Sharon Short, Author
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Farewell, Sweet Cosmo

10/29/2014

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PictureCosmo Short, 2001-2014
Eleven-plus years ago, our first (and only) family dog came into our lives.

Our kids (ages 9 and 11) had been campaigning for some time for a dog, even crafting a faux dog from an old milk carton and dragging the plastic pooch through the kitchen on a yarn leash every night while I made dinner.

What can I say? Cat lady though I am, I was finally worn down.

Our daughters had grown up enjoying visits with their godmother's beagle, so it only made sense to us to consider adopting a beagle. If we were going to adopt a dog at all. Which we definitely weren't, my husband and I assured one another one sunny Sunday summer afternoon in 2003, on a "let's just visit" trip to a beagle rescue near Columbus, called Beagles RRRRRR Us.

Ten minutes after we arrived, this smart funny little 2-year-old beagle focused on the most reluctant-to-adopt-a-dog member of our family, my husband. The beagle hopped into his lap, gave my husband a big wet beagle kiss on the cheek... and an hour or so later, we were on our way home with the beagle.

Within a few days, we settled on the name Cosmo, as in Cosmo Brown, as in the hilarious character from Singing In The Rain who does the fantastic song-and-dance "Make 'Em Laugh," because our new beagle had already done just that... made us laugh at his antics and cuteness.

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This morning, my husband and I made the decision to let Cosmo go peacefully at our vet's office. Cosmo has been suffering from congestive heart failure for over a half year now. He was nearly 14, The three medicines we had him on had worked for a time, but finally those stopped working as his heart enlarged and pressed against his diaphragm. Nearly every breath had become an agonizing gasp. The only other option left was to let him pass without assistance, but that would have meant up to another two or so weeks of suffering for him.

Our daughters, now 21 and 22, were able to call in and say goodbye to their family dog via FaceTime in Cosmo's last hour. It was tough and emotional, as letting go of a beloved pet always is.

But I don't want to memorialize Cosmo with only sorrow. For most of his life, he was funny and cheery and loving, and I think he'd rather be remembered that way.

So instead, here's a look back, with the first piece I ever wrote about him, in my Sanity Check column that ran from 2002-2012 in the Dayton Daily News:

A few days after we got our new dog, I laid down the law: a never-before-experienced, super-sanitized cleanliness shall reign upon our household!

This was because I discovered that when a beagle shakes himself, fur goes flying everywhere. Including onto the table and countertop.

So, I called everyone together and proclaimed: We shall clean and sanitize the kitchen countertop and table with disinfectant before cooking/dining!

We shall have color coded sponges—the pink one for cleaning the cat/dog food bowls, the blue one for cleaning countertop/table... and of course the sponges shall be sanitized in hot water after each use!

And we shall teach the dog the all-important commands—Down! and Sit!—so that said dog shall refrain from begging in the kitchen or at the table!

After I proclaimed these quite reasonable commandments, several things happened.

The kids and husband gave each other long, knowing looks.

The cats snickered.

The dog hid.

Still, I persevered.

And made it through an entire day, following my own rules. Then, as I stood in my kitchen, proudly surveying its sparkling clean, super-sanitized floor and countertop and sink, my 11-year-old daughter came in and said, "Mom, weren't we supposed to make deviled eggs for the church potluck tomorrow?"

As we boiled eggs, the dog came into the kitchen. I said, "Sit!" He did, on my super-sanitized floor. Then gave me a look that barked, "Lady, I'm not so sure about living here, you know?"

My daughter and I cut the boiled eggs in half (on our super-sanitized cutting block), and put the yolks in a small (super-sanitized) measuring cup.

My daughter started mashing (with a super-sanitized fork) mayo and mustard and seasonings into the egg yolks. The dog, licking his lips, stood on his hind legs. "Down!" I said. So, he lay down and heaved a weary, bedeviled sigh.

And for the first time that day, I could empathize with the dog. After all my cleaning and sanitizing, I was weary, too.

So I said to my daughter, with years-of-cooking wisdom, "Dearie, let your smart, ol' mama show you a little short-cut!"

