Chelo Diaz-Ludden's Blog

                                                               Aiden and Smoky                                                       Rachel, Aiden, Smoky, Gary        He was a six-week old Malamute, a grey puff ball that looked like a baby bear. We called him Smokey. When we got him home he had diarrhea and was throwing up so we took him to the vet. I sat him on the exam table and he slowly sunk down into a lying position. Doc Falduto’s eyes said that he didn’t think the little guy was going to

A sister is both your mirror - and your opposite.Elizabeth FishelSistersMy sisters and I all look alike. We also sound alike. Strangers or people who don’t know us well are always mixing us up, and when we look at old baby photos, we get mixed up ourselves and have to ask mom, “Which one is it?” Sometimes I suspect that she uses the background, which house we were living in, or which curtains were on the windows, for clues. Or, if she is in the picture, I think she uses her hairstyle as a time gauge.I remember once that Lita and I were looking at a photograph of the two of us in our thirties and I laughed at her funny looking flowered pants. She said, “That’s you.” I said, “I would never wear pants like that.” She replied, “You went through a real dork phase.” Then I kind of remembered those pants. Leave it to a sister.The connection between us runs deep. We share not only genes, but a lot of history. Hence, an essential part of my identity comes from my sisters. As Air Force brats, we moved around a lot. I never minded it, and looked forward to a chance to start over and improve myself. Even at a young age I was dissatisfied. But I always had my family, especially my sisters, with me.Then I moved from Spokane, Washington to San Diego, California without them. What a shock. I found myself in a city where no one knew that although I was considered good with words, I often mixed them up, said left, when I meant right, etcetera. No one knew that I majored in malapropisms. No one laughed affectionately at my clumsiness. No one knew that I could be funny, cried too easily and loved books.No one knew my history. That my writing career began in a rocking chair holding Liana and writing songs for her. That we used to swim in the irrigation ditch. That my sister Lita and I, who were supposed to be watching Liana, forgot about her and she almost drowned, and yes, she still loves us. No one knew that we had a grandfather from Sweden who hid mints in the top drawer which we occasionally sneaked. There are a parts of me that only my sisters know.I trust them with that mirror. We share so much, we are all creative, kind and honest. And yet in many ways, I’m not like them. I’m the liberal, the writer, the rebel. But I couldn’t have chosen better people to help form me, which is maybe why I wrote The Second Crack, a novel about sisterhood and independence. You can read the first ten pages, or find links to buy it on my website http://www.chelodiazludden.com/Discla... – This is fiction. None of us have ever lived in South Africa, run a coffeehouse, or disappeared.This is a repost of an original guest post I did at the blog http://personaljourneyswithgramma.com/

A sister is both your mirror - and your opposite. Elizabeth Fishel   Sisters   My sisters and I all look alike. We also sound alike. Strangers or people who don’t know us well are always mixing us up, and when we look at old baby photos, we get mixed up ourselves and have to ask mom, “Which one is it?” Sometimes I suspect that she uses the background, which house we were living in, or which curtains were on the windows, for clues. Or, if she is in the picture, I think she uses her hairstyle as a

In honor of Poem in Your Pocket Day, here’s one of my favorites. The song is one I sometimes sing to myself during a writing break. Thank you Judy Reeves for the reminder.                 Danse Russe By William Carlos Williams   If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,— if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: “I am

