A few days ago I received a call from my agent letting me know that publishers weren't interested in my book due to the time period. I write stories set in and around the American Revolutionary War, which is apparently not popular.

Anyone read the Outlander books? Watched Turn on AMC? Yeah, she thought they were crazy too.

The rasp of the soapstone over the plow blade was bittersweet. It was peculiar to not hear other voices in the yard as I performed this chore, removing the burrs that would catch on the rocks. Pa should be checking over the harnesses with Tom, getting everything ready for storing over the long winter. Instead it was only me.

The past summer was the longest I could ever remember, for all that it was relatively mild. Being the only one doing the chores kept me busy enough, thankfully. I didn’t have time to feel the crushing loneliness. Some days things didn’t get done, making the next day even harder. When Tom visited for harvest, I cried in relief. He helped me catch up and taught me how to plan my days better.

That was both good and bad. I was no longer as overwhelmed, but it gave me a moment to miss those I loved.

I set the now sharp blade aside and reached for the tack. It didn’t need any work because Tom oiled and repaired it before he left, but I checked again just in case.

The sound of a carriage in the yard broke through my reverie. “Mary,” Mother Upson called in a sing-song voice. “Where are you girl?”

I jumped up, dropping the tack in my haste, and rushed from the barn. “Mother Upson!” My voice broke at the end, the pleasure of seeing her loving face after so much lonesomeness brought tears to my eyes.

“Now why are you crying, child?” she asked as she clamored out of the wagon and ran to hug me. “I said I’d come visit again if the way was clear. Has Tom gone back up the mountain yet?”

I nodded. “He could feel the weather changing, so left a couple nights ago. Good thing, since it was sleeting last night, so more’n likely icy up his way. I’m surprised you were able to make it.”

“It was muddy, but we didn’t get any ice.” She turned to Father Upson who was coming up behind her, maintaining an arm around my waist. “Pa thought you’d need a few things and was fretting over you being alone all winter, so insisted we try.”

His face became slightly flushed. “Well, I still can’t believe I let you talk me into leaving you up here. I’ve half a mind to force you to return with us.” He held up his hands at the look on my face. “I’m not gonna fight with you more, Mary. Let’s get things unloaded while there’s still light.”

The wagon was full. Surely there wasn’t another quilt left anywhere in the county. “What is all this?” I asked, looking through the piles of cloth.

“Your walls were rather bare, so I asked the ladies at church to help me refurbish old quilts for you. They’ll line the walls and keep in insulated this winter.” She started unloading them from the wagon and into my arms. They were heavy. Father Upson was also pulling some out, loading up his own arms

“How many are there?” I asked, shocked at the pile in his arms.

“Just one more,” she said, laying on top of my pile. It was difficult to see around them. “I’ll get the other things.”

“What other things?” I asked, the question muffled by the topmost quilt.

“Get in the cabin before you drop them” she said, reaching into the wagon for something. Father Upson chuckled when he saw my face, but he knew better than to cross his wife when she set her mind to something.

It was all I could do to make it to Pa’s bed with my load before dropping it. The ropes squeaked with the weight, and groaned when Father Upson added his pile to mine. “When was the last time you tightened the bed?” he asked, lifting the mattress at the corner to examine it.

I shrugged. “Before Pa left. With no one sleeping on it, it seemed silly.”

“And why is no one sleeping on it?” Mother Upson asked as she hurried in, a can that rattled in one hand and an obviously heavy basket looped over her other arm. I looked down, my throat swelling. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. Your Pa expected you to use the bed when he left. It’ll be too cold in the winter to sleep anywhere else.”

She was right, I understood this. It didn’t make the transition any easier.

Father Upson began pounding nails partway into the walls, curving the ends around to make hooks. Mother Upson handed me a corner of a quilt, a loop was sewn into it. “These will keep you warmer. Pa has some new oil cloth for your window as well.”

Darkness was falling when Mother Upson decided I was set for winter. A southern wind blew warm across the yard as they climbed back on the wagon, a few clouds skirting across the bright, full moon. “It’ll snow in the morning,” Father Upson said as he gathered the reins. “You should have enough wood to see you through. We’ll be back come spring.”

Mother Upson dabbed at her eyes with her apron, so I purposefully didn’t look at her. “Thank you, for everything.”

He nodded and clicked at the horses. I waved at them both until they reached the road, and watched until they disappeared around the bend.

Eleven years ago today I sat in shock, watching the news. I was supposed to be on a plane to attend training for work, but all flights were cancelled.

I worried about the family of a neighbor of mine. She is from New York City.

A couple years later I met a lady who was evacuated from the Marriott hotel in the Towers who told me about the fear, sorrow, choking smoke and debris. She said she'd never forget the sound of people falling past her window and hitting the ground.

I will never forget the fear and confusion, or the pride in America as people put aside their differences, joined together, and helped each other through a difficult time.

While we may disagree on what choices our leaders need to make in order for our country to move forward, let's be sure to remember one thing: when we work together, we can accomplish anything.

My friend Sue sent me this picture and asked me to write a short for it. So I did. Joe Manganiello is her latest celebrity crush. Thanks so much to Crystal for editing it for me at a moment's notice! If you have a picture or scenario you'd like me to write, please leave it in the comments. Enjoy!

He looked around the room, bare now of the clutter of their lives. Only a wooden box remained. It must be the china, or the crystal. It didn’t matter. Soon it would be gone too. Would this house remember them? Would whoever came to inhabit it next hear echoes of their laughter, tears, frustration and love?

He was exhausted from the day’s labor. She left his suit hanging in the bathroom so he could clean up before leaving the house. He would carry his toiletries and dust and sweat-stained clothes out in an old grocery bag to dinner. And that box. It couldn’t be left behind.

