Barb Caffrey's Blog

Writing the Elfyverse . . . and beyond

Archive for the ‘Michael B. Caffrey’ Category

Tales of the E4 Mafia 2 Is Out…Including a New Atlantean Union Universe story!

leave a comment »

Folks, I’m very happy to let you all know that Tales of the E4 Mafia 2 is out, via writer/editor Keith Hedger’s new Defiant House publishing company. He’ll also have Tales of the E4 Mafia (the original) available through Defiant House soon, if you haven’t already read it.

Of course, Tales of the E4 Mafia 2 is available via Kindle Unlimited (how not?), but what’s probably the most important part to anyone who reads my blog is the story I and my friend and co-writer Gail Sanders wrote called “A Decent Cup of Coffee.” It is yet another story set in my late husband Michael B. Caffrey’s Atlantean Union universe, and features Peter Welmsley, of course, along with Marc MacGruder (a Lance Corporal). It tells the story of what happened when Welmsley and MacGruder took Tech Sergeant Lana Mathews home to Lemuria for convalescent leave (she was the person who needed the restricted tree bark for medicinal purposes in the last story).

You want a cover photo, you say? Well, here’s a cover…

And I’m sure you want a snippet as well, so here we go:

***

“Did you hear me, Lance Corporal?” the Master Sergeant growled. “What is wrong with this coffee?”

When Welmsley called me “Lance Corporal,” it was time to give him an answer. Either that, or wait for some unusual punishment…and as I was hoping for a few days of leave with Lana Mathews as we would be moored in Lemuria orbit for a few days, and I was too low-ranking to have any sort of transitory duties, I definitely didn’t want to get punished now.

“I don’t know, Master Sergeant,” I told him. “I know it’s not that great. It never is. But the traditional roast seemed a bit better than the rest of it. I take it that it’s not working for you?”

Welmsley looked at me, rolled his eyes, and went back to studying his piloting board.

“It is the Marine blend, you know,” I told him.

“It tastes foul,” Welmsley spat out. “Like the very end of a bunch of ashes. I wish I had some Lemurian light-roast coffee. That’s really good stuff. Especially if they’ve aged it in spiced rum for a year before roasting.”

I’d heard that but had never tasted it myself. But rather than discuss that, I went to get myself a cup of the Marine blend. After one sip, I could tell that Welmsley was right. We’d gotten a particularly bad batch, and it did indeed taste like ashes. Maybe after they’d been rolled in manure, even. “That truly is terrible coffee,” I told him, hoping I sounded as compassionate as I felt. Coffee was sacred to Royal Marines.

***

So, how do they find a decent cup of coffee after all that? You’ll have to read the rest of the story to find out, but I hope you will want to read it. (It’s a fast, funny story, and I hope it’s one that you’ll truly enjoy.)

At any rate, I’m thrilled that the story is finally out and available to read, along with the other great stories in the anthology.

Written by Barb Caffrey

May 3, 2026 at 9:49 pm

Posted in Atlantean Union, Michael B. Caffrey

Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

This Month’s Health Update, Etc.

with 7 comments

Folks, I’ve been asked to give an update about housing and such, so this blog is that answer.

Because of my health cratering, I haven’t been able to find a new apartment or place to live. In addition, the finances aren’t exactly there either. I’ve been able to keep my health from further going off the cliff than it already was, but I haven’t been able to regain much, if any, energy since I moved out of Dad’s house in late August.

The doctors have run a number of blood tests. They didn’t find much. They have no idea what’s causing this.

What I’m trying to do is to keep my head up, work to tolerance, write when I can, and find something good in every day no matter how lousy I feel otherwise. (Usually, it has to do with my mother’s dog, Bratty, AKA Ms. Brat. She’s a sweet little thing, and she makes me laugh daily.) Sunsets are good. Conversations with friends are good. The occasional visit to my friend who lives nearby is good. Talking with my sister is good. Stuff like that, along with of course talking with Mom daily and enjoying a few laughs with her when we can find something we both enjoy or appreciate, helps me to keep going.

Is this what I wanted when I moved out of Dad’s house? Absolutely not.

The problem is, I need a health miracle that I don’t possess in order to regain enough energy to do all that I’m doing now (what amounts to two full-time jobs; trust me), plus find an apartment, and then somehow be able to afford that apartment’s first and last month’s rent. I’m hanging on to the stuff in storage in the hopes I’ll need it again, but my health has been so very bad, I haven’t checked on the storage since October. (Yes, you read that right.)

Dad used to say that doctors are only practicing medicine, with the emphasis on practicing. I think there’s a certain element of that going on here. I don’t fit the mold, whatever the mold is, and thus they have no idea what’s causing this level of illness beyond a few things I was already treating (and have continued to treat).

I don’t know what the answers are, here. I hope that when I feel better, I’ll be able to live better, have more time to myself, etc.

The question I often think about is this: Would Michael want this, for me? And the answer is, “Of course he wouldn’t.” But he’d want me to do my best, which I am doing, and he’d tell me that slow and steady wins the race (whatever the race is), and that if I can’t do it today, I’ll do twice as much tomorrow. And I if I still can’t do it tomorrow, I’ll do three times as much the day after that, because that’s just how I am.

I miss my husband very, very much. But I try to keep those words in mind, and I do the best I can as I move on.

Oh, one more thing: My three novels are out on submission to a new publisher, which is why they haven’t come back out yet. If the new publisher decides against them, I will let you all know. (The covers are of course not available to the new publisher, but he knows that already.) Then, I will get them back up…and we’ll all go on from there.

I hope everyone else is doing as well as possible, and I also hope that you can find something good about every day no matter how frustrated you are, and no matter how frustrating the world seems to be on any given day. Life is short. We have to do our best, whatever our best is that day.

That’s all.

