Sandy Huth's Blog

Take a look at my newest book, Secrets in the Middle.  I have to admit, it was inspired by my recent love of watching British crime dramas.  No, it’s not set in England, but the elements of family secrets and surprising twists are there.  I first got hooked on these mysteries by watching Broadchurch (check it out on Netflix) and somewhere halfway through the riveting seasons, I realized I had turned into my parents who faithfully watched Murder, She Wrote every Sunday night while I rolled my eyes.  The title of my newest work was inspired by a line from a Robert Frost poem:

We dance round in a ring and suppose,

But the Secret sits in the middle and knows

It made me think of how many families have secrets that sit in the middle; no one talks about them, but they are always there.  How would you react if a stranger entered your world and uncovered those secrets, one by one?  Would your family survive the truth being exposed?

Take a look at Secrets in the Middle and let me know what you think.  Free this weekend on Amazon:[image error]

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Considering our current global health crisis, thinking about dying and death has been on the forefront of the minds of many of us.  I work in a hospital treating Covid patients and I must admit many of my recent dreams (otherwise known as nightmares) have been about finding out I’m sick and have little time left on this earth.  Last night, I dreamt I was very ill and needed immediate treatment.  My husband decided to take me out for a day of fun before the treatment began.  He told me there were things he had always wanted to do with me before either of us died.  Sounds sweet, I know, but my dreams rarely have sweet aspects to them.  Without going into much detail, he had forgotten to bring a mask with us so everyone was running from me, I was bleeding from parts of my body that were quite concerning, and he kept disappearing, leaving me sitting alone on a park bench.  My inability to have happy dreams is a topic for another day.  It did get me to thinking, though, what would you do if you had only one year to live?  If you were not restricted by health limitations or finances, how would you spend your last 365 days? In the real world, I spend my waking hours working at my paying job (speech-language pathologist), working at my semi-paying job (writer), and working at my non-paying job (managing a household).  Throw in the extras, like commuting time, watching Jeopardy, and stealthily staring out the window to figure out what my neighbors are building in their back yard…and you get the picture.  Like most of us, we don’t spend a lot of time in preferred activities.  Don’t get me wrong–I love my jobs, all of them, but is that how I would spend my last 365 days?  No way.  I want to see the Highlands of Scotland where my ancestors once trod.  I want to learn how to paddle board.  I want to hold hands with my husband while we marvel at the Alps.  I want to sit at an outdoor cafe in Italy and talk to the locals.  Hopefully their command of the English language is better than mine of Italian.  Oh yeah, I want to learn Italian.  I want to read my grandson his first Dr. Seuss book.  Side note, he’s due in 109 days so I would still have time to make that happen.  I could go on forever.  I think it’s a good practice to think about what you would do in your last year if you had that freedom.  It won’t change much in reality–I still need to work, I still need an obsessively clean home, I still need to figure out these neighbors…but it does remind us of what a quality life is really about.  Over the past 3 months, I’ve watched people die.  I had a “frequent-flyer” patient who was hospitalized for another health issue when she contracted Covid.  The day before she went into respiratory arrest and was diagnosed with the virus, I was leaving her room after a treatment session.  She called after me, “I love you, you know.”  Now, I don’t usually answer in like when patients say they love me.  I’ll say “thank you” or “that’s sweet of you to say.”  On this day, however, her emotional declaration struck a chord in me and I responded, “I love you, too.”  And I did.  I loved her spirit and her continued will to live.  I loved her open manner of expressing her feelings.  I never spoke with her again due to her quick decline and death but it was quality moment in my life and in hers.  Learning to stand upright on a paddle board might never happen for me, but making connections with others is doable, for 365 days and beyond.

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When I was a child, dinner was a mandatory event.  There was no television, no smartphones (geez, it was the 70s!), and absolutely no rolling of the eyes.  We were given a serving of meat, starch, and vegetable.  There was always a plate of sliced bread and butter on a dish.  We each got a full 16 ounces of milk, including my parents.  If we cleaned our plates, we got dessert.  It was a worthy reward after making it through canned spinach and cooked-within-an-inch of its life pork chops.  To this day, I crave dessert at the end of dinner even though my husband is a much better cook than my mother ever was.

