My husband calls it monkey mind. I call it annoying.

I assumed the term was his own creation, invented to describe the feeling of having too much going on in your head—the noisy clutter that makes it hard to focus—until I heard the same phrase used during a review of the movie “Eat, Pray, Love.”

According to the novel the movie was based on, the main character is “burdened with what the Buddhists call the ‘monkey mind’– the thoughts that swing from limb to limb, stopping only to scratch themselves, spit, and howl… (The) mind swings wildly through time, touching on dozens of ideas a minute, unharnessed and undisciplined.”

That’s an apt description of my own mental state. And surprisingly, it appears to be fairly common, according to a quick polling of friends.

Said Susan Crumley of Poca, “My monkey comes out at night when I’m desperate for sleep, kinda like the monkey in the closet on Family Guy. The only way to shut out my thoughts is to count. If I let myself think in words, one leads to another and my thoughts are all over the globe.”

Said Brad Barkley of Frostburg, MD, “Wait . . . What?”

So how exactly does one do battle against monkey mind?

Amazingly, it has nothing to do with investing in Chiquita or getting a bigger monkey, and everything to do with allowing the monkey to play.

“The best way to tame your monkey is through meditation,” wrote one emailer. “You need to become aware of a thought rather than thinking a thought.”

That suggestion was clear as mud to me, too.

Fortunately, my friend Mike Fitzgerald of Huntington explained it much better, advising that I focus on breathing while meditating, and if my monkey mind tries to distract, I should, “Envision those thoughts rolling past like they’re floating on water. Don’t grasp for any of them. Don’t even try or you’ll only make it worse. Just watch, like a movie, what streams past. See what your mind is offering. There’s a reason for you to see this.”

Mike suggested counting breaths, chanting or humming, saying the humming vibrates the brain and lulls it into a relaxed state.

And relaxed is what I need, since having a mind that seldom slows is exhausting.

I used to joke that meditation was a way to rationalize sitting around doing nothing, then I actually tried to sit around and do (and think) nothing, and I quickly learned how hard it can be. I don’t do <I>still<P> very well. I can’t even relax while watching television—I’m compelled to fold clothes or iron at the same time so I feel productive.

“Taming the monkey mind requires practice,” said Mike. “You can get to the point that when the chattering arises, you can just notice it and then allow it to go away.”

It was while trying to practice that I realized I may have been meditating for years without realizing that’s what I was doing. All those times I took long drives because I <I>needed<P> to be on the road. . . Was that because I subconsciously knew I’d allow my thoughts to roam wherever they pleased, with no set goal or agenda? When I’d lose track of the hours while mindlessly removing every speck of paint from a piece of old furniture. . . Did that explain why I craved those types of projects?

I used to drag home thickly painted old pieces that take ages to strip because it felt like those things needed me to save them. But maybe those things were saving me. Grounding me. Allowing me to go into that zone that others go to while jogging or fishing or sitting in front of a machine that trades dollars for spinning cherries.

By not focusing for a while, the log-jams from this forever-scrambling modern life can pass by long enough for the water to calm.

And for the monkey to start minding again.

“Dad says it was a heart attack,” I heard the voice outside my room say. “She was walking across the yard and just dropped over, dead.”

“Wow,” someone said.

“And he thinks it was a heart attack?” another person asked.

“Do chickens have heart attacks?” said another.

Instead of an answer, I heard laughter. A few seconds later, a woman wearing hospital scrubs entered my room and began talking me through the preparations for my test. I recognized hers as one of the voices.

“So,” I asked, “I have to know. Do chickens have heart attacks?”

Although I know of no poultry in our family tree, I was about to get on a treadmill while covered in electrodes and it suddenly seemed important to know.

“Dad says they do,” said the technician.

“So is he doing an autopsy?” I asked.

“I suppose,” she said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Finding out whether or not one’s heart is about to explode is a far more pleasant experience when those caring for you have a good sense of humor, as did nearly everyone I encountered while a patient at Thomas Hospital last week.

