Category Archives: Goals and Dreams

Glory!

“Make it a great day!” I said as she headed out the door to a construction gig job – her way to bridge the gap until her wilderness seasonal job commences again. “Get all the glory!” she called back. “glory” there is a movie by that title-and it wasn’t just about winning. “Glory!” it’s what the little old ladies used to shout in the Pentecostal leaning church I grew up in. Glory – somewhere between joy and the spiritual feeling of being lifted right into the seventh heaven. Glory – the emotional reward that comes from pursuing a righteous cause, from living life with excellence and integrity, giving your all!

I love the recent story circulating of the two world class runners, the one where Kenya is leading by several yards, but quits, thinking he has crossed the finish line. Spain follows, but, instead of shouting, “Yes! I am the victor!” and charging toward the finish line, the second-place runner grabs the leader and ushers him across the finish line.

Because. Because. What glory is there in finishing first only because your rival stumbles? What glory was there in injuring Nancy Kerrigan in order to clear the field and advance Tonya Harding?

“If you compare yourself to others you will become both vain and bitter.”  What happens when you become bitter? Destruction is what happens. So, if you annihilate everyone better than you, does that mean you are the best? What glory is there in winning if it is only because the better man didn’t show up?

I have never forgotten the story of two swimmers as recorded in a high school literature unit. The first was a steady-eddy, meat and potatoes, diver the coach could always count on to finish strong; the other an amazingly talented athlete-the sort of shooting star that delivers a spectacular win. While the two boys were rivals with regard to placement on the home team, they were teammates at district competitions.  The Talent would almost always finish first; and Steady Eddy would bring home a second or third.

The inevitable day came when Talent met his Waterloo at a big regional competition.  Steady Eddy took one look in the face of his teammate and saw that Talent was frozen in fear. Now! Now, was Steady Eddy’s chance to grab the first-place medal. He was prepared. He was relaxed and confident. His homeboy rival was petrified. Yet, instead of giving Talent a “tough luck bro,” look and striding ahead to the diving board, Steady Eddy commenced a game that had spurred them on to excellence in practice rounds at school. It was ridiculous. It was childish. It was Narnian in both genius and innocence, but they forgot their fears and made joyous fools of themselves – and they won again. Gold and Silver. Only this time our steady-eddy homeboy got the gold. He was so intent on pushing his teammate higher and better than ever before that he himself excelled. 

When you build a gymnastics pyramid, you gotta stand on someone’s shoulders or someone has got to stand on yours – maybe both. We are all circus performers, we are all gymnasts, we are all swimmers and divers and runners. Let’s get each other across the finish line, shall we? 

We all need a worthy opponent – a worthy rival – what none of us need is a cheater or someone who cheers when we fall – let us not weaken ourselves by gloating over an enemy. 

What glory is there in that kind of win? When you win only because someone else stumbled?

No, we spur each other on to greater and greater victories.

Break a leg!

Make it a great day!

Do your best!

Give it your all!

Get all the Glory!

She thinks of it as her debut novel

She thinks of it as her debut novel, though she has two preceding books in print. The plot is well aged in the whiskey barrel of life. She has been ruminating the twists for more than three decades. This is the book she left the mountains to write 13 years ago, not that she can’t write in the mountains. There is writing inspiration aplenty in such a cozy cabin, but instead of writing, she kept shouldering the duties of others instead of minding her own business – much like the main character in The Right Woman for the Job. In fact, The Right Woman for the Job mirrors many of the experiences of the author – and fictionalizes a reciprocal amount. Like the movie, Groundhog Day, this book has taken many tries to get it right – both in real life experience and in rewriting of the lines. The author herself has changed. The original model characters have changed. Heroes have risen – and fallen. Scenes have been added and deleted, format and metaphor rearranged like the squares on a sliding tile puzzle. The Right Woman for the Job has had many title changes – changes that reflect the character improvement and growth and migration and focus of the protagonist. 

Tuesday, February 2, 2021 is more than just Groundhog Day. The first Tuesday in February is a big book release day in the publishing industry. And this year she will participate – for the first time ever – in the custom of releasing a book on the first Tuesday in February. Chalk one up for the bucket list. Finally, she has done what she said she would do – she never dreamed it would take 13 years and two hundred thousand miles of detours. 