I got out the mixer and put just one beater in the small measuring cup that held the egg yolk/mayo/mustard.

The dog stood again.

And I took my hand from the measuring cup handle to point at him and say, "Sit!"... just as I turned on the mixer... thus turning the little measuring cup into a madly spinning Tasmanian devil that wildly flung egg yolk everywhere—on the floor, the counter, the ceiling, my daughter, me, the dog...

Desperately, I yelled at the mixer: "Down! Sit!"

It didn't heed my plea, and neither did the dog, who happily jumped up and down in a little dog dance, while yipping a little dog song: Hurrah! Hurrah! At last, cleanliness is not reigning! But deviled eggs are—raining, that is! Doggy manna from heaven!

My daughter unplugged the mixer.

I picked up the blue super-sanitized sponge.

And the dog eyed me with a look that woofed, "hey, maybe you're OK after all!" then started licking up deviled egg yolks from the floor.

I'm so glad I sanitized it for him.


Hey Cosmo... turns out you were much more than OK after all. Here's to you, up there in Doggy heaven, running around, whole and sound, yipping up a storm, and enjoying all the Doggy manna your sweet beagle heart desires.

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My Month as a Thurber House Resident

10/24/2014

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PictureI finally saw the Thurber House ghost! Well, OK. This is a Halloween decoration, in James Thurber's old bedroom...
Today marks my last day as this year's John E. Nance Writer-in-Residence at Thurber House in Columbus, Ohio.

I came on Sept. 29 with 15 months' worth of writing, re-writing, researching, brainstorming, character-creating and outlining completed for my novel-in-progress, only about 125 polished pages, and the rather extreme goal of completing that novel.

Before I pack up and head back home today, I want to summarize my experiences while still living, for a few more hours at least, in the third-floor apartment at the Thurber House. And then I'll let you know.

Ghosts

Let's get this--ghosts, no-such-thing-as-ghosts, maybe-yes-maybe-no-ghosts--out of the way first.

Truth be told, I don't think much about ghosts, although I do love a good ghost story, and even have an idea for a fun one that I might (or might not) someday write. It never crossed my mind that Thurber House might be associated with ghosts... until I received news of this residency.

Then, it seemed, everyone kept saying to me: "You know Thurber House is haunted, right?"

Turns out, there's even a Ghost Hunters episode about Thurber House. No, I haven't watched it. Yes, I probably will eventually. (I actually hadn't even heard of the Ghost Hunters TV show before this residency. Read the whole blog and maybe, just maybe, you'll find a link to the episode at the end!)

So since I know I'm going to be asked "did you experience any ghosts?" I'll just answer right here: probably not. Well, maybe.

After I'd been here about a week, I woke early one morning, about 6:15, to the distinctive sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The sound was definitely not birds or branches or the expected pops and creaks of a 140ish years old house.

My very first thought? "Oh, wow, Susanne is in early!"

Susanne is the program director; the residency apartment occupies most of the third floor, but Susanne's office is in a room on the other side of the apartment door.

So, I went about my morning ablutions, and then popped out to tease Susanne about coming in so early. But Susanne wasn't there. In fact, the Thurber House employees didn't arrive until 8 a.m. or so.

I've since been told this is the sound that inspired Thurber's story, "The Night The Ghost Got In." So... ghostly mischievousness? Or a writer with a big imagination hearing some ordinary sound, in the early twilight, and interpreting the sound as footsteps?

Sorry, I'm going with the latter.

But it did make me think about ghosts. And here's the conclusion at which I arrived: if there are ghosts at Thurber House, then there are ghosts pretty much everywhere, and thus I've been walking amid ghosts my whole life. There is nothing I can do about the existence of ghosts (or the non-existence), so I'm fine either way.

The Residency Itself


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I've been asked a few times by local high schools if a student who is interested in being a writer could job shadow me. I've always said "no," or offered to meet the student at the school to answer questions about writing careers, because this is what the poor student would otherwise have to do: Watch my yoga-pants-and-t-shirt-wearing self frown, grump and/or type at my computer or write in a notebook or stare in space. For hours.

