An Early Christmas Gift Almost Killed Me, by Sandy Semerad #christmasgifts

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    “We’re going to Ecuador and Peru,” daughter Rene announced.
     I was overwhelmed when she told me. The timing was bad. The company I’d been working for was bought out by a larger company. I had to convince them to rehire me.
     Before we left on our trip, I was rehired, but scarcely had the time to get the shots and meds required when one visits two third world countries. At least my passport was up-to-date.
     My traveling companions included: Rene, her daughter Cody (my eleven-year-old granddaughter), Rene’s bestie Dia and Dia’s daughter Michelle.
     Rene rattled off our itinerary. We’d be going to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu, but no easy way to get there, she said.
     Three days after we left Florida, we arrived in Santa Cruz, Ecuador. All five of us slept in the same room, and it wasn’t long before the toilet clogged.
     None of us saw the tiny sign in Spanish telling us not to put paper in the commode. We were supposed to throw it in the trash instead. Rene speaks Spanish, but the sign was almost invisible to the naked eye.
     Rene and Dia discovered the blocked toilet after they’d taken their Ambien. Their doctors had prescribed the Ambien in case they had difficulty sleeping on our trip. I don’t require a sleep aid and was peacefully dreaming when Rene poked me. “You’ll have to pee in the shower, Mama. The toilet is stopped up. We’ve tried to plunge it, but it’s still clogged.”
     As her Ambien took effect, Rene began to act silly. I’d seen scary reports about Ambien. Some people have had terrible reactions after taking it. They do crazy things, like driving a car while asleep.
     Rene started playing with the ringtones on her cellphone. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
     “No, it’s loud and annoying,” I said.
     “It is not. It’s beautiful and colorful.”
     “Let’s go to sleep and try to solve our problems,” Dia repeated three times.
     Rene, who never overeats, became ravenous. She stuffed her mouth with every snack she could find.
     I watched with trepidation. What if she’s still hungry after she eats the Pringles, crackers and candy? And what if she walks out into the night looking for more food?
     “You need to lie down,” I told her.
     “I’ll sleep like a baby soon,” she said, between chews.
     “I’m going to take a video of you,” I said.
     “I’m told I’m very funny.”
     After what seemed like an eternity, she did go to sleep, but sleep evaded me then, and with the toilet clogged, I began searching for another one.
      I looked everywhere, even in the hotel’s basement, which had been roped off. I was clearly trespassing when I slipped under the barrier.
     I turned the knob on the first door I saw.
     It was unlocked.
     I eased the door open.
    A toilet sat in the back of a small room, no bigger than a closet. I tried to lock the door for privacy before squatting on the pot, but I was unable to secure it. I had an image of getting busted with my pants down.
    Unlike the upcoming adventures of our trip, I escaped unharmed. If I’d been able to see into the future, I would have stayed in Santa Cruz despite the clogged toilet. All in all, Santa Cruz was a lovely town with exotic birds, sea lions, giant turtles, good restaurants and shops.
     Since I had no warning of the tribulations to come, I boarded the boat to Isla Isabella with a smile. At first we enjoyed exploring the lava rocks on Isabella. We saw exotic birds, penguins, iguanas and white tail sharks.
     As we watched the sharks swimming in a canal, the guide cautioned, “Don’t wake them.”
     For Dia, a photographer, this was paradise, until she lost her balance and fell. The lava rocks sliced her shin to the bone. Our guide dressed her leg wound to stop the profuse bleeding, but it was not a permanent fix.
     We’d all planned to go snorkeling after the rock tour, but Dia opted out. A wise decision, I thought.
     After seeing the sharks in the canal, we didn’t want to entice them with fresh blood.
     Cody announced she was jumping in regardless. Nothing would deter her from the snorkeling experience.
