<![CDATA[DEBRA COLEMAN JETER

<![CDATA[DEBRA COLEMAN JETER - Blog]]>Sat, 07 Mar 2026 07:36:02 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Dance Like Nobody’s Watching]]>Wed, 04 Mar 2026 19:35:32 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/dance-like-nobodys-watchingA couple nights ago, my husband and I lucked into the last two seats in a tribute to songwriter Carole King. I had seen Carole perform at the Ryman a few years earlier, and I’ve seen Beautiful on stage too. But I think I enjoyed the tribute by Suzanne O’ Davis almost as much, or possibly more.

She covered such a wealth of Carole’s songs, and the number of hit songs Carole has written is truly staggering. Suzanne focused on the album Tapestry, but she also brought back wonderful memories of songs by the Monkees and Herman’s Hermits, among so many others.

“We’re the youngest people here,” my husband said.

I looked around. We were not, I’m sure, but there were plenty of blue hairs, as my director from community theater used to refer to the typical matinee attendees.

When the allotted time approached an end, more than a few of the older guests hobbled out. “Hey, I’m still performing,” Suzanne called after them, and everyone chuckled.

The rest of us were glad we stayed. When she closed with “I feel the earth move under my feet,” a lot of the crowd rose to their calloused feet to dance.

The rhythm almost pulled me to mine, and I thought back to my early childhood. My parents occasionally took me to a hamburger joint with a jukebox. When someone chose a snappy number, I couldn’t resist. “Watch my 7-up,” I’d order, jumping from my chair to spin, twist, and twirl.

At that age, I didn’t care that no one else was dancing, or wonder if people were laughing at me or with me. I just moved to the beat with joy.

Later, though, I became aware of issues like coordination and dance steps. I had one ballet lesson. In my memory, everyone else knew what to do when the instructor spoke in a foreign language, or so it sounded to me. I felt so foolish and lost that I never returned for my second lesson.

Another time, my parents allowed me to join in a square dance. I’d seen the adults on many occasions swinging their partners and doing a do-si-do, but I had not really paid attention to the calls or the moves. It looked so effortless when they did it. Once again, I felt foolish and lost.At the Carole King tribute, I nudged my husband. “Want to dance?”

He looked at me without budging. I knew he wasn’t feeling well. I also knew that, even if he had been, it’s not in his nature to dance. But why didn’t I?

Remember Elaine’s dance moves in Seinfeld? Perhaps I feared I might dance like Elaine. So what if I did?

Next time I will dance.

]]><![CDATA[What Makes You Laugh?]]>Thu, 19 Feb 2026 17:13:51 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/what-makes-you-laughWhat makes you laugh? Most of us don’t laugh enough. If you’re interested in where funny comes from, try Mel Brooks:The 99 Year-Old Man on HBO, though perhaps not if you’re easily offended. A lot of humor offends someone, and we all have our sensitive spots. Comedians aren’t trying to offend...just to make you laugh.

Before I met my husband, my girlfriends thought I was funny, so I thought so too. Not long after we started dating, I realized that he rarely laughed at my jokes or even recognized when I was joking. So, I quit cracking them, losing confidence I’d ever been truly funny.

I wonder if our attitudes toward humor are inherited or learned from our parents, perhaps a blend of the two. My dad is serious minded and does not often laugh out loud or appreciate sitcoms. He found Bill Cosby offensive long before the rest of us.

I remember my friend Laura’s dad, who laughed so readily at just about everything, it seemed, when we were growing up. My mom is more like that and laughs easily at herself, even when she’s done the most embarrassing things.

I tend to laugh out loud like my mom, but I’m somewhat critical about what I find amusing, like my dad. Like my mom, though, I think I laugh more readily as I grow older. I’ve realized how difficult it is to sustain humor in a routine or a show, and I do love a good comedy.

I find that I enjoy humor more when it takes me by surprise. My husband, on the other hand, seems predisposed to smile at a predictable setup in a sitcom or routine of a novice stand-up comic.

Maybe there’s a generosity of spirit in laughing when we know someone’s trying to be funny, even if they fall a little short. After all, we all love it when we’re trying to be funny and someone responds with genuine appreciation. It’s good for them and us.

So, when the waiter asks, “How do you want to take care of the bill?” and my husband says, “I want you to pay it,” or a desk clerk says, “I need to see some ID,” and he replies, “Does it matter whose?” I’ll smile or chuckle to show my appreciation even if they don’t.

As they say, laughter is the best medicine. I know he only cracks jokes if he’s in a good mood, and I do welcome good moods.

