The Night Robin Williams Dried Our Tears

Monday, at 7:10 P.M, I logged on to my Facebook page and randomly scanned my friends’ posts. I was stopped dead in my tracks when I read my dear friend, Lita's, post: Thanks for the laughs, Robin Williams. Sorry for the pain. My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results. My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.

It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.

Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.

I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come,  what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.

In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock.  Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.

Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive. 


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www.alisoncaiola.com
@AlisonMCaiola
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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

The Night Robin Williams Dried Our Tears

Monday, at 7:10 P.M, I logged on to my Facebook page and randomly scanned my friends’ posts. I was stopped dead in my tracks when I read my dear friend, Lita's, post: Thanks for the laughs, Robin Williams. Sorry for the pain. My head spun and my stomach flipped. I immediately googled Robin’s name and held my breath as I awaited the results. My worst fears were realized when I read the gut wrenching news that Robin Williams had died by suicide. I felt as if I had been kicked squarely in the heart.

It was May 20, 1989, backstage on the set of SNL when I first met Robin Williams. I remember the night vividly because it was one of great sorrow. Gilda Radner, one of America’s precious treasures, had succumbed to ovarian cancer that morning. We heard the news late that afternoon, only a few hours before the rehearsal run-through that always precedes the live show. Actors and members of the crew gathered together, weeping and hugging, trying desperately to comfort one another.

Steve Martin was the guest host that week and he and Lorne Michaels had been behind locked doors for hours, putting aside their profound grief, to formulate a last-minute plan to revamp that evening’s show to best honor Gilda. While we waited for them to emerge, Robin Williams quietly walked on set. He hugged each member of the cast and crew. His blue eyes were filled with his own tears of sorrow as one-by-one he made it a point to comfort us all. He spoke softly and tears were replaced by smiles as he gently reminded us of Gilda’s warm heart and antics.

I was by no means Robin Williams’ friend, but over the years I caught glimpses of him at industry parties or crowded restaurants. One thing remained constant, wherever he was, he lifted spirits and laughter rang out. His genius wit and his comedic timing are legendary. I am certain that what you will hear, in the days to come,  what I witnessed first-hand, stories about his warmth, sensitivity, kindness, and generosity.

In the days since his tragic passing, everyone I've spoken with feels the same—we are in shock.  Robin Williams left behind the walking wounded. He was not our friend, our father, our son, our brother or our cousin, yet we mourn. Robin Williams had the ability to transcend the stage, break down the fourth wall, jump out of our television sets, land in our living rooms,and dive into our hearts.

Last night I watched Awakenings and for 121 minutes Robin Williams was still alive. 

Rest In Peace

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

Whatever you do, DON'T PULL THE PLUG!

    “I need a vacation, just a few days to do nothing but unwind, unplug and relax.” I looked out the window at the three feet of snow that dropped down from the heavens the night before, and sighed. My friend, who was on the other end of the phone and three thousand miles away in a world where The earth shakes at times, but the sun almost always shines, chortled.

                

     “Relax and unwind?  I’d like to see that. I just don’t know if you can.” she said matter-of-factly.  Before I could think about what she said or respond, the conversation floated to another topic and then another, as our long distance catch-up calls often do.

Later that evening, I thought about what she said and felt a bit hurt, and truthfully more than a bit upset. What did she mean by that?  Of course I can unwind and relax. Didn't I spend many, many, sometimes way too many hours lounging by the beach and the pool in Malibu and Santa Monica? Doing nothing for hours on end but, as my mother would say, contemplating my navel?

Alright, to be completely honest, those Santa Monica/Malibu days happened way back in the mid to late 90’s, before I owned a smart phone. Hell, I didn't even own a dumb phone and Facebook was only a Nano twinkle in a prepubescent’s eye.

Oh oh--have I become that person? You know the one I mean. The one who can never let the phone go unanswered lest a business deal be forever lost?  Or the one with the nagging itch that can’t be scratched unless they catch every single text, post or tweet that’s hit into cyber left field? Am I destined to join the growing throngs of the virtual community, social media twelve-step program?

Shamefully, I must say it sure as shit looks that way. So that being said, today I will set a goal. End of the first week of July I am planning a bucolic trip to Maine with my dear left coast pal. On that trip I will unplug. I won’t take my computer on the trip (It’s a little warm in here, did someone turn off the A/C?) My voice mail will inform people not to leave a message unless their hair is on fire (I’m sweating profusely now) and I will have an "away on vacation” automatic email message response (the room is spinning) AND I forbid myself to text, tweet or post (make way, I’m hitting the floor. . . CRASH).