The cold water of the shower made him jump and wish he hadn’t turned off the water heater. It seemed a good idea at the time, like so many ideas before them. At least it rushed him through his ablutions, until his eyes alit on the small tile just above the faucet.

It was a flower, blue. He remembered when she handed it to the guy tiling the bathroom, the way he rolled his eyes, the way she insisted it go there. He always forgot its name, and she always laughed when he asked her time and time again what it was. “Why even bother telling you? It’s not like you’re going to remember the next time someone asks,” she said, her eyes dancing in merriment. “Just tell them it’s blue and to ask me.”

“I remember the important things,” he mumbled, reaching around her to grab a chip from the bowl.

“Oh yeah? When’s our anniversary?” she asked as she slapped his hand away.

He was silent too long, so she turned with a raised eyebrow, arms folded across her chest, knowing she had him.

“The day I became the luckiest guy on earth,” he said, leaning down for a kiss.

“Nice save,” she whispered, pecking at his lips with hers before turning back to whatever it was she was doing. She was always doing something.

“Forget-me-not,” he whispered to the empty shower, surprised he now remembered. Why now, when it was the last time he would gaze on it? No, he would no longer forget. After all, there were so many memories here, even in this shower. Some made him smile and yearn for the woman who was now far away. Others made him cringe, such as bathing his infant son after a diaper explosion.

Eventually the cold became too much, so with a quick rinse he turned off the spray. The heat of the room assaulted him in the absence of the water, and he was sweating before he even finished toweling himself dry. He opened a drawer, wanting his hairbrush and razor, only to hear no rattle of items. A confused look was followed by a quick laugh. Right, it was packed away. Running his fingers through his hair would have to suffice.

Dressed, he walked down the hall, bag in hand, stopping to look into his children’s bedroom. Scuff marks marred the walls. How many times had he come pounding down this hall and into this room, contorting his face into what he hoped was a look of serious anger, and told them to stop jumping on the bunk bed and go to sleep? They cowered before his presumed rage, never having heard that their mother chastised him first. “If they see you laughing they’ll never stop!”

The box called to him as a place to rest for a moment. He didn’t need to leave for dinner for another twenty minutes, so he threw the bag on top and perched on its edge, mindful it might hold something fragile. This house used to hold something fragile: his family.

Leaning forward he gazed at the wall just inside the hallway. From the moment they first brought each child home he stood them up and started the progression of marks to chart their growth. He made a new mark every two months the first couple years, then every six, then every twelve. Would the new owners paint over this treasure? With a sigh he pulled out his phone and took a picture. Maybe it could be recreated.

His eyes traveled around the room. There was the dust mark from the piano. Next to that was the scuff left when their second child decided skateboarding down the hardwood floor was a good plan. Here, next to his foot, was the charred spot he hid from his wife with a new throw rug. He’d assured her the candle was safe as he made love to her in front of the fire, creating their third child.

He chuckled. That was the reason for leaving. Apparently three children didn’t fit into a two-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot home with a postage-stamp yard. Granted it took her three more years to convince him. Whenever he tripped over a toy she gave him that look. When he got his promotion he sighed, nodded, and off she went in search of their new home.

It was sad to leave memories behind. There were so many here. A glance at his watch told him it was time to leave for work. Standing, he grabbed the box, bag of dirty clothes and toiletries on top, and carried it through the front door. It was a good thing the box was heavy, or he’d be tempted to linger at the threshold, remembering carrying first her, then each child, through it. Instead he snagged the door with his foot, slamming it behind him.

Putting the box in the car, he gave one last look to the place that brought him so much happiness. A wave to neighbors he would miss was his last act before pulling away. A thrill of anticipation filled him. What new memories would they create?

The government has been involved in a war for many years. They have managed to oust those causing problems, but the cost was high. Add to that the price of maintaining a permanent settlement in the area to prevent terrorism, protecting the freedom of the people liberated, and preventing anarchy, and it's easy to see why taxes have to go up.

To be fair, however, the tax is only going to be on goods. Think of it as a national sales tax that focuses mostly on imports and exports. Many of us nod in acceptance of import taxes, after all, they protect the American businessman, but export? Why should our farmers, artisans, and manufacturers have to pay a tax to send something overseas?

Oh, and this tax is going to be voted on by people we didn't elect but have the right to levy and collect taxes. They can bankrupt us, take everything we own, and throw us in jail if we don't comply.

Christopher Gadsden, of Charleston, SC, said that the tax is inconsistent "with that inherent right of every...subject, not to be taxed but by his own consent, or that of his representative."

You might think I'm talking about today, but this was actually Stamp Act imposed by Parliament in 1764. It only made sense that the Americans pay this bill since it was the French and Indian war that cost so much, and protecting citizens from the Natives in the far-reaching wilderness was expensive. Too bad for them they didn't listen to those living in America when they complained.

To peacefully protest the Massachusetts Assembly asked for representatives from each colony to meet. It was one of the first steps in the formation of a Continental Congress. In case you think a group of people meeting to complain about the economy don't have any impact (Occupy Wall Street, anyone?), then know that as an outgrowth of that meeting trade between America and pretty much anywhere else ceased (Britain controlled all trade from American ports). Ships stacked up in harbors and crates of goods rotted on wharves. Large groups of people burned stamp officials in effigy.  Between the loss of income from trade, the mob violence in the colonies, and the fomenting calls for liberty, Parliament rescinded the act the next March.

So this week, when you're writing your check to the IRS, complaining about how much the government is taking, think about another group who had a similar issue. Compare them to the people calling for tax reform today. It's important to realize that the only thing that has really changed is the year.