]]><![CDATA[Competition for Schools]]>Thu, 12 Feb 2026 16:03:55 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/competition-for-schoolsWhen I was a kid, I don’t think my parents ever debated the choice of schools. If I was zoned for a particular school for my grade, that’s where I was going. No questions asked.

Things have been different for my kids and their kids. “We hear about gangs in the high schools,” my daughter says. “Drugs even in middle schools.”

“The public school we’re zoned for has terrible ratings,” my son says. Ratings? Who knew there were ratings?

Occasionally we took standardized tests in my day. I remember them as something of a mystery, never knowing when they were coming or what they were used for. My daughter worries that her son, genius that we all believe him to be, does not excel at test taking and that this may come back to haunt him some day.

Now that he’s almost ready for high school, I recall a story she told me when he was just starting kindergarten. They were visiting a magnet school, probably the one he ended up attending.

“There was only one other family on the tour,” my daughter said. “The principal was talking to us, and the other prospective student was sitting in a chair, listening attentively, chin resting on his hands like a little prince.”

“I looked around for Finn,” she said, “and he had managed to remove the cloth belt from my coat and wrapped it around his neck. Looked like he were strangling himself out of boredom.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “There will be plenty of time for anxiety when he’s applying for colleges.”

What I didn’t realize at the time was just how rapidly those intervening years would fly past.

If you like stories that bridge the gap between the old and the young, try my book, The Past Ever Present. In it, my dad Cliff recalls his own childhood while serving as my son Clay’s guardian on a tv set.

The Past Ever Present: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B091F3MN3R (only 99c to buy on Kindle)

]]><![CDATA[Character or Providence?]]>Mon, 02 Feb 2026 18:51:46 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/character-or-providence

Often, when I’m enjoying myself—swimming, boat riding, basking in the sunlight, watching a sunset or a snow fall—I catch myself smiling to express my enjoyment. I’m reminded of my childhood. One of my parents or grandparents would ask, “Are you happy, Debbie? Are you enjoying this?” and I’d smile to let them know I was.

Now, even when I’m alone, I smile as if to an invisible audience.

I’ve been reading a novel called The Fury by Alex Michaelides. He poses the question of whether the person we become is more determined by character or by fate. Then he quotes the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, who argues they are one and the same. Michaelides’ protagonist, Elliot, says, “Character is fate. Remember that, for later. Remember the kid, too. And I don’t just mean the kid in me, but the kid in you.”

If character is largely determined by childhood experiences, I’m thankful for having had adults around me during those formative years who cared if I was enjoying myself. And, perhaps as a result, I find much in life to enjoy.

In fiction, I appreciate characters who also enjoy life, and I often long for happy outcomes.

Nonetheless, too much happiness in a novel becomes boring before long. Conflict lies at the heart of fiction, and we all know that happy-ever-afters don’t always materialize in real life, or in good literature.

As many of you know, I have not published a new book since 2019. I have, however, been writing assiduously. Last year I sent out a series of synopses, asking for input as I decided which to publish first.

Many of you were kind enough to respond. Thank you for that. After analyzing the responses, I’ve decided to launch a series of four semi-autobiographical novels beginning with my maternal grandmother, who was born in 1900.

Although I’m tentatively thinking of the series as “A Hundred Years of Happy,” you can imagine it was not all sunshine and roses. But don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of joy along the way… and sometimes even in the end.

The characters in my first novel, The Ticket, were also loosely rooted in some members of my family. My son Clay made this brief trailer to introduce the characters. Trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275

https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter-ebook/dp/B0BZB6F11J

I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for your patience.

]]><![CDATA[Trends in Books]]>Sat, 10 Jan 2026 17:35:44 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/trends-in-books

Happy New Year, everyone! Let's make 2026 a good one.

I frequently complain about everyone’s fixation on cell phones these days. I’m as guilty as anyone, though, and often find myself googling books I’m reading or shows I’m watching for insights.

As I wrap up the final season based on Elena Ferrante’s “Brilliant Friend” series, I stumble upon an article discussing Elena’s greatest influence—the Italian writer Elsa Morante. Both writers ignored the popular trends in writing of their day and carved their own paths.

I found this reassuring and consistent with what my daughter tells me when I complain. “I don’t care for twists at the end,” I’ll say, “but readers seem to love them.”

Or “I love to read and write about what’s going on inside my characters’ heads, but editors and publishers don’t like introspection.”

My daughter says, “Go with your gut feeling.”

I know she’s right, but rejection and criticism are hard for me to take, as much as I admire those who ignore them and forge their own way. I’m working on that, and I want to follow the lead of Elena Ferrante, whose work I so admire.