Now of course a person cannot quit cold turkey like that. There can be some serious withdrawal symptoms.  I can see myself on vacation, breathlessly climbing the craggy cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, all the while wondering what Liza’s Panini-of-the day had been or if I missed the cutest dog/baby photo ever posted in the history of time!  It may cause me to take a misstep and fall hundreds of feet into the watery abyss, never to be heard from again.

So that being said, I will slowly disentangle myself from the social media vortex. Right here, right now!  In a few moments, I will grab my towel and walk out to the pool. I’ll leave my Droid Incredible behind! Just in case I become weak and run back into the house to fetch the phone, leaving chlorine puddles everywhere, I’ll lock it away and hide the key. Even I won’t be able to find it.

You know, on second thought, while I'm swimming, maybe I’ll just leave the phone by the table next to the lounge chair.   Baby steps, people. Baby steps!    lol <3 <3



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Alison Caiola is the author of The Lily Lockwood Series:
The Seeds of a Daisy( now available in paperback and download on amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

PTSD--STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!

Today I called my therapist. Which doesn’t seem like a big deal, right?  I should have said today I NEEDED to call my therapist. Bad.  I originally started seeing her years ago when I was so overcome with grief that my skin actually ached, everything annoyed me and even the tick. . .tick. . . tick… of her office wall clock catapulted me over the edge during one session. She helped me through it all and when I came out the other end, we were dear friends.  As a matter of fact, most sessions we had in the past few years were more like business strategy meetings. She has a talent for putting everything in perspective, her bull meter is finely tuned and she loves me. Perfect!

Skin aching, stomach twisting, sadness oozing from every pore, I punched in her number and when the message machine came on, I calmly asked her to call me as soon as was convenient.  I hung up knowing I should have left her a more in-depth message.  I should have shouted   “PTSD has me by the throat and I can’t shake the fucker off.”

I was sucked into a multi-faceted perfect storm.  Phase one of the storm began a few weeks before when Steven, my one and only brother, my dear friend and support system, who had been vacationing in Virginia, blacked out, coughed up blood and was rushed to the hospital.  He was brought into the ICU with a diagnosis of sepsis-- blood pressure so low it was barely measurable.  The next 48 hours was a nightmare as we held our breath, waiting for him to turn the corner. The poor fellow in the bed next to his, with eerily similar symptoms, did not.  Thankfully my brother, who had been a marathon runner and in great physical condition, did.  He is a little worse for wear but definitely on the mend.

The emotional twister then headed northeast, gathered speed and hit hard. Phase Two:  I, like everyone else, watched in horrific real-time, the act of pure evil and cowardice as two bombs exploded at the finish line of The Boston Marathon. I don’t have to go into detail about the nightmare that followed. We've all seen it.  Some of us were standing feet away, some gorilla-glued to our televisions. In those couple of moments we all again witnessed the fragility of life; how in a split-second we can experience the highest of highs then the unfathomable lowest of lows.

I closed my eyes, tight.  Memories of twin buildings falling into their own footprints instantly flooded back. Visuals that were painstakingly hidden and held hostage underneath boulders of self-protection, escaped with rapid-fire speed.  I opened my eyes at the exact second a man in a wheelchair flashed on the screen. His legs were blown off and two men were running, pushing him through the crowd.

Phase three nearly knocked me down. It was suddenly 2001 and I was back in the ICU. I was one of ten people who surrounded the hospital bed. Later, I would find out the others were surgeons, nurses, psychiatrists and a social worker. It was up to me to tell the one person that I loved most in the world, the one person who for so many years my main purpose in life was to keep safe and out of harm’s way, that his strong left arm was no longer there. Only a densely-wrapped bloody gauze remained.

I know, all too well, the shock, anguish and disbelief. I know all too well the phantom pain that waits for these innocent victims. I am overwhelmed with anger. Who are the monsters who plotted this destruction, mayhem, dismemberment and death? 

When the photo of a sweet-faced teenager dominated the networks, I was stunned.  Monsters are supposed to look like monsters!  Not like a typical teenager who plays video games in his filthy clothes-strewn bedroom! What could have happened to the kid who people call “…sweet, polite, fun and full of life” that he would commit such a heinous act?  I don’t want to wonder about that.  With every fiber of my body, I don’t want to agonize over what went terribly wrong with him!   But I do.

###

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

A Gift From Beyond

Today marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Ten years. Strange they call it anniversary, since that word is usually associate with celebrating a milestone event. This isn't one of those--no celebrating going on here.

 March 2, 2005 I lost my mother who was the gorilla-strength glue that held the family together.  She was also my best friend and I, hers.   The officiant who presided over the funeral said that every family member he spoke to said the same thing; that she was their best friend and they were hers. Can you imagine having that type of effect on your loved ones? She was a special woman. We were  lucky to have her.