Written by Barb Caffrey

April 24, 2026 at 1:45 pm

Posted in in general, Informational Stuff, Michael B. Caffrey, Widowhood, Writing

Tagged with , , , , ,

Mentor, Friend, and Superlative Writer, Always…Rosemary Edghill Has Died

with 2 comments

There are some sorts of blogs I don’t ever want to write, and this is one of them. But I must.

Earlier this week, Sharon Lee posted that Rosemary Edghill (who also wrote as eluki bes shahar and James Mallory, among other noms de plume) passed away. Sharon knew Rosemary far longer than I, and Rosemary’s widow knew how to contact Sharon to let everyone else know as best we could.

This is a huge loss.

Rosemary was my first writing mentor besides my late husband Michael, and she championed ELFY (later turned into two books, AN ELFY ON THE LOOSE and A LITTLE ELFY IN BIG TROUBLE) fiercely and well. My husband was also mentored by Rosemary, and Rosemary, upon Michael’s passing, paid for an online obituary in perpetuity (as far as I can tell) so people could pay their respects to his memory, something I greatly appreciated.

But to say that isn’t enough.

You see, Rosemary helped writers of all sorts. She also raised dogs, King Charles Cavalier spaniels, to be exact, and competed with them in agility and other things. Later in life, she rescued dogs, especially the aforesaid King Charles Cavalier spaniels, and was a firm believer in lifelong pet ownership. (Which makes sense to me, completely.) She had many different careers, including an editorial internship at Avon Books (I think this was a paid internship), and she taught me much of writing as well as editing (especially after Michael died, as Michael was himself a good editor), along with the whole business of publishing.

She had a huge presence, did Rosemary. Just seemed like one of those people who’d never die, because they are so vibrant, so full of life even when laid low (due to illness, a broken leg, or whatever), that you can’t imagine them being dead. It just seems unthinkable.

As Sharon Lee put it, Rosemary was brilliant and sometimes difficult. Maybe we all are, we writers. I’m not sure.

I do know that Rosemary and I butted heads once and only once, and due to that, we were estranged for several years. (I felt terrible about this, but I respected her wishes in this, figuring she’d seek me out again when she could.) She eventually re-established ties, and we never once talked about what had estranged us, possibly because there was no point in rehashing old things. (A few people who’ve known me for a long time know what this was, and why, but I see no point in bringing it up now except as an explanation of why Rosemary and I were estranged when I cared about her so much and she cared about me so much, too.)

I loved her writing, the way she used language, how she could write effortlessly in any genre, how fertile her mind and imagination were, how many different interests she had (and she seemed to be expert in all of them, a true rarity)…in many ways, I thought Rosemary was a polymath, of sorts.

Rosemary was also politically active, and raised money for liberal causes. I admired that, too. She knew I was part of the effort to recall then-Governor Scott Walker (R) back in 2011, and she respected that, even though we weren’t ultimately able to get Walker out. (He was indeed recalled, another election was held, but he won that election and was never replaced, finishing out his original term in the process.) She knew I tried not to be hypocritical, and thus if any Republicans were upset with their office-holders who could be recalled, I supported their right to recall said office-holders…though I also worked on behalf of one state senator, Bob Wirch, to successfully retain his seat (in the same manner as Walker had; he was recalled but won the new election and continued to serve in office).

She was complimentary of my efforts to let people know about LGBTQ issues (or as my niece would point out, more formally LGBTQIA) and was married herself to a woman of great worth and strength. (I never met Rosemary’s wife, don’t know her name, haven’t been introduced. But anyone who was married to Rosemary must be a woman of great worth and strength, as Rosemary just did not put up with fools whatsoever, and would not waste her time on anyone who wasn’t a phenomenal person.) While I am not on the whole LGBTQIA spectrum myself, I deeply respect it, partly because my late brother-in-law, Sam, was gay, and partly because I worked with a bunch of lesbian and bisexual women early in life, when I was about nineteen or twenty, and knew they were no different than I was, excepting that the bisexual women sometimes dated men or women, and that the lesbian women only dated other women. They were as worthy as I of love, care, understanding, concern, and whatever else comes with a true partnership, and that’s why I cared, long before it was fashionable, and very long before I even met Michael, much less knew anything about his brother Sam, about these issues.

Rosemary was one of the first to ever see my novel CHANGING FACES, and gave me several excellent comments. She also gave me a sell-quote for my first Elfy book, gave me encouragement at many times and in many places, recommended me to anthology editors as someone who could and would write a story competently and well…there’s not much more I can say, except that she also was kind and caring after Michael passed, even leaving a telephone message (possibly the only time I ever heard her voice, as we were not fortunate enough to meet in person, ever).

All of that is only scratching the surface of who Rosemary Edghill was. I know that. But I can’t help but at least do that much, to give you all some idea of the huge sense of loss I have now that Rosemary has passed on to whatever the next world is (or the Elysian Fields, or The Good Place TM).

I hope that Rosemary first was reunited with her loved ones, including all of her wonderful dogs. I then hope she and Michael settled down for a good gossip, maybe over some tea and shortbreads, as those were favorite things of Michael’s and I’m sure Rosemary would not have been adverse.

Rosemary wrote Regency romances, SF&F of all sorts, tie-in books, general fiction, and way too much else to list. Everything she ever wrote had value, worth, fun stuff, interesting situations, and fast-paced writing that always held my interest no matter how tired I was and no matter how much nonsense I’d had to deal with before I finally got a precious hour or two to read her books.

I will treasure her books, her writing, and her presence in my life forever.

I really wish she wasn’t gone. She was only 69. That seems too young, to my mind, these days…anyway, the SF&F community is in mourning, and I completely understand why.

All we can do now, though, is emulate her the best we can, and live our best lives, writing however often we’re able, as we may.

If you have memories of Rosemary, or wish to talk about this post, go ahead and leave a comment.