There’s a line in the tv version of The Lost Child that struck me as I watched last night. Lenu, the narrator, remarked that her last book was bad because it was too carefully structured and too organized…that she had yet to learn how to imitate the complicated, chaotic, disorganized banality (my paraphrase) that constitutes real life. This is my goal, one most likely beyond my capabilities in this lifetime. Still I can try. And keep trying…

I’ve always been a fiction reader and writer. Yet, as I age, I find I appreciate memoir more than I used to. I like to hear stories from real people, not just famous ones, about what they’ve learned in their journey through life.

I’m planning to start Matthew McConaughey’s Green Lights; and, yes, I do realize he’s a famous person. Publishers seem to prefer those, and so they are easier to find. Here, once again, we come full circle…back to current trends in the writing and publishing world. Oh, well.

A central character in my novel, The Ticket, is fourteen, an age when most of us suffered frequent agonies over things we’d done or said, how we looked, or what other people thought of us. You can watch a two-minute trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275
https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter/dp/B0BZBB4TS8/ref=monarch_sidesheet

]]><![CDATA[December 22nd, 2025]]>Mon, 22 Dec 2025 22:48:39 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/december-22nd-2025Being a perfectionist, or living with one, can drive people nuts. And no one more than yourself. Whether it’s the temperature of the house at night, the texture of the pillowcases, or the exact right shade of new blue paint for the bathroom, decisions for perfectionists create stress.

My mother used to tell of one of her uncles, who would ask, “Is that clock slow or fast?”

“Neither, so far as I know,” she’d answer.

“You know it has to be one or the other. No way is it right on time.”

This is the way I am about temperatures all too often. Airplanes, in particular, are often too hot for me during takeoff and too cold once they reach a desired elevation. Layers work well, but are cumbersome when you need to peel most of them off.

In my novel, Joy After Noon, teenage Marianne torments herself by not living up to expectations set for ballet, gymnastics, and wardrobe…expectations initially set by her mother and now by herself. Her new stepmother, Joy, tries to help her relax, while also overcoming anxiety about not being as perfect a wife or mother as her husband’s first wife.

A vacation in Fiji turned out nearly perfect for me. Here are some notes from my travel journal.

Fiji 2025 (St. Patrick’s Day)
Today the Auckland airport was the busiest I’ve ever seen. Who would have suspected St. Patrick’s Day to attract so many flyers? Hope to land shortly.

Next entry: Wednesday, March 19, 2025, Yasawa Chain, Mantaray Resort, Fiji

We landed safely in Nadi, Fiji, on Monday afternoon. Only a one-hour time difference between Auckland, New Zealand, and Fiji. Like the Auckland airport, the Fiji airport was very crowded. Long lines and lots of check points. We’d been careful to eat or throw away all our fruit and dairy products, having made this mistake before, though it hurt to surrender nearly a full pound of New Zealand tasty cheese (their name for cheddar).

We caught the shuttle to the Gateway Hotel. Though it’s just across the highway, we were packing two heavy suitcases, three carry-on bags, and my handbag (nearly as heavy), as well as sweaters, jackets, and coats. Fiji is nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit, but we knew there might be chilly nights in Auckland or Los Angeles, and Tennessee was bitter cold when we left. Also, airplane temperatures are unpredictable.

The Gateway has no elevator, and they assigned us a second-floor room. Norm asked them to change, and fortunately one was available on the first floor. We dropped our bags, and I donned my swimsuit. I’d noted there would be no pool at the Mantaray Resort (I was wrong about that, as it turned out), so I wanted to take advantage of the large heated pool at Gateway.

Norm wasn’t hungry, but I, as usual, was. I ordered steamed wahoo with Asian greens, soy and ginger sauce, and sticky rice. Generous portions, and I shared with Norm.

Our boat to the island was scheduled for 8:45AM, so we got up early to check out. We waited at the bus stop, and the bus arrived on time. We’ve used Sea Cruises before, but I couldn’t remember the best place to sit. We started out on an open deck, but began to wonder if we’d get sunburned. After watching scads of people climb down into the cabin, I followed suit. There was only one empty row left, so I grabbed it. Before long, I realized it was virtually the only row with no window at all and no view. When motion sickness strikes, I always focus on the horizon, which I couldn’t see.

There were a number of stops before mine, so some of the seats began to clear out. We moved to a row in the middle with only one person seated. The TV monitors showed lots of photos of various resorts on the islands, alongside items for sale on the boat. I bought a chocolate mousse and Norm a coffee. Some of the passengers were day trippers, and we recalled a year in the past when we did that. That year we stayed in Nadi for the durations, but scheduled day trips to visit several islands. After that, we decided to stay on the other islands.

