The story continues...

After the visit to the Marshall Islands at thanksgiving, (posted below) this happened.

“I thought we could take her,” my husband said.

It was 2012 right before Christmas and we, the Robinson family, were out to dinner, talking some time to gather, to release the stress of the season and relax into the holiday spirit. The Christmas lights twinkled on each tree outside. The décor in the Asian fusion restaurant was minimal, and the atmosphere was busy with excitement and chatter, the staff rushing to keep everyone happy. Dinners of sweet and sour and pad Thai and spicy noodles were being delivered to staff parties and groups of young, carefree friends. 

It was great to be out of my kitchen, great to sit with the kids and talk about the year ahead. Talk about the trip that my husband and son had taken over the Thanksgiving to the remote and impoverished Marshall Islands. And that is when he said it.

His words were subtle, so soft that I didn’t grasp what he had said. Certainly not the magnitude. Not the idea when it was put before me. But over the appetizers, and among the chaos of my three young children receiving their apple juice and ginger ale the waitress asking, who had the Sprite? And after my first sip of wine, that cool crisp first sip of chardonnay seeped into my blood flow and chilled my spirit, did I slowly understand what my husband had said.

There was a child in the Marshall Islands, thousands of miles away from our little town of Vineyard Haven, on an island of immense poverty and outstanding beauty, and this child was (possibly, maybe, depending on what I said next) coming to live with us. She would come from one of the poorest islands in the world to one of the riches islands in America.

Her name was Yolani.

I must be honest, for I have learned that to be honest is a virtue, not for or towards others but with oneself, most importantly.

I was thinking my husband was now as crazy as the rest of his family. Pure mad, did he not realize we already had three children that were bringing us to a very dangerous level in our relationship, so tired were we, him overworked, me underpaid, with no me-time in sight. I was barely coping, he must not have understood me when I raised my voice at them, and him, that I could take no more, and please, go tidy their room, simply pick up after themselves, to clean the bathroom after themselves for the love of God. I was not born to be a slave, a glorified cleaner, come on people, for F*&K sake! 

I try not to say curses now, but I do think many colorful curses, everyday. I can't get rid of that, it's me.

But really, did he not just see the Sprite get bumped, topple and spill across the table, did he not hear the girls begin their high-pitched revved up fighting words, he just didn't not seem to understand that we were already over our heads, and the price to pay for putting the family under any more pressure, was to break the family itself. It was not just a possibility, but a probability. But then he said.

"We can do it," he looked at me, kind of, looked, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spill, looked back and said. "We can, one more time." 

Something about this idea, something that said, it would be a brilliant thing, we are five, she would bring us balance, we would be six. She is a bright star and she is coming to us, she picked us, it’s not a choice, it is a destiny. Something happened in the split of a second, there was no thought, no weighing of the pros-and cons, but simply a pure and utter confidence, that said. We could.

That is what I thought. I must tell you what I was thinking, because people have asked the same question in many ways. I have learned more in the last six months about people than the rest of my forty-six years combined.

What was I thinking? After, when I got home, back to my sanctuary, my bed, with my books and my pillows and my comforter, what was I was thinking? That it would be a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo and probably wouldn't happen, but if all the I’s were dotted and the paperwork signed, it was meant to be to. I continued to ask the question of myself. What can I offer her? How can we, as a family, help her? What the heck, if she doesn't like us?

I began to google daily. We are here.

The Vineyard. Seven miles off the coast of Cape Cod. New England.

 The Robinson Kids.

 The new addition. Tukka Rex - Born January 1st 2013

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This is the third island on the east reef from Roi Namur island on Kwajalein Atoll in the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI). The island is primarily residence to native Marshal islanders.

Wikipedia article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roi_Namur

Nearby cities: Shizuoka, Nikko, Hamamatsu

Coordinates:   9°21'55"N   167°29'42"E

There are 68,000 people living in the Marshall Islands. Most of these are Marshallese. The Marshallese are of Micronesian origin and migrated from Asia several thousand years ago. A minority of Marshallese have some recent Asian ancestry, mainly Japanese. Two-thirds of the nation's population lives on Majuro, the capital, and Ebeye, a densely populated island.^{[36][37][38][39]} The outer islands are sparsely populated due to lack of employment opportunities and economic development. Life on the outer atolls is generally traditional.
The official language of the Marshall Islands is Marshallese, but it is common to speak the English language.^[40]

She is here.  Yolani with her school friends, on Third Island

Lagoon Pond, Vineyard Haven.