The Right Woman for the Job available softcover from cherryodelbergbooks.com
and as an ebook from Amazon.com

remembering Shirley Bryan-an introspective

Shirley Bryan is dead, and she didn’t get to read the book. The book in which a very important supporting character is modeled after her. The book in which I put words in her mouth – made her say what I understood her to say. The book that was dedicated to her because she believed in me, mentored me from afar. Just knowing she was there, just knowing what she would say gave me the affirmation to move forward. Shirley Bryan died January 1 of this year. I found out when I googled her address to send a copy of The Cemetery Wives – albeit with fear and trembling because she has a much more particular grasp of the English language than I do. Nevertheless, I thought proper to send her a copy because I dedicated it to her. Would she still be at the same address? A mere three months ago when I penned the dedication line, I searched online and found her husband, Chaplin Bill, had died two years ago. I have not seen Shirley, talked to Shirley, or been in contact for over 25 years. It is I who am totally responsible for the distance and lack of communication. For the first 12 years after leaving seminary, I chose not to burden her with my day-to-day frustrations because she had plenty of new young women to mentor. For the past twelve I have been ashamed to reach out. I am divorced. My life did not go as it ought. It would have grieved Shirley, as it grieved me. My presence at the seminary was due to my marriage to a seminary student and we are no longer married. 

Back in the day when I was married to a seminary student and Shirley mentored young mothers, we had an understanding. Speaking to young wives was her calling, writing was my growing passion. We would travel the ancient biblical lands together. She would gain knowledge and speak. I would be her amanuensis. In both speaking and writing, we would reach the maximum number of people with truth. In addition, we would both luxuriate in seeing the wonders of the world.

It was never a real plan – only a casual conversation – but her participation in the dream was true encouragement. Something that told me I could move forward. I was free to pursue writing. It might even be my calling.

Tired of living the life

Living the life, he writes from a 230-square-foot studio cabin while penning a yearly update to family. Panoramic views stretch expansively into public lands from the windows liberally flanking three sides of the studio. In the center stands a pot-bellied wood stove. Water reaches toward a boiling point for tea. Hardbound classics stand upright on knotty pine shelves. A vintage microscope, typewriter and various state of the art wireless word-processing devices conveniently litter a sweeping 24-foot, built-in desk space. It can be assumed he is clothed in wool that is very smart – in more ways than one – and featherweight down. 

This is the life, she says. And she is eternally grateful. For over 60 years she has longed for the time and solitude to write. And now she is living the life; living in a well-equipped authentic Victorian row house; rising before dawn and writing for a couple hours; bathing in a vintage claw-foot tub with hot running water that she doesn’t have to fetch or heat; hiking for two hours a day,  every day at whatever time of day suits her fancy; keeping fit, keeping well-read, indulging in virtual choirs and virtual bass workshops and adding to her piano repertoire and strumming her pain with her fingers on a handsome acoustic guitar she never had time to caress until this year.  Most of the time, she is vastly content.  She has done what she said she would do 13 years ago – write.  In the space of eleven months, she brought two novels to print, novels begun in the 80s and now historic. She resurrected a children’s book first published in her initial crusade to become a writer.

But they are tired, these siblings, tired of not being able to meet in a cozy coffee shop, tired of not being able to travel by train or plane to exotic places to expand their intellectual horizons. Tired of restraint from family reunions where laughter is shared by people who overlap with common inherencies. 

Sometimes she grows tired of living the life; tired of not being able to go to a ballroom just every once in a while and find herself in the arms of a man who can really lead and who can dance to boot – or dance in boots if the situation is western; tired of singing virtually without the felt energy of leaning in to match the blend; tired of hawking and signing her books electronically – missing the smiles uncovered and the handshakes hearty and the spontaneity of laughter that does not mute the audio of everyone else.

And as for him? He is living the life – in the lap of all that he loves and has earned, but he is tired of talking to colleagues, about bears and nutes and biodiversity and the human genome, via Zoom. He longs to go global once again – lecture and discuss in Zumbian zoos and the Tanzanian tropics and rustic Denalian lodges. 

And so they coexist, these two siblings, closely related by blood yet often differing in opinion, a few hundred miles apart, in virtual solitude and partial isolation.

Yes, they are living the life in so many ways and they acknowledge it with heartfelt gratitude.

 But in some subtle way, they are tired of living the life. Something needs to change.

Farewell 2020 i regret nothing

Farewell 2020.

I regret nothing.

Hindsight is 2020, everyone is saying, and now 2020 is in our rearview mirror. 

None of us have any desire to cling to the past

Isn’t that the way it is supposed to be? 

We move forward with hope that tomorrow will be better than today.

