Take this past week, for example. As the sun set, the entire sky blazed red. Not pink, but a pomegranate hue, without a cloud in sight. The light had left the day except for the red scrim, so that everything else appeared as silhouette art snipped by a talented hand with sharp shears. I rounded a bend on Route 2 east by Nagog Pond in Acton. It reminded me that Acton was the inspiration for the Robert Frost poem “The Vanishing Red,”  though that was about Native Americans, not sunsets. The pond caught the red sheen.

I reached for my cell phone which I’d already clicked over to camera. I managed to shoot the dashboard, steering wheel and car window frame, but couldn’t slow enough to capture the scene. For the rest of my drive home, I watched for the right combination of open vista, red sky, and a place to pull off. On the last leg of my drive, about a half mile from home, I paused on the narrow side road, rolled down my window and grabbed a shot. By then, the sun had dropped low enough that the red had faded. It was a nice image, but not the one I wanted to capture.

What did I do before my smart phone? Occasionally, I kept my Nikon in the car. When the weather dips below freezing, that’s not a good idea. My back-up was always that complex device called my mind. I focus on the scene as it swirls by and tell myself “remember this.” There is no way to share it though, unless I happen to have a passenger and then I’m apt to say “LOOK!”

A short list of some of the many images, recorded only in my mind:

Daisy growing out of the concrete and tarmac tunnel that is Storrow Drive

Tree, bare branches coated in ice reaching to the sky

Mist rolling through the cattails along the bank of the Concord River

Newborn calves in the meadow outside the State Penitentiary working farm

Some of my favorite images are signs. A church in Belmont has great messages about redemption and bingo … not combined. Farmer markets post messages that make me smile. Incorrectly spelled signs amuse the editor in me.

Captured or not, the images that make my heart thrum loader and my breath quicken do stay with me. Often they reappear in my writing. A writer can never make up something as good as what nature already offers.

It might be best if I resolved to stick with my memory and leave the phone alone. But there is this one image that I see over and over … it’s a weathered brown barn at the edge of a field. Early in the morning, the sun bathes one side of it in a way that would make an artist reach for a palette … or a driver reach for her phone.

When I’m not writing, I work as VP of Communications for the Alzheimer’s Association, MA/NH. I spend a good deal of time asking people who have experienced Alzheimer’s if they are willing to be interviewed by media. I tell them that public awareness only happens when people are willing to tell their stories. As a communications professional, I know that to be a fact.

Yet, I’ve been reluctant to tell my story. As a result, I’ve been feeling like a fraud. I ask people to talk about their fatal brain disease yet I didn’t want to talk about my own brain attack. Nearly 800,00 people in the U.S. have strokes each year–a percentage of those are fatal. Some can prevented; some can be stopped in their tracks when treatment occurs within three hours of the stroke.

I have talked about my stroke with a small circle of friends. I’ve learned how common it is. Like Alzheimer’s, there’s a misconception that stroke happens to “old people.” Well, I’m not old and neither were a number of people whose stories I’ve heard. One friend had a stroke at 43; another friend’s husband had one in his 30s. It’s the 4th leading cause of death.

Consider this my public service announcement: Did you know that anyone can suffer a stroke? Learn the warning signs. It’s as easy as FAST — Face, Arms, Speech, Time.

• Check for drooping on one side of the Face or when you stick out your tongue, it hangs to one side.
• Are your Arms equal in strength?
•  Is your Speech slow, confused or incoherent?
• Time is of the essence. If you or someone you know is experiencing any of these symptoms, call 9-1-1. Tell the paramedics the signs.

My stroke began with headache, dizziness and vomiting–all signs of migraine, which I sometimes have. Then my speech became confused. I did go to a local ER.  Unfortunately, the MD there did not recognize the symptoms and sent me home. I ended up at Boston Medical Center, whose tagline is “Exceptional Care Without Exception.” In no time, I was in the stroke unit. But that was three days late.

So, I would add to FAST — go to a major medical center!

I was lucky. My symptoms were minor. I recovered completely and quickly. It was truly a wake-up call to tackle those annoying lifestyle things. I considered myself healthy before, but I’m at it with a vengeance now.

Please take care! For more information visit the American Stroke Association.

I first met her on an Easter Sunday at my grandparents’ farm. Our house, like the homes of most of my father’s siblings, was in a sort of rural farm version of a Kennedy compound. The houses were built on pockets of land carved from my grandparents’ land. On that Easter, Bobby arrived with this beautiful young woman in tow. He introduced her all around. I thought we were the luckiest family in the world to have Linda as part of us. She was movie star pretty. And an artist–a calling that seemed exotic in a town where people were farmers or ran local businesses.