 Chuck and Tukka, Tashmoo.

More than the beginning! Trip to the Marshall Islands.

Islander hits homer on a baseball diamond far from home.




Cathal Robinson, 13, of Vineyard Haven traveled to Third Island in the Marshall Islands. [More Photos]


When most people were preparing for Thanksgiving, ordering their turkeys and making apple pies, one Tisbury School student was packing his bag for a trip half way around the world. My son, Cathal Robinson, 13, from Vineyard Haven had been presented the opportunity of a lifetime.


His aunt, Anne Robinson, is a senior environmental scientist working in the Marshall Islands with San Juan Construction Company of Colorado under a U.S. Army contract. His father, Charles Robinson, and grandmother, Patricia Robinson, had promised to visit Annie before her work contract expired. One week before Thanksgiving, Anne made a few calls and was able to sponsor Cathal so he could see what was happening in that remote part of the world.



Cathal packed shorts, tees, and flip-flops. He then filled his suitcase with baseball bats, gloves, balls and hats, all donated by Andrew Aliberti, president of the Martha's Vineyard Little League. Cathal was heading to an island called Ennubirr, or Third Island, where sports equipment is a rarity, and one third of children under five suffer from vitamin deficiency and malnutrition.



The Marshall Islands is an island country located in the western Pacific Ocean, just north of the equator. Geographically, the country is part of the larger island group of Micronesia, with the population of around 68,000 people spread out over 34 low-lying coral atolls, comprising 1,156 individual islands and islets.


There is much to see in the Marshalls. It is the largest shark sanctuary in the world, with 772,000 square miles of ocean, and hosts the M.I.T observation center which monitors debris in space. Cathal and his Dad did and saw many interesting things there, but the story he told me that resonated the most concerned the children of Third Island.


The Marshallese mentality is foremost one of sharing, at one with their island, the ocean, and each other. They share everything freely, like breathing.


When Cathal, his dad, aunt, and grandmother arrived, they went to the local school where they met with a young teacher from Pennsylvania. They joined her class of boys and girls of all ages. She was able to translate for them while the children asked their visitors questions and learned new words.


They could practice their beginner English. What is your name? My name is Cathal. What's yours? My name is Uanea. How do I say, thank you very much, in Marshallese? Kommool tata.


Cathal told them he comes from another island called Martha's Vineyard. He likes hockey. He is 13. They wanted to touch his freckles.


The children have little, but they share everything. There were two little girls, each with one shoe. The shoe-owning girl shared with her friend who had none. They shared — one each.


Remember that big old suitcase filled with baseball gear? Cathal asked if they had played baseball before. They had. The kids excitedly pointed to a box that had a bat and two gloves and two balls. But the teacher explained that because there wasn't enough for all the children, the children rarely played. Can you imagine their delight when the teacher opened the suitcase?


There were 24 balls in there, enough for everyone. Enough gloves to make a team. Hats all around, from MV Sharks to Red Sox. The kids were delighted, not just with the gloves, but with the comfort of having enough for everyone. In the playground, a patchy field, they played ball.


Of all the things that could be learned from a trip so far from home, in a country so remote, so laden in history, the islanders ability to share stood out. And that is why I wanted to share this story with your readers. And pass on that the children of Third Island said, "Thank you MV Little League."




Shared in the MV Times 12/12/12 and NPR Cape and Islands.

Once you've had it, you want more.

And it's not botox or tattoos. In April, I discovered my inner queen...at 42.  I know... I'm a slow learner, some girls find theirs at birth. But having found it in the hills of the Napa valley, (see me-time) and realizing the joy, fun and freedom, not to mention the complete divaliscousness of being a queen. I want more me-time. I am prepared to stamp my feet now because, it's been a while.