     I plunged into the frigid Pacific with her.
     The guide told us not to worry about the sharks. “They usually prefer the warm canal.”
     I prayed he was right.
     As we swam through the ocean, Cody and I found ourselves caught in a fierce current. We thrashed our arms and kicked our flippers, trying to swim out. One of the guys in our group kicked me in the face in his battle to free himself.
     The guide yelled, “Stay away from the stingray.”
     As soon as Cody and I were able to rise above the ocean’s surface, she said, “I’m tired.” I was exhausted. So we swam back to the boat.
     Once on dry land, Dia’s leg looked red and infected. She needed medical attention pronto. A doctor at the hospital stitched up her wound and prescribed antibiotics. No charge. (Healthcare in Ecuador is free.)
     The next day, we went hiking up Sierra Negra,elevation 4,890 feet. Sierra Negra is a large and active volcano.
     I wish I’d worn hiking boots, not sandals. (I must have been thinking of that Bible verse: “For forty years I led you through the wilderness, yet your clothes and sandals did not wear out.”)
     In the beginning of our hike, we walked through the rain forest, where it never stops drizzling.
     “I can do this,” I told myself. I exercise daily with Jane Fonda’s Prime Time workout. I’ve walked all over Chicago and San Francisco with daughter Andrea. (Andrea probably would have enjoyed this hike, I thought. She’d walked all over Panama last summer.)
     Hours into the climb, I began to question my sanity as the terrain became higher and hotter. The rocks cut my feet. I started walking like an aging Galapagos penguin.
    “This is worse than giving birth,” I complained.
     We were given no time to rest and sightsee. Only thirty minutes for lunch.
     When I sat to catch my breath, the guide yelled, “Up, up. Don’t stop.”
     “How long have you been a guide here?” I asked him.
    “Fifteen years. I do this every day.”
     “Have you ever had anyone to quit or faint or die?”
     “No,” he said.
     “This is tough,” one of the hikers said. “I’m sure he’s had someone to quit, turn around and go back. I think it’s wrong of him to rush us along like this.”
     After hours and hours of trudging nonstop, we finally saw the volcano’s rim in the distance. “How much longer,” I asked the guide.
     “Twenty minutes,” he replied.
      It looked like a vertical climb to the rim–much too dangerous. No bars, no restrains. Easy to fall in and die.
     My feet were burning. My whole body ached. My head was swirling from the heat and volcanic gases. Not much bottled water left.
     Dia and Michelle had already started back down, but not Rene and Cody. They were determined to hike to the rim.
     I bid them farewell, then looked for a trail marker to lead me out. I kept searching, but couldn’t find a sign. On a rocky terrain, it’s difficult to detect a path.
     I got horribly lost.
     I stepped on a sticker bush. My feet and legs stung like fire.
     I spotted a spider and thought it may have bitten me.
     I couldn’t see anyone from where I stood, no guide, no hikers, no Rene, no Cody. I hoisted myself up on a giant rock to get a better view.
     I spied specks in the distance. I thought I might be hallucinating.
    Then I saw blonde and red hair.
     I yelled as loud as my dry lungs were capable of, but Rene and Cody didn’t respond.  
     I ran toward them. My adrenalin and desperation had imbued me with renewed strength.
     Rene finally turned in my direction. “What happened to you, Mama?”
     “Don’t ask. I think I need a hip replacement.”
     “Stretch and you’ll be fine.”
     No sympathy.
     Every muscle and joint in my body cried out in pain. I don’t know how I endured the hike back.
     A couple of days later, I felt better and could walk without aching, but in Cusco, Peru, Rene suffered. She threw up several times. The coca tea and leaves–natural remedies used to treat altitude sickness–didn’t work for her. Someone brought out an oxygen tank. She inhaled the oxygen, but it provided only temporary relief. BC Powder—an old Southern remedy for aches and pains–was the only thing that helped, she said.

