Putting a Price on Gratitude

 Me and Marco, overlooking Lake Lucerne, Switzerland, 2002

Me and Marco, overlooking Lake Lucerne, Switzerland, 2002

Zurich, Switzerland, Spring 2002. I excused myself to use the restroom in the Jules Verne Panorama Bar, a bar on the 11th floor of a tower in the city center of Zurich, offering 360° views of the whole town. After graduating from the University of San Diego the previous spring I was certain that I did NOT want to get a ‘real’ job immediately after graduating. Additionally, after two political internships while in college, one for the Governor of California and one for a member of the House of Commons in England, I was also certain that politics and government were NOT my calling. I had graduated with a BA in International Relations and knew as I was handed my diploma that I wasn’t going to be using my degree. 

I had, however, double minored in Spanish and French, and those languages were getting me places. After graduating I was hired as an English Assistant in the French public school system and just two weeks after 9/11 I flew to France to live and teach. At age 21, I absolutely loved my life. I took advantage of every long weekend and holiday to travel around France and Europe. This was how I found myself having drinks with my Swiss friends, Marco and René, in a swanky bar in downtown Zurich.

When I walked out of the bathroom stall I noticed a large assortment of shopping bags sitting under the sink. I washed my hands and frowned. I didn’t recognize any of the European name brands on the bags but I was certain that someone had spent a day shopping downtown and had left every single one of their purchases in the bar’s bathroom. Without hesitating I scooped them up and carried the massive bundle out of the bathroom and towards the bar. I was going to give them to a hostess but Marco met me in the hallway and I explained what I’d found. 

Suddenly a well-coiffed woman came tearing around the corner with a look of panic on her face. I was certain she was the owner of whatever was in the bags. I began explaining how I’d found them and Marco finished my story in Swiss-German. She was wearing a beautiful pink, cashmere sweater that matched the blotchy spots of anxiety on her cheeks.

Without skipping a beat she switched from using Swiss-German with Marco to English with me. “Thank you so much! This means so much to me that you returned them!”

I wanted to say, ‘well of course, who wouldn’t return them?’ but I stopped myself because the answer was that plenty of people would not have turned those bags in. “You’re so welcome! I’ve left stuff before. I’m happy to help.”

Back at the table Marco and I recounted the story to René and as we re-told it the woman approached me again. She tried to hand me a large wad of Swiss francs. I tried to wave her away, “Oh no, no, no. That’s okay.”

She was adamant and reached dramatically towards me to pass over the money. I leaned back further away from her, “No, really, you don’t need to do that.”

Seated to my right, Marco said quietly, “You should take it, Charlotte. It’s correct.” The lady in the pink sweater looked at Marco and then me, and I looked at Marco and then her. Hesitantly I reached out and accepted the cash. 

“Well, thank you, but really, I didn’t do it for a reward.” 

Her shoulders relaxed. She smiled, and with barely a trace of an accent she thanked me again and left the table.

“Marco, why did you say to take it?”

“It’s the right thing to do. In our culture, a reward for finding or returning things people care about, is expected.”

“Really? So if I’d been Swiss, I would have been wondering why she hadn’t offered me money as a way to say thank you?”

“Yes, exactly.”

I took a slow sip of my red wine and contemplated this. I had done enough international traveling at that point in my life to have learned to not immediately criticize or compare cultural practices that were different than my own, especially out loud. There was nothing more annoying than hearing someone from another country proclaim loudly about how they ‘do it better’ at home. Sometimes, instead of deciding that a cultural practice is right or wrong, or better or worse, it’s worth simply storing the practice away in your memory for another time. Or maybe that’s just the writer in me; I file all kinds of things about life away for another time.