Theirs was the first wedding I ever attended. Added to Linda’s specialness was the fact that she was “protestant,” marrying into a family of immigrant Catholic Poles. On her wedding day at the Congregational Church on Main Street, she glowed. The fact that my cousin married outside the Catholic church only strengthened my conviction that she was something special. Worth it. The fact that she did not convert just added to my awe of her.

I moved on from my hometown when I went to college; Linda and Bobby by then had built their own house in the compound and begun a family. She became a leading light for the artistic spirit of town; he became First Selectman.  Bobby died tragically young in his fifties. I didn’t see Linda until years later, in a most unexpected way.

On a whim, I’d entered a short story contest: The Laurinda Collins Whitney Short Story Competition. It caught my eye because it was based in Somers, Connecticut–the hometown I’d left behind. The story, “Neelie James,” was inspired by my own life. My submission was a winner and I was invited to attend a ceremony at the Somers Public Library. To my surprise, Linda was there, running the program. The submissions had been “blind.”  It wasn’t until the winners were picked that she realized I was a winner.

We visited over punch and cookies and it would be years again before I saw her. Once at a family reunion, but mostly we’ve met at family funerals.

Today is hers. I’m missing her. An artist in a small town, she shone like the precious gem that she was. She aged with beauty as a mother, grandmother. I’m grateful to Bobby for bringing her to us.

Lovely Linda …. rest in peace.

Betsy (Percoski) Fitzgerald-Campbell

The part that really caught my attention: kids are getting excited about the owls. They’ve not suddenly become naturalists. They want to see a real life Hedwig. In the same way that J.K. Rowling popularized Neapolitan Mastiffs (Fang), she created a larger than life snowy owl. And they are already pretty darned impressive without the magic. With five foot wing spans and a bit of a cocky attitude, the owls are well suited for harsh artic life. When they show up in fields in our northern states, they rule.

J.K. Rowling rules as well. With buzz this week about a potential Nobel Prize coming her way, she is headed for the stratosphere. This is where I admit that I have only read the first of the Harry Potter books. I am surrounded by fans who camped out to snatch up each successive volume; fans who read and re-read the hefty books.  Personally, I gravitate toward magic in form of the magical realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who did win the 1982 Nobel Prize for Literature, or captivating Massachusetts author Alice Hoffman.

I am mesmerized by Rowling’s expansive storytelling and brilliant vision. Her choice of bigger than life animals-the mastiff and the snowy owl–allows us to see the magic around us. We don’t need to find Hogwarts–we simply need to see an owl that has strayed south. That’s magic enough for me. For the children who are Harry Potter fans, the irruption is magic come to life.

The trees, shorn of their lights and garlands and ornaments, had been gathered throughout town as part of the Fire Department’s annual tree collection. For a few bucks, donated to the benevolent association, your tree could be picked up and added to the festivity.

The winds were quiet, the night warm and the bonfire was about to begin.

Working in the dark, firefighters had been preparing the massive pile of evergreens. Gasoline fumes cut through night. A fire truck stood ready. The crowd moved back, leaving cautious distance as the fire tenders took up position.

Last night was the close of Three Kings Day, the night of Epiphany. It was also a night with a moon, bright and watchful. I dug my hands deeper into my pockets. The trees formed a small green hill, maybe 100 feet in circumference, 20 feet high. It would be a perfect place in a mystery story to dispose of a body. I tossed that thought away as quickly as it came, since Ruth Rendell and John LeCarre both used a Guy Fawkes bonfire as a devious device. It was simply enough that it was the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas and those of us who had braved the night were about to mark that fact.

I understand it has been a town tradition for about a decade, but I’m new here (less than five years) and it was my first bonfire. I hoped for a large lovely blaze. Perhaps there would be a countdown. It had the feeling of waiting for the fireworks on the 4th.

A firefighter touched a torch to a narrow path of gasoline that lead to the trees. Small flames raced the flammable line, hitting the accelerant soaked trees. WHOOOOSHH. Fire exploded through tinder dry limbs. It roared, soared orange-yellow, then red against the black sky. Cinders shone like black stars against the flames.

Children leaned in against their parents. Little ones sitting on the grass looked up. There were no ooohs and ahhhs. It was not sparkling, controlled display. It was a beast of a blast taking over the winter night. The firefighters tended the edges; the onlookers began to unbutton coats and remove hats as waves of heat found us. In less than 15 minutes, the pile of trees fell in on itself, burning bright. The firefighters would be there for hours after we left, tending the embers.

I walked with my husband back to our car, stunned silent by the fierce beauty of the fiery spectacle. I pulled my scarf back up over my head as the cold found me again.

