August 17^th is Indonesian Independence Day. This Monday marked its 64^th year of Freedom. Here in Jakarta, Independence Day is an important holiday. The streets are festooned with Red and White banners and flags. Neighborhoods host block parties with food, games and competitions for the children. It’s like Fourth of July in the U.S.—minus the fireworks and potato salad—but with plenty of watermelon.

Jakarta definitely didn’t need fireworks or bombs bursting this year. We have had our share. Exactly one month ago, on July 17^th, suicide bombers wreaked havoc in two Jakarta hotels, the Ritz and the Marriott. Employees and guest died in the blast, many others were injured and are still struggling to recover. We are all suffering and who knows when or how our world will recover?

On August 11^th, it was officially announced that Noordin Top: Terrorist, martyr recruiter, horror organizing, terrorist, believed to have masterminded the Black Friday bombings, was not killed in the 18 hour-long shoot-out with police last weekend. Rather, the dead man-who does not deserve to be named here-was a florist at the Ritz Carlton Hotel. “It was ironic,” stated the What’s New Jakarta Newsletter of Aug 12^th, “that someone who is capable of attempting mass murder was considered a funny and talented flower arranger by his colleagues.” I call it frightening.

As for the suicide bombers themselves: One has been identified as an “18 year old from a complex in Bogor” (a city near Jakarta). According to neighbors, this boy—a victim of Top’s particular brand of brainwashing—which includes the promise of heaven with virgins for the using and monetary payment and glory for the bomber’s families—was “described by neighbors as quiet and polite even though he came from a troubled home with his father imprisoned a year ago for robbery and his mother living in Kalimantan after a messy divorce.”

Who can celebrate freedom and independence when boys and girls are so trapped and hopeless they can be conned into believing in Top’s “ticket to heaven”? That their salvation comes in the form of explosives strapped to their backs?

I just received a note from my publisher’s publicity department (my publisher, I love typing that). They want me to send them my website info and to update my bio and photo. It is wonderful that they asked. I’m delighted that they want their authors’ and illustrators’ info to be current. But that is not the truly thrilling and part. The list of people on the group e-mail is what is amazing. Candlewick Press publishes fabulous books by brilliant authors, with art by amazingly talented illustrators—check the list for yourself! I don’t want to check the list again, it makes nervous. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to say, “gotcha” Kelly and strip me of my “Author” title the way Jason McCord had his stripes ripped off at the beginning of every episode of Branded.

That’s the way it is for lots of us writer types. (I know, I’ve asked around.) Often we really don’t know where our best writing comes from and when. And more often than not it turns out that the “author” has not created the story as much as he or she “channeled it” that is, stepped aside and allowed it room to happen. We all have our ways of letting the creative spirit bubble up. I tend to circle the process like a cat, getting close, but not too close, until I’m ready to pounce. By pounce I mean write it…yep, no matter how the story comes to us, in the end we all have to spend the time in the chair writing it (That’s why they call us writers.) And while I may not remember where the ideas for my stories come from, or how I thought up that magnificent, fabulous, incredible Title/last line: Not Norman, I do remember all the time I spent BIC (Butt in Chair as Robyn Weaver, the Book Doctor, says www.robynweaver.com.) writing, writing, writing.

I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to challenge this notice from Candlewick. I’m going to take full credit as “author” and update my photo, bio, and website info as requested…even if I don’t recall writing those wonderful words I said I did.

Birthdays are a mixed bag. When we are young our birthdays are an event—we can’t wait for the big day to come. When Max started school, the first day was the day before his birthday so he thought everyone was there just for him. Lexi used to count down the days on her calendar. She just turned 26 and still believes her birthday should be an International holiday. Beginning weeks before she reminds us “do you know what day two weeks from tomorrow is?” As we age, we begin back pedaling as birthdays approach. “Thirty-nine again,” my friend, John, answers when asked his age.

I prefer no one mention my birthday at all—but then, I am royally miffed if anyone important to me misses it. Of course I enjoy cards and gifts, love receiving them, love looking at them, but often don’t open them until after the big day has passed, after I have spent my birthday my way—in agonizing reappraisal. For me, each birthday is reckoning day. I think back over goals I had set for myself and evaluate whether I met them, how well, or why not. I make new goals, I feel the years racing and long to dig in my heels and slow the passage, I agonize, moan, regret… And yes, as you might expect, I am usually, absolutely miserable on my birthday. I used to say “give me two Valium and wake me when it’s over” and I wasn’t kidding. But this year, maybe because I have, as my friend Dick wrote, “fully crossed over” something is different.