 Me and Kate, Palm Springs, California – Solar Eclipse, Monday, August 21, 2017

Me and Kate, Palm Springs, California – Solar Eclipse, Monday, August 21, 2017

My friend, Kate Anthony, and I rendezvoused in Palm Springs two weeks ago to write our books. Kate is a life coach and specializes in helping people, especially women, through divorce. She is writing a book that is part memoir and part how-to. I’m writing the true life adventure story of how I met my husband, Eric, how we bought a sailboat, moved aboard, raised our daughters on the water, and ended up needing to be rescued at sea. The rescue at sea caused an international media fire storm about us and our parenting. 

My book doesn’t just tell the story of that rescue and the ensuing media storm, it tells our entire story. Our life has been full of romance, defying the odds, and yes, some pretty incredible drama.

No Price on Gratitude (7).jpg

Kate and I watched the eclipse that Monday along with the other guests at the Orbit-In, a boutique, nine room, 1950’s inspired hotel in the heart of Palm Springs. The next day, I finished the last page of my book. I still had about a week’s work of editing and review to do, but that Tuesday I wrote the very last word and ended with:

:  fin  :

Finished. The end. It was a surreal accomplishment.

 Kate pours us glasses to celebrate writing the end of my first draft.

Kate pours us glasses to celebrate writing the end of my first draft.

The Orbit-In serves cocktails every day at 5:00pm. At the appointed time, guests who had been enjoying the vintage charm (and modern AC) of their individual rooms slowly appear at the outdoor bar or take a dive in the pool. The hotel employee serving drinks that night was Jade. He poured us some ice cold white wine and listened attentively as Kate announced to other guests seated around us that I had just finished my book. Curious, they asked what I was writing about. I told them mine and Eric’s story.

I didn’t do all the talking, I promise. All of the guests shared their stories. One young couple was on vacation from France, another man was an Australian airline pilot. We found out that Jade was a native Palm Springer, born and raised there in the desert. We asked Jade about his life growing up in Palm Springs and he asked about our lives too. 

The morning after arriving home from Palm Springs I received an email from the Orbit-In. It was a note from Jade:

Hoping this finds you safely home in Mammoth Lakes. Wanted to alert you that the housekeeper found these items of yours (photo attached) in your room this morning...hope you haven't been pulling your hair out looking for them! I will personally take them to the post office today. Take good care. We all look forward to your return...

When I looked at the attached photo, I gasped. I had been so meticulous when I packed, so careful to not have left anything behind, but there staring at me from the screen were these:

Let me tell you about these three items. Let’s start with the Kindle (the e-reader on the right with the pink cover). It is one of the oldest Kindles out there, so it’s not worth any money. It’s so old that Amazon let me know that they are no longer supporting it and the next time it fails, it’s dead. They don’t issue software updates for it anymore. It’s the little Kindle that could, but that’s not why it’s special. 

It was a gift from Eric when I was pregnant with Cora, back in December of 2009. That Kindle, along with my current laptop, are two of the few remaining things I have from our life aboard Rebel Heart. We slipped my Kindle and both of our laptops into one of the bags we were able to bring with us off of the boat. They were all wrapped tightly in a waterproof case that was placed inside a waterproof SeaBag, and they survived. I have an almost irrational emotional attachment to them. I’ve replaced the keyboard on my laptop TWICE, the power cord three times. The screen sometimes goes fuzzy and blurs. It makes weird clicking noises like it’s alive. I know it’s on its last leg, as is the Kindle that is no longer supported by Amazon, but I cling to them. They made it off that boat in one piece and I’m not ready to say goodbye.

Then there is the little yellow Rite-in-the-Rain notebook. If you haven’t heard of Rite in the Rain, you’re in for a treat. The paper in these notebooks is waterproof. If it gets wet, your ink (if you use a special pen), or your pencil markings will not run. Amazing, right? Sailors and outdoors enthusiasts love them. This is the notebook I kept all my daily writings and notes in during our ill-fated Pacific passage. My heart almost stopped when I saw a picture of it there in Palm Springs when I was hundreds of miles away in Mammoth Lakes. 