The most interesting part of the poor kid's day would be observing me pour a fresh cup of coffee, or suddenly stop writing and start pantomiming wildly with gestures or punches or expressions as I try to figure out just how to describe said actions.

If you'd been with me at the residency, that's what you'd have observed me doing, for 10 or so hours a day, with a few breaks here and there for yoga, meditating and walking. I did take some longer breaks to enjoy Columbus--the art museum, the Franklin Park Conservatory, browsing at a great vintage shop called Flower Child in the Short North, and dining at Katzinger's Deli, Jeni's Splendid Ice Cream, and Rubino's Pizza. And of course I enjoyed getting to know the wonderful staff at Thurber House, and exploring the historic, beautiful first and second floors.

Which makes the month sound boring... except it wasn't. It was glorious.

What a gift... spending a whole month on solely delving into my novel-in-progress, hanging out with my characters, writing, re-writing, polishing, tucked away in a comfy, cozy, quiet apartment. (As part of the terms of the residency, I did lead two brief evening writing classes and give a reading of my work-in-progress, but other than that, I was writing. And occasionally pantomiming.) Such concentrated time, away from all obligations other than the rudimentary needs of being human... ah! Joy.

The residency came at a perfect time, both creatively and personally. Creatively, I had reached the point in my current project where I simply needed to concentrate on pushing through to "the end." Personally, I'm wise enough to know this kind of opportunity is extremely rare, and I didn't squander a bit of the time. What's more, our kids are grown (one in college, one just graduated from college and working at her first professional job), so though of course I missed my husband, taking time away wasn't as complicated as it would have been just a few years ago.

It sounds odd--after all, I've had ten novels published, been a weekly newspaper columnist for 12 years, and direct a writers' workshop, but the experience also affirmed that I Am A Writer. Affirmation, though, isn't something we 'arrive' at and never need again. I think we all need re-affirmation time and again of ourselves as beloved, as creative, as worthy, and this residency was a delightful reaffirmation of myself as a creative writer.


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So, Did I Meet That Goal?

On October 18, I hit "The End."

I made myself take 24 hours to just relax... I went to a movie, binge-watched Parks and Recreation, napped, walked, met a cousin who lives in Columbus for coffee, talked with my husband and daughters, shopped a bit at Flower Child.  (I purposefully didn't bring any books with me for pleasure reading; I only brought books for research, two inspirational writing books--"The Mindful Writer" and "Seven Steps on the Writer's Path" and my well-worn copy of the Tao.) 

And yet, the demons rushed in.

Remember how I said I don't actually believe there are ghosts? (Or if there are, I don't believe I can sense/experience them?)

Well, that doesn't mean I don't believe we aren't all haunted.

That demons--of doubt, despair, fear, apprehension--don't find us all from time to time. Or maybe even pretty often.

Somehow, I always forget how vulnerable I am to my own 'haunts' when I reach a major milestone, even an obviously positive, celebration-worthy one. Haunts about my work. Haunts, even, about my own worthiness as a person, what's more as a writer.

So, it became very tempting to simply... delete everything. Toss it aside. Let those haunts possess me.

Here's the thing about despair, though. It quickly becomes pretty boring.

I finally gave myself the lecture I always give myself at these times: so what you've created might not please everyone? Well, d'oh! Of course it won't! So what? I don't like every book I read, movie I watch, art piece I observe, and so on. That doesn't mean it doesn't touch others... or that it wasn't important for the artist to create.

What you've created might not find a publishing home? Well, d'oh! No one gets to create with a guarantee of success. In fact, such a guarantee would only stifle any real creativity.

And so, even while still struggling with those haunts (which I share, because I think everyone has them, and it helps, doesn't it, to know we all do),  I didn't delete everything I'd created. I've spent the last week copy-editing and proofing, and yesterday I sent the polished draft to my agent.

What happens next? Well, obviously I hope she's enthusiastic about it. I'm sure (I hope!) she'll have suggestions for improving my novel. And then... we'll see.

In any case, this has been an affirming, once-in-a-lifetime creative and personal experience for which I'll always be thankful, and will always cherish.

P.S. And in case you really want to watch the Ghost Hunters episode about Thurber House, here's the link.

