5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Stephen King, prior to becoming famous for his writing, worked at a gas station, and in a laundramat. His wife worked at Dunkin’ Donuts. His writing office was the furnace room of his trailer home. “CARRIE” was published in 1973, “THE SHINING” in 1977.  Paperback rights for CARRIE sold for $400,000 and the only thing he could think of to buy was a hair dryer for his wife!

THREE KEYS TO SUCCESS, according to U. S. International University Prof. Robert Epstein, are:

1. MODIFY YOUR  ENVIRONMENT. 2. MONITOR YOUR BEHAVIOR, 3. MAKE COMMITMENTS.

Today, choose one thing you’d like to change about yourself,  choose which one of the above would most help you make the change, and then use it.

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5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Since my books are about LOVE, for Valentine’s Day I’m sharing a scene from my latest book. I admit I’m a hopeless romantic and offer no apology.

Maggie is being given a tour of Jack’s home:

Page 174: Jack was pleased at how she moved about his things, studying the house with genuine interest. His gaze followed her from room to room; his imaginization seeing her waiting when he came home at night. Steady, Jack, don’t get carried away.

At the back of the house, a rectangular-shaped window-filled room overlooked a large secluded garden. Two towering magnolia trees stood like sentinels at each back corner of the yard. Pink and white oleanders softened an enclosing brick fence. A seemingly abandoned guest cottage with a front porch sat intimately between the magnolias.

      “I think your house has great possibilities, Jack. It has charm and more than adequate space to work with. What more could you want?”

     They walked out onto a covered porch. Jack watched as Megan wandered into the yrd alone, observing the various azalea bushes, gardenias, and a bed of neglected amaryllis.

     She continued around to the side of the charming cottage, wondering what stories it held within its walls. Against the brick fence an overgrown passion vine crept up the wall and attached itself to the back of the cottage. She picked one of the colorful blossoms, remembering they lasted only three days, representing the three years of Christ’s ministry on earth.

     She looked back toward the porch and stopped dead in her tracks. Jack leaned against a column, his legs crossed at the ankles like he’s just stepped out of a romance novel. Black jeans and black polo shirt did nothing to conceal his marvelous physique. The only thing missing was a long, cool, mint julep in his hand.

     This near perfect man, a vision of contentment and masculinity removed what appeared to be a white meerschaum pipe from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Megan watched as he filled it with tobacco, tapped it down with his forefinger, brought forth a lighter and held it over the bowl while he took deep puffs until it was satisfactorily lit.

     “Jack, what are you doing?” A heart doctor smoking? So, he wasn’t perfect after all.

     “What do you mean? I’m standing here watching a very fetching wood nymph explore my garden.”

     “That pipe.”

     Jack laughed. “Do you mind? It’s my one vice. You women console yourselves with chocolates; I occasionally relax with my pipe.”

     Megan smelled the familiar sweet aroma as she drew closer. Grandfather smoked a pipe and he lived to be ninety-three.

     “Does it offend you?”

     “Not at all; I like it, in fact.” What was not to like.

     She joined him on the porch, breathed deeply of the fragrance, and told him about her grandfather. “I’m just surprised that you would smoke.”

     “Only occasionally.” He held the bowl in his nicely sculptured hand and studied it like an old friend. “I follow the same advice I give my patients - don’t smoke cigarettes.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “And I don’t inhale.”

     If smoking a pipe was his only vice, how could she object? Besides, it added one more aspect to his masculinity profile. Also, a pipe was a perfect prop for a writer. Good Lord - a physician, a pianist, a singer, unparalleled charm, as well as a would-be writer. Her heart didn’t stand a chance.

     “What have we here?” he asked as he took the red flower and placed it above her ear.

     “It’s called a passionflower,” she told him, with emphasis on passion. She knew she was flirting but couldn’t have cared less.

     “Really; and why is that?”

     She ignored his teasing, removed the flower from her hair and held it up to show why the flower was so named. “Seriously, the red symbolizes the blood of Christ shed on the cross. See, it has ten petals and sepals that represent the ten apostles present at the crucifixion; the five stamens represent the five wounds, and three styles represent the three nails. These tendrils represent the ropes and scourges; and three secondary leaf bracts - the holy trinity.”