Firefighter at bonfire photo by Art Campbell/The Groton Line

Chopped puts experienced chefs through their paces by forcing them to create appetizers, entrees and desserts from crazy mystery ingredients. They race against the clock to put the food on the table. As a woman who has at different times in her life  (1) been single and on a very limited budget; (2) been too busy with toddlers to take the time to shop; and now (3) caught up in long work/commute hours — I often find myself facing a hodgepodge of  ingredients that somehow need to turn into a meal.

When life gives you lemons — make lemonade.  Right? The chefs are faced with things like rattlesnake, miniature coconuts, animal crackers,  rack of elk, cactus, astronaut ice cream, lamb testicles, Chinese spinach, cherry soda. Watching an executive chef from a top Boston or New York restaurant trying to blend pretzels into a fish appetizer is a bit like facing a fridge that holds deli ham, cocktail sauce and a stale English muffin. I usually have an emergency bottle of champagne tucked in the back. That can smooth the edges of any meal.

These chefs bring attitude. They are owners, executive chefs, entrepreneurs. Some are divas and some diamonds in the rough. They face a panel of still-more accomplished chefs. The judges evaluate the odd concoctions for flavor and creativity. It might be my bias, but I always cheer for the ones who set aside their bravado and put their heads down and just work their tails off. Drama rises, fingers often get sliced, hearts broken in defeat. Occasionally episodes end in tears, from the contestants or judges or both.

I think I learned the chopped way from my mother (along with a lot of other things). A family favorite was homemade pizza but we would find the cabinets empty of things like pepperoni and mozzarella. There was a memorably bad version topped with tomato soup and hot dog slices. Not something that was ever repeated, but it got the job done. When she first heard about tacos, long before Mexican food was rampant, she grabbed some corn meal and was grilling tortillas in no time. The competing chefs have the option of pulling other ingredients from a well-stocked pantry. My mother did not have that luxury. She ran on pure ingenuity and determination.

Making something from nothings brings me a sense of pride. Clearly, I’m not alone–and I like the company. And that $10,000?

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride; if wishes were eggs, I’d have some fried,”my mother used to like to say. I don’t think it’s the original version, but for a girl who always wanted a pony, it gave me pause.

When my daughters were young, I told them they could make wish lists for Christmas. The lists were surprisingly modest and they usually received most of their wishes plus gifts that I just wanted to buy. There has to be surprises under the tree. I admit to playing loose with some of the items. The year Emma wanted a Husky dog, she got one but it was a Steiff–not the type that needed kibble and care.

My wishes today? World peace has always been on the list. Jobs for those who need them. Good health for those I love. Topping the list of things I can reasonably expect: my family gathered together. It’s become more difficult with a daughter in London and one in Brooklyn and me living now in Massachusetts.

Last year, we became a cyber family and gathered via Skype on Christmas morning. It was afternoon in England and very early morning in California for their father who joined in as well.  It’s not the same, but it was a good substitute. I can highly recommend it if you are longing to gather and cannot manage it. My husband, tech savant that he is, took the lead and signed up for Skype’s free trial for video conferencing–which we cancelled at the end of the 30 days.

We spent at least two hours opening presents on Christmas morning and chatting to the video images of each other. Wrappings piled up, we jockeyed to keep in view of the laptop’s video “eye” and the miles disappeared.  The best present was the chance to be together.

This year, Abi is with her in-laws in Warsaw, Poland and she is not sure about the schedule and the internet availability. Emma is visiting her Dad in California. So we proclaimed Christmas a moveable feast and are going to gather and Skype on December 30th. The tree is ready–and we get an extra week for shopping! There’s a strong will and we found a way to make it happen again this year.

May you be where you want and with those you love for Hanukkah and Christmas and Solstice.

* It took work, not wishes, to get that pony. When I was old enough to work and earn money, I bought a beautiful blue-eyed white horse and named him Galahad. Sometimes you just have to make the wishes happen.

For hierarchical reasons I don’t understand, the doves wait til last. A pair will share the feeder, with sleek dun gray feathers, a shade as soft as their warbling voices. Unlike the other birds that dart and elbow each other away, the doves move with careful calm. They mate for life, these quiet birds. They seem to appreciate shared mealtimes as well.

With the exception of the bizarre early snow storm that toppled trees and pulled down pulled  power lines, winter has not really arrived this year. When snow does cover the ground, the feeding flock will grow as it does every year. The cardinals will appear shocking red against the winter blanket. Sun yellow finches will look like they missed their ride back to the tropics. They will all queue up in the branches close to the house. It amazes me that the snatched seeds sustain them as temperatures dive. It surprises me even more how much I’ve come to enjoy watching them.

I am mesmerized by the endless ballet of aerial flights and pas de deux and the occasional tragedies when one of our cats intercedes. It’s a good deal; the seeds for the show. Not rock ‘n roll, but quietly satisfying.