We’ve never been to Mantaray before, but we stayed at Octopus once, which is also in the Yasawa chain and, like Mantaray, has a mandatory meal plan. Norm and I typically do not eat three full meals a day except when required (can’t turn it down after paying for it). My Uncle Bill used to joke Colemans would take a case of the clap if it was paid for.

Because I worked in Auckland annually for a few weeks each year, from 2003 to 2020, I found that stopping off in Fiji really helped me adjust to the time change. A nice excuse for staying on a glorious island too. Most years I stayed in another chain of islands, closer to Nadi—most often at the Matamanoa Resort, Lomani, or Mana.

The boat arrived on schedule, around 11:30AM, and we were transferred to a smaller boat with a few other passengers and some workers. Our luggage traveled in another boat. “Bula!” is the traditional Finian greeting, and we were met by smiling faces. Fijian people must be among the kindest and friendliest I’ve encountered in any of my travels.

Our room was ready, a reef front bure. It’s quite lovely, and the sea is right at our doorstep at high tide. We have palm trees between us and the water and a hammock. The bathroom is also lovely but outdoors and quite warm most of the day. It’s attached and private, nothing like the outdoors toilets I remember from childhood, just open air. The bure, thankfully, is air-conditioned.

There’s only one restaurant, and it entails a host of steps. Another guest informed us that we might request to be served by the pool, so we did that one night for dinner. Today we mounted the stairs for breakfast but requested room service for lunch. It has yet to arrive. Oops, I think they are here now.

Just finished eating. Norm had Kokoda, and I had fish tacos. He had Kokoda yesterday also, and said it was the best he’d ever had. He chatted with the chef, a young guy from New Zealand, who turned out to be a fan of Clay’s series, Live to 100, about the Blue Zones where a disproportionate number of individuals lead healthy lives into their nineties and beyond. I had the poke bowl yesterday with marinated tuna. Both my lunches were good.

We’ve been snorkeling twice already. Yesterday the tide was very low when we went out, and I was tired. Nonetheless we saw the best coral we’ve seen in a long time, lots of different colors and types, some clown fish, several schools of fish, including a school of unusual needle-nosed fish. Today we saw a large colorful clam as well as a host of fish and coral. The tide was pushing us to one side, so I headed in against the tide. Norm swam with the tide a piece and then made his way to shore. We say and lay (he sat, I lay) in a hammock for a while watching the little white fish with brown stripes frolic near shore.

I plan to tackle the steps once more tonight for dinner, as our room doesn’t lend itself well to room service.

Later: For dinner I had linguini with squid (good but cold) and Norm had a beef curry dish. After dinner, as we walked back to our room, stars dotted the southern sky.
I asked for a late checkout, since our flight to the U.S. wasn’t until 9:30 PM. They gave me until noon, so we went snorkeling one last time. I saw another clam, or possibly the same one though it looked smaller to me. Once more we saw a lot of colorful fish and coral. The tide was pretty high and quite strong, so we didn’t stay out too long.

We showered in our room, even though the dorm showers would be available to us later, before checking out. We paid extra for one final lunch not included in the meal plan. I ordered the fish tacos again, but wasn’t very hungry. Then we lounged by the pool. I went for a final swim in the sea and picked up a couple of souvenirs for my grandkids Frankie and Silas: a pretty pink-toned rock and a piece of coral shaped like a dog.

“They’ll both want the dog,” I said. I remembered when Nikki and Clay were their age. Seemed like if I got two suckers, one yellow and one red, at the bank drive-through, they’d fight over who got which one. Turned out I was right about the dog.

The boat to Denarau arrived early, so we had to hustle to get our stuff together. About a three-hour cruise, and raining when we arrived. The weather had been glorious the entire time we spent at Mantaray Island. I had a nice chat with our hostess, Ennie, before we left, and she accompanied us to the boat, carrying one of our bags. A lot of the Fijians who work on the smaller islands have family on the big island and go home periodically, perhaps working a week or ten days and then have three days off, etc. Others commute daily.

This may be my last post for 2025. Hope everyone has a great Christmas!

]]><![CDATA[Uniquely Troubled Souls]]>Tue, 16 Dec 2025 17:45:21 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/uniquely-troubled-soulsEver wonder what it would be like if something wiped out our uniqueness, our individuality? This is the premise of the tv series Pluribus.

When I was a kid, I remember thinking that outside our family—where frequent quarrels, nagging, and complaining erupted—the rest of the people in the world led mostly content, normal lives.