We turn the leaf to a fresh new page

Farewell, farewell!

There is no going back.

I regret nothing.

Now is the time to harness the energy for greeting the adventures around the corner, not for ruing the past.

Hope springeth eternal

Does it?

Then, let it!

There is no time like the present to continue to do what you have always wanted to do.

The challenges are no greater and no less than they have ever been

Give it your all

Things I do not regret from 2020

I do not regret moving back to Colorado

Not sorry I discovered Durango

Not sorry I spent my savings on a washer and a dryer and two down vests and a pair of

top-flight, waterproof hiking boots.

I do not regret the kayak

Not sorry I found people to sing with virtually so that I must practice every day and thereby increase my oxygen and endorphin intake

Not sorry I busied myself about music during isolation and learned bass and bought a bass amp.

I have no regrets concerning cloistering myself and writing for nine and a half months.

2020 was a year of incredible events, unforeseen depths of loss and amazing opportunity. I regret nothing. Onward 2021.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind. 

Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals. 

“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”

When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.

And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995

All I Want For Christmas

All I want for Christmas

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Well, actually, I got that wish way back in 1963 when I exited third grade. However, time has run its course and I did have all my front teeth filled and sheathed in early 2020. It was one of the gifts I gave myself this year.

All I want for Christmas is you? Frankly, my dear, having you under the Christmas tree would only complicate things. It has been a wonderful year of innovation and self-actualization. Not like the year I hung the mistletoe in a prominent arch and waited – for two years – without result. In that case, the gift I tried to give was not reciprocated. I’ve learned to live without kisses – just as many have learned to live without hugs this year.

Mostly, my grown up Christmas wish list is still intact.

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win

And love would never endThis is my grownup Christmas list – and I wish it particularly for the families and friendships that have been damaged and distanced in this vicious and heinous election year. It is not worth it, friends. In the end you alone cannot control the outcome of world events by your rhetoric. But you can make it your business to love your mother, your father, your sister, your brother; to love your neighbor as yourself – and to never, never, give up on your children.

What do I want for Christmas? In the course of the year I have provided for myself a washer, a dryer, bass amp, power drill and driver, a down sleeping bag, down vests, smart wool socks, a kayak, and some smart wool underwear. Once I get waterproof winter hiking boots I will be better equipped than ever before to get outside and keep myself healthy; physically, mentally, emotionally and especially spiritually. 

Even though I don’t need my two front teeth or someone or something wrapped and under the tree; I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts this December. 

A few years back I was traveling with my daughter in the Rocky Mountains. Snow still lay on the ground so it was probably April, my typical vacation time. We parked at the lovely rock chapel of Saint Malo Retreat. We tried the door. It was unlocked. Empty chapel. Available piano. I sat and played a chorus; Ode to Joy. Other tourists passed in and out. A mother and nine-year-old daughter stood behind me and watched. “How does she do that?” whispered the daughter. “Darling, it is a gift,” replied the mother. This simplistic answer irked my daughter who had just completed college with a minor in music. It niggles in the back of my mind this Christmas season as I contemplate gifts and all I want for Christmas. 

A Gift takes you nowhere unless you receive it, open it up, and use it. The drill I bought myself in October? If I leave it in the tool bag on the shelf in the laundry room, it does nothing. I have to get it out, insert a drill bit or driver tip, practice, actually apply it to the antique furniture it was bought to bolster. The genetic gift of a good ear and predisposition for music is nothing without application and practice. The unquenchable urge to write – to be heard – is nothing but a constant emotional battle for me if I attempt to squelch it due to fear or embarrassment. 

This year I gave myself permission to be about my bucket list with full confidence. My time on earth grows short. The ghosts of Christmas past may try to haunt me, yet I will align myself with Christmas present! I will climb every mountain. I will paddle every lake and stream. I will sing and make music on eighty-eight keys and six strings and four strings. I will write the books that have simmered on the back burner for three decades. I will find my voice and be heard. How about you? What do you want for Christmas?