The last weeks of her life she was on the hospice floor of St Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson. They were wonderful, patient and kind and even allowed me to sleep in the bed next to her. We had the opportunity, those long days and nights, to say everything that needed to be said.  Truth be told, we always spoke and had a free-flowing non-stop communication that started decades before.  Even though we lived 3000 miles apart, much of those last decades we managed to speak every day. We shared our daily lives during long distance phone calls and eventually emails, when she got up to computer-savvy speed.  No matter where I was in the world, if I was experiencing something touching, beautiful or heartbreaking I would call her and share. 

So during the last few days that she was conscious, we held hands, watched our favorite TV shows and talked non-stop. It was during one of those hand-holding conversations, she looked at me and thanked me for being there for her. She went on to say "I didn't know a person could love another person like this." 

After she passed away, that sentence was a warm comforting blanket that I wrapped around myself to attempt to ward off the empty, chilling effects of grief.

One month and one day later was my birthday. It was one of those BIG  birthdays that people usually, either go to many lengths to forget and refuse to acknowledge, or over-celebrate  in an effort to anesthetize themselves against the harsh reality.  I was not up to celebrating, as a matter of fact I couldn't imagine ever having a birthday that I wasn't the recipient of  a birthday song sung by my mom in her slightly off-key, gravelly  voice. 

That morning I received an email from someone asking where my mother was, since they had not heard from her in months. It seems that she had become sort of an email pen pal of this husband and wife whose young son Mikey had undergone heart surgery. Over the years, they communicated and even though they never met, they shared much of their lives. I wrote back to tell them that Mom and passed. I made sure to let them know that she cared for their family and over the years, kept me apprised of Mikey's recovery.

That night my sister and niece surprised me with a small birthday party and invited the immediate family.  Later on that evening, I returned home to find an email from Mikey's father telling me how sorry he was and how much they would all miss communicating with her. He attached a voice email message that my mother sent Mikey while he was in the hospital. With shaking hands I clicked the link (below) and heard:

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/zjz93y61xey02xj/sOetkEXh16?m

I wiped my eyes, convinced that my mother did not want my birthday to pass without hearing her voice.

###

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Alison Caiola, author

The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One The Seeds of a Daisy, Book Two:  The Silver Cord( published  March 2015) 

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Please Stop And Smell The Daisies

Saturday mornings I traveled the world.  I was privileged. I knew it then, I know it now. With nary a passport in my purse or even a purse to my name, I circled the globe. I knew but one language, yet I understood every word that was uttered, in every country that I passed through.  Without warning I was catapulted back in time and within a blink of an eye, transported into the future.  All this took place  on the top floor of a lakefront home on the south shore of Long Island, within the confines of my single bed.  I had no need for sustenance, except perhaps a Wonder Bread mayonnaise sandwich, once in a while, when the growling got so loud and strong that it actually lifted the book, that was resting on my stomach, a good couple of inches. 

When I was a kid, I was a reader. Yep, a voracious one. I inhaled books, plain and simple. I woke before the crack of dawn and would lay quietly at first and listen to the music of the early morning.  The walls seemed to slowly breathe in and out in perfect rhythm with the deep snores that spilled out from the master bedroom and filled every quiet corner of the house. I would crack open the nearest book and it was at that time, before the sun and the moon inhabited the same sky,that I would quietly set sail on my journey d'jour. 

I was eight years old when one morning, I finished  reading my first book of the day almost at the same time as I finished my first  mayonnaise sandwich, that I had my very first  AHA moment.  I absolutely knew, without a shadow of a shadow of a doubt that I was going to become an author!  My name would be written in huge letters across the front cover of so many books it would be hard for one person to carry them all home from the library.  When the reader turned to the back cover, it would be my face they'd see happily smiling up at them. And thousands upon thousands of words would travel with lightening speed from my brain down to my fingers, and gracefully end up living side by side on hundreds of crisp white pages. 

As our good friend John  so eloquently sang "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."  My plans to become an author didn't happen the way my eight year old self confidently declared that it would. And while I ended up writing professionally off and on throughout my life, I never had a novel  proudly sitting on any library shelf.  

Fast forward many, many, too many years and here we are. My first novel, The Seeds of a Daisy  is finally published and patiently sitting and waiting to be plucked off the shelf. When this event, this monumental event finally happened in my life, I was too busy with my TV show, The Tyme Chronicles, to stop and realize when the UPS driver unloaded the fist box of books,  I had finally fulfilled a childhood dream!