The contents of the journal are unbelievably personal. It has my entire list of things I kept to talk to Eric about on the passage. Prior to passages we’d both start collecting little tidbits to share with each other on the trip. Just the little things you might talk about over dinner, or interesting things from the news, even daily encounters you would normally recount after the kids were in bed or over wine. We would save them up and then talk about them during the long hours at sea. It has my notes from when we were on the Vandegrift after losing Rebel Heart:

“I’m in shock.”

“I’m covered in bruises.”

“What will we do now?”

I would have been bereft if I’d lost that journal.

The last item is the turquoise notebook with a clip on the front. There is nothing special about that notebook; I bought it at Target two years ago. Inside it, however, are pages of my notes. Among other things, it contained my handwritten notes from interviewing Eric (yes, I interviewed my own husband for my book) and notes from interviewing my sister, Sariah, who flew to San Diego during the 6+ days of the rescue and handled all of the media, interviews, updates, donations, etc. 

Jade was true to his word. The package containing my items arrived just days before I finished the full first draft and exactly when I needed all of them to review my work during a final read through. I can’t even imagine where I would be if the wonderful housekeeper who found them hadn’t returned them or if Jade hadn’t sent them on to me.
I felt such immense gratitude when I saw my things returned safely to me that I wondered how I could ever repay them. My mind connected back 16 years prior, to the woman in the pink cashmere sweater in Zurich. Her gesture might have been borne out of custom and her items had all been brand new, but they were clearly of value to her. My items were not new, but they were imbued with the lasting power of sentiment, sweat, and tears. 

I wrote out two thank you notes, one to Jade, and to the housekeeper. Per Jade’s suggestion, I wrote hers in Spanish. (My college degree may not have served me professionally, but those French and Spanish minors keep helping me out in spades.) I slipped a $50 dollar bill into each envelope. I realize some people will think this was an extravagant amount of money to say thank you. Others will think it was too little. Still others will think I shouldn’t have sent any money at all. If there’s one thing Eric and I have had some experience in, it’s wading through an ocean of people’s opinions about what we do with our lives.  What matters to me is that I said thank you to them both. I don’t know if I can truly put a price on the kind of gratitude I’m feeling, but I sent what I had. 
I hope my book about Rebel Heart will be published soon. I will keep you posted both here and on my Facebook page. The book was completed, in no small part, thanks to two wonderful people in Palm Springs who didn’t hesitate to do the right thing.

Post Script: if you’re thinking of visiting the Orbit-In, I give it a resounding five stars.

I Don't Know How To Fix a Flat Tire | On Not Shaming Those You Offer to Help

Cast of Characters

Erin and her daughter, B.

Me and my daughter, C.

“Pete” – the stranded motorist on the road.

Bit part – random PCT through-hiker.

Scene 1: early morning, headed north of Walker, California on highway 395.

“Sorry, buddy. Car is completely full,” I said this out loud in my friend, Erin’s, Toyota, as we zoomed past what looked like a Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) through-hiker trying to hitch a ride north on the 395.

One of our seven year olds piped up from the back seat, “We never pick up people on the side of the road anyway. That’s dangerous.” I can’t remember if it was my daughter or Erin’s daughter who said it, but I responded the same,

“That’s not quite true. I’ve picked up people before.” I glanced over at Erin, who was driving.

She nodded but kept her eyes forward looking ahead to the curvy portion of the roads we were headed into. “Me too. That kind of thing depends on the situation. And right now, we don’t have any car seats anyway to help that guy out.”

“The important thing is, if you can help someone, then do. As long as you can do it reasonably safely.”

In the back of the car, the girls returned to the world and conversation of seven year olds and Erin and I went back to the conversation of two 30-something moms who were driving 2.5 hours north to “the city,” that is Carson City, Nevada, the closest ‘large’ town to where we live. Mammoth Lakes, California doesn’t have stores like Target or Costco. When you want to do shopping at stores like that, especially back-to-school shopping, you head north (or south, if you feel like an even longer drive to Los Angeles or San Diego.)