The food was terrible but the conversation wasn’t.  My dad was of Scotch-Irish heritage and had learned the fine art of story-telling.  My mom wasn’t so bad at it either.  Every dinner was filled with tales from long ago or from even just that day.  Sometimes, there was even a serial aspect to it.  For weeks on end one summer in the early eighties, my dad would come home and brag about his waitress at a diner he was frequenting daily.  Nadine.  He regaled us with stories of her excellency in service, her friendly demeanor, and her name written in glitter down the side of her jeans.  My dad was smitten.  My younger brother and I used to look at each other across the table and send silent messages about our dad falling in love with Nadine.  My mother would look on, slightly annoyed, but seemingly not too bothered.

Finally, one evening, Dad said something about Nadine’s physical appearance that made our ears perk up.  I don’t even remember what he said, but I remember asking, “How old is Nadine?”  My dad replied, “I don’t know…like mid-70’s?”  That’s the day we realized my father really, really valued a good waitress.  He wasn’t in love with HER, he was in love with her serving him a good lunch.

I miss those days.  Dinner was a thing, it was important.  It was where we learned our family history.  It’s where we discovered things about each other.  It’s where we solidified our bond as a family.

I’ve tried my best as I raised my own children to keep that family tradition alive, but we live in different times.  We are obsessed with the 24 hour news cycle and can’t possibly turn it off long enough to share a 20 minute meal with each other.  We do manage to find time, however, to talk over the news, to tell stories, to laugh together.  As a new generation of my family is due to make his appearance this autumn, I have plans to continue this family tradition of sharing a meal and sharing memories.  I can’t wait to tell my first grandchild all about Nadine.

I welcome your comments on your favorite family tradition!

I watch as my mother sobs helplessly, hopelessly, her shoulders shaking and her face a mask of grief.

“Remember our new rule, Mom?” I ask her.  “No more tears.”

My mother, her eyes clouded with confusion, looks up at me.  Her eyes don’t focus on me, but I know she’s aware of my presence.  She gasps in tiny bursts as she tries to control her emotions.  “Just one more,” she promises.

Just one more, I think to myself.  That’s the unspoken mantra that haunts my life.  Just one more day when things were normal.  Just one more minute with my father before cancer squeezed the last breath from his lungs.  Just one more hope that my mother isn’t lost to me forever.

This is her life now.  A second-story unit built to prevent escape, decorated with remnants of the past.  Each room has a mock front porch, complete with hanging plants and birdhouses.  The communal room has a large-screen television which plays an endless loop of movies and television shows from their past.  Photos of men in uniform and women in wedding gowns are everywhere; they were young men and women with dreams and hopes and fears.  They were once us.

“Hey,” I say, trying again.  “Do you want to see pictures from the wedding?”

She nods eagerly and I open the folder on my phone.  “Here are the boys,” I say, referring to her grandsons.  “Look how much they’ve grown.”

She laughs loudly, the tears forgotten.  “Look at their hair!” she crows, amused by my nephews’ love for long locks.

I show her a picture of the bride next, a young woman my mother has never met.  “Oh,” my mother says on a happy sigh, “I’ve always loved her the best.”

I open my mouth to continue the conversation before I realize my mother has moved on.  Her attention span is brief and flits around her condensed world like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.  She claps her hands repetitively, makes raspberry sounds with her lips, and stands, unsteady in her new shoes.  Her shoes have been a battle lately.  She prefers to be barefooted; perhaps in her mind, she’s the little girl from Kentucky again, climbing trees and skipping rope with no thoughts of restrictive clothing.

I watch her approach an elderly man.  She hugs him and kisses his bald head.  Does she think he’s her husband?  Does she just enjoy the affection?  It’s a mystery that will never be solved.  The time for questions and answers is long gone.  I’m just happy she still knows how to show warmth.