I have to be careful because there's an old voice coming to me from my far off homeland, reminding me that I was not born to be queen. Some bitch is trying to de-crown me before I have another moment of fun. And if I let this wicked voice in, I am in danger of remaining in pheasant-mind forever.  It, she, tells me to do the laundry and vacuum the house. She taps her painted nail on the Formica counter,  and I want to tell this old ghost to go take a hike, I'm busy dreaming of lush spas, funny friends and the finest champagne. I'm dreaming... of MY cleaning team, they are driving right up to the front door, (actually now that I look at it, it would be a cleaning team and their handy husbands because the front door needs to be replaced,) coming in and inch by inch deep cleaning this house, while I am deep cleaned, inch by inch, in the most miraculous spa that was ever created. They send me out looking ten year younger and 20 pounds lighter.

I dream - she demands of me. She needs to go! There is only enough room for one queen around here.

Obviously I'm still working on this queen thing. I suppose one must find the right tiara. I believe that will help. I think if I put on a crown of jewels (costume gems will have to suffice) things will become more clear, priorities will become apparent. I will be able to see the luxury around me without the alarm bells and smoke screens and constant feeling of guilt. I'm not used to thinking about me, and not my off-spring. Yes, a tiara must be the answer to my diva troubles. It will fill me, remind me, I am a queen. I AM! (keep repeating.. breathe)
It has worked for women, queens, since the beginning of time. Once they get the head piece they can feel the power, they can rule vast countries and bring armies to their knees. I should find a large crown because I have difficult children, that seem to have a hearing impediment, they are soooo slow to respond to my demands. Maybe a cloak is required, a new dress of satin and heels, I'm not getting carried away here. I'm not. I'm just saying that if you want to be the queen you have to be empowered and it takes a good set of shoes. Who ever heard of a good queen with a pair of smelly old boots? Nobody. Even the wicked witch had killer shoes. In fact it was ALL about the shoes. So was Cinderella come to think of it.  Here's my plan. Begin with a rope and a good horse.

Find your dream castle.

Locate the tiara amongst the jewels.


I have to run, some one is calling me....I'll be back.

Writing post

Writing truths.


So, I'm 42. I still feel 21 and could go on, and on and on... happily feeling 21, if it wasn't for one major reminder of what I am not.  What I am not, is a techno savvy 42 year old.  I'm outdated. Like a mullet.  Twitter reminds me of twits. I automatically think twit when i see the word. All those twits must have nothing better to do.  Stuck in the notion that I could get away with word docs and emailing occasionally for the rest of my life. Content, to be right on the basic fringe. I fear I am the twit, now, getting behind on the modern world.

 I write. I love writing and have spent wonderful learning years putting together a Middle grade novel. Which is fine. I learned some lessons along the way. I conquered focus, then found discipline, worked at it and now, there is perseverance to attain. I set a challenge to myself to write the book, and did that.  (With help from some patient teachers.) It was my middle child, aged eight, that set me straight. "It's not finished until it's on the bookshelf." She sets a hard bargain.
I'm not one to back down, but I have found, in writing this novel, that there is an eye-opening learning curve that runs beside your own character arch. And that a whole different story begins after you write the words - The End.

It's a see-saw. Delving into the new/old world of publishing. The big traditional houses such as Random House and Penguin are publishing less, they are feeling the pressure from the new world order. Amazon is king in this new world. They are 'destroyers' of all things traditional. They will be the end of the book, they bully little houses, but wait... there is a promising horizon ahead for writers, because now you can publish in this new digital techno world.

Huh-oh. I'm still a mullet.


There are more books on how to publish, write, submit and even handle rejections, on the market that they need their own section in the library. They will all hold some relevant information about the A-Z of getting to print. Ultimately it is a question of what works best for you, and whatever you choose, as I have found, there are truths to be reckoned with.

In January I attended the SCBWI (the society of children's book writers and illustrators) conference in New York city.  I sat through the round table critic's met the newest and youngest and tireless editors of the top publishing houses in the world. Listened to the open forums and endured the breakout sessions on the ins and outs of traditional publishing.  The biggest piece of information, the nugget, that stayed with me was, "We are fighting for our lives."  Traditional publishers are swimming upstream, why?  Because e-publishing has increased so rapidly in the last two years alone, there is no saving it. People are switiching to e-books rapidly. As a child who suffered with mild dyslexia and some form of executive functioning, I adore the kindle, putting your finger on the word and having the meaning pop right up to educate you instantly has been a great tool in learning how to write, and savoir the true definition of the work.