I am in Indonesia for my birthday this year. This may have something to do with this strange sense of wellness bubbling inside. Since Indonesia is over the International Date Line, my birthday here came a day early and so it really didn’t feel like my birthday, and then, when my birthday time arrived in California, at 8 am on the 8^th day of the 8^th month, it felt like it was already behind me. So, on one hand it was like my birthday was two days long, and on the other it was like it was over before it started. This is not to say the day (days) were not emotionally charged:

• I woke to an e-mail from my agent that a story I had high hopes for was rejected in committee.
• Curtis came home early so we could do something fun.
• I couldn’t think of anything “fun” to do that didn’t involve traffic or spending, so we went to work out.
• While I was working out, news reported that the terrorist Noordin Top, the villain responsible for the Ritz and Marriott bombings, the man responsible for recruiting countless suicide bombers had been killed in an 18-hour long shoot-out with police.
• Came home, checked my e-mail. Birthday greetings and e-cards were popping into my mailbox.
• Baked myself a birthday cobbler and an antipasto platter for tonight.
• Checked my e-mail a few more time—many more than usual—and my face book “Wall” because now, thanks to Max and Chelsie, I know what it is and how to find it.
• The galley of my new picture book, Dance Y’all, Dance arrived via e-mail. It was my first peek at the illustrations.
• The friends we invited to dinner arrived, we went to dinner, had a delightful time, but one didn’t feel well so we didn’t pop the bubbly.
• We came home early from dinner, changed into our jammies, then Curtis and I sang “happy birthday to me” and shared the birthday cobbler and I fell asleep in the middle of the movie I had chosen, Duplicity.
• Woke up this morning and because it is still my birthday but not really, I could enjoy it. Curtis made coffee, I opened cards and gifts. Especially touched because Rusnati had given me a lovely stone and silver fish with a tiny note in Indonesian.
• Lexi called at 8 pm her time and she and Curtis sang to me. Then she put Ryan, her beau, on the phone and we tried to get him to sing. He started to, then caught himself and said no, “no matter how many trips we take, Kelly, I am not going to sing…” Which might have been the best birthday gift of all because it prompted this memory of our last trip.

It all goes back to Lexi’s birthday (as it rightfully should, she believes.) She and I always do something together for our birthdays. This year we spent a long weekend in Montauk, Long Island. It was a kind of beach holiday/birthday/ongoing search for a place for Curtis and I to retire trip. Ryan went with us. We took the train and he drove his car and met us at the station in Hicksville (not Lexi’s preferred stop—she is not the type of girl one “picks up in Hicksville.)

We had booked a room at Sole’ East a resort in Montauk. One of many we researched. It was well reviewed and seemed like the better of the not-so-expensive lodging options. Most were either way over our budget or looked like by-the-side-of the highway motels. Ryan had scoped out the best places to eat, watch sunset, drink bloody marys, have oysters, etc. and one by one we checked them off our list—great fun! As it turned out Sole’ East is not some quiet little motel, although the rooms are tiny, circa 1950 motel rooms. It is a happening spot, where singles (mostly groups of 30ish women) and hipster families, with hipster tots in tow, weekend in summers.

Most nights the three of us would go out, eat, enjoy a nightcap and then I’d turn in while Lexi and Ryan went out. But one night, Lexi crashed with me, leaving Ryan on his own. As he does, he went out to see what was up. About three in the morning, Ryan woke me. He tried to wake Lexi, too, but she wasn’t moving. It was Saturday night and Sole’ East was hopping. A bunch of bongo buddies had started jamming and Ryan wanted to share the experience. “Come on, Kel, you gotta see this,” he told me. So I got dressed and we went out to enjoy the show.

Just as I arrived the group ripped off their shirts and really got into it. The bongo players ranged in age from dreadlock front boy of about 23 to Jack Lalanne. They pounded out the rhythm and women and men of all types danced and sang. As the room got hotter, we all moved outside to a lounge area beside the pool. Around 5 Lexi showed up. She had woken, found us gone “I wasn’t worried that Ryan was gone,” she told us, “but Mom, too?” So she came out to find us.

By then, a red-haired lawyer/stock broker-used-to-wanna-be-Cat Stevens-and-maybe still-does picked up his guitar and began playing and singing. He had a great voice—and knew all the words Dire Straits to Bob Dylan. Earlier, a blonde back-side-of 30 came over to ask Ryan if he had a light, then whispered to me that it had been way too long and she was long overdue. After catching Lexi up on the what was what, we three sat back, watching the action, wondering if she was going to get lucky, wondering if guitar man was going to get lucky, cheering when they both did.

Throughout the evening people had been asking “Where’s Winston? Where’s Winston?” Around 5, Winston showed up. He was an older Rasta guy who picked up the guitar, said yes to a drink, and busted into reggae Thank you Mama blues. Sitting there, in the velvet night with Lexi and Ryan, sipping a cocktail, listening to the music, I wasn’t “crossed over or crossed out,” I was the “short white hair chick”, Winston asked Ryan about–

Lexi, Ryan and Kelly in Montauk-Happy Birthday!

–still young enough and interested enough to jump out of bed when adventure calls.

Happy Birthday to me—and many more!