Written by Barb Caffrey

April 12, 2026 at 10:25 am

Posted in friendship, heartbreaking stories, in general, Informational Stuff, LGBT, Michael B. Caffrey, Rosemary Edghill, Writing

Tagged with

Former NBA Star, Basketball Hall of Famer Chris Bosh Wrote Something Everyone Needs to Read

with 2 comments

When I woke up this morning, I started my normal routine. The aches and pains I live with, the overall frustration of still looking for a place while attempting to help my ill family member, and of course the grief I will always have over the loss of my beloved husband Michael are always there. (Sometimes I wake up and wonder where Michael is, not as in, “What is the Other Side and what could he be doing there?” but “He was just here, in the dream! Where is he now?”)

Life is often frustrating. But it has moments of joy, too. And those moments can be ripped from you in a heartbeat if you don’t pay attention to your health or the folks you most care about in order to chase meaningless things (like trying to keep up with a famous Internet star or content creator; it’s great that they do what they do, but there’s nothing wrong with what you do either and you don’t have to do the same things in order to have value or create meaning in your life.)

The reason I say all this is that I read a very insightful column by former NBA star and basketball Hall-of-Famer Chris Bosh, which is the first post he’s written at Substack in over four years. Here’s a bit from that:

I was walking from my closet into the bathroom, getting ready for an evening out, when my body turned on me. A numbing sensation shot down my left leg, that sharp, electric feeling you get when you bump your funny bone. Before I knew it, I was on the floor.

I slowly came to in a pool of my own blood while my wife frantically spoke with 911. I tried to move my body the way I always had, and it didn’t respond.

There was no choice but to surrender. It was a terrifying event, something I had never experienced before. That’s when the realization hit me, everything can collapse at a moment’s notice. There’s not always a warning. There’s not always a symptom or a buildup to let you know what’s coming. One moment you’re walking. The next moment, you could be gone.

He’s right.

He later discusses that there are a whole lot of things people pay attention to in this life that don’t matter one bit. The important things are ones that we sometimes take for granted, like health, the health of our loved ones, enough time to spend with our loved ones, and doing things that edify us rather than gratify us. (Though if you love learning, as I do, it can be both sometimes.)

What Chris Bosh and his wife went through was scary, to say the least. And if a former professional athlete, one who’s always taken excellent care of his body (or he’d never have been able to do the remarkable things he did on the court to make a living), can have this happen, any of us can.

(As if I didn’t know that already, considering what happened to Michael. But I digress, because it’s important to be reminded of our core truths sometimes.)

I left a comment there about how I understood, and about two of my best friends, who’ve suffered the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” health-wise, and some of the limitations they have. (I also briefly sketched some of the limitations I have.)

The important thing, though, is that we’re still alive to do whatever we can. I survived a pulmonary embolism, which not everyone can do (I was told how lucky I was in the ER a few years ago). Chris Bosh just survived this scary and disturbing experience. My friends Kat and Lika have survived illness, misdiagnoses, lots of frustration and pain, and the loss of being able to freely move about and do whatever they want to do without having to plan for the energy expenditure first.

Make no mistake: when you have to constantly “ration your spoons” (referring to “spoon theory,” here; Google it), life changes for you and seemingly gets smaller.

But that’s only seemingly. The world is still wide, still has possibilities and accomplishments, still has something of value to offer, and most importantly, we still have something important to offer to it, too.

We have to try to smell the flowers, as cliched as that phrase is. We have to figure out who matters most to us, and let them know that, and value them and honor them, before it’s too late to do so. We also have to figure out what is the best use of our time, energy, and resources, and spend more time on that and less time on nonessentials like doomscrolling. (Though there often is a lot to doomscroll about, it doesn’t do much good and wastes our precious time.)

In my case, I am trying to save what energy I have to write, edit, comment, and also compose music on the side (that I can play myself, though if all goes well, someday I hope to hear someone else or maybe a band or even an orchestra play it once I flesh it out a little). These are the important things in my life.

Of course, I still have to do things like food shopping, laundry, care for my ill family member, care for my health, etc. Those things don’t go away. But I can perhaps approach them a little differently and be grateful I’m here to still do them…at least some of the time. (None of us can be grateful for chores all of the time. Even Mother Theresa had days she didn’t want to do her job if I remember some of her quoted comments right. And I’m sure some of what she did seemed like a chore for her.)

The important thing is what we do while we’re here. The people we love. The activities that make us go, give us life, and give us a reason to get up in the morning despite the pain and stress.

That’s why I loved Chris Bosh’s Substack column today, and hope you will, too.

Written by Barb Caffrey

February 25, 2026 at 5:25 pm

Posted in Heartwarming stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Prescient observations, Sports figures, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , ,

Twenty-Four Years Ago Today…

leave a comment »

It’s Christmas Eve in the United States. And about twenty-four years ago, it was around this time that my late husband Michael and I had the most amazing thirty-six-hour conversation in my entire life. Long distance, much via AOL Instant Messenger (still a thing in 2001), complete with raw honesty, what I’d call true bravery on both of our parts as we weren’t afraid to be vulnerable (and neither of us was drunk, or had taken any mind-altering substances as far as I know).

See, at the time, I was waiting for my second ex-husband (yes, I’ve been married three times, if I haven’t said that before or in a while) to come back to his home state and sign the divorce papers.

Mind you, I don’t want to discuss my ex here because there are reasons he’s my ex. What I want to discuss instead is the most amazing person I have ever known, my late husband Michael.

I had contemplated annulling my second marriage, but it cost too much time and too much money. That’s why I was going for a straight divorce instead, in the hopes that I’d be able to get out of the marriage faster. But it still took well over a year before my ex decided to sign the papers, mostly because by that time his then-girlfriend and soon-to-be-wife was heavily pregnant.

I truly hope he’s been a better husband to her than he ever was to me. But I digress.

Michael understood two things from the moment he met me (via a mutual friend). One, he knew right off that he was going to marry me. Two, he also knew that if he tried too hard, I’d run like Hell the other way. I’d had bad luck with men, to say the least, and I was divorcing for the second time at the age of thirty-five. I felt like a complete failure, really…I wasn’t one, but I still felt that way.