I took personal interest in the story about Ashley Jiron, a restaurant owner who noticed that someone had been going through her garbage. She posted a note on the dumpster for whoever had eaten out of her garbage to come into P B Jams and get a decent meal. I admire her empathy and her courage. She offered a meal to someone who many of us would consider scary, a possible addict or psychotic. But even addicts and psychotics need to eat in order to live, and if they can manage to live then there is hope that one day they can dig themselves out of the garbage.I was also struck by this story because I recently published a novel, The Second Crack, in which Anne, a coffee house owner, leaves Bicycle Bob a sack lunch on top of her dumpster.“Through the window in the back door, I saw him rip open the garbage bag, pull out a piece of bagel and stuff it into his mouth. Then he dug around looking for more food, spilling banana peels and eggshells all over the ground, which I knew I’d have to clean up. When he shoved a chunk of quiche covered in coffee grounds into his mouth, my stomach lurched. You read about people eating out of dumpsters all the time, but it’s different watching someone eat your garbage. And there was something about his face, the bluish hollow below his cheekbones; that got to me.The next morning I peered out the window, waiting for him. Sun glinted off the dumpster’s new silver lock. On top of the lid, I’d left a brown sack. Inside was a ham and cheese sandwich on whole wheat, chips, and a pear. A few minutes later Bob rode up on a rusted-out, baby blue bicycle with silver stripes and no back fender... With a brown-toothed grin, he tore open the sack, flipped open the sandwich, nodded, then shoveled it into his mouth. The pear he consumed in five bites, core and all. But he put the potato chips into the wire basket that was duct taped to the handle bars… I went back to work, satisfied that he wouldn’t starve and he couldn’t make himself sick on my garbage.”Anne feeds Bob the same food she serves her customers, just like Ashley.I have a friend who used to live in San Francisco and every morning when she walked to work she encountered panhandlers. Not wanting to give them money to feed their habit, she decided to hand out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Most of the time she was met with gratitude.I think of the humble PB and J sandwich and how its role in feeding the hungry can be heroic. For those of you who think these people don’t deserve a sandwich, I ask — who benefits if somebody starves?Below is a link to the story.https://gma.yahoo.com/oklahoma-restaurant-owner-leaves-note-inviting-dumpster-diver-160612549--abc-news-Recipes.html?soc_src=mediacontentsharebuttons&soc_trk=ma

I took personal interest in the story about Ashley Jiron, a restaurant owner who noticed that someone had been going through her garbage. She posted a note on the dumpster for whoever had eaten out of her garbage to come into P B Jams and get a decent meal. I admire her empathy and her courage. She offered a meal to someone who many of us would consider scary, a possible addict or psychotic. But even addicts and psychotics need to eat in order to live, and if they can manage to live then there

Early in my novel The Second Crack Anne makes her sister Suz Mexican Coffee, impressing her twin with the mini fireworks display and rich flavor. You can use the recipe below to impress that someone special too. A word of caution, if you drink too many, just like in the novel, one of you may go missing.      

  I hate to admit this. After all, I spent years researching and writing a novel that explores Mandela’s effect, in one way or another, on most of the characters. I just published it late this year. Flash back to the 1980s with numerous township protests in South Africa, international governments declaring the country ungovernable, and the South African government declaring a state of emergency. What am I doing? Living my life, working part time, going to school and raising two girls. One day

I hate to admit this. After all, I spent years researching and writing a novel that explores Mandela’s effect, in one way or another, on most of the characters. I just published it late this year. Flash back to the 1980s with numerous township protests in South Africa, international governments declaring the country ungovernable, and the South African government declaring a state of emergency. What am I doing? Living my life, working part time, going to school and raising two girls.One day I’m at a street fair in San Diego and there is a T-shirt booth. One with a lion in dreadlocks catches my eye. The vendor explains how the lion is a Rasta symbol of the strength required to carry on despite opression. We talk about Africa, then specifically South Africa. He explains how it is really two countries, how they are in a civil war, and how the government has imprisoned Mandela because he tried to free his people. I sympathize, buy the T-shirt and go on with my life.Jump forward twenty years. I’m writing a novel about sisters and one of its themes is what makes us come out of our own skin and spend some time inside another’s long enough to care, long enough to do something. I’m out of school and the girls are grown. I have more time. I read in the news that a statue of Mandela has been erected in Sandton Square, Johannesburg. Mandela is once again on my radar. I research his life and come to understand that he is one of the great men of my lifetime. My book changes, its scope grows wider. So does my heart.Better late than never.

When I wrote The Second Crack I wanted to explore what drives us to help each other – to help our sister or nephew, to help our neighbor, to help a stranger on another continent. And some of the answer may be - because it makes us feel better, more noble. But even more fundamental is that it makes us feel that we are a necessary thread in this tapestry we call life.   That said, how far do we go, how much do we give up for that Afghan girl thirsty for an education or that hungry wounded boy in