But deep down, what writer doesn't want the hand to hold? That was what I wanted anyway, the marketer, the kind editor, the person who rings and tells you how much they love your book and are willing to bet the bank on it. But the truth was blatant, "if you don't have the next Harry Potter, don't bother, well don't bother them anyway. I'm getting the feeling my Pippi Longstockings meets Charlotte's Web, Irish fantasy might really not be "what they are looking for right now." They are inundated with submissions of perils and are looking for the Hope Diamond.

So what to do? For me, the best advice I think I have received is to have my work edited by a professional children's editor, and that is what I did. On a recommendation by our local book buyer,  and after two pages of questions about me and the novel,  I hired a top NY agent. I am investing in the time I have spent over the last few years on my fourth baby.  I'll let you know how the wind sways with that.

But what is unavoidable is that either way, traditionally or self-published,  my book will be digitally accessible, and I need to update the mullet. It's called building a platform, getting your work out there into the world of multi-media, blogging, web-site, showing your words and work. The good old resume is over, it's platform all the way.

A Look at a book. The Light between Oceans.

The Light Between Oceans.

By M. Stedman.

A well-written and tightly crafted novel. Hard to believe it is Stedman’s debut. The story begins with Tom Sherbourne excepting a position to tend a lighthouse, on the island of Janus Rock off the western coast of Australia. He is seeking solitude and isolation while dealing with his post-war survivor guilt. On a trip to the town of Point Partageuse he meets Isabel, they marry and begin their life together, she keeping house and he keeping loving and professional care of the lighthouse (itself becoming a character)

 The tone sets the mood, they want children but are devastated with two miscarriages and one still-born, we know there is not going to be a jolly outcome, but from the beautiful prose and vivid description of life on a wild and isolated island, we are pulled deeper and mindfully into the fold. It is with deep trepidation we see what happens when two people make a choice, and its outcome will change the lives of many and last for decades.

I enjoyed the book. The book reviews have been positive. Some readers on Goodreads noted the change in tense being clunky and the author’s modern voice being at odds with the 1920’s time period.

I wanted to share some information relating to the author.

Extract from an interview with the author. The plotting in this novel is tight and neatly crafted (almost like a ship, I kept thinking as I was reading). Do you think that your work as a lawyer has impacted your writing style in terms of attention to details, an ability to cross all the "t" and dot all the "i"s?

I love the idea of the plot being as sound as a ship! I think the greatest impact of my legal background is that it allows me to write freely and spontaneously, without meticulously plotting in advance. Lawyers are probably hard-wired for structure, so it’s a reflex rather than something to spend a lot of conscious thought on. And yes, the legal training helps on the detail, too, making sure that things are consistent.

Q: When it comes to the setting, the book seems to be written with much love. Is that coastal setting close to your heart?

Definitely! I’m always happiest beside an ocean. I grew up with the West Australian landscape, and I so enjoyed putting it on the page – describing the place I’ve loved all my life.

Q: Who are your own favorite writers? Do you think any of them have had an impact on this novel?

A few favorites who spring to mind (in no particular order) are Graham Greene, George Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Cormac McCarthy, Jane Gardam, Andre Gide, Ian McEwan, Edith Wharton, Katherine Mansfield... I suppose what they have in common is an unflinching eye, a profound understanding of the human heart, and a mastery of language. Those are the qualities I find most rewarding in books, so they’re the ones I’d like to bring, in however pale a reflection, to what I write.

Marjorie Kehe is the Monitor's books editor.

Overall, it is a great read, the reasoning at times made me a little annoyed with Isabel, to turn the story emotionally, the author has Isabel angry with Tom, knowing he may hang if she does not tell the truth. I found it hard to believe she could convince herself that it was his fault. She might have made the right decision in the end, but the only way I could justify her reasoning was, she must be mad. I probably would have been off my rocker, after such an ordeal.

Lara Robinson

Here is some popular prose from the kindle conversations.

The curls of the dark hair swirling like a net cast on the wind.

You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things.