The chest pains had started a few weeks before, somewhere around the same time I took four 13-year-olds to the beach. Coincidentally, I’m sure. I shrugged away the clenching as being heat- and dehydration-related, but would occasionally give in to concern long enough to Google a carefully chosen, vaguely worded symptom, like “boobie cramp.” Denial perpetuation is a long-practiced skill.

When I eventually got around to typing in “upper back and shoulder pain,” I expected to find such profound medical advice as, “Hold dog’s leash with other arm when walking” or “Steer with opposite hand.” Instead came warnings that those were heart attack symptoms.

My family doctor ordered both thyroid tests and, because of my family’s not-so-good cardiac history, a stress test as well. The thyroid tests came back normal with a week to go before my stress test appointment. Which turned out to be too much stress for my husband. After I casually mentioned having had a particularly clenchy day, he took me to Thomas.

By the time we arrived, the pains had subsided, so Geoff and I played the Waiting Room Game (seeing how long we could go without touching anything) until my name was called.

When they took me back, I asked Geoff to go with me, since I have this fear of needles that renders me stupid. So my husband — a tall man who looks like a professor with his gray hair and goatee — followed me to the room, then quietly took a seat in the corner while the nurse gave me a gown and directions.

The nurse, who exuded efficiency, returned a few minutes later and, with my gown raised, began attaching electrodes all over my chest. I allowed her to get me completely hooked up before pointing to Geoff and asking, “Who is that man and why is he here?”

I enjoy giving stress tests far more than receiving.

They kept me overnight. I think it was that über-efficient nurse’s idea.

I was fortunate enough to have a room in the hospital’s newly opened wing, which is nicer than darn near any hotel where I’ve ever stayed. Large, private room. Comfortable bed. Flat-screen TV. Attentive, good-natured nurses. Decent food. It would’ve been a mini vacation if they hadn’t awakened me so often to take my blood pressure or poke another hole or find out how often I’d peed.

After a full day of testing, my heart got an A. It’s my stomach that failed. The problem appears to be reflux related.

Although I initially felt a bit silly for having gone when I’m basically fine, the peace of mind has been worth every cent.

Had I put it off any longer, who knows? I might’ve had to wait in line for the treadmill behind a bunch of chickens in hospital gowns.

Ask most kids what they want to be when they grow up and they’re likely to say professional athlete or entertainer or maybe a veterinarian. Ask parents what they want their children to be and they’re likely to answer a doctor or lawyer or another profession known for its high income.

Ask my kid, who contracted sarcasm at birth, and she’s likely to say, “A taxidermist–I like playing with dead things.” Most anything to make a grown-up reconsider ever again asking the question.

It’s hard to get a serious answer from her, but I suppose it’s not that easy a question. When I was her age, deciding on a future career was much different. The emphasis seemed to be more on finding what your strengths and interests were than on how much you would make.

Back then, the division between those going to trade school and those going to college wasn’t as off balance as it is today. Certainly, there was less condescension toward those choosing to learn a craft rather than go on to college. Now, more than ever, it’s all about going to college and chasing after the big paycheck.

In the book Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into the Value of Work, author Matthew Crawford, who holds a doctorate in political philosophy, writes about his decision to quit his Washington think tank job to repair motorcycles—a job that leaves him far more satisfied than cubicle work ever could.

According to Crawford, shop classes and vocational education began being phased out in the 1990s as students were instead prepared for the “knowledge revolution.” Jobs requiring manual-type skills became something that were looked down upon as our society bought into the idea that only jobs requiring college educations were respectable or intellectual.

But “you can’t hammer a nail over the Internet,” writes Crawford. “The work of builders and mechanics is secure; it cannot be outsourced, and it cannot be made obsolete. Such work ties us to the local communities in which we live, and instills the pride that comes from doing work that is genuinely useful.”