The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Full cover art for The Cemetery Wives, created by Courtney V. Harris – available as an ebook on Amazon
The Pancake Cat by Cherry Odelberg, Cover art by Andrea Shellabarger, Available to order wherever books are sold

The author’s confession part 2:

She never intended to write Christian Women’s Fiction – or Christian anything. She wanted to write mainstream fiction. She wanted to be able to use some words she was not allowed to use in Christian fiction. She wanted to explore some concepts, some doubts, some gray areas that were not allowed by Christian publishers. She wanted be frank about sex and frank about challenges – to be a normal writer, not someone with an evangelistic agenda or a one-size-fits all Band-Aid. True, the writer is advised to “write what you know,” and she did know Christian women’s fiction. She grew up on it. She knew it all too well. She wanted something more. There was an emptiness. She wanted something that was not as cliché as the man always being right because he was a man, nor as trendy as being comically wrong because he was a man. She wanted a story where women were neither subservient or stupid, rebellious or dependent – unless they wanted to be -where the story didn’t end just because the heroine got married. She knew better. The troubles were only beginning when the heroine married. She also knew something about seminary life and the unrelenting grind of an impoverished marriage. So, she wrote a story about a woman married to a seminary student. By and by, she had opportunity to pitch the first five chapters to a bona fide literary agent. And the agent told her his publisher wouldn’t even look at it with a title like that. Apparently there is something inherently sinister or ghoulish about a cemetery and therefore evil or occult about the two words, “wife” and “cemetery,” coupled together. But the author didn’t feel that way. She knows it is customary to consider several title choices for a work in progress, but in this case, there was one title and only one that would work for the plot. Another agent didn’t like the timeframe crucial to the climax. She knows, how well she knows, that you must often give up the lines you most cherish in order to move forward. In this case, giving up title and timeframe is to give up the entire story. And so, she has written a very unconventional love story, chock full of scripture and seminary speak, and religious thought and tragedy and the triumph of Providence or Fate or Destiny or the Universe or God by whatever name you call him or her. And who will it offend? Only the most hard-hearted of biblical legalists; the ones who fault her for not having an agenda.

She never, never intended to write Christian Women’s Fiction

The Cemetery Wives will release on Amazon as an ebook before the end of November, 2020

The book cover will look something like this. The cover, also will be released from the artist by the end of November.

The Author’s Confession Part 1

She never intended to write children’s fiction. No. It had never occurred to her. When she first became enamored with writing (along about the eighth grade) she wrote what was in her heart. She did this via short paragraphs – expanded captions for photos. She revealed herself and her thoughts through her perspective on the photos. What were the individuals in the photos thinking? Her thoughts, of course. In high school, she wrote teenage romances. She wrote the kinds of stories she wanted to read. Mostly, she wrote stories that came from her journal – the things she dreamed would happen to her: high-school sweethearts, first and life-long love. 

Once she exited high school, writing consisted of 12-page tomes to her sister-in-law or newsletters for every company she worked for. Experts still admonished beginning writers to write what you know! Experts also recommended taking classes or workshops in writing. Going to workshops was out of the question. She was raising young children. The only course available to her was via Institute of Children’s Literature-by correspondence – snail mail. She took it. She completed assignments. She garnered both praise and criticism. She finished a children’s book. She had it printed and crudely bound and gave it to her family members for Christmas. But she never meant to write a children’s book. A few years later, she attended college. The college accepted her credits from the writing institute but they still wanted tuition – imagine that! She entered a writing contest for children’s books. In addition to publication, the grand and only prize of $10,000 would have funded her final two years of college. The publisher canceled the contest. By 2009 she had invested so much time in research and editing that she published the book independently. She believed in the content. The Pancake Cat was rereleased in 2020 with an all new cover and is receiving more than double the attention previously afforded. But she never intended to write children’s fiction.

cherryodelbergbooks.com

River Reprise

When the Universe speaks, I try to listen. Winter cometh. I offer this reprise:

A Trickle or a Flood, June 7, 2016 She sat on the banks of the muddy San Juan, in the shadow of a bighorn sculpture and watched the river roll away lazily to the Southwest. It made her long for the beach. That is where the river was headed, after all – to join the mighty Colorado at Lake Powell and finally empty into the Pacific Ocean.

But she knew something the river did not yet know; it would never make it to the ocean. It was headed for the beach, but along the way destined to recreate, irrigate, hydrate, relax and refresh millions of people. Somewhere, 50 miles or so short of the Gulf of California, the river would trickle to a stop.

So she pondered this truncation, this travesty, this unavoidable change of plans people foisted on the river and she asked herself, “How are you doing on your own bucket list? Are you headed for the beach? And whether you ever make it to the beach, will you restore and refresh and recreate and relax? How much of you will be absorbed and diverted into the schemes and needs of others? How much of the landscape of your life will you beautify along the way?”

Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. You do not know if your end will be part of a cataclysmic flood or simply trickle away.

San Juan River, Bluff Utah, May 2016