So, how did we end up having this thirty-six-hour conversation considering he knew I was gun-shy (for good reasons)? Mostly, the first couple of hours were stuff we usually talked about. Books, movies, current events, ethics, morality, you name it. We could talk for hours. He was possibly the one man I’ve ever known who types as fast as I do (as I type around 100 words per minute when I’m all warmed up). He also read as fast as I do, and so we could have these long conversations, intercut with a point from three minutes ago, intercut with another point from a half-hour ago, etc. And it didn’t bore him!

Nope. Instead, I think it enthralled him.

He was lonely, I was lonely, and there’s no doubt that was part of why we started talking that night. But what took us from a developing close friendship to a romance was how vulnerable and open we were that evening. Neither of us wanted to let the other one go. When I went to the bathroom, I’d tell him, and wait for him when he had to go. Neither of us had webcams, which might’ve been just as well (I’m sure he probably had one somewhere, but he wasn’t about to use it), as I was terrified.

Why? I mean, he already knew what I looked like. He knew I was a big, beautiful woman, what they now call a “curvy” woman. He was attracted to me. Partly for my body, I guess, but mostly for the mind and heart and spirit inside that body.

I liked his looks, too, but he could’ve looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and I’d have still wanted to be with him. (He didn’t. He was quite handsome, actually, but didn’t think so at all.) He had the most beautiful spirit, was kind-hearted, wanted to help people, would do whatever he could to make someone’s life a little better, and yet he also was witty, made me laugh on a continual basis, and him being willing to talk openly about what he wanted in a woman, and what he hadn’t found yet (as he was also divorced; he and his ex stayed friends, and I am still in contact with her, but they weren’t right for each other romantically).

Then, somewhere in those thirty-six hours, he said he thought he’d found it in me. And could we please consider ourselves courting now?

He used that old-fashioned term because it tickled him (he loved British and BBC period dramas), and partly because that’s exactly what he was doing.

Me on the verge of a second divorce did not scare him. It did not make him run away. And he was savvy enough, intelligent enough, and empathetic enough to know how to support me as I got to know him better.

There’s a reason I called him the most wonderful person ever. There actually are many.

So, twenty-four years ago today, my life changed for the better. I took a chance; he took a chance. It was the right thing to do. We were right for one another. Our marriage was a huge success by every metric he and I used: did we care about each other? Could we support one another? Did we have things we loved to do on our own as well as each other? Would we ever run out of stuff to talk about with each other? (Um, no. We never did.) Did we match in every possible way, mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually?

Yes, we did.

We had no money, of course. Neither of us was in good health, and he was in worse health than he knew considering his four sudden heart attacks in one day, culminating in death, in September of 2004. But we wrote together, and it was glorious. (I have to get the two Elfy books out again. I’m sorry it’s taking extra time. Too much going on here, I guess. And my novel Changing Faces was partly the reason he felt he could talk to me in the first place, as he figured anyone who could write that was worthy of the best things in life. He didn’t think he was that, but he wasn’t going to pass on me, either. And he thought my exes were the most foolish, ignorant men on the face of this Earth, too. If I didn’t put that in, he’d not be pleased if he could come back and read this now.) The Elfy duology would not exist without Michael. My other stories, including some set in his own far-future SF Atlantean Union universe, would not exist without Michael. Changing Faces in any form would not exist without Michael either.

Bluntly, I am the person I am today in large part because Michael loved me and he wanted what was best for me. He loved that I played music, he could read music (in all clefs, too, which is hard; yes, I can do it, but I had years of practice and he picked it up seemingly overnight), he loved it that I composed music, he insisted on doing as many household chores as he could to spare me the back and knee pain, he cooked more often than I did even though we were both good cooks, and he made my life so much easier despite all of the obstacles that were in our way.

Once upon a time, I knew that the Deity must love me, or I never would’ve found Michael at all.

If I ever find someone kind enough, good enough, willing to try enough, to be in my life again, it’s because of Michael. His love made it possible for me to see that men can be good, kind, decent, honorable, steady as a rock, encouraging, creative in his own right, quick-witted, and worthy of love in all particulars, in all spheres (mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical), and his love ultimately helped me go on as best I could, even though it did take me at least eleven years to process and even now, still, it often feels like I’m walking on broken glass, trying to pretend my feet aren’t bleeding from the pain of his loss.

So, I don’t know the answers. As I have often said here, I don’t even know the questions sometimes. But I do know that love matters. Creativity matters. Honesty and ethics and fair dealing all matter, too. Honoring the love I had with my husband, that I will have until the day I die and assuredly after as well when we are finally reunited in joy on the other side (hopefully with all the dogs and cats we loved in this life at our sides along with my father and grandmother and all the people Michael had wished I could’ve known better, including his father, who died before I ever knew Michael’s name, much less how wonderful he was).

That’s what matters to me. That’s what’s always going to matter.

May your Christmas and New Years be filled with love, happiness, peace, joy, and whatever else you need to help you have a glorious 2026 despite everything else in your life that gets in the way.

Not having money, not having health, not having a constant place to live, have all gotten in the way of my life for sure. But so long as I have one breath left in my body, I have hope. So long as I remember that a truly good, kind, loving, funny, intelligent, creative person with so many multitudinous talents as Michael loved me, I know I am worthy of that love. And that helps me, at least in part, to get in touch with the Deity in some way, even though I still do not understand why I am here and he is not.

At any rate, it was twenty-four years ago today that my life changed for the better. I think that’s worthy of celebration, even though it’s really hard to celebrate considering Michael’s been dead for twenty-one years, three months, and three days.

Written by Barb Caffrey

December 24, 2025 at 8:17 pm

Posted in Changing Faces, Elfy, Elfyverse, holiday stuff, Michael B. Caffrey, Remembrance, romance

Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , ,

A Quick Update

leave a comment »

Hey, everyone. Sorry it’s taken me a while to get up a new blog, but I’ve been quite vexed with the housing search. When I was younger — at my first undergraduate school — it took about a month to find a place when nearly everything else was rented. But this search has gone way beyond that, especially as I started it in August…it’s well over three months, and I have yet to find a place to live that I can afford.