I look at my watch and see my lunch break is over.  I follow her down the hallway as she wanders aimlessly, trying locked doors and wringing her hands.  I give her a kiss and tell her I’ll be back later.  The word “good-bye” upsets her.

“I love you, Mom,” I say.

“You love me?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn together.  She’s not sure who I am any longer.

“I do.  You’re my mom.”

Her face clears.  “Oh.  Okay.”  She smiles briefly.  “Be careful.”  These are words from her past.  “Be careful,” she would call after me as I would race out of the house, a friend beeping their horn in the driveway.  Be careful.

I study her lined face.  Beyond the thinning hair, the wasting muscles, the perpetually confused countenance, my mother is in there somewhere.  I have a memory of the two of us from decades ago.  She is trying to teach me to swim.  I am afraid of going under.  I don’t like the sensation of water surrounding my head.  We hold hands, facing each other.  “We’ll do it together,” she says with her big smile.  “One, two, three…”

I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.

“Just one more,” I whisper and lean in to kiss her again.

[image error]I’m in love.  The US Women’s Soccer team is worthy of love.  They are strong, confident, no-excuses women.  Early in the tournament, they racked up the points against their opponents and the critics pounced, like vultures waiting for a reason to insult and demean.  I guess it wasn’t lady-like to kick butt.  They should have nicer, kinder, gentler and controlled their athletic talents and ambitions, it was said.  Why? I respond.  Why are women always being judged on what is appropriate and feminine?  Who should get to decide that?  I propose every single woman gets to decide that for herself.

I write about strong women.  One of my favorites is Charlotte from The Ghosts of Wolf Island Creek.  I think I like her so much because she evolves from a timid, lost soul to a time-traveling super-woman.  I look at this picture of Megan Rapinoe and picture Charlotte as she leaves the present day world for the last time to travel 200 years back in time, where she knew she belonged.  Look at me world…I’m strong and smart and in charge of my own decisions.

I doubt Charlotte played a mean game of soccer but I like to think she and Megan Rapinoe share a confidence.  They know exactly who they are, what their value is, and how worthy they are of being loved.

The Ghosts of Wolf Island Creek

It’s hard to believe it’s been 3 years since I last wrote.  My last post was called “the return of me” or something equally as lofty.  It’s hard for me to even go back and read those old posts.  That person isn’t me any longer.  My renewed hope over my father’s response to treatment was short-lived and he died that same year.  My mother’s mild dementia spiraled downward after the loss of the love of her life and I went from being a daughter to being a care-taker.  My sons moved to another city for work and school, my husband’s job kept him on the road most of the time, and our dog died.  My gray hair seemed to sprout out of nowhere and my hands reminded me of my mother’s.  You get the picture.

I wandered around my big empty house, randomly cleaning closets and painting rooms.  I convinced myself I was getting things done.  I was wrong, though.  I was just passing time.  My creative juices seemed dried up and I was afraid to sit down at my computer and prove to myself that my writing days were over.

Maybe I was depressed.  Maybe I was going through a mid-life crisis.  Maybe I was frozen by anxiety.  Maybe I was angry.  Maybe all of those things.  Call it what you will; there are transformative times in our lives where you either come out the other side beaten and broken or…just different.  I’m just different now.  I’m not better, necessarily, or healed or rejuvenated.  I’m just different.

I’m ready to try writing again but I don’t even know what it will look like.  I still love romance, I still love the paranormal, I still love history.  Will the emotion and the tenor be different, though?  Will I still love happy endings?  I’m not sure yet but I’m ready to give it another go.

