Life's a dance

October 26 is the anniversary of the Shootout at the OK Corral.

Legend has it that the Earp brothers and their friend Doc Holliday spotted members of the Clanton-McLaury gang buying supplies in Tombstone, Arizona. Apparently they had an axe to grind because the ensuing gunfight left three dead and three wounded, including Holliday. The local sheriff charged the Earps and Holliday with murder, but a Tombstone judge declared the men "fully justified in committing these homicides." Go figure. 

Theodore Roosevelt, Hillary Clinton, Keith Urban and Mollie Brown (the unsinkable philanthropist) all entered the world on this day.

And so did my granddaughter, Olivia Grace McWilliams. Today she turns three, and I daresay her colorful personality rivals that of any of the individuals listed above. Let's just say she knows how to work a room, not to mention her grandmother. Her spunk, feistiness, friendliness, and independent streak remind me of her great grandmother, Zaidee Mildred Watson Brittain, daughter of Hilliard Watson and Mildred Holliday Watson -- And yes, there is a connection to Doc, but my genealogy is fuzzy. 

You see, Zaidee loved lots of things, but she especially loved to sing and dance. From ballet and tap to waltz and two-step, she was always happiest when life included a dance. I am more subdued when it comes to dancing in public, but like Zaidee, Olivia loves to dance, and she dreams of the day she can begin ballet lessons. Meanwhile, any time she has an opportunity to perform, especially when a stage is involved, she is in her element. 

After a long battle with Alzheimer's, Zaidee passed away on Sept. 4. Shortly after a wonderful memorial service on Sept. 8, Olivia led me back into the church sanctuary. Everyone else was in the large foyer visiting and reminiscing, so just Olivia, a sound technician, and I were in the huge room. She walked me to the front of the church and showed me to a seat on the front row, and then she proceeded up the steps to the pulpit area. Since there was music, she did what came naturally to her. She danced.  

After her impromptu performance, she walked back down the steps and came to where I was obediently sitting--and applauding. 

"It's your turn now," she announced, smiling at me expectantly, as if dancing in the pulpit area of a Southern Baptist Church after one's mother-in-law's funeral were the most natural thing in the world. 

"Oh honey, I can't do that," I said softly, hating to deny my only granddaughter's sincere wish. 

"Try it. You might like it," she smiled, capitalizing on her version of peer pressure. 

I shook my head no, but I knew I was in trouble. 

Then she took my hand, smiled, and in her sweetest coax said, "I know. Let's both do it together?"

So, I did the only thing I could possibly do. I stood up, followed her up the stairs, and we danced. In front of the empty Baptist sanctuary and the sound technician. After my mother-in-law's memorial service. 

I'm sure Zaidee is still laughing about that one. Truthfully, I am, too. 

And I can't wait to follow this little girl's timeline. It's certain to be as impressive as those of any of her predecessors.

Oh and by the way, have a spectacular third birthday, sweet Olivia.

Anyone can do this, right?

I am retired.

I have looked forward to saying that for months (read years) now. With free time and a meager monthly check, retirement represents an opportunity to live in the moment, to explore new options, to dream new dreams. Truth be told, however, retirement also means letting Kaiser, our 12-year-old miniature dachshund in and out of the back door about eight or twenty times a day, answering calls from telemarketers who have somehow acquired my cell number, and feeling a bit guilty about having so much free time.

For any 30-year veteran of teaching journalism and PreAP and AP English, slowing down is difficult, and grasping the concept of freedom might prove impossible. Therefore, not wanting to disappoint my colleagues by becoming a non-productive slug, I have created a new job for myself. At some point during the past year, I realized I want to write a novel. No lightning bolt, no epiphany, just a growing desire that eventually turned into a dream that consumed my imagination. (English teachers can never have something as simple and straightforward as an "idea.") And now, 27 days into retirement, I am 80 pages into my first masterpiece.

But is it a masterpiece? Nobody knows. It's grammatically correct and well punctuated. It has characters, conflict, description, rising action, dialogue, mystery, even a bit of romance. But I keep wondering, "Is this any good?" And for the first time in years, I have no clear opinion. The so-called experts advise first-time novelists to just keep writing, to not worry whether your story is fabulous or pathetic. Just get something on paper, even if it's garbage.

Do these experts realize they could be giving advice to former English teachers who have revised almost every word as they graded the essays of more than a few students through the years who have unashamedly given them garbage. Unabashedly. With aplomb. Do these so-called experts expect us to become those students of our nightmares? the ones who could produce garbage with clear consciences?

Nevertheless, I persevere, traveling through Neverland as my proverbial plot thickens day by day. At the very least, writing is an inexpensive hobby that occupies my free time between having lunch with friends, taking trips to visit my granddaughter, reading other people's masterpieces on my Nook, and wasting time Facebook stalking on my iPad. Writing keeps me away from the mall, online shopping, my kitchen, and my car. Writing challenges me, keeps me focused, preserves my aging brain, makes me want to keep writing.

Rejected or accepted, my eventual novel will be mine. Meanwhile, I have rediscovered that writing is incredibly fun. I killed three people this afternoon, and I never had to leave my laptop. Not too shabby for someone who was educated using typesetters, darkroom chemicals, galley proofs, process cameras, waxers, t-squares, and light tables. When I remember those days, novel writing pales in comparison. After all, I've read about five million books in my day.

But I am naive. I am green. I have never finished a novel. I can't even honestly call myself a writer, at least not in public, at least not yet.

But I am determined and persistent. I'll let you know how it goes.