     I’d been given a prescription for the high altitude, but the pills made me pee excessively, and I stopped taking them. (I’ve read it’s better to take it easy for a couple of days and avoid anything strenuous in order to adjust to high elevations, but when you’re seeing two third world countries in sixteen days with an action-packed schedule, resting and relaxing are impossible).

My nose bled, but it wasn’t severe enough to keep me from enjoying the spectacular vistas of Machu Picchu–the “sacred landscape” of the Inca. It sits on top of a mountain, encircled by the Urubamba River.

     Machu Picchu is in the southern hemisphere, 13.164 degrees south of the equator, 50 miles northwest of Cusco and about 7,970 feet above mean sea level. It’s one of the most important archaeological sites in South America.
     After visiting Machu Picchu, we took a long train ride. A taxi driver picked us up from the train and drove us back to our hotel in Cusco.
     After a night and day there, we began the long journey back home. We had an eleven-hour layover in Ecuador, but Rene didn’t mind. She was happy to be rid of her altitude sickness.
      “I could have died on that hike to Sierra Negra,” I told her.
     “My hands were so swollen,” she said. They looked like a giant’s.” She showed me the IPhone pictures of her hands and the volcano’s rim. “Isn’t that amazing?”
     “You and Cody could have fallen in,” I said. “There were no restrains.”
     “But we survived,” she said.
    “This early Christmas gift almost killed me,” I said. “I feel lucky to be alive. I’m going kiss the ground when I get back home.”
Now that I’m here, there’s no place on earth I’d rather be than at home celebrating the Christmas season. Here’s wishing you the happiest of  holidays, and if you’re traveling, be safe.

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     After working as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster and columnist for many years, Sandy Semerad decided to try her hand at writing novels. Her first novel, Mardi Gravestone has been republished as SEX, LOVE AND MURDER. She wrote her second mystery HURRICANE HOUSE after a hurricane ripped through her community. Her third book, romantic thriller A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES, is loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. All books have received five star reviews. Semerad is originally from a small town in Alabama, but now lives in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. She has two daughters and a granddaughter.

Furry Babies

Philosopher and author Joseph Campbell was known for saying, “Follow your bliss.”

P-Nut, my little Shih Tzu, follows her bliss without being told. She sniffs a flower like she’s reading a masterpiece.

Eckhart Tolle, who wrote The Power of Now, would be proud. Even as a puppy, she seemed to know how to live in the moment and show unconditional love. When I’m traveling, she’s protective of me and gets fiesty at times.

But she’d never hurt a child, and it’s painful to hear about dogs who do. Personally, I think it’s because people train them to fight and kill for amusement. The pit bull terrier is the breed they usually pick.

 It saddens me. My daughter once had a Pit Bull named Sonja who wanted to lick you to death, but she’d never attack anyone.

 I once heard about a feisty pit bull named Major who roamed the farms around Hartford, Alabama, the town near where I grew up. “Major could tear your butt for a new one,” Cody Ryles used to say.

 Major became unpopular with farmers after he killed their hogs. One day he made the grave error of killing Cody Ryles’ prize pig.

 Cody grabbed his shotgun and sent Major to the great pit bull heaven in the sky, Cody said.

 

Was Major bred for fighting for the amusement of humans? No one seemed to know. But I can’t believe he inherited his meanness.

 I’ve read that pit bulls are a relative of the English bulldog. I’ve never owned an English bulldog, but I’ve heard about one named Bozo.

 Bozo was trained to hunt wild hogs. He would bay the hogs and grab them by their ears until the capture was complete. Or so the story went.

 He also liked to catch snakes and one day Bozo caught a poisonous rattler. It bit Bozo. He swelled up and almost died.

 When Bozo recovered, he continued his pursuit of snakes with a vengeance. He’d grab every rattlesnake he saw and shake the dickens out of it. If the snake bit him, it didn’t bother him at all, because he’s developed immunity to the venom.

 In my life, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing wonderful dogs, and I hate that pit bulls have gotten such a bad rap.

 I’ve read they’re a cross between an English terrier and an English bulldog. I suppose many dogs are in the mixture category, not pure bred.