So today, January 5, 2013 I stopped what I was doing, put everything aside and breathed in the moment. I became overwhelmed with gratitude and love for that little girl who was certain so many years ago, that this day would indeed arrive. I wish I could sit with her now and tell her everything, the good the bad and the ugly that transpired on the long journey that lead to this day. But I imagine she wouldn't listen, since she hardly listened to anyone back then. But if I could talk to her, and she would listen for just a brief minute,  I would hold her close and tell her everything turned out like we planned. Sorta.

###

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

Does it make me a coward if I close my eyes?

There had been a major snow storm February 12, 2008 in New York City. I happen to be in town and my son happened to be out of town, so I carefully made my way to his upper west side apartment where I planned to hole up until the roads were cleared and I could safely make my way back to the North Fork of Long Island.

The apartment was nice and warm. Let me take that back the apartment was not nice and warm, it was a friggin furnace. Anyone who lives in a pre-war building in Manhattan knows that you cannot control the amount of steam heat that bellows out from the floor radiators and the exposed pipes. If you try to turn the knob on the side of the radiator to shut it off, the pressure builds up and the constant clanging in the pipes will keep everyone in the apartments on the floors above and below up all night. You do not win neighbor of the year award by doing this.

I opened the bedroom window, hoping that the frigid air would cool thing off a bit and make the apartment more comfortable. I sat at the small desk in the bedroom, my back to the window and continued working on my novel The Seeds Of A Daisy. It was one of those magical nights where the stars are aligned and the writing flows freely. It feels less like writing and more like taking dictation from a higher source. I had no concept of time or space, I was living the story and it was playing out in my head as if I was watching a movie.

During the evening I felt something softly brush against my leg and being that I was in that perfect zone, I didn't pay it any mind. It was after midnight when I finally  crawled into bed, exhausted but happy.  About an hour later I was awakened by a noise coming from the small metal garbage can by the side of the desk. It sounded like whatever was in there was desperately racing around the inside of the can looking for an escape route.

I was paralyzed with fear. I know what you're thinking, whatever is small enough to fit into a trash can could not be of any threat to a grown ass woman. WRONG!  I have always been terrified of rodents and cockroaches, I was positive it had to be one or the other.  If  someone was there with me, I would certainly have pulled the covers over my head and demanded that they eliminate the creature post-haste.

I got out of bed slowly, with the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up, I tip-toed over to the can. No matter how much I wanted to, I  could not force myself to look inside  So here I was in the middle of the bedroom, quietly circling the outside of the garbage can, while the creature was loudly circling the inside of the can. We were caught in a symbiotic dance of fear and entrapment.

I looked in all the kitchen cabinets to find a large garbage bag to cover the can. I couldn’t find one anywhere.  I grabbed a cutting board and with my eyes closed, put it on top and strategically planned my next move.  Even though it was 3AM, in the middle of a snow storm and not in the best NYC neighborhood, I chose to brave the weather and dangerous elements, find the nearest 24 hour drugstore to buy garbage bags.  I did just that.  It took me over one hour to find a store that was opened, make my purchase, walk through the highest snow drifts I have ever seen in my life and get back to the apartment. With tears rolling down my face,  I covered the metal can with the large black leaf bag and with my foot, pushed it out of the apartment, into the elevator and then finally to the basement.

To this day, even though I have braved and overcome huge obstacles in life, I feel a bit ashamed that I didn't have the courage to look into the beady eyes of whatever it was running around inside that garbage can. Then it got me thinking:  In life:

Do we always have to face our fears with eyes wide open?

In The Wizard of Oz The Cowardly Lion  believes that his FEAR makes him inadequate.  Dorothy's furry pal did not understand that courage means ACTING in the face of fear, which he does frequently.  Acting in the face of fear, regardless if your eyes are wide open or tightly closed is always an act of courage.

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

In My Life I Love You More. . .

I was walking up the stairs outside the student center, when I first saw Gil. It was only two weeks into my college career and already I felt pretty confident.  All the nervous energy that I brought with me dissipated and with one of my best friends from high school by my side, I felt braver than I might have, had I been flying solo.

He was on the top step leaning against the railing.  From his vantage point, he could easily watch the throngs of students, like industrious ants, rushing in and out of the surrounding buildings. His father’s Filipino heritage was more dominant than his mother’s English background and the result was striking and exotic good looks. His layered, shoulder length brown hair added a whisper of a rock and roll edge.

He had a large heart embroidered on the front of his bell bottom jeans. Without hesitation I said the first thing that came to mind,  "Hey that’s a cool heart.” My own heart skipped a beat when he gave me possibly the warmest smile, and revealed the straightest, whitest teeth I had ever seen. He was easy to talk to and before I knew it, I was handing him my phone number and making a date for the following Saturday night.