This year’s switch in time comes after a crazy week that brought us eleven inches of snow, a nor’easter, power loss and a scary night that had nothing to do with Halloween. The scariness came  when trees tumbled and crashed all over our house, including one that  exploded with the weight of snow and came through our bedroom window at 2:30 a.m. I woke from sleep to the gunshot sound of a tree cracking, followed by the brittle cacophony of breaking glass. Miraculously, we survived without cuts. I cleaned up glass shards from our bed and then took to the couch in the living room, away from the direct path of windows.

No one wants to go without power — no light, heat or water. The temperature ran around freezing outside which brought the inside down to the fifties. Loss of power meant that we had no hot water; we had no water at all because a pump drives our well. Still, as our house settled into blackness pierced by candles, a sweet hush took over our lives.

First, I noticed that there were no digitally driven numbers glaring in red or blue. Did you ever count how many times a day the insistent glare of clocks affronts you? In our kitchen, there are clocks on the coffeemaker, stove and microwave. In our family room, weather monitor, TIVO and clock. Bedroom, we each have a digital clock on our matching nightstands plus there is a CD player.

Despite the cold, I found a peacefulness in the natural flow of night, sans light. Sleep came more easily and held me deeply. There’s plenty of research about the value of sleeping in true dark. I had only half believed it until this week. I had grown up in the country streetlights didn’t exist. It was pre-digital days so night fell dark and full. But then I adjusted to city life in New Haven where streetlights shined all night and porch lights were left on. Safety lights would trip to brightness when a cat or possum or raccoon ambled through the back yard.

This week, the power returned after three days. Digital clocks now scold again from every corner. And to add to the confusion of light to dark, we’re shifting with daylight savings time. Designed to give more daylight in the summer and regulate time back when the railroads were running the country, it was the brainchild of G.V. Hudson. Most of us have been “springing ahead” and “falling back” since 1895. It’s not mandatory–Arizona and Hawaii never adopted DST. They might be on to something.

I’m wondering what it would be like if we let our days flow naturally. What if we didn’t change the time in spring and fall? What if we turned off digital clocks? Even more radical, what if we went to bed in quiet darkness and enjoyed a true rest?

This week I had the honor of taking part in a panel discussion about creativity and healing as part of an ambitious endeavor by the Danforth Museum in Framingham. I’d been invited to the panel by my friend, artist Helen Meyrowitz. The challenges she faced as a caregiver for her husband during his decline due to Alzheimer’s disease inspired her recent work. The main body of that work, “Wind Beneath My Wings: Baskin Suite,” is a series of furious and poignant drawings that call on birds of prey as metaphor. I’m not a learned art critic, so I won’t go beyond saying: I love Helen’s work. The raw emotion of it vibrates with loss, anger, confusion, love.

Artist Helen Meyrowitz

As she talked about her beginnings as an artist, she gave credit to her “time on the couch” in psychoanalytic therapy. Helen and I have been talking for years, over dinners, about the things that feed our art. Therapy has come up before. Dream analysis. Life catastrophes. But this time, I made the connection as she said that therapy got her started. The same is true for me.

Though I like to track my writing back to a terrible ghost story I wrote in second grade, my fiction writing began many years later. I had decided to give therapy a try because there were some knots that were tangled up so tight that I could neither cut loose nor find a way to pull them apart. I found myself, not on a couch, but a comfy chair.

As Helen finished her opening comments this week and I took my turn, I told the audience that like Helen, my work began with a therapy session.

One day, I told the therapist about growing up in a family where hunting was part of life.  As I described being a child witnessing a slain deer laid out on the family kitchen floor, the therapist did something he rarely did. He made a suggestion: “Why don’t you write about it?”

At the time, I was a journalist. Since therapy is an expensive commitment, I’d vowed to make use of whatever came from it. So I went home and wrote three pages. Those pages became the basis of my first novel. It’s yet to be published, but it is my favorite. The three pages began with a scene reminiscent of the times I saw my father skinning muskrats. He was a trapper as well as a hunter. The words took off and turned into a novel, full fledged fiction but growing from a seed within me.

I do believe, as Socrates said, that “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

I also know that therapy saves lives. For some of us, it puts us into a place where we find our true paths. For others, it just keeps us on the path.

Opening excerpt from my novel Neelie James:

Neelie tucked her cotton flannel nightgown around her feet, poking at the worn soft material. Night dampness bit through the cloth and she shifted her bottom on the wooden step. A circle of light broke the darkness, showing ragged wet stars dotting the tufts of uneven grass. How could blood change so fast from scarlet to black-red?

photo by Art Campbell