That said, I’ve also been battling my usual fall maladies of chronic sinus infections, general malaise, fibromyalgia flares/back problems, and of course the chronic depression I deal with daily. Being able to create helps me fight against all of that. But being in this situation works against being creative, as most of my energy is going toward either survival or finding a new place.

That said, for the moment I am still safe and staying with a family member. Later this month, if I still do not have a place, though, I’m not sure what will happen as the apartment complex here isn’t happy that I’ve been here so long without paying any rent to them. So this is the last month I can do that, though it may be possible for me to “reset the clock” by going to a hotel for a day or two. (Any longer than that, I can’t afford.)

As far as writing goes, I’ve been mostly stalled for all the reasons I gave above. As far as editing goes, I’m finally almost done with a lengthy edit — quite intense, lots of comments to make, and because it’s the last in a series, I have to make sure everything stays in good order. (This means I look stuff up. Nothing wrong with that. But any writer or editor worth anything will tell you what I’m saying right now: the work goes far more slowly if you’re having to do lots of cross-checks with previous books.) I believe I’ve done that, and it’s now just down to the final few things before it goes off to my client.

I am doing my best, in other words. Sometimes I get quite frustrated. (Actually, most of the time.) This is not what I’d hoped for, and not what my father wanted for me, and definitely not what anyone who knows me now and is still alive (including my family) wants either. Yet it’s where I am, and all I can do is my best with the circumstances I’ve got and go from there.

Tomorrow is Veteran’s Day in the US, as probably most of you know. My father was a Navy veteran, as was my late husband, Michael. I have cousins who’ve served, and many friends, along with an ex-husband (he was in the Army, back in the day). I respect people greatly who have served their country, and I appreciate what they’ve done to make this country a better place.

There’s still lots of upheaval going on around me because of governmental issues and strains, too. Everything seems to be in flux, not just me and my living situation.

I wonder sometimes if I am in the wrong place, doing the wrong things, and that I am so far off the track meant for my life (which was to be a college music teacher and performer before my poor health and finances got in the way), there’s no way for me to find my way back.

That said, I’ve done what I thought was best. I’ve helped people as I’m able and will continue to do that as long as I live. I’ve taught myself editing, and am good at it. I write, and always will write, whatever suits me: nonfiction, poetry, fiction, you name it, I can write it and probably have. I’ve used my musical talents in ways I hadn’t expected, but they have been used…and if my health gets any better, perhaps I’ll be able to use them again. (I’d still like to visit France and/or Spain someday, as that’s where classical alto saxophonists are most appreciated.)

So, while I’m battling depression, as I said before, I am still alive. So long as I’m alive, there’s at least some hope for better. I am looking for that hope, while also doing what I can to find my own, independent place to live. (It’s easier to help others when you have a place that’s truly yours where you can retreat to, as needed. A sanctum santorum, in other words. I haven’t had that now in any way, shape, or form for over three months.)

I battle the thought that I’ve failed (all of my novels right now need to be republished, as the rights have reverted back to me and are no longer for sale; unfortunately that’s on the back burner unless/until I can find a place of my own). I battle the thought that Michael might be unhappy with me (though really, I can’t see why he would be; he always thought I was too hard on myself, and this is probably just another of those times). I battle the thought that my maturity and experience may not matter in a world filled with so much automation and the flirtations with AI. I also battle my health, as anyone who’s spent any time here knows…but all I can do is my best.

This is my mantra right now: All I can do is my best.

Maybe that’s how it is always for everyone. But this sense of it being crisis city all the time is hard to live with, and I hope it’ll be alleviated soon. (No disrespect to my family member who took me in, either. That was not easy and I appreciate it greatly. It’s just that I am frustrated with this…and really do need a sanctum santorum of my own for creative reasons.)

So, that’s the update, such as it is.

How are you all doing? (Hopefully better than I am, but at least if you’re alive and kicking, that counts.) Do let me know, if you’re able…I would appreciate it greatly.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 10, 2025 at 11:44 am

Posted in Editing, in general, Michael B. Caffrey, Music, Persistence, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , , , ,

21 Years (Yes, 21) Without Michael

with 6 comments

Folks, about a week ago, I observed the title milestone, one I wish I’d never have had to face.

There’s this weird thing about numbers, you see. They can really freak you out. I remember September 21, 2011, as that was the seventh year since Michael died. Supposedly, all the cells in your body are replaced within seven years. I didn’t like that milestone either.

Others I haven’t liked included in that same year the day I turned a day older than Michael was when he died (no, I’m not going to mention which day) and of course the day my best friend, Jeff Wilson, died in November.

So, the sad milestones (“sadaversaries” in my parlance, a contraction of sad and anniversaries) have kept piling up. Ten years without Michael on September 21, 2014. Twenty years without him, last year. And twenty-one years without him this year…it’s something we do, as human beings, to both mark the passage of time and the people who shaped us and meant the most to us. It must not be too surprising that I always know exactly how long it’s been without my beloved husband. But it’s still difficult, challenging, and frustrating.

The reason twenty-one years is significant has to do with something I once heard about learning music and other skills. If you have the talent and you put in the work, it supposedly takes twenty-one years to be adept in any given discipline.

How does that apply, though? Does that mean I’m adept at grieving now?

I don’t know. I wish I did.

There’s a lot of people I miss in this life. My grandma. My father. My aunt Laurice and uncle Carl. Jeff Wilson. Those are all huge losses, and I will remember them all until the end of my life.

But nothing and no one has ever been more important to me than my late husband. Michael understood me and I understood him. We fit in every possible way, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. We had amazing, wide-ranging conversations, we were both creative (in addition to his writing, he was a great cook and an excellent artist), we both wanted most of the same things — stability, honesty, a deep and abiding commitment to one another, and to be together as long as we possibly could.