Over the years, I would occasionally bump into a troubled soul, whom I still viewed as an exception. Most people, other than these few and those in my own family, surely led normal, content lives. Finally, it dawned on me that we’re all troubled souls, though each in our own unique way.

Now, when I see a child or a self-conscious teenager mortified by their own clumsiness, incompetence, or ignorance, I want to say, “Don’t waste a minute of precious life feeling that way. Nobody will notice, at least not for long. They are all too wrapped up in their own issues and anxieties and challenges.”

The older I get, the more often I see individuals with traits or physical features that remind me of other human beings. We are all so similar and yet so different. What a mystery that some people are able to write music in their heads, draw figures that practically burst from the page, or play the piano without having a lesson.

My grandmother used to say of a woman she knew, “She could make the piano talk.” I play piano, but I can't compare with that. Paul McCartney says he just woke up one morning with the tune to "Yesterday" in his head, and "Yellow Submarine" another day.

This all strikes me as strong evidence of a creator. Not just a contented, normal creator but an omniscient, omnipotent creator who is somehow able to make each and every one of us unique, far beyond my ability to imagine or understand. How miraculous is that?

A central character in my novel, The Ticket, is fourteen, an age when most of us suffered frequent agonies over things we’d done or said, how we looked, or what other people thought of us. You can watch a two-minute trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275
https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter/dp/B0BZBB4TS8/ref=monarch_sidesheet

]]><![CDATA[The Belle of the Bell City Bottom]]>Tue, 09 Dec 2025 23:07:04 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/the-belle-of-the-bell-city-bottomAs you know, I’ve been posting a series of synopses of my upcoming publications from time to time. This one is called The Belle of the Bell City Bottom (working title). I’d love to hear your reaction to the synopsis as well as the title. I’m a bit worried that it might conjure up a totally different book from the actual one.
Synopsis: The Belle of the Bell City Bottom
Effie Shultz, born 1900 in western Kentucky, is far from a true southern belle. Rather, she is the youngest daughter in an impoverished family with too many children, claiming descent from Catherine the Great, eking out a living as sharecroppers. After her mother’s death, Effie—the only unmarried daughter—is expected to tend to her ill-tempered father and demanding brothers. She learns to enjoy controlling the boys and, to a lesser extent, her father. When she meets and falls in love with Dalton McClain, she’s torn between the drive to control him, as she did them, and a desire to be controlled.

Her inner conflict leads to behavior baffling to them both. Like It All Comes Down to This, The Belle of the Bell City Bottom focuses on strong-minded sisters, a dying mother, and the importance of family bonds and the past. It also shares nuanced character development with Properties of Thirst.

Afraid Dalton will think her too old to be marriage material, she lies about her age, a lie that haunts her until her death. Although Dalton comes from a line of rough, gun-toting drinkers, he seems gentle and kind. Having been abandoned by his father not long after his mother died, Dalton feels responsible for his younger alcoholic brother, Raymond. Time after time, Dalton rescues Raymond from bar fights and near-death encounters.

This devotion to family both endears him to Effie and arouses her jealousy. She fears she will never be able to take first place in his life when Raymond is so consistently needy. She flees from the Bell City bottom for a time to spread her wings as a career woman in Paris, Tennessee, where one of her favorite sisters is currently boarding. When Dalton shows up in Paris at Christmastime, Effie’s heart leaps with joy. The book follows their relationship over the years through and beyond the Depression. When their beautiful daughter, Marie, shows signs of manic-depressive behavior, Effie and Dalton unite in their desire for her happiness but not in the means to achieve that end.
]]><![CDATA[Quitting My Day Job & NZ Part III]]>Wed, 19 Nov 2025 01:03:16 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/quitting-my-day-job-nz-part-iiiI’m not the best retiree, though I’m getting there. I like having something to do. I love to write, but it’s far too easy to put it off or feel uninspired. My husband retired almost twenty-five years ago and claims he has never looked back. I can’t say that, although I try not to make a habit of looking back. The difference has to do with our personalities.

“I’m easily entertained,” he often says, and this seems to be true. He’s content with his phone, TV, or a book most of the time.

He’d say my greatest weakness is that I always want to be doing something, even when I’m sick. I’d say his might be a lack of interest in doing something, even when he’s well. For example, I like to do, or think about doing, board games, card games, tennis, ping pong pickleball, snow skiing (though I haven’t yet), swimming, boogie boarding, and theater. He likes none of these. To be fair, he does make an effort on occasion, but I know his heart isn’t in it.