When Saturday came around, after a flurry of beautifying activity, I waited for his car to pull up. Seven o’clock came and went with no Gil in sight. By seven twenty, I grabbed my keys and got into my car to leave. I recently made myself a promise never to sit and wait for anyone.

The last three years of high school I was head over heels in love with an older boy.  Unfortunately, six month into our relationship, his number was picked in the last lottery draft of the Vietnam War. Before we knew it, Uncle Sam scooped him up and stationed him four thousand miles away in Germany.

Thankfully, he did not see any action, but the three years we spent apart were emotionally charged with a cycle of joyful reunions followed by tearful goodbyes.  Letters flew across the globe on a daily basis and at least three times a week the phone would ring at 6AM.  From a deep sleep, I would jump out of bed, bolt down two flights of stairs and answer it before the third ring. I missed out on most of my high school social milestones because he was away. I didn’t go to any event geared toward couples.  I missed dances and my prom.  I felt that it was worth it, because after the wait was over, we would be together forever. We planned to marry, move to Oregon where he would  become a Park Ranger and I a writer.

I was ecstatic when he managed to get a leave from the army, fly home to surprise me for my graduation.  When the leave was over and he was getting ready to return, he dropped a bomb. He had met a German girl and they started dating the month before.  My high school was over and so was my relationship. I missed out on so much and vowed from that moment on,  never to wait for anyone again.

Gil’s face was one of complete shock when he turned the corner and saw me driving away.  After he explained that he was stuck in traffic, I parked my car and we went on our first date.  He would never be late again.  That night, like so many nights to come, we sat on the beach and he played his guitar and sang to me.  He had the sweetest voice and could play as deftly as Jose Feliciano.  Sometimes he would sing his original songs, other nights he would give me a personal concert under the stars with tunes from The Beatles, Eric Clapton, James Taylor and Cat Stevens.  Hook, line and sinker I was in, and in love!

One day I was set to make a presentation in my Communications class about relationships.  Even though it was only a couple of hours away, I didn’t have a clue how to start it. He told me not to worry, he’d figure it out.  He had a math test at the same time as my class. He ditched it and a couple of hours later, Gil sitting cross-legged on a desk in front of the class, played guitar and sang the Beatles song,  In My Life  To this day whenever I hear There are places I remember all my life, it’s always Gil’s voice I hear.

A few months later, a well-known manager in the music world heard Gil's band and invited us to his home to talk about possibly representing them.  His best friend from childhood Joe, also a band member, Joe’s girlfriend Cathy, Gil and I sat in his living room in awe listening to his stories of all the famous groups he had plucked out of obscurity and catapulted into stardom.  He told the guys that he was going to shop their songs around and would let them know what the next step would be. We left with our heads spinning and our feet never touching the ground.

Two days later, Gil called to tell me that he had great news to share. In the time it took for him to drive over, I planned our rock star future. When he arrived, he was flushed with excitement.  I made him sit down and take a few deep breaths.  He finally calmed down enough to tell me that Joe had decided to join the Marines and since he and Joe were inseparable, he enlisted too.   

I couldn’t believe my ears. Who in their right mind, only four years after The Kent State Massacre and six months after Nixon resigned would ENLIST?  It was unheard of!  My last boyfriend didn’t have a choice, he was drafted-- but Gil had volunteered to leave me.

Thoughts of putting the next four years on hold while I waited for him to come home and the thousands of letters that had to be written to maintain the relationship as well as the heartbreaking loneliness that I would surely experience in his absence, did not allow me to hear him out  I didn’t give him a chance to explain, I just couldn’t.  I told him if leaving me was so easy, he could just leave then and there. Before I closed the door, I told him not to contact me again.

The next few months, I threw myself into schoolwork, friends, boys anything that would anesthetize the pain of my broken heart.  When Gil came back to town on his first leave, he begged me to meet him for just one cup of coffee.  I sat opposite him in the coffee shop. I couldn’t get past his crew cut or shiny dress uniform to look into his eyes or hear his words of apology and love.

Years later, I realized that what I thought would happen, did not. I was convinced that there was a world of guys like Gil out there for me.  I was wrong.   So, in the pre Google, post-divorce days, I searched for him.  Nothing ever came up.  Every few months from the mid-nineties on, I tried.

A dear friend gave me a book the talented author, Amy Ferris, wrote entitled Marrying George Clooney-Musings from a Midlife Crisis. In it she talks about having insomnia and googling old boyfriends in the middle of the night.  I told no one  for years I did just that, always searching for Gil.  After reading the book, I decided to give it another shot.