Brief interlude for bacon:

We stopped for brunch in Gardnerville, Nevada and ate at an all-American diner called Woodette’s.


The diner was called Woodette’s.


I kind of love it, don’t you? Woodette’s.

Okay. I’ve said Woodette enough now, I think.

Damn, I love the English language.

Scene 2: Target, Carson City, Nevada

Then it was straight to Target. I was determined not to spend over my budget so the day prior my daughters and I had done a clothes inventory and determined how many more of each of the items you see below they needed for the upcoming fall and winter.

That’s right. I’m at least at Mom Nerd Level +15 with this spreadsheet and clipboard. And I gotta tell you, it was pure magic to have done the inventory before setting out and to have the list. My daughter stuck to the list and I’m so doing this again for future shopping trips. My youngest, L, age 4.5, didn’t go with us on this trip, but C and I did the shopping for her easily with the inventory/list combo.

  Favorite qualifiers: some, several, and ‘maybe’ :)

Favorite qualifiers: some, several, and ‘maybe’ :)

C and I each got new cups too. Mine says ‘First I drink the coffee, then I do the things.’ And hers reads ‘Chase Dreams, Not Boys.’

“It IS okay to chase boys, C, as long as they want you to, if we’re talking about a literal game of chase. If we are talking figuratively, then sure, you can chase after a boy, but the message here is to pursue your dreams and passions first, instead of only focusing on boys and whether or not they notice you. You do you, C, and any worthy guy will take note.”

: As an aside here, I’m sure there are a few readers tut-tut’ing ‘what if she likes GIRLS, hmmmm?’ Sure thing. If C likes girls (or both), that’s super rad. We talk a lot in our family about loving, dating, and marrying (or NOT marrying, geez) whoever they’d like. I do like to keep a lot about C private, so you’ll just have to trust me on the liking boys things. If she changes her mind later, I’ll be telling her to keep her eyes focused on her goals > girls just as much :

And speaking of dreams, the only thing C wanted for her seventh birthday a few weeks ago was to get her first pedicure. Erin and her daughter, B, were happy to oblige us.

Scene 3: Nail salon in Carson City, Nevada

We went to Get Nailed.

That was the name of the salon.

You can’t make this stuff up. First Woodette’s, then GET NAILED.

C was thrilled with the entire experience. Both B and C were too short to take advantage of the massage chairs until after their toes were painted. As soon as they could, they scooted back and relaxed, enjoying the mechanical kneading while Erin and I got our pedicures as well.

  No, those aren’t smart phones, they’re the remotes for the chairs. And even if they were, why you gotta judge? Pedicures are about chilling.

No, those aren’t smart phones, they’re the remotes for the chairs. And even if they were, why you gotta judge? Pedicures are about chilling.

Afterwards we all felt fabulous.

Lastly, we hit up Starbucks and Costco. Are you getting that this was a pretty prototypical mom/daughter shopping/date day? Perfect. Because that’s what I’m driving at. And speaking of driving, at this point it was 5pm and we still had a 2.5. hour drive ahead of us. With a car stuffed to the gills, we headed south.

There is a massive stretch of the 395, about 100 miles, which has no cell service. It starts just north of Topaz Lake in Nevada and continues almost to Mammoth Lakes. Yes, yes, there ARE sections where you can get service, but for most of the area there is simply no service at all. The locals know this and prepare for this. Most city folk are perplexed, or even angry when they discover they can’t use their phones and gps in a portion of California. It’s true. It’s rough being out of the city ;)

Scene 4: The Stranded Motorist

Somewhere along this stretch, deep in a curvy portion of the highway and with the raging Walker River to the left of us, we zipped around a corner and saw a large man standing on the side of the road, next to a silver Mercedes, his hands up, and waving at passing cars. He was stopped in a wide, pull-over area off the road on the north side. Erin drove a little further ahead to the matching pull-over area on the south side.