It’s kind of ironic the last book I wrote was about a young woman who struggled to find her way back to who she had once been, to doing what she had once loved.  I say it’s ironic because that’s exactly what I’ve been going through for the past couple of months.  I have not written a word, or even had the desire to do so.  There has been an illness in my family and things were looking pretty dire.  It’s amazing how your creative juices can be completely doused when your entire being is consumed with the uncertainty and fear of losing a loved one.  When we write, the words come from our heart, from our soul.  If those parts of you are already at capacity, there is little time or desire to tell a story.  My son, who is an aspiring writer himself, was told by a co-worker that his book was not good.  I wondered if that person knew how painful that can be to a writer who has just put part of themselves on a platter for the world to dissect and hopefully treat kindly.  I have a feeling not.  Anyway, for as dire as the prognosis of my loved one was, there is a new ray of hope.  He is responding to an experimental treatment and the dark cloud that has been hanging over our family has scuttled quietly to the west.  Still there, still within our vision, but moving far enough away to allow a little bit of light into our world.  So for now….I can write.

  I’m so happy to announce the release “The Return” which is the final installment of “The Gift Trilogy.”  I have to be honest, writing a trilogy was a lot harder than I thought it would be.  You have to stay true to the previous stories and fact-check constantly.  When I write, it’s kind of like letting horses run wild and I let my mind go wherever it wants.  Writing a trilogy, though, demands a bit more discipline.  I just loved the characters so much in the first book, I wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to them and felt the secondary characters had a story to tell.  Beyond the obvious pride in a finished novel, there is something very special about this book to me  The cover was shot by my brother, Tim Harding (@4thandWoodPics on Twitter).  Like me, he works in the medical field, but photography, short films, and writing are his true loves.  Just like me, our jobs feed the family but our art feeds our souls.  One more side note about this book.  My husband, Mike, is always asking when he’s going to see himself in one of my books.  He would never recognize himself, I’m sure, but there were certain aspects of the main male character, Sean, that I patterned after Mike.  Easy-going but stubborn, very physically driven, and the ability to put up with a moody female…yep, that’s my husband.  Also, I put in this short scene where Angelina finds out macho Sean uses custom-ordered French-milled soap.  My husband ordered a case of coconut-lime shampoo and conditioner that was not available in stores and I haven’t stopped teasing him about it.  I hope you enjoy my new book and have a peaceful holiday season filled with books.

Who of us hasn’t gotten lost in a book?  I remember once I carried a book in my car and every time I hit a red light, I read another paragraph.  Isn’t it the most delicious feeling in the world to be sucked into the world of your characters?  As a writer, it is the best compliment ever to tell a writer that you stayed up all night reading their book.  “I couldn’t put it down.”  Bam!  Writer nirvana.  When you write, you fall in love with your characters and you want your readers to feel the same way.  You want the reader to care.  Tears are always good, too.  When one of the main characters in “The Happiest Day” passed away (no spoilers!), I cried like a baby.  I really hope someone besides me cared that the character died, otherwise I’m just a weirdo.  BTW, I think the above picture is me in another life.

I hope you take a look at my newest book, “The Torment.”  It is a sequel to “The Gift” and the first time I’ve written a sequel.  The character of Brendan, introduced at the end of “The Gift” caught my attention and I felt compelled to tell his story.  I’m not really sure why I couldn’t shake Brendan but I have a confession to make.  I’m a priest-lover.  In my other career, I have had the opportunity to work with several religious-retired and I have yet to meet a priest I didn’t like.  I’m fascinated by the choices that they make and the grace and dignity with which they face health crises.  In my newest book, Brendan tells Angelina that he became a priest because his father had wanted him to, having been denied his own desire to enter the priesthood due to family responsibilities.  This was the true story of one of my patients, a retired priest, who was quite content with his choice in vocation.  His father, had been the one who had really wanted to be a priest but he was called upon to help support the mother and siblings by taking over the family business.  My patient, and all of his siblings, entered the religious life almost as an homage to their father who had died early in life.  Again, the man I knew loved his life and had no regrets but I went a different direction with Brendan.  I had some difficulties with his character development, I must admit.  Brendan suffers from an addiction which prevents him from forming relationships and I had to do several re-writes to make sure that he remained strong and masculine in the face of his weaknesses.  It will always amaze me how just one word or one phrase can entirely change the perception of the character.  I hope you enjoy “The Torment” and keep your eyes peeled for the third in “The Gift” series, coming soon!

The Torment only available on Amazon.com