On April 30^th after the umpteenth time, I googled him again. THERE WAS A HIT! My heart raced and my hands trembled in anticipation as I clicked on the link that lead to the site,

Gil, who was born on October 13, 1953, passed away April 18^th only twelve days before. The obituary spoke of his talent,kindness and generous heart.  Things I knew so many years ago. . .

There are places I'll remember

All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
In my life, I love you more

###

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

Do We All Rely On The Kindness of Strangers?

Recently I spoke to a young mother whose adorable little girl is on the verge of taking her first solo steps.   Any parent with a trained eye can see that in only a matter of a few short weeks this cutie pie will reach for a nearby table, chair or large pet, pull herself up and although wobbly at first, start to walk.  Then, she’ll be off and running anywhere  her two feet, then her two wheels, then her four wheels can take her.

The mother confided in me that she was nervous about her daughter being that autonomous after ten months of blissful dependency. She didn’t want her to fall, didn’t want her to hurt herself.

I told her that I clearly remember standing behind my son when he took his first tentative steps, my arms outstretched ready to catch him if he lost his newly-found balance or tripped over something that the naked eye could not possibly see.  I was always confident that no matter where my son would be, no matter what stage in life he was, I would always be there to know when something was wrong, always be there with outstretched arms to catch him.

The ER nurse’s voice on the other end of the phone was purposefully controlled, hoping that her degree of calm would translate through the phone wires and keep me from hysteria. 

“I am so sorry, ma’am, your son was hit while jogging and is in our Intensive Care Unit. Please come to the hospital as soon as possible.”  

The world as I knew it ceased to exist. Another alternate universe took over; a universe where parents don't innately know when their children are in dangerous,or lying somewhere hurt. . .or worse.  

In the weeks and months to follow, through my son's long painful recovery I was able to slowly assemble piece by excruciating piece, the circumstances that took place that night. It dawned on me that no matter how in control we feel we are, when the shit really hits the fan:

Do we all end up relying on the kindness of strangers?

All our children’s lives we’ve told them “don’t speak to strangers” and rightly so, because unfortunately there are extremely scary people in this world.  But on the night of my son’s accident, while I was having dinner at the neighborhood Chinese restaurant, there was a veritable community of heroic strangers who came out of the night, kept my son warm and told him to hold on, constantly reassuring him that they were not going to let him die.  They stayed until another group of strangers took over; the police and the EMT who then swiftly put him into the capable arms of the emergency room trauma team. 

That night as I cracked open my fortune cookie to see what my future would bring, all those strangers were working together as a team to make sure my son had one.   The police would later tell me that they had never seen a person so close to dying, who actually lived.

From that moment on I realized our families are not just the ones we grow up with, marry or give birth to. We all are connected and ultimately responsible for one another.  In our worse moments,when our close friends and family are not around, our life may be placed in a stranger's  hands.   On the night of January 7, 2001 I finally understood the meaning of The Family of Man.

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www.alisoncaiola.com
@AlisonMCaiola
www.facebook.com.alisoncaiolaauthor
Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One,The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published Book Two, The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon,

Can you take my old baggage, please?

 In my last post (Bullies: You can take the group out of high school, but not the high school out of the group) I told you about a post that I wrote on my high school  class  facebook page  inviting everyone  to read my blog posts.  The reaction from one woman was  off the charts, angry, self righteous and downright nasty. It became a feeding frenzy and the group mentality kicked it up ten notches and they were off and running.  The roar of the beast was quelled only after I posted a heartfelt apology.

Now, good readers, I'm THAT woman who if I'm on the road and someone flips me the bird for some unknown reason, I feel the need to catch up to the car and explain whatever moving crime I had just committed, was absolutely not premeditated.  So needless to say, after this women's reaction I felt the urge to reach out  and find out what was behind all that indignation and outrage.

It finally came out that she said that my "group" in high school  was mean to her and she felt bullied. Huh?? First of all, I don't want to say EXACTLY how many years have gone by, but most of my classmates have adult children by now.  I didn't have a group in school, I was pretty much  friends with mostly everyone  I got along with the greasers (yeah we really did call them that) and the jocks, the quiet studious kids as well as the potheads. After a few facebook messages danced back and forth, she realized that she had mistaken me for someone else and meekly apologized.  But it got me thinking. . . 

Are we all carrying around emotional baggage that we should have given up years ago?

I thought long and hard about it and  realized I too am holding on to painful baggage that I should have kicked to the curb decades ago No matter how much I hope, wish or rewrite history, my father was not and will never be that dad that every little girl looks up to. He was and still is, an angry, paranoid man and I was never his little girl. Period. Not time, therapy or Armageddon will ever change that. So what are my choices?  Should I hold on to the dream that one day my dad as I know him, will vanish and in his place would magically be dropped from the heavens, a man deserving of the title Father Of The Year?  Or should I take a deep breathe and face reality?