I’m reminded of the comedian Leanne Morgan, who said of her husband, “Chuck Morgan doesn’t believe in joy.” Like her, I may complain but not too seriously.

And I love to travel. He does not, though he’s a better traveler than I am in many ways…once we get there and settled. It’s the getting there and settling that are difficult.

These thoughts came to me as I prepared to post another travel blog. I remember my sister remarking of one of my travel blogs, “It was mostly about food.”

She wasn’t wrong, and I realized that a love of good food is one thing we share. When we travel, we both enjoy trying new foods, and he’s even more adventurous than I am about experiencing the local cuisine, wherever we happen to be.

We passed this love on to our son, who has practically made a career of it by directing more episodes (I believe) of Chef’s Table than any other director. He loves doing the research, sampling the flavors, and getting to know the chefs, as well as the actual directing of the episodes.

So, as I prepare to post my travel notes from my most recent trip to New Zealand, Part III, don’t be surprised if I talk a lot about food.

New Zealand 2025, Part III:
Still in Rotorua, NZ, Governor Gardens…After strolling alongside the flowers and snapping a few photos, we went in search of food. We tried Duke’s, a bar/restaurant inside one of the hotels we considered (Prince’s). Norm ordered a beer, but they were only serving a few items of food, all of which were deep fried. Yummy as they sounded, I suspected they might not sit well in my stomach. It was an odd time of day, late for lunch and early for dinner.

We found a nearby pub, The Fainting Goat, and seated ourselves. A “Reserved” sign on the table had a time of 5:30 indicated. Our server approached, looking perplexed.

“Talk to us,” Norm said.

“I don’t know if there’s enough time.”

Comprehension dawned. It was now 4:30. I’d already looked at the menu posted outside, so I said, “We’re just going to have a shared platter of hummus and dips.”

“Should I put the order in?” she asked.

I nodded, and Norm ordered another beer. I settled for water.

The drive back to Auckland went smoothly, much less winding and nausea-inducing than the one the day before in the opposite direction. Tiring nonetheless, so we spent most of the following day, Saturday, resting.

We did venture out for brunch, thinking we might eat breakfast food but choosing instead an Indian restaurant just opening at 11 AM.

On Sunday, we drove to Devonport for the second time. We watched a movie called Spit, an Australian comedy with a New Zealand actor in the lead role. Silly but fun and generally uplifting. I ate a choc-top, which is chocolate ice cream coated in dark chocolate with a sprinkling of nuts. It was delicious. I wish they had those at the theaters in the U.S.

I had brought a black blazer with me and a new pale pink sweater in case of excessive air conditioning. I draped the jacket over the sweater to avoid dripping chocolate on the pale fabric. I tried to be careful in the dark theater but discovered later that I’d indeed dribbled a fair amount of chocolate on the jacket. Must run in the family. I was just talking to my daughter yesterday about a recent experience where her husband took Elise, their ten-year-old chocolate lover, for a croissant at Starbucks before church.

“Don’t let her get chocolate on her sweatshirt,” Nikki warned her husband. He’d been put in charge of the kids because Nikki was driving separately to cover the welcome station at their church.

Predictably, when Elise showed up at the welcome station, she had a gigantic chocolate circle on the front of her white sweatshirt. “I told her to turn it wrong side out,” Nikki said just as I was about to say the exact same thing. Lots of experience.

Back to New Zealand…We ate lunch on Sunday at Manuka in Devonport, a café on the main drag where Norm had monk fish once before. He had it again, and I ordered a portobello mushroom drizzled in olive oil and balsamic with blue cheese. Both were very tasty.

As before, we drove to Cheltenham Beach. This time I changed into my swimsuit and went for a lovely swim. Two swims actually. We struck it between tides, which is ideal, At lower tides, the water isn’t quite so chilly, but it was high enough I didn’t have to go out very far to be able to swim or float about. We had guessed that Auckland traffic wouldn’t be quite so heavy around 5 PM on a weekend as on our previous visit, and we were right.

We drove north on Monday toward Puhoi and on to Matakana. We had reservations to eat at a winery for 2:30 PM, so we drove out to Goat Island, which we remembered for the bright blue maomao fish. Often, kids would be feeding crumbs to lure the fish to the surface, though the signs advocate against this. We saw no blue fish on this day, but we did climb around on the rocks and shoot a few photos.

The beach and water were the busiest we’ve ever seen there. Apparently a few school groups were taking advantage of the lovely weather. Many people were wearing wet suits and snorkeling. We both remembered the time we tried this, and Norm panicked in the cold water. So we weren’t tempted to repeat the experience. I asked one woman, who had Scuba gear, if she saw anything interesting.