And yet that kind of work—and those who do that kind of work—seems to be looked down on by American society, regardless of the fact that brains and aptitude are required there, too.

Crawford writes about how, in his job as a mechanic, he’ll be faced with a motorcycle that won’t start, so he must test theories and use the correct tools and parts to get a successful result—which is an engine that runs. It requires skill, practice, and intelligence, and should generate respect. Yet seldom does.

By looking down on those whose occupations require hands as much as or more than brains, we’ve widened the division that was already there. The author laments how far blue-collar work, both in numbers and prestige, has fallen, saying our “economic landscape has become such that those who don’t go to college are viewed as suspect, stupid, and/or unemployable. The massification of higher education has created a new vocational pitfall: I’ve got a degree; therefore, I should be doing smart, clean, fun, and well-paid work.”

Much as we might like it to be true, we aren’t all created equal. Not physically, not mentally, not gumption-wise. There’s no one-size-fits-all education solution. It’s ludicrous to continue as though every child is actually capable of getting a college education if they’re just willing to—gosh darn it!—buckle down and apply themselves. (Strangely, an equally common-sense argument—that not everyone is capable of repairing engines or trouble-shooting an office air-conditioning system—is rarely mentioned either.)

It’s natural for parents to want the best for our offspring, so it makes sense that we harp about studying and getting good grades from the time our children are small. But perhaps we’re deluding ourselves about what really <I>is<P> best, not only for our children, but for our country as well.

We need to know how to do things for ourselves again. We need to be self-sufficient. Self reliant. We need to be able to use our hands as well as our brains. And we need to respect those who work on both sides of the line, or eliminate the line altogether. Our scorn should be saved for those who deserve it.

Like sarcastic children who get pleasure by causing grownups to squirm.

Looking it up on the internet was an afterthought. The deed had been done. It was already past tense. Yet the experience had been odd enough that I wondered if other rabbit owners might’ve had something similar happen.

So I googled.

“WHATEVER YOU DO,” wrote a particularly intense internet poster whose caps-lock key must be sticky. “Do NOT bathe your RABBIT!!!”

(Her exclamation key was also impaired.)

“Rabbits should NEVER, EVER, EVER be bathed!!!”

Oh crap. I thought. Do they shrink? Do their colors run?

Even worse, it turns out.

They’re dry clean only.

Seriously. You’re not supposed to bathe rabbits. There’s no law against it or anything. Not yet, anyway. Someone might want to keep an eye on Michael Vick to see if he starts placing bets on whether Thumper is more buoyant than Bugs.

Buoyant, you ask?

Yeah. It’s the weirdest thing. If you’d asked me last week how to make a rabbit float, I’d have suggested adding two scoops of ice cream and some root beer, but all you actually need is a compliant rabbit, some warm bath water, and perhaps a few dozen fleas.

Our rabbit, Winnie, is perhaps more compliant than most, but she’s also confident to a somewhat unnatural degree—regularly slap-shoving dogs and bedding down with a once-feral cat. She likes long nose rubs, destroying phone books, and reruns of The Shield.

And despite what some INTERNET EXPERTS INSIST!!!!, Winnie also likes baths. Turns out she likes to float.

I realized Winnie’s cat buddy had generously shared his collection of fleas after our poor rabbit began randomly popping into the air every minute or two, between which times she would contort herself into peculiar positions as she tried to rid herself of the bug. I combed her as best as I could, but with lousy results.

And so, since I’d successfully de-flea-ed and treated the rest of our crew, I decided it was bath time for Winnie and Stew.

(A clarification may be needed. We actually have two rabbits. Winnie is mine, and Stew belongs to Winnie. For those who might’ve been wondering if I’d gone ‘round the bend, here’s your proof:  I got our rabbit a rabbit. She seemed lonely. But it was my husband, not me, who named the little guy Stew.)

I’d read enough about flea treatments to know none seemed nontoxic enough for our rabbits, so I purchased small-animal shampoo that was guaranteed safe for (wait for it, wait for it) all kinds of hares.