 When I lived in Atlanta, we had a dog named Sam, an English terrier and German shepherd mix. One might think this combination would bring violence, but Sam was a sweet dog, though mischievous.

 He loved to roam and collect things. Once he brought me my neighbor’s old house slippers. I took them back to her, of course, but when Sam presented them to me, he acted like he’d delivered a diamond.

 I scolded him with “No, no.”

 He cocked his head from side to side, not understanding my ungratefulness.

 Another time, he snatched a flannel nightgown from my neighbor’s clothesline. No mistaking it was hers. The gown had red cherries embroidered all over it.

 Sam must have jumped the fence to get the gown. When he brought it to me, I discovered it had a huge rip in it. I was too ashamed to return the gown. My neighbor didn’t like Sam, and I knew she wouldn’t understand.

 The torn gown somehow ended up in the washing machine and then in the dryer. One morning, I was looking for something to frump around in. Lacking anything else, I slipped on the infamous gown. As my luck would have it, my neighbor—the rightful owner–came over to borrow a cup of sugar.

 When she saw me in her gown, she looked shocked, as if I threatened her life. 

Time and again, I scolded Sam for his thievery, but he still pillaged.

 He continued until the day he died. The pond behind our Stone Mountain home froze over. Sam fell through the ice while chasing the ducks. He froze to death before we could rescue him.

 In an attempt to recover from Sam’s death, we adopted a Brittany spaniel named Prince, who’d rather play than eat. I can still see him chasing squirrels, barking at falling leaves, running and playing with the ducks.

 After we lost Prince, I didn’t have the heart for another dog until I saw P-Nut’s furry face. She came into my life after I’d finished writing my second mystery Hurricane House.  In that book, one of the characters is Onyx, a black lab, who possesses superior powers.

 Don’t most dogs? And perhaps you could say the same for cats.

 Recently we adopted a stray cat. We call her Miss Kitty. P-Nut bonded with her from the beginning, though Miss Kitty hid from P-Nut at first.

 Eventually Miss Kitty began to feel safe. Now she frequently cuddles with P-Nut and follows her on our walks to the beach.

 And guess what, Miss Kitty seems to know how to live in the moment, too.

 Maybe one day, they’ll teach me.

     After working as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster and columnist for many years, Sandy Semerad decided to try her hand at writing novels. Her first novel, Mardi Gravestone has been republished as SEX, LOVE AND MURDER. She wrote her second mystery HURRICANE HOUSE after a hurricane ripped through her little beach community. Her third book, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES, is loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta. All books have garnered five star reviews. Semerad is originally from
Geneva, Alabama, but now lives in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. She has two daughters and a granddaughter. 

 www.sandysemerad.com

Book Signing at Total Recall in Geneva, AL

Gallery

I will be among the artists and authors and alumni, descending on Geneva to celebrate Total Recall in Geneva, Alabama Oct. 10. Geneva is my hometown, and I’m excited about this event. All Alumni and those who attended school in Geneva … Continue reading

A Book Signing to Remember

As husband Larry and I drove from Santa Rosa Beach to my book signing at the BAM store in Destin, Florida, I had a flashback.

I remembered a story Robert Crais told years ago. Crais is an award winning novelist of detective fiction. At one time, he wrote television scripts for shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney & Lacey, Quincy, Miami Vice and L.A. Law.

Many readers would be honored to buy his books and have him autograph them, I thought. But apparently that wasn’t the case at a Walmart store, according to what Crais told a group at Sleuthfest, where he was the keynote speaker.

He aggressively hawked his books and tried to engage customers, he said. He’s say stuff like, “Do you like detective fiction. Do you like mysteries?”

One man replied, “No,” and then asked Crais to help him find the fishing gear, he said.

I pushed that memory out of my head and told myself, my book signing would be successful. I was determined. I believed in my book, my baby, and I wanted everyone to read A Message in the Roses.