We did get almost three years from the time I met him, and two years, two months, and twenty-eight days of marriage. After so much loss, so much sadness, it seemed absolutely miraculous to meet Michael, and I know he felt the same way about me.

I’m still struggling with trying to find a new place to live. I’m also struggling with many other things at the moment, none of them particularly pleasant. But it does help me to know that Michael always believed in me, and he thought no matter how long it took, I would always find a way through any problem.

In short, I’d always survive.

When he was alive, of course, it would’ve been “survive and thrive.” But right now, survival is what I need to cling to, along with the belief that I can, will, and must get out of the current situation and into a better one.

Michael would tell me, if he could, that I have not failed. Not as a writer, as a musician, as a scholar, as a wife, or even as a widow. That I have not failed. So long as I keep trying, so long as there’s even a breath remaining in my body, I have not failed.

I’m trying to keep that thought in the top of my mind, these days, as the struggle continues.

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 27, 2025 at 10:14 pm

Posted in Faith, heartbreaking stories, in general, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Widowhood, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

Reflections Regarding Lois McMaster Bujold’s “Paladin of Souls”

leave a comment »

As I continue to look for a place to live, I’ve pondered many things. But the one thing I kept coming back to, the one book in this case, was Lois McMaster Bujold’s excellent fantasy novel, PALADIN OF SOULS.

You might be wondering why. I know I did, when I could not get this book out of my mind…but now, I believe I have at least some idea of why this book is resonating so much with me at the moment.

The protagonist, Ista, is a widow. Just like I am. She’s in midlife, which also is just like me…of course, Ista is the Dowager Royina (read: Queen) of Chalion, which isn’t like me at all. But Ista feels stifled. She feels like there’s just no point in the life she’s leading, though she’s not sure how to break away and do her own thing. She’s also not exactly sure what “her own thing” might be, as she’s been widowed for quite a few years (around twenty, I think); for much of that time, Ista was seen as stark, raving bonkers even though she wasn’t.

(To go into all the reasons why people thought Ista was crazy, you need to read the prequel to this book, THE CURSE OF CHALION. It’s also an excellent novel.)

So, Ista is always watched and is frequently misunderstood. (I completely empathize with her in this. Women in midlife being misunderstood, much less widowed women, is something nearly all women in midlife can identify with, even if we can’t necessarily identify with always being watched.) But she is as sober, and sane, as any judge, and finally figures out a way to break out of her genteel captivity: she’ll say she’s going on a pilgrimage, and what other people assume (mostly they think Ista is praying for a healthy son delivered from her daughter Iselle, the current Royina and co-monarch of both Chalion and Ibra, but Ista thinks praying for anything except health for her daughter and any baby regardless of gender is stupid) is up to the other people.

Also, I have to mention this: Ista is not the easiest person to like at the beginning of this book. She is bitter, but for very good reasons. Her late husband did not treat her very well, and that has never been fully faced by anyone, much less Ista. (Her late husband was older than Ista, but that wasn’t the major problem. What that problem happened to be was that her late husband the Roya was in love with his top-ranked courtier, so Ista was always going to come last in that love triangle. Not that she had anything to do with the courtier other than tolerate his presence.) She’s been kind of an afterthought for a while; yes, she’s the mother of the current co-monarch (most Royinas do not rule, but Iselle certainly does with her husband Bergon of Ibra), but her own life has taken a backseat to her motherhood. And Ista has gifts of her own, which need to be used…thus the pilgrimage.

As I don’t want to spoil things too much for you if you haven’t read PALADIN OF SOULS yet, I’m going to skirt a lot of the details. I will say that Ista, as she grows and starts leaning into her talents rather than being denied them (as these talents make her seem crazy to non-cognoscenti), becomes a deeper, richer, and spiritual person. And if she’s very careful, she just might find love unlooked for with the right man at the right time, providing they can get through a whole lot of difficulties first.

Then again, love usually has to be fought for in some fashion, otherwise it doesn’t mean a whole lot.

In my life, I know for sure that Michael and I fought to be together. We were long distance, me in Iowa, he in San Francisco, for most of our courtship. Neither of us had much money, so how we got to be together lay in my mother receiving an unexpected windfall. She knew Michael was important to me, even though she’d not met him yet, and so she sent him that money.

Michael’s own mother, on the other hand, did not want him to leave San Francisco. She thought him taking a chance on me, a woman who was divorced twice by the age of thirty-six, was dumb even though he, too, was divorced (albeit just once).

Of course, she was wrong in this. Michael told her so, and he was right to do so. (Now that they’re both on the Other Side, I hope they have reconciled, but really, that reconciliation needed to start with her.) Michael knew everything about me; best of all, he loved the parts of me I couldn’t even like (but needed in order to be the person I was and am today).

This is what love is, when you’re mature enough to understand it. That understanding, that deep caring, that appreciation of everything you are — even the stuff you can’t stand about yourself — is what is needed to form a lasting marital partnership. And, like Ista in PALADIN OF SOULS, I found along the way that I had more gifts than I’d realized at first.

See, all of that is needed for a great emotional and physical connection. How can you make love to someone else if you don’t know them fully? If you don’t want to know them fully?

Ista says in one place that she’s late to discover herself. (This is me eliding a few things, for those who have read PALADIN OF SOULS. Still trying hard not to spoil it for new readers.) I think a lot of women in midlife — Hell, a lot of men, too — come to realize this, partly because they now have lived several decades and know themselves and the world at large far better than before.

At any rate, if you are in the right relationship, it should be mature, deep, with much mutual appreciation…and yes, you should have a wonderful and rich love life, too. (If you don’t have that, and it’s not because your partner is completely unable for some reason, you’re probably in the wrong relationship. But I digress.) You should feel understood, valued, and appreciated for who you are. You shouldn’t ever have to apologize for being yourself, or for loving your spouse/partner; if you find yourself doing that, again, you probably are in the wrong relationship.