I filled the tub with warm water, put on soothing music, lit a few candles, (OK, I’m lying about the candles), and then with one hand under her belly, I slowly lowered Winnie into the tub.

I’m pretty sure she smiled.

Without even a fraction of alarm, Winnie relaxed in an instant, so much so that her legs drifted out behind her and she started to float. I kept my hand beneath her to prevent her from slipping under, although I suspect she would’ve been fine. Might’ve even preferred I’d been holding a wee glass of wine.

Stew reacted much the same. No scrambling to get out. No signs of alarm. Just wiggled down low in the water, as though understanding it would help get rid of the fleas.

After allowing them to enjoy a good soak, we wrapped the rabbits in a few towels and they joined us in bed for a few episodes of MadMen (they missed last season, so we kept having to stop to explain) before they went back to their room.

It wasn’t until the next day, while talking to a friend, that I became curious about bathing rabbits. I went online and found one (often self-proclaimed) expert after another extolling the dangers of dampening rabbits.

According to what I read, many rabbits are so fearful they can go into shock when bathed, and some never recover. Also, the long time it takes for a rabbit’s coat to thoroughly dry presents a danger if the animal is exposed to cold or breezy conditions while wet.

All of which makes me wonder what rabbits do in the wild. Though a wild hare would look downright natty in an appropriately-sized London Fog, I’ve yet to witness such a thing. Perhaps that mechanical whirring sound I occasionally hear outdoors—the one I’ve thought was a neighbor’s vacuum or leaf blower—is actually a hare dryer.

Now that I understand the potential dangers in washing a rabbit, if bathing turns out to be the only option, you should plan ahead and take the time to do it correctly. That includes enough downtime afterward to make certain the rabbit is thoroughly dry.

If anyone tries to rush you, there’s only one thing you can say.

“Sorry, but I just washed my hare and I can’t do a thing with it.”

I felt a twinge of anxiety as I hit SEND on the e-mail that carried my edits on a story a newish writer had given me to critique. What she’d written was interesting and clever, but mired in the kinds of mistakes writers tend to make when they’re new to the craft.

I remember, when I was new to the game, how hard it was to show my stories to others. I remember how exposed I felt while awaiting their comments. Had my story come back covered in red, I might’ve felt like giving up altogether, but my earliest teachers were gentle and patient. They recognized the importance of the mistakes I was making and showed me how to learn from them, a bit at a time.

The woman whose story I’d read was a former president of a large organization. She was multilingual, well traveled, had a collection of prestigious honors and degrees. Yet her story had the same beginner’s mistakes that many new writers with a fraction of her schooling would have. They aren’t even mistakes so much as they are a part of the learning process. They have to do this to learn the reason or value of that.

If a person were to become fascinated with figure skating and read cover-to-cover every book that’s ever been written about the subject, no amount of what they’ve studied would make a lick of difference if they’ve never stepped on the ice. It’s only by doing it — and doing it wrong — that they can learn how and what to correct.

Same thing with construction or golf or business or a million other endeavors. You can read about it, study it, know it inside and out, but you aren’t going to be able to do a particular thing until you’re in that world and start making the mistakes that inevitably arise.

With writing, there’s too much to learn all at once, so you take on just a few of the most important issues at the start. Plotting. Point of view. Consistent verb tense. Learning not to ever, ever use any of the myriad ways to keep from saying “he said.”

Because I wanted badly to learn, those who took time to teach me paced their advice and recommendations so that I could keep up. I can’t recall a single time when I felt overwhelmed. And now, many years later, I’m where they used to be, trying to pay forward their benevolence by nudging new writers bent on improving their craft.

It’s been interesting to observe the way advice is received. Most who I’ve worked with genuinely welcome suggestions, while others bristle over anything less than gushing praise.

I wonder if, as we get older, we start investing more in being right than in what we can learn from the experience. If we get something wrong, we either try to hide it, blame someone else, or beat ourselves up.

