Karen Loftis Rankowitz

Writers, we all have a certain style. We also have a method, a process by which words clatter, swirl, and chatter (some incessantly) around in our writer brains, then by some miraculous event (similar to my kids eating spinach without vomiting or better yet, The Big Bang Theory) they appear on paper. Some of the greatest have shared the methods in which they produce works that don’t stink. It’s been said that a lot Erma Bombeck’s ideas came to her as she was washing dishes. Dave Barry, I believe, has a stare-down contest with his monitor. He usually wins, and in a big way. As any great writer ‘wanna be’, I devour anything my favorite writers have produced. From novels, to essays, even thank you notes and grocery lists. Reading, they say, will surely improve one’s writing. So, in my quest to be the next great I will attempt to emulate my personal favorites. I know Erma has passed but often times that’s what I emulate the best, but for argument’s sake I have tried to follow her ways...

Being a mother of two boys, Christian is 15 and Noah is 12, is, as it always has been, filled with surprise, wonder, a wayward hippo proposal, and a lot of laughter. They both are rambunctious, energetic, and the absolute, truest loves of my life (but I confess, Vin Diesel ranks up there too). 20 years ago when I met and fell, or rather face-planted, smack down in love with their father I thought our love trumped all. And it did, until I had my boys. I have done many things in my time here on Mother Earth but there is nothing I am more proud of than being their mom. Ok, maybe I am more proud of them than I am in myself, or my mothering abilities. After all, they’ve made it all possible. And I think they’re pretty cool, too – and I concede, they may have gotten that from their father, or perhaps it was Vin Diesel. I gush when I see the fine young men they are growing up to be. They have and will continue to be (if I’m doing this right) the toughest undertaking I have ever come up...

It’s my birthday and time, which is always persistent, is pushing me forward, faster to that half-century mark. Not quite there yet, and I’ve never felt more comfortable with where I’m at in my life. So, for my birthday, instead of giving me presents wrapped in pretty paper and fancy bows, I’ve made a few suggestions about what I want this year. Please feel free to share these ideas with my family, specifically my children, as I rarely get them to read anything I write. I believe they fear there may be a hidden message – like, “clean your room” or “stop whacking your brother with the plunger. Do you have any idea where that’s been?” or “If you don’t like living here, I’ll help you pack your bag.” or simply, “The answer is, ‘no’.” However, I never hide things; I’m pretty blunt with taping ‘mom’s little notes’ – in five words or less - all over the place, on anything they look at or touch – like the TV, a gaming controller, and the cell phones - to get my point across. Here is what...

Helping a child with the loss of a pet is tough. We lost our beta fish yesterday. He was with us for almost a year and a half. He was purple; Noah’s favorite color. His name was Betals. My husband scooped him out of the bowl with my kitchen tongs. Placed him on a paper towel and asked Noah, who is 12, if he wanted to say a few words. Noah let a few tears trickle down his cheeks, looked at the fish, and at that moment, chose his words carefully. “I don’t know.” He replied. Our family clustered into the bathroom to bid our beta buddy goodbye. My mate, ever sentimental after I convinced him we shouldn’t bury him in the garden, played ‘Taps’ through his pursed lips. I hid my laughter behind the bathroom door, but wiped the tear from my eye as I watched Noah fight back his own. Christian, my teenager, stood looking at all of us, his expression of absolute embarrassment – perhaps thinking that he couldn’t possibly be related to any of us. Noah, startled out of his mournful trance by t...

I recently was asked by my painter/writer friend, Carrie Jacobson , “What inspires you?” My simple answer to that is, “Change.” It could be of the best change, or a small thing, or perhaps a devastating circumstance that knocked me down and consumed me much like a lioness preys upon a gazelle. There was a time in my life where I was stuck, afraid to make changes, willing to accept the day to day routine even though it was of no benefit to my well being. Rather than come in from the blizzard and change my outfit to better weather the raging elements, I stood still, in that frozen landscape, and questioned why it was snowing. As if I had any input on that. I’m not sure if it was a lack of courage, perhaps afraid to live with anything that would be different or if it simply became comfortable – even in its destructive ways. So, when my mate would give me that "don't you know enough to come in out of the cold?" look, I know now to seek shelter. Some days, however, I make...

Yesterday was the 6th grade field trip to New York City. Noah, my youngest, went with my husband who was a designated chaperone. Who watched whom? I’m not sure I want to know, but I probably already do. The group visited many places - the United Nations building, Ground Zero, Ellis Island, and Liberty Island to name a few. Noah is a collector of things and while being the diligent tourist he purchased his souvenirs. Two of these treasures were for me. One was a pen from Ellis Island because he knows a writer needs her tools to fulfill her mission. I, wanting to live up to my ‘calling’, recently penned an essay entitled “ I Pray for Peace ” written the day prior to the NYC excursion. In it, I wrote of the recent passing of three remarkable, children from my community. Noah had not read this piece yet. As a matter of fact, my family rarely peruses the writing I labor over unless it is force fed to them. So, when he presented me with his thoughtful gifts I was quite surprised by th...

As a writer, I am often overflowing with words. I have stories to tell and thoughts stir within my mind until I have just enough of the right words put together. Like a strand of pearls or a neatly crocheted blanket, I craft my tale and then move these hand picked phrases from beginning to end until they explode onto the page through my #2, black, Ticonderoga pencil. Today I feel as though my words have stalled, my thoughts are tired, and my heart is aching. My heart breaks not for the imprisoned story, which has befallen me, but for what has happened in my small community in which I live. Lisbon, CT is a small town; just fewer than 4,100 people reside here. We have one school that educates our children from pre-K through the eighth grade. Teachers are different from when I went to school; they are now my friends. Friends whom you trust to take your child and love them through good grades, poor choices, and gym class (without deodorant). Neighbor helps neighbor and we have settled...