What Ista finds out through her adventures is very simple, but also very profound: Life means more when you know yourself. You can do more with your life once you know your talents and gifts, no matter how unusual they may be to your particular culture and belief system. And only by fully realizing who we are and acting on our talents can we be open enough to embrace a new love relationship despite whatever hardships you had to deal with in the past.

I think the reason I can at least consider having another relationship (if it ever happens) is because Michael was a wonderful, caring, and considerate husband. In every way — mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual — he and I were a match. (One of the ministers I’ve talked to since Michael died told me he thought Michael and I knew each other before we were born, and were supposed to be with one another all along. I told the minister that I wish I’d have known where Michael was, as I’d have gone out to San Francisco by the age of twenty if not sooner to find him. But I also knew that one of the reasons he and I took to each other so quickly is because we’d lived life and knew what we wanted along with what we didn’t want and couldn’t tolerate in a marriage. Maturity was part of what was needed for the two of us to get along like a house on fire, in other words.)

Right now, I’m only eight days from passing the saddest anniversary of all: the day Michael died. Even though I believe firmly that the spirit is eternal, and that Michael in some ways never left me at all (as the two of us did become one, and as long as I’m alive, at least part of him is, too), it’s tough not to be able to get a hug from him. Or a kiss. Or anything else, especially during tough times like what I’m dealing with right now.

Knowing you are loved helps to get through the bad times. It also helps you believe that better days are possible. But getting to those better days is a struggle, especially when you seem to be in a position where you can do little to affect your own outcome.

None of us widows and/or widowers have chosen to be in this particular state. All of us who had loving spouses want our husbands and wives back. We don’t like having to walk alone, even though the memories of that love help to sustain and nurture us so we can at least make the attempt to do the walking.

Anyway, along with Katharine Eliska Kimbriel’s three books in the Night Calls series, I’ve added PALADIN OF SOULS to the frequently re-read pile. I find more and more stuff in there that feels extremely true to life, and like Allie in Ms. Kimbriel’s books, Ista is a heroine worth remembering and appreciating.

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 13, 2025 at 5:17 am

Posted in fantasy, Lois McMaster Bujold, Michael B. Caffrey, Widowhood, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , , , , ,

Weather, Driving, and Other Updates

leave a comment »

Folks, while I’m glad it got a little warmer today, I didn’t need it to be as humid. It was our first truly warm day of the year, and might’ve hit 80 F, but it felt worse due to the humidity.

The weather forecasters say that tomorrow, we should have heavy rain. I think that’s sensible. We’ve had a bunch of colder weather that’s reminded me more of March than May (and now, early June), and in a way, maybe it’s a good thing.

OK, in some ways, it’s not. My arthritis is worse in cold and humid weather than it is in warm and humid weather, though any humidity will set it off. I also have to say I don’t enjoy frost warnings in the middle of May, nor did I like seeing my father’s prized orange tiger lilies start to bloom, only to wither due to the frost warning a few weeks ago. (Explanation: It is a perennial, yes, but most likely I will not be in my father’s house that much longer. Assuredly, I won’t be here next year to see them without some sort of financial miracle.)

But the reason I said it might be a good thing is that many times, in mid-May, I start thinking about when Michael started seriously preparing to get to me, so we could get married in mid-June. He actually got there around June 7, back in 2002…so of course, this week, especially with the heat and humidity, I’ve been thinking a lot about that.

Later this month, I’ll be celebrating twenty-three years since the day Michael and I married. That’s always a bittersweet day on the calendar. I start thinking about how wonderful it was to be with him, even though we didn’t get that much time together…and then I start thinking about other men who aren’t as good still being alive, and wondering why.

For example, when men cuss out the grocery cashier around me, I wonder why they’re alive. Obviously, they have no interest in common courtesy, and they’re modeling bad behavior for their own children (the last two guys who did this had kids in tow, presumably their own).

I also wonder when I see bad drivers do stupid things on the road. I recently was driving home from my Mom’s, and someone ran a red (I had the green) and burned rubber speeding down the road. If I hadn’t stopped, or at least not started to accelerate, I would’ve been T-boned. And as I said, the guy clearly had a red light.

The good thing in this particular case is that the police were right there. They got that guy.

I also saw something a few weeks ago that I may have not blogged about before. I was driving close to a local cemetery that’s known for having geese and ducks in its pond. It was dusk. I had someone tailgating behind me even though I’d just left a stoplight, and they were less than a foot behind me. Ducks were crossing, and at first, because it was dusk, I didn’t see them. I swerved, and I still don’t know how I avoided them. (Picture five or six ducks. Two adults, probably Mama and Papa, on each side of a bunch of ducklings.) The driver tailgating also swerved, so no ducks nor ducklings were hurt.

I have to say, though, I put my head in my hand at the next stoplight. I knew how close to an accident that had been. I would’ve had to choose to hit the ducks rather than getting hit squarely by someone going at least fifteen miles over the posted speed limit of thirty-five MPH, and I hate hitting wildlife.

Anyway, June is a tough month for me. It’s in many ways the best month I ever had, if you go back to 2002. It’s also been a very quiet, difficult, and frustrating month since Michael died.

I think Michael would be happy that I’m still trying my best to write, to edit, and deal with my health. (That rash on my back is still here, BTW, and is no better. It’s quite frustrating.) Editing has been slow. Writing has been almost nonexistent. But I am trying, and I haven’t given up.

Michael used to say that I shouldn’t let anyone put me down, including myself. (He said this because I’m known to be extremely hard on myself.) He was big on emphasizing the positives if at all possible; otherwise, he used the Buddhist trick I’ve told you about before, where he let himself feel whatever stress was going on — money, work, car issues, health, you name it — for five minutes or so, then he’d say, “OK, self, I’ve felt that. Now let’s get on.” (He’d not put it quite that way. That’s my way of putting it. But the sentiment is true.)