Reporter Alina Tugend, in her New York Times column about the importance of mistakes, wrote, “as children we’re taught that everyone makes mistakes and that the great thinkers and inventors embraced them. Thomas Edison’s famous quote is often inscribed in schools and children’s museums: ‘I have not failed. I have just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.’”

Tugend continued: “But good grades are usually a reward for doing things right, not making errors. Compliments are given for having the correct answer and … the wrong one may elicit scorn from classmates. We grow up with a mixed message: making mistakes is a necessary learning tool, but we should avoid them.”

Stanley Gully, an associate professor at Rutgers University, performed studies that revealed that encouraging people to make mistakes works better than teaching them to avoid them.

Said professor Gully: “We get fixated on achievement, but … if you already know the answer, it’s not learning. In most personal and business contexts, if you avoid the error, you avoid the learning process.”

When I heard back from the woman whose story I’d marked, she was excited because she said I’d talked to her like she was “a real writer.” I told her I’d been worried she might be offended by my suggestions and changes, and her response was something I’ve now printed and saved:

“The only shame to be had with regard to mistakes should be reserved for those who don’t recognize their value and use. Any less would be foolish.”

I thought having a vegetable garden would be relaxing. Growing our own food would not only be thrifty, but environmentally conscientious and a learning opportunity — a chance for my daughter to experience the transformation from seed to sprouting plant to device for delivering salt and ranch dressing.

I thought working in the sun and the dirt would be good exercise.

It was exercise, all right. In futility.

We planted our first garden not long after moving into our South Charleston home. It was just a few tomato plants that first year, and when those few plants failed to thrive, we blamed the location. Not enough morning sun. We noted what part of the yard was sunnier so that we might fare better the following year.

 The next year, we plotted our garden and bought a good bit of dirt, which we mixed with our own. We spent hours sifting rocks and roots from the dirt, breaking down clumps with bare hands. We read what plants should be on inside rows and which should be out, and we followed the Farmer’s Almanac’s advice on when we should plant.

 We even bought well-established starter plants rather than gamble on starting from seed. We watered with Miracle Gro and plucked weeds, and for our efforts were rewarded with tall, gorgeous plants. Not one of which produced more than a few pea-sized tomatoes. Our cucumber plants didn’t yield a single baby gerkin. Not even a preemie.

 A wise-sounding neighbor said our oak trees were to blame. Said they made our soil acidic. Said we needed to heavily lime the ground before winter then again in the spring. We followed his advice to the letter. We watered regularly, weeded faithfully, debugged and derabbited. And for our efforts, we have a garden filled with lush, healthy-looking plants, thick vines and stalks.

And no produce.

With all the money we’ve invested attempting to grow our own, we could’ve bought a truckload of veggies.

Lest anyone believe my black thumbs are inherited, my parents decided not to put in a garden this year, but one grew anyway. Planted itself from seed from last year’s plants. They’re calling it their volunteer garden. Every one of the plants is heavy with fruit.

I understand, though clearly not from personal experience, that having too successful of a garden can be a burden.

In the late 1960s, my husband’s parents moved to West Virginia from Los Angeles, caught up with the charming notion of getting back to the land. Both city kids, they had only the vaguest idea of gardening, and absolutely no concept of how much each plant would produce or that each would continue producing for weeks on end. They tilled a large garden in the yard of their rental farmhouse and put in tomato plants.

One hundred of them.

And about half as many zucchini.

Their crash course in farming resulted in a crash course in canning. They had enough canned tomatoes, tomato juice, tomato paste, tomato sauce, spaghetti sauce and homemade ketchup to serve them for years, with enough left over to require every visitor to their home to take away bags filled with their bounty.

The zucchini were more of a problem, as people seemed to respond to offers of zucchini with the same enthusiasm normally reserved for chain letters.

