the wine aged.

“Why are the corks so misshapen?” I asked the tour guide. “They are broken, they don’t securely plug these barrels.”

He smiled knowingly at my question. “Why? Because, that allows for The Angel’s Share, the bit of wine that evaporates out of the barrel and into the air. It is the part we must let go. And by doing so, by letting go of The Angel’s Share, the wine is made perfect.”

There it was. Of course. To build a new life, one must learn and grow, blend and ferment, all the elements of the past to enter a complete and honest future. But, as the winemaker so wisely noted, some of one’s past must be The Angel’s Share. Some bits must be simply let go. And now, The Angel’s Share is the title of my book, and a sacred part of that young woman’s journey to the future she desires. 

2021: Let's Let it Go

I don’t know about your year, but ours had its challenges, and none of them included a COVID infection. Here’s a list:

·       Joy got a severe case of poison ivy, after collecting stems on a trail to do nature printing.

·       Husband Dan’s car was totaled in an ice wreck on the 183 freeway, no one was hurt.

·       Joy’s car was stolen from the garage, and also found totaled on the side of a road.

·       We spent 10 days in a hotel, with no heat in our apartment due to broken water pipes. 

·       We had to send our dear dog, Dooley, to doggie heaven.

·       Dan spent 7 days in the hospital on IV’s and oxygen, due to emergency gall bladder surgery.

·       Tallulah, our only great granddaughter, in the UK, is now 6 and we have yet to meet her.

But as is so often true, there were silver linings:

·       Insurance largely paid for the replacement of 2 cars, 10 days in a hotel, hospital and surgery.

·       While COVID infected many members of our family, all have recovered.

·       There was so much time to dream, to write, to create.

·       As much as I hate ZOOM, I am thankful for ZOOM, as it is how I get to see my friends.

·       We were lucky to have our dog, Dooley, with us for over 14 years.

·       My husband and I truly enjoy one another’s company. Every. Single. Day.

·       We spent 6 long, sunlit weeks in Hawaii, mostly reading books on the beach.

·       Thanks to daily walks and the pool at the YMCA, I have lost my COVID belly and 4 pounds.

That’s my recounting. In the great scheme of things, and relative to what the rest of the planet has, and is, enduring, we are lucky, blessed, perhaps even charmed. So, 2021, I will let you go with the flutter of bird’s wings and welcome the unknown future that is coming into view with each new day. I hope for the best in 2022 to every treasured reader of this JoyWrites blog. Thank you.

Little Free Libraries

I’ve been charmed by the Little Free Libraries I’ve seen all over Austin. And I notice the number of these libraries have grown and grown. I often stop to look inside the framed glass door and the shelves inside are always filled with both adult and children’s books. As I survey the houses nearby, I think whoever did this created a neighborhood, a real neighborhood! I had some extra copies of my novel, CeeGee’s Gift, so I found the Little Free Libraries Austin area map and made a project of driving across the city and donating a dozen. When I checked back later, all had been taken, but the organization suggests that, once read, each book be taken back to the library for the next reader. Whose great idea was this anyway?

I learned that Little Free Libraries is a global nonprofit founded in 2012 in Hudson, WI with 3 primary objectives: to build community, to inspire readers and to expand access to books. It is volunteer led and in addition to providing kits, plans and support to neighborhoods that want to add a library, they grant no cost libraries full of books to communities that need them. They also promote diverse books and work with schools and libraries to make sure that readers are offered books with BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and other diverse voices to promote understanding, empathy, and inclusion. 

Their success has been widely awarded and recognized by prestigious organizations including the National Book Foundation, the Library of Congress and the Library Journal. In less than a decade, they have installed 100,000 Little Free Libraries in over 100 countries with 42 million books shared annually. 72% of their local volunteers have met more of their neighbors and 92% report their neighborhood feels friendlier. Amazing success story.

If, like me, you want to get involved, watch this short video: https://littlefreelibrary.org/start/.

For the Love of Dogs

I know I am far from alone in grieving the loss of a dog. Dooley, our Wheaten Terrier, was over 14 when he passed, a good long life in dog years. But for us, the humans, moving on requires a complete reset of our lives. We must fill the emptiness left behind—the daily routine, the silliness, the tender touch. The depth of compassion and boundless love that this dog brought into our home is now gone. The quotes about dogs below spoke to me, made me feel less alone and lifted my spirits. So, here’s to dogs! 

"All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn't a dog."   -Charles Schulz

"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven not man's." -Mark Twain

"If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went."  -Will Rogers

"No matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you rich.  -Louis Sabin

"My little dog—a heartbeat at my feet."  -Edith Wharton

"Money can buy you a fine dog, but only love can make him wag his tail.  -Kinky Friedman

 "Everything I know, I learned from dogs."  -Nora Roberts

“If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”  -Harry Truman 

“If a dog will not come to you after having looked you in the face, you should go home and examine your conscience.”  -Woodrow Wilson

“Petting, scratching, and cuddling a dog could be as soothing to the mind and heart as deep meditation and almost as good for the soul as prayer.”  –Dean Koontz 

Is It Self Publishing or Publishing Yourself?