So, I’m trying to use that Buddhist trick as best I can, even though I’m not a Buddhist. It helps some, at least some of the time.

Today’s good news is that my favorite baseball team, the Milwaukee Brewers, have as of tonight won eight games in a row. In addition, outfielder and designated hitter Christian Yelich was the Player of the Week last week due to his excellent play.

Other than that, I’m alive, trying my best.

Hope you all are doing as well as possible. (Let me know in the comments, if you feel up to it.)

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 2, 2025 at 8:48 pm

Posted in baseball, Michael B. Caffrey, Milwaukee Brewers baseball club, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

AIs, ChatBots, Lovers…Crowding Out Real-Life Experiences?

leave a comment »

Folks, I read a very interesting article over at Substack earlier tonight about AI lovers. It’s written by Ossiana Tepfenhart, a new-to-me writer with a very interesting perspective. I suggest you read this, and then ponder it, before you go on.

But if you don’t, here’s my reaction anyway. (You knew I was going to say that, right?)

There are people out there who are having trouble meeting real people to have relationships with. If they do meet them, they don’t click, or maybe they expect the wrong things (these are the folks Ossiana Tepfenhart calls “pornsick,” and for good reason). They also could be finding that just the act of looking for someone is harder than finding a Chatbot, and then having a “relationship” with that Chatbot.

You know that Chatbots are designed to be accommodating in most cases, right? (Ossiana certainly says this, and I agree. She’s not the only one who’s said it, either, but as I’m discussing her article, I definitely wanted to give this the proper attribution.) So, if you start looking for reassurance, whether it’s for affection, sexual gratification, or whatever, you can quickly get trapped in a feedback loop that goes like this:

Gen X Guy/Gal: “I had a rough day today.”

Chatbot: “Tell me all about it!”

Gen X Guy/Gal: Pictures the Chatbot sitting across from them, in whatever way they want this Chatbot to look. “Well, work was a trial, and then I ran into a bunch of idiots on the way home and nearly ran them over. I lost my temper at least twelve times, too, and I know that’s bad. I just don’t know if I’m worth anything.”

Chatbot: “You’re worth something. You’re a human being, and you’re entitled to feel any way you want.”

What the Chatbot isn’t likely to tell you is that while you are certainly entitled to feel any way you want — that is good advice — you definitely need some anger management, or some sort of counseling to find out why you are so angry all the time. (It’s not natural to want to run people over, nor is it natural to lose your temper over and over again.)

See, the Chatbot cannot call you on your stuff. Just can’t do it. It’s not designed for it. Whereas a real person certainly will tell you something at some point if you’re having these types of issues.

Also, while my example was fictional, there are certainly people out there who want an ideal lover, someone who will always say, “There, there,” or the electronic equivalent. They don’t know how to react to a real, live human being, with wants and needs of their own. That’s why this whole Chatbot lover thing can be so addictive. (I haven’t tried it, but I can see the appeal.)

Then, I started to think about something I read this past week. There was recently a very controversial AI experiment conducted by the University of Zurich on Reddit. The researchers inserted AI chatbots on the r/changemyview forum, and these chatbots made 1700 comments on sensitive topics without anyone apparently twigging to the fact these were chatbots.

How could the University of Zurich do this? Well, they had all sorts of information that’s been on the World Wide Web for the last thirty years to put into the chatbot. That chatbot, while it can’t think for itself, can react if given the right setup, and if it has the response that setup requires in the first place…and with the thirty years of the Internet’s history sitting there, it’s quite possible the right responses are already there.

I didn’t need to know anything about the University of Zurich to figure that out.

Anyway, Reddit threatened to sue, especially after finding out that the AI bots were more likely to change people’s view by a factor of three to six than a real-live person is. (Why is that? Well, again, you have thirty years of the internet and all the various things that have been said there, versus the life experience of one person. That one person may have a lot more experience in this one area than any other given person, but it’s not likely that one person will ever have as much as the entire Internet over the past thirty years.) The University of Zurich backed off, said they will not publish their results, and that they’ll strengthen their ethical review process.

This is a huge scandal. Really, really big. And it only happened because a bunch of behavioral scientists, apparently, forgot to look at the real-life consequences of such a designed experiment before they decided to go through with it.

So, you’ve got AI chatbots causing trouble on Reddit. You’ve got AI online companions that act like lovers that are making it harder for real-life people to find good mates, much less keep them. You’ve got people that Ossiana talked about who, despite having a good relationship, want more (these are usually women), and you’ve got others who feel they’re never going to find anyone, so why not? (The latter are usually men.)

And all the while, it gets harder and harder to bridge the gap between the sexes.

This is not what anyone thought back in the late 1990s that would be going on right now. The hope was that advanced computer computations would make it easier to go to Mars, or battle poverty, or find better ways to distribute food to the poorest and neediest among us, among other such worthy causes.

That has not panned out.

And while there probably are companies out there looking to battle poverty, or go to Mars, or distribute food, there are more companies leveraging people’s loneliness, only to cause more loneliness and alienation along the way.

If this had been around in 2004 or 2005, right after my husband died, I probably would’ve been tempted by it. A chatbot that was infused with all I knew about my husband? I would’ve been right there.

But now, I see it for the travesty it is.

My husband was alive, dammit. He could be paradoxical. He liked being that way, sometimes. He was an incredibly good person, very spiritual, but also very down to Earth, and he did not like simulations of real people at all.

I don’t know if there are any good uses for “romantic” chatbots. I tend to think if you’re not happy in your relationship, you should get out and find another one with a real, live human. I also think that staying with someone you’re not compatible with is unfair to the other person. They can’t be who you need, no matter how much you love them.

So, I’m with Ossiana all the way on this. Be very wary of this type of stuff. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. It leads to nowhere good.

Written by Barb Caffrey

May 10, 2025 at 5:20 am

Posted in Michael B. Caffrey, Prescient observations, Remembrance, romance, Writing

Tagged with , , , , , , , ,

« Older Entries