10 Years of Weather History in 3 Minutes

Firstborn and Fearless

My oldest daughter, Sarah, will be turning 35, tomorrow—August 8, 2013.

It's hard for me to comprehend that she is that old—mostly because it makes me old enough to have a 35-year-old daughter.

And she has given me two of the best grandchildren for whom a grandmother can hope—Hannah Jean and Michael Rush.

Sarah, being the first child, had to put up with her mother’s, well, quirks, for lack of a better word. (idiot-syncrasies?)

Everything she touched and anyone who touched her had to be sterilized. It was so bad, that my sister-in-law, Sue Pierce (now Birkle), who was living with us in the townhouse in Montgomery, Ohio, had to move out because I was making her crazy.

Thank God I had my mother and my mother-in-law (Mary Carol Pierce, may she rest in peace) living close by to take my emergency phone calls.

Case in point, a call to my mother went something like this:

Me: “Sarah has just projectile vomited all over the kitchen!”

Ma: “Where is she now?”

“I have her secured to her changing table”

“On her back?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, nuts? She’ll choke if she vomits again!”

“Oh. My. God. I am a horrible mother!”

When Sarah was nine months old, I got pregnant with her sister, Amanda. When Amanda was two years old and Sarah barely four, we were shopping at Gold Circle in Tri-County Plaza in Cincinnati. Sarah thought it was a hoot to hide in the circular clothing displays and jump out at me.

At one point, Sarah stopped jumping out at me. I searched all of the clothing displays in the area, and was starting to freak out more than just a little.

Then, over the store loudspeaker, I hear this: “Will the mother of Sarah Kathryn Pierce please come to the Customer Service desk at the front of the store to claim her daughter?”

I am thankful my four-year old was savvy enough to find her way there, and was not snatched along the way. Thankful. Every. Day. Needless to say, although I AM saying it, I kept an eagle eye on that child from then on.

As she grew older, she posed more of a challenge, as the oldest child usually does. The oldest is the “practice child.” You work out all the kinks in your parenting style.

Thankfully, she has always had a marvelous sense of humor.

She’s shorter than my other two daughters are. Shorter than most people, I think. Amanda is about 5’9” and Samantha, my youngest, is even taller. I used to look at her when we were asked to stand up in church for prayer or a hymn and say, “Sarah, stand up!” even though she already was. It stopped being funny very quickly.

She also has one heck of a temper. Do NOT mess with her family. Sam, the youngest, had a fear of condiments when she was a child—especially catsup. If we went through a drive-thru and they put anything but pickles on Sam’s hamburger, Sarah would leap from the car and read the manager the riot act. (Sarah was a manager with McDonald’s for years and knew the drill.)

My favorite memory of Sarah, besides being present at the birth of both my grandchildren, is driving with her in her car when we lived in Columbus. All of a sudden, my car window rolled down.

Me: “Why’d you open my window?”

Sarah: “I didn’t!”

Then the window rolled halfway up.

Then it rolled down again. And it kept right on doing this until we got back to the house.

We got to laughing so hard at the haunted car window that we were in tears.

Then there was the time she went to the local do-it-yourself car wash and took our dachshund, Gretel, with her. Gretel stepped on the door-locking button while Sarah was washing the car. Sarah spent I don’t know how long trying to talk the dog into unlocking the door by stepping on the button again. I think she finally flagged down a cop.

Thirty-five years. Half a lifetime for some. My wish and prayer for Sarah on her birthday is this:

• Love God.

• Be you.

• Be happy.

• Love your children.

• Love your mother.

• And, if possible … become a millionaire so you can support me in my advancing years.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, firstborn and fearless!

The Life of an Independent Contractor

Being an independent contractor—or freelancer—can be described in many ways. I choose to use the words of a writer much more famous than me to do so:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. …" (A Tale of Two Cities)

Charles Dickens could well have been describing the 37 years I've spent as an independent contractor.

One the one hand, I have had the freedom to work from home, to work while I travel, to work the hours I choose, and to do the work I enjoy.

On the other hand, I have had to work into the wee hours of the morning—three days straight at one time—in order to meet a deadline, work on vacation, work through holidays, work when I'm sick, and taken work I did not enjoy in order to pay my bills.

That said, I would not, at this juncture in my career as a freelance writer, editor, copyeditor, proofreader, ghostwriter, fixer of all things grammatical, choose any other way of life.

Well, maybe I would choose to work in the Florida Keys surrounded by six-toed cats, but in lieu of that, working from my home office is my idea of the best workplace environment.

Again, that said, the work has not always been sufficient to pay the bills, let alone appease any longing for luxury goods. In "the best of times", freelancing is feast or famine, and lately, it ain't been the best of times, Charlie.

The publishing world suffered a major setback, as did most every other business, in the economic downturn of the past few years. Newspapers have halted their presses. Publishing houses have closed their books. Magazines have folded. Not only has this affected who is willing to buy my work, or hire me for any editorial work, it has also let loose into the freelance pool a whole slew of displaced writers and editors, some willing to work for much less than I can afford to.

Nevertheless, my experience has served me well over the past 37 years. Experience still counts to many companies, or to the author who needs a tested and successful editor to polish their manuscript. Someone always has a story to tell, a thesis to write, a fact to check, or a website to fill with interesting and informative content.

The key is, and always has been, to 'pound the pavement' every single day, network like there's no tomorrow, study your craft, study someone else's craft, expand your knowledge, venture into new territory, and, when all else fails, sell a kidney.

And really, at the end of the day, I can still say, with Dickens:

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. …"