     “That’s amazing. So you’re not only an artist, you’re also an horticulturist and a student of divinity?”

     Megan turned and looked out over the yard. “No, not really, but I do enjoy gardening and the study of flora and fauna. With a little attention, this yard could be lovely.”

     “You can dig in my garden anytime you wish.” He took the flower and gently placed it back in her hair.   Etc.

 Please leave a comment, ask a question, or otherwise inquire about my painting and writing. And, may love be good to you.

Marie

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5. February 2010 by Marie Pinschmidt.

Remember when you were a kid and spent hours making valentine cards, and how excited you were to receive the red heart with a cupid’s arrow from the cutest boy or girl in class, and the giggles and teasing that went along with it? Then, so quickly, we were grown up and the emphasis was on the red cellophane-covered box of chocolates, or a bouquet of red roses if we were abundantly cherished.

Regardless of age, we recall things as they used to be, the endless possibilities for a life filled with love - that one perfect love. In my youth, I don’t recall there was much ado about the fact that it all began with a Saint? Even today, we seldom hear the word associated with Valentine’s Day. Allow me to remind you of the origin of this special love-filled day of celebration. 

And so the legend goes: Long ago, a man named Saint Valentine died for his beliefs. He was a prisoner of an evil king because of his belief in God. He refused to deny it; but then God sent a miracle.

Saint Valentine had a great love for his wife and wanted her to know of his love one last time before his execution. One day a pigeon appeared at the prison window - a pigeon he recognized as one from his home. Before his imprisonment, he and his children loved to feed the birds and this special one would eat right out of their hand. The appearance of his little friend brought him much comfort. He shared bits of food with the spotted creature and wondered about his problem - how he could prove his love.

A rosebush also grew near the prison window and on it bloomed one beautiful red rose. It was so close he could touch it and smell its fragrance. It reminded him of the love he felt for his wife. Since he had neither paper or pen, he wondered how he might get a message to her. Then an idea came to him; he could share the rose with his wife. He reached through the bars and carefully plucked the rose from the stem. Thorns pricked his fingers until they bled, but he didn’t feel the pain.

He decided to write words of love on the rose petals and give them to the pigeon, and hoped the bird would take the petals and fly away to his house. He held onto the hope that his wife would find them and know that he still loved her.

His prison bed was a lowly pile of straw. He plucked a piece of straw and used the sharp end to press the words, “I love you” on the petals of the rose. The bird would take the petals from his hand and quickly fly away. He continued this every day until all the petals were gone. 

On the appointed day for his execution, emissaries of the king asked him again if he would renounce his belief in God. He refused to do so. Guards removed Saint Valentine from his cell and cut off his head. He had been true and faithful, true to his love for his wife, true to his love for his God. True love demanded a price and he paid it.

Great iron bars at the window kept the prisoner in, but the bars did not keep Saint Valentine from sending out his love. Saint Valentine was free.

 You might ask, “If he were in prison with bars at the window, how could he be free?”

The ansswer is: When you love, and when you believe in something as strongly as did Saint Valentine, no one can lock away your love. A jailor can imprison you, but not your feelings; they remain safe in your heart.

When bad things happen, if a person feels love for someone and believes in something, his belief sets him free. The Valentine card is a symbol of love for others and the rose is a symbol of hope and the sharing of that love.

When you see a rose, think of how Saint Valentine loved his wife and family, then look for someone you can love in the same way. Every rose will then have a special meaning. Bleeding from thorns shouldn’t hurt; they are an important part of life. Love is more meaningful and grows stronger if one can overcome the thorns.

To quote James Michael Pratt, the author of  THE LAST VALENTINE, “As long as love is alive, the dead never die. It’s not in the end alone that we love, but along the way. A love that endures the thorns of life calls out to us. When we listen, it lights the ground on which we walk and we know that we’re not alone. When the flame of life flickers out and is no more, the love you showed to others will light the ground for them to walk upon.” 

I wish all of you a love-filled Valentine’s Day. Since I write books about love, this particular celebratory day is special to me.  Cherish that special love if you have it, and don’t give up hope if you have yet to experience it. And remember, if there are no pigeons nearby, there are numerous ways you can send out the message of love to those around you.

Until next time - Marie

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