Larry and I arrived about 30 minutes early. I placed six blue pens on the table beside a stack of my books. I was determined not to run out of ink.

We put the bookmarks and an address book on the table and placed my poster on an easel. Luckily, the store positioned me near the front door. Before long, a potential customer walked in.

Larry went into action. He sounded like a carnival barker, “This is your lucky day,” he shouted. “Author Sandy Semerad is autographing her critically acclaimed book, A Message in the Roses.”

As he led this unsuspecting and somewhat stunned woman toward me, I asked her, “Do you like romantic thrillers?”

“I prefer nonfiction,” she said.

“Well, then, you might enjoy A Message in the Roses,” I said, motioning, in Vanna White fashion, toward the stack of books. “It’s loosely based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta.”

I handed her a bookmark. She glanced at it and then picked up one of my books.

We began a conversation. I asked her to sign my address book and said, “I’d be happy to autograph a copy of my book for you.”

And so it went.

With other signings, I’d learned to autograph on the title page, and I knew I darn sure needed to ask each person how to spell his or her name.

I’d also learned to ask, “How should I autograph this?”

Most people respond with, “Write whatever you want.” But I think it’s important to write something personal, and it’s easier to do that if you’ve shared conversation.

I’ve been told it’s best to have a person write out instructions to the author on what to say. I’m sure that’s good advice, but I didn’t do that.

After I signed the books, Larry snapped our photos. That is, if they agreed to have their picture taken. If they did, I later e-mailed the photos to them, and tagged their names after posting on Facebook.

Everyone at BAM was supportive. One of the employees, with the voice of a broadcaster, kept announcing, “Author Sandy Semerad is in our store signing her latest book A Message in the Roses.” She added blurbs about my book to entice customers. I complimented her later.

Should I have written my own announcement? Perhaps, but luckily, she did a superb job.

After the signing, I got the store’s approval to autograph the remaining copies that didn’t sell. I’m hoping they’ll display them, prominently, with the bookmarks I left behind. Maybe they’ll place an “autographed copy” sticker on them. Did I mention I’m a hopeful optimist?

I thanked the BAM employees and a couple of days later, I called to thank them again. As an afterthought, I sent a photo taken with the staff to the BAM marketing site with a brief e-mail about the signing.

Maybe I should send a snail mail letter to the store and include more bookmarks. I want them to remember my books and keep promoting them.

Weeks before I started trying to arrange book signings, I asked Michelle Lee to design my bookmarks. These were helpful in getting the signings in the first place, I think. (I gave a copy of the bookmark with a press release and a list of distributors to the managers of two book stores and asked them to order my books.)

I downloaded the bookmark to Printing for Less. I should have ordered more than 500. I’m almost out. I’ve been distributing them like crazy.

For the signing, I knew I’d need a poster. So PFL created one on foam board, not cheap, but sturdy. It looked sharp on the easel, I thought. The poster has my book covers and a promo blurb under each and my photo.

The poster arrived in time, but not the postcards, I’d ordered. I should have ordered them a month before. They came the week of my signing, and I was working out of town. My poor husband distributed them as best he could.

Two weeks prior, after I checked to make sure the BAM store had the books, I e-mailed a press release to local newspapers. I also created an event on Facebook and other sites and invited everyone.

There were a few things I wish I’d done.

I should have placed a copy of my book with bookmarks at the cash registers. I should have asked Larry to hand out book marks and a copy of my book to customers we didn’t catch at the door. I was too busy hustling those who came in to do that myself.

And maybe I should have placed a bowl of chocolate candy on my table or held a drawing to win a gift, perhaps a free book. I’m thinking I might do these things at my next one, which is Saturday, Sept. 27, at the Destin, Florida Barnes and Noble.

A lady from B&N has already called to say my books are in. Wish me luck. I wish you could come by and spread the love. #booksigning #AMessageintheRoses

www.sandysemerad.com

http://bookswelove.net/sandysemerad.php

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