As for me, I decided to cut my losses and put in a rock garden. It’s hard to tell how successful it’ll be. It’s only been a few days, and no rocks have died. But there’s no new gravel either.

I realized the teen years had arrived a few weeks ahead of schedule when my running home during lunch hour caused Celeste to complain about being awakened early.

It was barely past the crack of noon. Heavens! What was I thinking?

Judging by her reaction, I halfway expected Child Protective Services would be paying a call, considering my cruel and thoughtless behavior.

Although Celeste doesn’t officially turn 13 until the end of the month–trust me. The teens have arrived.

Household food consumption is up, as is the water bill. Eye rolling has hit a new high, along with exasperated-sounding sighs and grunts that apparently have replaced certain words.

Still, she remains good humored, good natured, and tolerant of her parents, so the metamorphosis is apparently far from complete.

It’s the sleep part I’m finding most fascinating. Especially when I remember the early years as a parent when I would’ve happily traded an appendage or two for a few more hours of sleep.

As I shook her awake one recent morning (after first clearing off the cobwebs and dust), she grumbled, “If I was supposed to pop out of bed, I’d sleep in a toaster.”

 Unlike me, a lifelong morning person, my offspring has had night owl tendencies from the start. At 10 p.m., she’s just hitting her stride. At midnight, she shines. For years, she managed a somewhat normal awakening time, albeit with some grumbling, but these days, a life-sized cement sloth would be easier to roust. And likely more chatty.

Recognizing the internet might provide evidence for her need to sleep late, Celeste sent links to a few studies showing the benefits for teens getting more sleep.

The first study, reported on by CBS/AP, showed that delaying a high school’s start time by just 30 minutes enabled students to be prompt, more alert, and in better moods.

According to the article, “Researchers say there’s a reason why even 30 minutes can make a big difference. Teens tend to be in their deepest sleep around dawn–when they typically need to get up for school. Interrupting that sleep can leave them groggy, especially since they also tend to have trouble falling asleep before 11 p.m.”

A second report, which she found on NPR’s website, provided evidence that teens who sleep later tend to drive safer. While she’s jumping the gun on that argument by three years, the article about the study done by Eastern Virginia Medical School did indicate that the teen car crash rate was a whopping 41 percent higher in Virginia Beach, Va., than in neighboring Chesapeake, where the school day starts 80 minutes later.

The article cited another study, published in the Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine, that revealed teen car crashes dropped by 16.5 percent after a county-wide school district pushed the school start time back by one hour.

While my daughter’s argument might’ve been intended to do nothing more than quash my nagging, it has me wondering why—if there’s proof that allowing teenagers to sleep later keeps them safer, makes them more tolerable mood wise, and enables them be more open for learning—why aren’t we acting on this information? 

Perhaps it isn’t just teenagers who are guilty of being asleep at the wheel.

There isn’t much that Murry, our eight-year-old wheaten terrier, is afraid of. He doesn’t fear other dogs, moving cars, falling anvils. If a tiger was charging, he’d splay his paws and wag his tail or show his adorable belly. If a dog-hating armed robber broke in, Murry would bring him a shoe.

That’s not because Murry is brave. It’s because his brain is the size of a pea.

But I love my pea-brained mop dog. He’s my most constant companion. I can’t imagine how I’d survive these hot summer days without his sopping wet beard, freshly refilled from the bucket, cooling my leg as the water dribbles down from where his chin rests on my knee.

Not counting deep thought and pop quizzes, there are only a few things that Murry is truly afraid of. The first is the groomer, for whom he has a seething hatred, along with a knee-knocking fear. The others are thunder storms and fireworks.

Our family’s two other dogs represent opposite ends of the anxiety spectrum. The silky terrier, Chewie, is essentially fearless, almost stupidly so, while Roo, our closet dog, has phobias so specialized she even has one for vertical men.

That Roo chose to share Murry’s fear of thunder and fireworks seemed unsurprising to us, but to Murry, her fear compounds his, as though Roo’s trembling gives him proof there’s something to fear.