You can kill a bloke with rules, Tom knew that. And yet sometimes they were what stood between a man and savagery, between man and monsters.

The rain is falling more heavily, and in the distance, thunder grumbles at being left behind by the lightning.

Words on words. Crossing to Safety

4 of 5 stars.

Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner.
Lara Robinson.
11/29/12

I finished this book last night for our book club choice of the Month. I was not disappointed. He, Wallace, wouldn't let me. He sets the scene and tone. A young, in love, struggling couple, striving to excel in intellect with little finances meets a young and in love couple struggling to excel in intellect but are wealthy.

I might have actually wondered what was going to happen, what drama, suspense or mystery would propel us forward, but we are in the hands of a professional and just as we wonder, he tells us, no, that's not here, that's not what this is about, and we push forward on his simple path of friendship, that becomes deeper as we become more invested in their lives.

This is how he tells us what to expect.

"How do you make a book that anyone will read out of lives as quiet as these? Where are the things that novelists seize upon and readers expect? Where is the high life, the conspicuous waste, the violence, the kinky sex, the death wish? . . . Where are speed, noise, ugliness, everything that makes us who we are and makes us recognize ourselves in fiction?''


It was a beautiful book, I liked that he spent some time telling us about Sally in the end, when we are all fully with Charity, he tells us what we have been wondering all the time. What was his own marital relationship like? He seemed so focused on Sid and Charity. He asked all the right questions, about love and loss and the end of life. All those questions were answered either by the last actions of Charity, when she finally wept, or by his reveling his view of how Sally made him a better person by her disability. Nicely done, well crafted, and tenderly told.

I had never read any work by Wallace Stegner and his accolades read nearly as long as his book. Certainly, he was prolific.

A look at books. The Casual Vacancy.

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The Casual Vacancy

By Lara Robinson

It doesn’t matter that J.K. Rowling is the author of the Harry Potter blockbusters. This is her debut novel in adult fiction, not to be compared with middle grade fantasy. Yet before the first page is turned (or stroked, if you are a kindle reader) we have certain expectations. This is J.K.

The novel is set in the little town of Pagford and opens with Barry Fairbrother, (in his early forties.) He has just written, finished and sent an article to the local paper and is going out to dinner with his wife for their anniversary. He dies on page five and I can tell you this, he is the nicest person in the book. By nicest, I mean we never get to see his bitter, petty and narrow-minded side. We will however, explore in much detail and with heavy narrative, the minds of every other citizen of Pagford affected by the divide that Barry’s death propels. Barry’s vacant seat on the council becomes the center of a downward spiral and eventual implosion of the class struggling Pagford.

The cast and plot center round the efforts of those who wish to oust the rundown, drug infested, crime-riddled housing estate called The Fields. Giving its welfare responsibility to the bigger, neighboring town, of Yarvil. Along with freeing themselves of the social burden of a welfare estate, they wish to rid themselves of a much used drug rehabilitation center - a building owned by the town of Pagford. They are pitted against those that want to follow in the footsteps of Barry Fairbrother to help, encourage, and change the dark and dreadful lives of the residents of The Fields.

The reviews have been mixed. Credit is given to J.K. Rowling for tapping into the emotions, and motivations of the teenagers as they struggle to find their identity and value in their family and town. Rowlings has taken on just about every social sickness known in today’s society. From incest and rape to drug abuse and hatred, she tackles it all. Some say, maybe too much without any hope or light.  In one triumphant moment at the end of the novel, written in flashback, there is hope. But it is undeniably, too late.

Overall, she has written a book that is as deep and complex as Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, and while “White Teeth revels in the ecstatic hodgepodge of modern life, flirting with disaster, confounding expectations, and embracing the comedy of daily existence,” JK does not flirt. She goes all the way and brings this town to the stark reality, that when given the choice to ignore, indeed cast off, all moral and social responsibilities, the benefits, benefit no one.

I recommend reading this book on a kindle, you will be highlighting and sharing all the way. If not, have a dictionary on hand. It can be heavy and laborious, and certainly gives you much to mull over.

If you have read the Casual Vacancy and would like to comment, please do, books, like art are subjective and I would love to hear all your thoughts and revelations.  Loved it or couldn’t read it, let me know!