So, here  I am left with accepting the truth that my old baggage, tightly held together by years of pain and blame, should have been thrown out decades ago. It's not hurting him, he doesn't even know that it exists.  As a matter of fact, right after my mother died, he asked me "You had a good childhood, didn't you?"  I knew that whatever I said next would be a defining moment in my life.  BUT I CAVED, good readers, I really did. I weakly shook my head yes.  At that moment, my inner child wanted to beat the shit out of me, I'm sure of it!

Today, here and now I am making a commitment to find the nearest emotional garbage can, take out my cobweb entangled baggage and DUMP IT.  Today I am setting myself free. I sincerely hope my old classmate can do the same.

###

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

Bullies: you can take the group out of high school, but not the high school out of the group!

This has been THE weirdest morning that I have had in a long time.  I know that I am in the middle of the Catch Me If You Can –keeping up with technology series, but I had to put it on hold for a brief moment and share.

So, after yesterday’s blog post I did what every good little (ex) EVP of PR and Marketing in Hollywood is taught to do, I posted the link on my facebook wall, emailed it and dropped by my high school class facebook page :

“Hi folks, hope everyone is well, check out my new blog if you have the time and let me know what you think.  I even added a heart at the end.”  Sweet ,huh?

Now before I go on, good readers, I have to tell you a bit about me.  I am and always have been the #1 cheerleader and champion of all my friends, loved ones and quite frankly, even the guy on the subway who tells me about his BIG IDEA. I believe in order to get something wonderful out to the Universe to make it bigger and better, YOU SHARE AND LET IT GROW WINGS. Period.  End of story. Or should I say BEGINNING of story.

So here I am, happily going about my day.  I am in rewrites for my book, writing up a business plan, starting a script for a new webisode series and I have a deadline for a magazine article. Busy, right?  I received a facebook email from a classmate

Hi Alison - some really uptight people here in facebook - keep writing...say it as loud as you want

You know the dog in the cartoon that whips his head around, tilts it and say HUH?  That’s what I did. I checked out the school’s  facebook page and I was blown away by the HOOPLA my little one sentence post brought about.   You would have thought I kidnapped someone’s child

A shitload of outrage, self-righteousness, barbs at my expense and quite frankly some bizarre remarks that I still can’t unravel about self-promotion and advertising. One woman said that I was a writer wanabee who was doing this to promote my upcoming novel.  I thought okay, that’s weird, if I have an upcoming novel how am I a writer wanabee?   It was a virtual facebook feeding frenzy.  
Seriously all they had to do is drop me a line asking me not to mention my writing on the page.  Anyway,  I went on the page and took the high road and told them I was sorry and I will not talk about my writing or blogging anymore.  

Then this whole thing got me thinking. . .

Why does this sound familiar?  Because it is the whole group mentality, gang up on one person and go to town.   You recognize it—it lurks in every neighborhood, every school yard and unfortunately even in the work place.  The bully picks his target and literary starts picking on his target and the rest of the group, in an effort to deflect attention from themselves, chime in and add to the misery.  The negative energy grows exponentially.  The poor target doesn’t have a chance. He is shrunk all the way down to the size the bully and the group want him to be.  We’ve seen recently how unfathomably tragic an ending to this scenario can be.

Now, of course, what took place this morning, cannot ever touch the horror of what many people who have been the target of an angry group or bullies go through, but it feels similar.   The group mentality houses, protects and nourishes the bully persona--otherwise it would surely die of malnutrition.

We must recognize the bully (remember he wears many faces and lives in every age group) and stand up to him and the group he pals around with.  We need to stand BEHIND and in FRONT of every person who is the target of a group or bully. Period. People we need to live in a bully free zone!!

Now what do you think, should I post this on my high school class facebook page?

###

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@AlisonMCaiola
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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

Catch Me If You Can; one woman's feeble attempt to keep up with technology. Part I

I remember being on a commercial shoot in the very late eighties. I don’t remember the product, but the era it was set in was also the late eighties--the late 1880’s. We were deep in the country, haystacks abound, dirt roads and weathered clapboard barns as far as the eye could see.  The rural area was so frozen in time, you fully expected little Laura Ingalls to race across a meadow and tumble down the nearest hill in a desperate attempt to beat the ringing of the school bell.

• ·         glorious spring day, CHECK,
• ·         authentic locale, CHECK,
• ·         child actors who actually remember their lines, CHECK
• ·         A director who actually likes child actors, CHECK

So serene was the setting that by hour two the New York city tension that, like a badge of honor most of the crew had etched into their very DNA, melted away leaving in its place serene “Andy Griffin whistling and happily fishing with Opie”  expressions.