And gives us reason to dread holidays like the Fourth of July.

Not long ago, Geoff and I were on the back porch with the dogs when a storm started to brew. For some reason, when the thunder rumbled, I gave Murry a nudge and said in a playful voice, “Get it, Murry.”

He barked at the thunder.

“Good boy,” Geoff encouraged. “Get it, Murry. Chase it away.”

More thunder, more barking. Instead of growing more fearful, Murry was soon hopping and woofing at each fresh crack of thunder, thoroughly enjoying that he was being encouraged to bark. He seemed to forget to be scared.

Roo, however, was barricading all the doors with heavy furniture while Chewie was busy sticking forks in electrical outlets.

Knowing the upcoming fireworks would have our crew in a tizzy, I began seeking suggestions for ways to calm dogs during stressful times. I was told to put a tiny dab of peppermint oil on the back of Murry’s paws during a storm (or other stressful event). He would lick off the oil, which has calming properties, while the process of licking helps distract and calm him.

Unfamiliar with peppermint oil, I mentioned it to my husband. Wondered if it was safe.

“What’s the danger?” he asked. “That his breath will be minty?”

Concerned, I researched about the safety of peppermint oil and found an ASPCA warning that large quantities could cause gastrointestinal irritation in dogs, but the risks appeared to be small.

Other recommendations include. . . .

• Taking your dog for an extra long walk prior to the fireworks starting, since a tired dog is naturally less stressed.
• Feeding them a little more than usual shortly before the loud noises begin, as a full stomach tends to make them sleepy and relaxed.
• Providing a safe, dark place with music or a fan running.
• Making sure your pet has an I.D. tag in case he races off in fear and gets lost.
• Not taking a pet to a fireworks display (or forcing them to go outside during a thunderstorm) thinking it’ll help them develop an immunity to their fear. It almost never does.
• And making certain outlets have protective covers, and forks are kept out of a terrier’s reach.

Not long ago, I wrote about the belongings some of us can’t imagine living without. Mine was a nubby old recliner I’d very nearly gotten rid of several times, but couldn’t. My friend Susan Linden suggested I make something from the chair, like a picture frame from the wood or album cover from the fabric—something more substantial and tactile than the photograph of the chair I briefly thought would suffice.

Yet the chair remains a fixture on our newly screened-in back porch.

After reading an email from David Miller of Canaan Valley, I’m thinking holding onto my ugly chair might not be such a bad thing.

Miller suggested I do a column about those things you once owned, but got rid of, that you’d love to have back. The impetus behind his suggestion was a 1984 Jeep that Miller and his son, then 15-years old, purchased back in 1999.

Although Miller called the Jeep “a motorized dumpster with no frills,” that didn’t stop him from flying to Texas to buy one that was in fairly good shape. He and his son drove it home.  In 95 degree temperatures. With no air conditioning.

Miller said he distracted himself from “the oppressive heat by watching the gauges fluctuate wildly and listening to the engine cough and miss,” and later, by trying to drive without a back on his seat. (“Having a back on the driver’s seat is a much underappreciated device, but one quickly gains appreciation when it is absent.”)

Eventually, the two made it home, then spent much of the next several months working on the Jeep together. Years later, after his son moved to the West Coast, the Jeep was put into storage. And there it sat, seldom used, for the past eight years.

Although the Jeep still runs, there are problems, and Miller’s not sure he wants to deal with the hassle and expense of getting it back on the road. Keeping it creates other issues (like storage), but since there are so many memories attached to this Jeep, he fears if he lets go of it, he’ll regret it.

Prompting him to suggest a column asking others if there was anything they once had, but got rid of, and wished they could have back.

At the time of Miller’s request, I could only reach those readers who have friended me on Facebook, but many of them had regrets.

Kathryn Brown regrets getting rid of “half of everything I send to Goodwill.”