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An Ode To Cider

10/16/2014

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Picture
NOTE: This piece originally appear in my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
I stare at the last of this season's apple cider, which I have poured into a wine glass. I've chosen such a fancy glass for what most view as a modest beverage in honor of the cider itself, knowing that once I've imbibed it, I won't have the chance to enjoy cider for another 10 months or so.

I contemplate the deep amber color of the cider. I sniff the crisply tangy yet sweet aroma. Both color and aroma evoke in my mind's eye the scenery along the drive to the orchard where we always buy cider every fall, the Crossroads Orchard, west of the Miami River, nestled on a country road between Miamisburg and Germantown. I see the trees, turning yellow, orange, red, their colors so brightly beautiful against a sky burnished to a deep blue from a summer's worth of hot days, that it hurts, just a little, to look at them.

Then there's the drive back...


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Corny, Ah-Mazing, Fun... And (Perhaps) Only In The Midwest

10/2/2014

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Picture
NOTE: This piece originally appeared as part of my Sanity Check column in the Dayton Daily News.
My husband and two daughters want to spend a recent Sunday afternoon at a corn maze.  It'll be fun, they assure me.

I do not think this sounds like fun because I am, I openly admit, directionally-challenged.  I once ordered a AAA Trip-Tik in order to make the journey from Dayton to Lexington.

"It'll be a good learning experience for the kids," my husband tells me, knowing I'm a sucker for learning experiences.  "The challenge of a puzzle, using your wits..."


So I decide to be a good sport and go with my family to the corn maze.  I even leave behind the cell phone, the compass, and the backpack with flares and emergency provisions.  After all, my husband DOES have a good sense of direction.

When we arrive at the local corn maze, my nine-year-old decides we should split up into teams.  Her dad with her younger sister.  And her with me.

Fortunately, my nine-year-old has inherited her dad's sense of direction.  So I'm calm as we enter the maze and begin our quest: collect map pieces from mailboxes hidden in each of the twelve section of the maze until we've put together the whole map.  All is going well until my nine-year-old suddenly stops.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"We're lost," she says, pointing at the mud puddle in which I'm standing.  "That mud puddle.  We've seen it before."

Apparently, in a maze, a sense of direction is only useful for helping you know when you're lost.  As the adult in the situation, it's up to me to figure out how we can work our way through the maze.

Just as I'm about to ask her to climb up on my shoulders and scream for help, a pair of young boys come whizzing by, whooping and hollering.  "We got lucky!  We found the piece for section two!"

Blind luck!  Now there's a plan!  "Let's just keep walking until we find the mailbox for this section," I say.  "How long can it take?"

Thirty-three minutes, it turns out. 

A young couple comes by, notes our discouraged expressions, and says, "If you're looking for the map piece for section three, it's right over there."  And gives us directions.

"That's cheating," my nine-year-old scowls. 

"Uh, huh," I say.  "Follow me."  We get the next piece.

Now we've tried a sense of direction, blind luck, and cheating to get through the maze, none of which are particularly effective.  Or satisfying. 

I remember what my husband said.  This is supposed to be a game, a puzzle in which you use your wits, right?  Fine.  If I'm going to freeze to death in the middle of a cornfield, I'm at least going to go down like a good parent and turn it into a life lesson.

Plus I'm out of ideas.  So I say to my nine-year-old, "You like games.  How do you go about winning games?" 

She thinks for a minute.  "How about—we use logic? We can use the map pieces we have to get to the bottom of the next section, then work our way to the top, always following along the right..."

That's just what we do.  Eventually, after about two hours, we find our way through the maze with a completed map.

As we exit, I say to her, "Honey, you really learned something today.  Life is just like a maze.  You can try blind luck or cheating, but using your wits is really the best way to get through.  Isn't that neat?"

And she looks up me and says, "Mom?  Can we get hot chocolate?"

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    Sharon Short...

    ...is  a novelist, columnist, workshop director, instructor, and a pie enthusiast. As such, she blogs about the literary life, life in general, and pie. Definitely, pie.

    As Jess Montgomery, she writes historical mysteries.

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