I asked her, “Do you have cables?”


“Me too in my car.” She smiled. Great minds think alike, I thought.

“Stay in the car, girls,” she admonished to both C and B and then she hopped out. I scrambled after her, but grabbed my can of bear spray. I exited the passenger side and popped off the safety cap. Then I followed her, keeping the can behind me. The guy was probably 6’2” and a very big dude. If this were a ruse, he was gonna get a face full of capsaicin for trying to fuck with us.

While cars cruised between them, Erin and the man yelled across the highway.

“What’s wrong?” A gust of wind blew her long, blonde hair back away from her face.  I stood two feet behind her, the bear spray ready.

“I have no cell service. I’ve got AAA, but no phone service. Can’t call them,” he responded.

She turned to me, “do you have any service?” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Dude. I have Cricket. I sincerely doubt it.” We both went back to our sides of the car and dug around for our phones. She found hers first and when I got back to them, she was snapping a photo of his AAA card.

“I’ll drop a pin on my phone so I know where you are. Then we’ll drive on and when we get service, we can call AAA for you.” She held her phone up and then realized that without service, she wasn’t able to drop a pin, or at the very least, she wasn’t able to at that moment.

I still had the bear spray behind me because I’m a suspicious person, most especially of men. Still, from what I’d observed of the man, he didn’t seem threatening, rather, he was exasperated. He kept looking at his phone and muttering. I could hear him saying, “No service. Not even a bar. I have AAA...” It was cool outside and approaching 7pm but he had a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“What’s the matter anyway?” I asked. He glanced up at me. “What’s wrong with your car?”

“Oh,” he gestured back at it, annoyed. “It’s got a flat.”

“Just a flat?” Mine and Erin’s voices joined in unison.

“Yeahhh,” he drew that out slowly. “Yeah. A flat. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Again, almost in perfect unison, we sang out, “I can fix it!” The stranger, we’ll call him “Pete,” Pete’s mouth dropped open a little, I couldn’t tell from awe or surprise. I decided on awe, it could have been surprise, but it wouldn’t have been if he had actually known us. We did a U-turn and drove over to his side of the road.

Scene 5: You gotta jack?

“Mom, can I get out of the car and help?” C was chomping at the bit to see what was happening. I thought this would be a good lesson for her, and we were on a section of the side of the road that was at least three car widths wide, so it was reasonably safe.

“As long as you stay behind me, and near the metal fence far away from the highway, over there,” I pointed behind me, “you can see the river.”

Pete had pulled out his spare tire but neither of us saw any tools lying around. I was still suspicious of being near a big dude on the side of the highway where there was no cell service, and with two little girls with us. I probably have trust issues, but I like to call them survival skills. I continued to keep a wide distance from Pete and never let him get behind me. He never tried. I’m just sharing that I’m always wary. My past life experiences have taught me that I have plenty to be wary about.

I stayed behind Erin because she was really taking charge so my role quickly became side kick and body guard.

“You gotta jack?” Erin was peeking inside his trunk. Pete followed her and then handed over what could have been a jack, but it wasn’t one we had seen before. She and I conferred. “Is this missing something? Some part?”

I grabbed it and flipped it over inspecting how it worked. Behind us, C tried to see the tool. Pete offered nothing in the way of info on the way the jack worked. It had a part that stuck out and it struck me that the car might have a spot that it could fit into, like built into the frame. Pete was standing off to the side, muttering at his phone. Erin had gone to get her own jack from her car. I squatted down and sure enough, found a little cap that I popped off from the body of the car. Inside was a hole that part could fit in. Those German engineers think of everything.

Erin came back with her own tools but I showed her how the jack worked and she jumped right in and started jacking the car up.

Pete tried to make small talk; I have to give him credit for even trying. I remembered he asked us where we were from. He mentioned his line of work and how he wished he could live in the Eastern Sierras but his job kept him tied to the city. I kept wondering if he was a little shell shocked, like if perhaps something bad had happened to him recently. You just never know what is happening in people’s lives. Flat tires don’t discriminate. They can happen at the same time as your mother dying, as getting fired, or when you’re late to pick your kid up from school. Who knew what was going on in Pete’s world before the tire blew?