Novelist Brad Barkley regrets no longer having his ’65 Mustang and his ‘72 Camaro.

Jamie Gates misses her “Jane and Johnny West action figures.”

And Charlie Medford not only misses his “red Fender Strat,” but also his “ultra fit bod,” which he says was actually lost over a period of time, not gotten rid of.

Pam Hanson wishes she’d kept her “older son’s Fisher Price ‘Flip Track’ plaything . . . great track, train on one side, car/airplanes on another. I’ll feel forever guilty he won’t be able to hand down to his future children.”

Roland Rusty Cook misses a book he used to have of his “4th grade teacher Roberta Knox’s poetry.”

As for Miller, he wrote back to tell me he’d found a new use for his jeep. He and his dog, Tucker, drove down to a nearby pond and went for a swim.

“It’s the perfect vehicle for this activity,” said Miller. “Don’t really care if the seats get dirty or damp, and the air whipping through the compartment on the two-mile ride home just about dried off Tucker while he sat up front, watching for deer.”

He’s keeping the Jeep. And dodging regrets.

Last winter, Linda Mays, a student in my husband’s novel class, shared a link to a book on Amazon.com that had been sent to her by a friend.

Apparently, said Mays, her friend’s motivation in sending the link was to encourage her to continue writing. “She must’ve been thinking, ‘Hey, if this person can get a book published, maybe you can, too.’”

 Mays wrote that she followed the link and read some excerpts from the book, then scrolled down and began reading the reviews.

 “That’s where the real fun began,” said Mays, who was shared the link with the rest of the class.

At that time, though, I must’ve been busy, since rather than follow the link, I saved it for later, then forgot all about it until this past weekend. My husband and I had just returned from a writing conference, which usually get me so charged up I can’t return to my keyboard fast enough. But this time was different. Instead of brimming with ideas and how to approach them, I came home feeling I’ve been playing out of my league. There are so many fabulous writers in West Virginia alone. How can I hope to even rise to the middle, much less the top?

Fortunately, when I’d saved the link Linda Mays sent, I attached a note to myself that said, “Something to read the next time you’re feeling down about writing.”

I followed the link and read the reviews.

“As a rule,” wrote one of the early reviewers, “I force myself to read at least half of a book, no matter how terrible it is. I must say, this was most certainly the worst half of a book I’ve ever read.  If you’re the type of person who likes to stop and look at train wrecks, see if the library has a copy. If not, spare yourself.”

Wrote another, “You know when you’re sitting on the toilet and you can choose between reading this book or the ingredients on the back of the baby powder? Choose the baby powder. I couldn’t get through two pages before my eyes started bleeding.”

Then came what must’ve been a tongue-in-cheek recommendation.

“Forget Harry Potter. Forget Stephen King. Forget Citizen Kane. Forget that Citizen Kane wasn’t a book,” wrote one reviewer. “(This) is the book you’ll be talking about to your children’s children. It’s the Dune of our generation. Imagine if Tolkien were alive today and writing SciFi Romance, and you’ll have a good idea what this book is like. (This book) is the thinking person’s scifi romance novel! Read it now before it’s made into a major motion picture!”

Said the next person: “The above review is more creative than the book.”

I realized then why I’d saved the link as something to read when I’m down. It was to remind myself that few things can be more inspiring than to read a really bad book. One that somehow got published.

So many times I’ve finished the last page feeling disappointed by a terrible ending, by a character who suddenly does something completely uncharacteristic, by a far-too-convenient solution, or by some other sin that makes me angry to have wasted time on the book. I’ll often be so aggravated I’ll toss the book in the trash rather than get a quarter from some future yard sale book buyer looking for a cheap read.

But not any more. Not now that I’ve realized even horrible books have something to offer–hope.  Hope that if drivel like that managed to get a publisher’s stamp of approval, that maybe someday, I, too, might have my name on a cover.

I recognize the impossibility of writing a book that everyone loves, but if I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll write something that at least inspires a few other writers.