Being an author is hard. My first book was a non-fiction guide to living with chronic illness, co-authored with my physician. Near the end of You Don’t LOOK Sick! I made the statement that getting a book published is not unlike sending your young child off to that very first day of school. This child, a baby only yesterday, is now heading down the sidewalk on her own. I imagine every parent remembers that first, frightening day. Putting your book in the hands of readers takes courage, and faith in the story you have to tell. Your book will no longer be what you think it is, but what others think it is.

CeeGee’s Gift was published in 2019 and, unlike the first book, I decided to self-publish this second one. I believed in the story, which started as a play and had been within me for many years. I didn’t want to take even more years to get through the publishing pipeline and endure the rejections from 20-something’s who had never written a book. It turns out self-publishing is just as hard, if not harder. The practice is now common, but the traditional system still works against you. It is hard to get editorial reviews, to get into bookstores, to compete in a crowded market. And it’s costly. My husband says that ‘being an author is a very expensive hobby’.

Now I am working on my third book, a memoir about my journey through life with my mother, a vibrant and creative spiritual seeker. One way to reduce your chances of becoming a well-known author is to first write non-fiction, then a novel, and follow it up with a memoir, so for some reason that is what I’m doing. But today, I checked on Amazon to see if there were any new reviews for CeeGee’s Gift. I thought it unlikely as it’s been a couple of years now, but to my surprise, I found two new ones. I keep writing because it’s who I am, it’s at my core, but comments from readers like these keep me going.

“By the time I was only halfway through I knew I had to order this book for my children and grandchildren. This book offers all the wisdom I would most like to pass on to my family. It's an excellent read for young and old alike. I can't recommend it highly enough. Well done, Joy Selak.” Patricia

“This is one of the most beautiful stories I have ever read. The dialogue is just wonderful. The author is a genius, the reader doesn't really know what decade this takes place in, but that isn't necessary. The truths in the story are what's real.” Nancy

Eternal thanks to you Patricia and Nancy. You make it all worthwhile.

A White Life

I was going through my mother’s files after she passed away and found a gift that I gave her decades ago. It was a collection of short poems I wrote, which I made into a booklet with a hand-drawn bouquet of flowers on the cover. The inscription read—To Mother. At the end, I wrote this note:

Dear Mom, Sorry this couldn’t have been nicer. But you know it’s to you especially anyway.   I really do appreciate you even though I don’t always show it. Your Loving Daughter, JOY

She added her own note to one of the poems, titled A Life for a Life, which read—'This is right after the Kennedy murder’. I was 16-years-old when John Kennedy’s motorcade drove by our high school in San Antonio, and we all stood along the road cheering as he passed. The next day I was in chorus class sitting near the back of the room when a messenger came to the door. He couldn’t get our teacher’s attention, so he stepped over to me and whispered, “When he stops talking, tell him the president has been shot.” I sat with that news, alone, for many long minutes. And, like so many Americans, I was watching live television when Lee Harvey Oswald was also shot. A Life for a Life reads:

A man murdered, was tried and also murdered. What right have we to take a life for a life. There were two, now there are none, There could have been one.

We thought after John Kennedy, then Bobby, then Martin Luther King, that we were done. Then came Vietnam, and the recession of the 1970’s, and we were done. Then 9/11 and George Floyd and we are just now learning about the Tulsa Massacre—a hundred years ago. Now it seems this is life, every week, week after week—shootings, racial violence, mindless hatred and long hidden history rising to the surface.

We are not nearly done. At best, we are a work in progress and each tragedy gives us a signal, and a chance to do better. As the days of Black Lives Matter have lifted our awareness, here is another poem written by that 16- year-old white girl back in 1963. It is called Persecution:

Today I laughed and sang  What right had I to be so gay. For my people are hurting those Who cannot laugh, For they are black.

Let us hope we leave a world for the next generation that is better. And if not, let us hope that they are better than we are, than we have been.

Catkins and Leafrollers

If you enjoy walking along a trail among the trees as I do, you have probably come into contact with the plants and creatures pictured above. In late winter and early spring, the trail beneath my feet becomes a carpet of long brown buds, eventually collecting in deep drifts along the side of the path. Then a few weeks later I am confronted with dozens and dozens of tiny caterpillars twisting on silk threads, hanging from the oak trees in front of my face. For years I’ve encountered these seasonal events, but never knew what to call the buds or the caterpillars. 

So, finally, I looked them up. The brown buds are called Catkins. Miriam defines them as: “a spicate inflorescence (as of the willow, birch, or oak) bearing scaly bracts and unisexual usually apetalous flowers — called also ament”.

While that definition is meaningless to me, the name Catkins is charming. More simply stated, the Catkins are the buds growing on the oak trees in the spring. They are the male flowers which then shed the oak pollen. I doubt I need to define oak pollen to anyone from Central Texas, especially those who suffer from seasonal allergies.

Even more interesting are the Leafrollers. They are defined as: “any of various lepidopterans whose larvae make a nest by rolling up plant leaves”.

In simple language, these are caterpillars that spin their silk to roll leaves, inside of which they will lay their eggs, which then hatch to become the Leafroller Moth, as pictured above. The larvae of these moths actually eat the leaves in which they are born and is the reason why most of the literature on this species is focused on how to get rid of them.

Not me. I find them beautiful, and their names equally captivating. Now, every year I will look for and welcome the Catkins and the Leafrollers as a welcome sign of spring. The pollen, not so much.