He helped loosen the lug nuts but Erin and I fully screwed them out. He also helped manhandle the blown tire off. We didn’t have the strength for it. The back of the tire was ripped along the seam, about a ¼ of the way around the entire tire.  “You’re lucky you were able to pull over okay; that looks crazy,” I told him. He nodded.

All three of us worked together after that, holding the spare up as a trio. Erin and I snaked our hands down and grabbed the lug nuts from the ground, screwing them in one at a time.

We worked, freshly pedicured and in dresses. I’m happy to report that while both of us got dirty, no pedicures were harmed in the helping of this stranger.

“You should tighten those up,” Erin handed him the tire iron and he followed her advice. I grabbed a baggie of wet wipes from the car and Erin and I cleaned our hands back at her car. We told the girls to get back in their car seats and as Erin stowed her tools, Pete came over,

“Can I have one of those cloths?”

I handed him my last clean one. I’d watched him during the whole ordeal get more and more uncomfortable by how dirty his hands were getting. He kept glancing at them in disgust. I wondered if he was mad that he couldn’t grab his phone, since his dirty hands would then dirty the phone. There was no cell service, but when you’re used to endlessly checking your phone, you probably are conditioned to keep checking it even when it’s pointless. I figured a guy who didn’t like to get dirty would have some napkins or the like in his car, but again, you never know what’s going on with a person. At least I had one more wet wipe to offer him.

“Thanks again.”

“Sure thing, man. Drive carefully.”

We didn’t exchange contact info. Pete needed to drive north and we needed to drive south and everybody was ready to go their own ways.

He waved at us as he pulled onto the highway.

“That.Was.Rad!” I cheered.

From the back the girls both joined in, “We helped him!” Erin was grinning and then said,

“I worked up a sweat and an appetite!”

“Oooh, ooh, let’s go to the Whoa Nellie Deli, I’ve always wanted to eat there.” She agreed.

Woodette’s.  Get Nailed. And the WHOA NELLIE DELI.

Goddess bless Americans and our deep love of cheesy place names.

Scene 6: Whoa Nellie!

The Whoa Nellie Deli is located on the 395 at the junction for the Tioga Pass (the road that takes you into Yosemite National Park) in Lee Vining. It’s up on a hill and commands an incredible view of Mono Lake. It’s nestled at the foot of the mountains that lead you into Yosemite. <--------That’s a whole bunch of words to basically say, the Whoa Nellie Deli is the coolest damn restaurant in a Mobile Mart you have ever visited. It has grassy expanses all around it speckled with picnic tables that were full of people. Kids ran between the tables like it was the 4th of July. Every single person present, except for we four, was dressed in technical gear of some sort: fisherwomen and men, hikers, climbers, backpackers, day trippers….they were all geared up, and gassing up, both figuratively and metaphorically at the deli.

It had been a long-ass day. A good one, but a long one. We ordered some food and two glasses of wine about the size of our heads and sat down at a picnic table that overlooked Mono Lake.

“Cheers,” I held up my glass to Erin’s. “We did it.”

“What did you do?” A woman dressed head to toe in Patagonia clothing asked us. Their table was two feet away and we could easily hear the other table’s conversation, likewise they could hear ours.

I gave them the long version. Truncated it looked like: two moms took two kids 2.5 hours away and shopped all day, and on the return home, helped a man who didn’t know how to fix a flat tire, but we did it, and that felt fucking great.

“And we did it in dresses!” I concluded happily. Their table cheered with us, and then the man sitting opposite the woman in Patagonia clothes, zipped up his Arcteryx jacket and asserted,

“So did you shame the fuck out of him?”