Desperately needing to make a call, I decided to forgo lunch and jumped into my car to find the nearest phone.  A half hour into the one hour break I still hadn’t found a town, much less a phonebooth.  The “I could definitely live in the country, feed the chickens and darn my farmer husband’s socks” euphoria I felt  a mere thirty minutes before had morphed into a crazed “If I pass one more dairy cow slowly chewing its cud, I am going to gouge out my left eyeball with a rusty scissor” sort of feeling.

Without touching the brakes, I spun the wheel around, leaving an angry cloud of dust in my wake and headed back to set. The cast and crew, still naively sporting their country-bumpkin, shit-eating grins, were already back at work.  I grabbed a donut from craft services and caught up with one of the actresses I  befriended earlier in the day.  I launched into a tirade about my failed phone booth seeking mission. 

“That’s why I got myself a car phone last month.” 

At that moment she was a Goddess.  I asked her if I could borrow her phone.  She shook her head no.  I was a annoyed and quite frankly hurt.  Four hours ago we had forged a friendship that I was absolutely convinced would last the test of time.

“I only use it for emergencies, it’s way too expensive.”

I was relieved. It wasn’t that she didn’t value what we had together, everyone knew money problems trumped newly blossoming friendships any day of the week.

“Well this IS an emergency; I have to call JD’s agent to check in." I played on every actor's worst fear-- missing an audition for your NEXT acting job, because you're stuck working and  incommunicado on your CURRENT  acting job!

“ I'll gladly reimburse you.” I was already dialing the number in my head.

She agreed and the first chance we got, she walked me to her car and told me to get in. I opened the passenger side door and there it was; THE HOLY GRAIL OF TECHNOLOGY in all its clumsy glory. My trembling hand respectfully lifted it out of its leather-mounted holster and dialed the number. Within seconds I was chatting away.  Ten minutes later, still flushed from the heady experience, I emerged triumphant.

“Thanks so much.  I REALLY appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”

She thought for a second and replied “Probably about eighteen dollars.”

I was understandably shocked, but as promised, I forked over the dough. I also knew at that moment, the world as I knew it, would never be the same.  I HAD to get me one of them babies as soon as we returned to civilization

And so begins the saga. . .
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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes

Scentsational Memories!

Last night after discovering that I ran out of hand cream and fearing the worst-- my soft supple (not really but it sounds good) skin would turn into ghastly alligator-like scales, I rushed out in the middle of the night to find myself a good ole 24 hour CVS drugstore.

There it was , the letters  C V S illuminated the dark sky and like a lighthouse in a dense fog, drew me into its parking lot. There was no time to lose. Every second that passed brought me closer to buying swampland real estate in Florida , forever dwelling there with other lonely large lizards.

 I rushed to the skin care aisle and scanned the shelves. The usual assortment was there. Your high end  hand creams, the ones that promise  as long as you use their product religiously, wrinkles and liver spots wouldn't DARE think of residing on the back of your hands.  I looked at the price--were they freakin serious? $15.95 for hand cream?  I reached for it because fear of aging trumps fear of poverty any day.  I turned to walk to the cashier. It was then that I saw it, minding its own business,cool as a cucumber, smack dab in the middle of the shelf where the low-ends and generics live.

It sat almost majestically, holding its ageless pump high. A pump that had undoubtedly seen its share of expensive products come  to the market with promises that could never be kept, only to crash and burn. I picked it up, looked around to make sure that I was alone and took off the top.  I breathed in it's familiar cherry-almond scent and was immediately catapulted back to my childhood in Brooklyn, sleeping over my Grandma Bessie's one bedroom apartment.

Before bedtime, we would watch the eleven o'clock news. She would lean far back on her recliner,( the foot rest would be a foot off the ground to reduce her end of the day ankle swelling),  pump the bottle of Jergens and generously and methodically rub it into her hands. Just before the news ended, during the very last commercial, she would disappear into the bedroom and  pull down one corner of  the blanket on each twin size bed, to make it more inviting when we turned in for the night. After the news ended,  I would jump into bed feeling safe as a clam and drifting off  to sleep with the scent of cherries and almonds floating above the sheets.

I brought the bottle up to the cashier. If it was good enough for Bessie, whose hands could comfort the feverish of brows, then it was good enough for me.

There isn't an alligator in sight!

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Alison is the award-winning author of The Lily Lockwood Series: The Seeds of a Daisy and soon to be published The Silver Cord.

The Seeds of a Daisy is available paperback and digital download: Amazon, barnesandnoble.com and iTunes