She nodded. “Several rays. And some massive fish.”

During our one snorkel adventure here, I too saw a few massive fish. In fact, I was about to steer Norm toward them when I realized he was climbing ashore. Snapper, I think.

Next we shopped a bit in Matakana, and I bought a beautiful black cashmere sweater dotted with a smattering of brilliant blue reminiscent of some of the colorful fish we’ve seen snorkeling in Fiji or Tahiti.

Our lunch at Brick Bay Winery was excellent. We ordered several small plates, and Norm had a flight of wines. I had fruit-flavored sparkling water. Our dishes included prosciutto, venison, carpaccio, bruschetta, beetroot hummus, focaccia, and more. No complaints here. The setting was lovely also, with blooming lily pads, olive trees, and sunshine.

On Tuesday we returned once more to Devonport, where we saw a third movie at the Vic. The “Widow Clicquot” tells the story of Barb-Nicole Clicquot, a 19th century female entrepreneur. She takes over her husband’s failing champagne business and eventually transforms it into a global empire using techniques still followed today, though the film ends before she becomes truly successful.

We remembered a Devonport buffet restaurant where we ate Baked Alaska for the first time. Unfortunately, the restaurant had changed ownership since then, and our meals were mediocre at best. Norm’s eggs were overcooked, and my pancakes were thick and slightly burned (I prefer my pancakes to be thin and crispy rather than thick and fluffy, but definitely not burned). Oh, well. We did have some very good ice cream, though, on the main drag near the ferry station.

It's Wednesday today, as I write this update, and we’ve been to Mission Bay, another old favorite. I almost always swim at Mission Bay, but the beach didn’t look inviting today. It was overcast from the time I awoke, and the rain fell just as we reached Mission Bay. We checked out all the menus, which are posted for easy access, before settling on the upstairs restaurant at the Belgian Café.

I first had NZ scallops in Mission Bay, though not at this restaurant, and they are my favorite scallops ever. Never before had I seen scallops with the gonads attached, and I asked Farshid, a colleague from Auckland University who introduced us to Mission Bay about them. “What are these orange parts?”

He flushed and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I asked the waitress, and she too avoided the question.

I was delighted that my small plate of scallops included plenty of pinkish-orange parts as they are exquisite. Norm had a snapper ceviche, and we both had gelato at a spot boasting a host of well-merited awards. Mine was lime-mango-passionfruit, topped with a dip of rich chocolate. Norm had chocolate peanut butter and coconut meringue.

I’d ordered an iced chocolate at the Belgian Café, but it wasn’t great. Norm had a dark Leffe, and I decided to drink a beer for once, since Leffe is hard to find outside of Belgium. In the late 1990s, I spent a few years teaching grad students in Ghent, and they introduced me to various beers (including Leffe and one they called devil beer) and the importance of always having a drink that matches the glass. I ordered a blonde.

“You don’t want a blonde beer,” Norm said.

“I like a blonde beer, and I think it’s less likely to cause a migraine,” I said. So far, so good. (Note from later: I did have a migraine several hours later, but there might be no connection).

My dad’s been having a string of health issues, and I spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my sister discussing options. Then I talked to Daddy, and he sounded good. Much better than the last time, which makes my heart sing.

That’s enough for now. FIJI COMING SOON.

]]><![CDATA[New Zealand 2025, Part II (Notes from March 2025)]]>Tue, 04 Nov 2025 03:52:28 GMThttp://www.debracolemanjeter.com/blog/new-zealand-2025-part-ii-notes-from-march-2025Around 2:30 pm, Wednesday, March 5, 2025, we made our way to the Esplanade in Devonport, an old favorite for afternoon tea. The date scones were a bit hard; Norm always called them “stones,” but the clotted cream and tea were delicious. I chose a Jasmine, and Norm a passionfruit oolong.

After tea, we headed to Cheltenham, my favorite beach on the north island. The tide was quite low, and I walked in up to my ankles without changing into my swimsuit. Most of the bathers in the water were standing rather than swimming. We saw a house we’d looked at a few years back when it was for sale. Still lovely, and probably worth a lot more now than it was then. Not right on the beach, but only one house away. We hit 5 o’clock rush hour traffic as we made our way back to Auckland.

“If we come again, maybe we can avoid rush hour by coming on a weekend rather than weekday,” I said. “I really shouldn’t complain though. It’s nothing like Nashville.”

Our apartment in Parnell, NZ, this time is on the fourth floor and right across from the heated lap pool and small gym. I’ve only used it once so far this trip, but it’s always pleasant.