Some of his table laughed at this but the corners of Erin’s and my mouth too, turned down. At that moment, I was so, so glad Erin was my friend.

Erin and her husband moved to Mammoth with their daughter B last summer, about a month before Eric and I moved here with our girls, C and L. We met when B and C became friends and our families survived one of the craziest, snowiest winters in Mammoth’s history as our inaugural winter in the Eastern Sierras. To say we’ve bonded would be an understatement. I told her yesterday that I felt really lucky we met. When you move to a town without knowing anyone, you have to wish and hope you’ll find someone you connect with, and I have with Erin.

We both shook our head at the man in the technical gear. Erin spoke, “no, we didn’t shame him. We just helped him out.” I glanced over at our girls who had finished their food and were doing what all the other kids were doing at the Whoa Nellie Deli, running crazy, leaping off the large rocks that were scattered amongst the tables, and having a generally awesome time.

No, I thought, we didn’t shame him.

The table next to us went back to their food and I mulled over the event with Erin, “when I talk to my girls about this I’m going to make a point of not shaming Pete for the fact that we helped him out.” I gestured toward C and B. “For me, the most important part of helping that guy was that our girls saw me and you do that, we helped him, and we did it dressed in a rather traditionally feminine way and that didn’t hinder us. We knew what to do and we were bad ass.”

Erin nodded, listening. “If I want my girls growing up to break gender stereotypes, I can’t then hold men to similar ones. I mean, isn’t that why that guy next to us wanted us to shame Pete? Because he had been helped by….. : gasp : women? And women in dresses? That’s where the concept of shame is coming from here, that he should be ashamed for needing help from women, or from not knowing how to fix a tire, but some women did. I feel empowered by what we did, but that feeling does not come at Pete's loss. My empowerment should not equal his shame.”

I kept trying to work it out in my head and in conversation. We sipped our wine as we thought about it. Both of us are proponents of self-reliance. Should Pete have known how to fix a tire? Probably. But not simply because he was a man, rather, because sometimes AAA is not readily available. Men and women both should learn how to fix a flat tire. Though both Erin and I are huge fans of being prepared and being independent, sometimes, no matter how prepared you are, you need help. My family learned that first hand on our sailboat, Rebel Heart. And if you know how to help someone, you do. And if you help someone, and then shame them later for the help you offered freely, well that’s just lower than low, don’t you think?

The girls brought us flowers and then took this blurry photo. I hope they had as wonderful a day as we did. And I hope they remember the day we helped Pete. What I really hope sticks out the most is that their mothers were strong, independent, ready to lend a hand, and were also a little bit fearless. Additionally, they also had great nails and looked beautiful in dresses.

Let this post then be a PSA for watching some YouTube videos on how to change a tire and on being prepared for when a flat + no cell service may hit you. And I encourage everyone to help people when you can, challenge gender stereotypes, and do a whole lot less judging and shaming.

~ Fin ~    

Women's Writing Workshop with Amy Ferris | July 2017

Last weekend I hosted 17 women in my home for a women’s writing workshop with author, Amy Ferris. If that name rings a bell it’s because you either already follow me on social media (my writer/sewist page is here) and know all about this, or you remember my post about the workshop I attended with her in March of this year in Los Angeles. Amy wrote Marrying George Clooney

After attending that workshop in March, I messaged Amy about my hosting one in Mammoth Lakes and she agreed. This July seven local women and ten women from other parts of California and other states, descended on my home for two full days of writing and empowerment. The theme of the workshop was ‘Awakening to our Greatness.’ Amy is talented in this arena. She has an incredible skill of helping each woman who attends intuit what they need to move on in their lives. She helps people move past blocks in their writing, but also in their emotions; it’s an incredible thing to witness.

I prepared my house for weeks in advance. Knowing these guests were coming was the final push I needed to finish setting up our home. This August we will have lived in Mammoth for a full year and there have been a dozen or so things I’ve wanted to complete for a long time, like sewing a privacy curtain for C’s top bunk, printing out and hanging new photos for our photo wall downstairs, and buying outdoor furniture for all three of our decks.