On Thursday morning, we headed south toward Taupo. I wasted way too much time looking online at hotels in the Rotorua and Taupo area, trying to decide where to stay. The drive took the bulk of the day and was much more winding than I’d remembered. We were both tired and grumpy by the time we arrived.

The Wairakei resort seemed nice enough, but our room did not. Knowing the temperature would drop into the 40s Fahrenheit at night, Norm tried to turn the heater on and failed. Once more, we had to switch rooms.

“What were we thinking?” I said, chastising myself. We scrimped and saved, staying in cheap hotels when we were younger so we wouldn’t have to now. Old habits die hard, though. At least the heater worked in the second room, but the walls were scuffed and the carpet stained. Seemed clean, as far as bathroom and sheets were concerned.

The heated pool was warm as most hot tubs. Pleasant at first, but you couldn’t swim for long without overheating. The entire area is one of the geothermal reserves, and the sulfur smell permeates Rotorua but not quite so intensely in Taupo. The resort wasn’t exactly in either city but closer to Taupo and quite near Huka Falls, which we remembered for its brilliant blue hues.

We went to the spa (basically a hot tub) after leaving the pool. I could feel my blood pressure escalating so refrained from staying in very long. We had dinner on the premises at the Geyser bar. I ordered duck confit, and Norm had John Dory. Both were delicious, and huge portions.

The next morning we checked out early and headed toward Rotorua. I had intended our first stop to be the Waimangu Volcanic Valley, but a sign caught my eye for Orakei Korako Geothermal Park and Cave. I pointed it out.

“Do you want to do that?” Norm asked as we headed past the turn off.

I hesitated, knowing he hates to backtrack. Once he’s passed an exit with tempting restaurant or gas station choices, I know better than to ask. “Yes,” I said at last.

We didn’t have to backtrack far, but the road to the park and cave was very long and winding, or so it seemed to one prone to motion sickness. I never had that problem as a child (back then I could read a novel in a moving car), though both my kids did. I do now, however, but I made it reasonably well by concentrating on the road. Well worth the drive, in the end.

We took a short ferry across to the geothermal park. I could see there were going to be a lot of steps, and I prayed my knee would hold out. Luckily, there were numerous landings and terraces, and most of the steps were not steep ones.

Lots of thermal gasses, some bubbling pools, yellow and gold algae, very pretty really. More steps to get to the cave. We couldn’t go inside but impressive to look at, one of only two geothermal caves in the world. The other is in Italy.

Oh, I forgot to mention our stop in Hamilton on Thursday on our way to Taupo. We’ve been to the Hamilton gardens a few times before. I think I appreciate it more than the locals. When I mention it to my colleagues at Auckland, no one sounds very impressed. But I like it a lot.

A new garden celebrates Egypt, reminding me of a river cruise I’d scheduled a few years ago but canceled due to hip pain (I still hope to get there some day). The garden was very colorful, quite lovely, and we took several photos. We also visited the kitchen and herbal gardens, the Chinese garden, the English garden (always makes me think of a Paul McCartney song), the surreal (or fantasy) garden with huge doors and oddly shaped trees, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. We strolled briefly through the Mansfield garden, having spent time there before, where a garden party is being laid out with cakes and pies on the tennis court.

We went to the café at the Hamilton Garden, ordered coffee for Norm, mince and cheese savories for both of us, and a delicious custard muffin to share. I planned to buy another muffin to take away on our departure, but they’d sold out.

As we left Orakei Korako, we walked through their café, planning to snack there. But the café had filled up, and a lengthy queue formed. We decided to move on toward Waimangu. The tickets for the boat ride there were quite expensive, about $370 for the two of us, but we’d expected them to be. Our feet and legs were tired, so we bought the ticket that allowed us to be driven by bus to the boat pickup and returned the same way.

The lake covers the area once famous for pink and white terraces. These were quite a tourist draw in the 1800s but destroyed by a volcano in the late 1800s. We saw a few smaller terraces with traces of the salmon pink color, as well as some bright yellow ones similar to those at Orakei.

Two smaller lakes once populated the area, now subsumed into one large lake. We sat in the bow of the boat in front of the captain alongside another family. The boat just before ours had been packed with people, but we were the only five passengers on our forty-five-minute cruise. The hot sun baked down on my black jeans until I thought to cover them with the map of our journey. Much better!

Norm drove us next into the heart of Rotorua, where we parked in the Governor Gardens we remembered from previous visits. A gorgeous bed of ranunculus, replete with delicate, satin-like petals, reminded me of the ones at our daughter’s wedding, the first time I ever heard of the flower—now one of my favorites. PART III COMING SOON

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