The day before and the morning of, I channeled my inner Rich (my older brother who taught me everything I know about cooking and entertaining) and got the house ready. Friday afternoon Eric took the girls camping for the weekend so I had the house to myself to prepare. That afternoon my first house guest arrived, Kate Anthony.

  Kathy Hurley, left. Kate Anthony, right.

Kathy Hurley, left. Kate Anthony, right.

She brought me the most amazing hostess gift, a T-rex cookie jar that I had been coveting but couldn’t bring myself to splurge on. She also immediately started helping me get the house ready for the workshop. Kate, thank you!

Amy Ferris arrived later that evening. She too was going to stay with me for the duration of the workshop. The three of us joined Alexia LaFortune, and her husband, Greg, for dinner in town (Alexia is the author of the memoir, Sex, Love, and Spirit). It was amazing to get to know all of them, to talk about their lives, and to share with them how Eric and I met, and more about the book I’m writing about Rebel Heart.

The two days of the workshop were magical. Each morning, Alexia opened for us and then Amy took over and we wrote and shared and tissue boxes were passed around repeatedly. We smiled, we grinned, and we laughed out loud. Sometimes we wept. At lunch during the second day, a local woman approached me,

“Are all of Amy’s workshops like this?”

I laughed, “Well, this is only my second one, but so far it's par for the course.”

Magic happens when Amy brings women together.

At the end, we all left buoyed up and inspired. I came to know new local women who became my friends, and I hope to create a women’s writing community with them here in Mammoth. I got to know Amy Ferris more too, which was a true honor. She has heard some of the pieces I’ve written for my Rebel Heart book and on the second morning, as she grabbed her coffee and headed down to her room to write her morning post (and If you don’t already follow Amy on Facebook you should follow her Post Coffee, Pre Wine page,) she looked me in the eye, unequivocally, and said, ‘Write . Your . Book . Charlotte.’

When Amy Ferris tells you to write your book. You do. I’m almost done with the first draft now. 

And the last great bit of news? Amy is going to come back. We’re going to do more Mammoth workshops, yes ma’am. I cannot wait.

: R O L L   C R E D I T S :

Thank you's go out to…

Eric Kaufman: for saying yes when I approached him about hosting the workshop. For immediately saying yes. For saying yes when I explained that it would only work if he took the girls camping and out of town for the weekend. Thank you. I love you.

Amy Ferris: for every bit and every ounce of what you do. For inspiring and empowering women. For awakening them to their greatness.

Maria VanLiew: my friend, for being the second woman to sign up. For coming all the way from Pennsylvania. For leading us in yoga. For being my amazing friend. For seeing me. For loving me.

Kate Anthony: Kate!!! You just rolled up your sleeves and started helping. You went shopping at Trader Joe’s for me. And the T-rex will forever loom large in our home, like your amazing presence. Thank you.

Alexia LaFortune: for telling me to remember to dream and to remember the dream if it came. That dream released me from what was holding me back. Your words and your mandalas and your magic did that. Thank you.

Linda Schreyer: for introducing me to Amy in the first place! For your Slipper Camps. For watching how you beautifully hosted Amy at a workshop in your own home. 

Erin Heilman: for listening to me and then introducing me to women who may be interested in the workshop, one of whom came! For not even hesitating when I asked if I could borrow your gorgeous chairs so I had enough seating for everyone and for driving them over and picking them back up. Thank you, friend!

Rosanne Lampariello Cameron: for your friendship since before I even arrived in Mammoth. For loaning me the chairs I needed to seat all the guests, both at the workshop and during the lunches. And for dropping them off and picking them up too. Thank you!

Photos: photos in this blog post come from me, Jennifer Derrick Adams, Kathy Hurley, Maria VanLiew, and Rachelle Jacobsen.

And for all the women who came: thank you for sharing your words and your spirit with us all.