At last, I'm back.

Here is our new home. It sits on two acres just outside the city limits of Washington KS. A couple days after we moved our furniture in, we had a lovely snow. The move was two weeks ago today. My new internet provider was activated yesterday so this is my first blog in my new home. On clear nights I can see the stars. We're still adjusting to the quiet that surrounds us. No trains, no barking dogs, no screaming neighbors. The donkey across the road brays occasionally, or a passing vehicle breaks the silence. Most sounds are softened by the thick shelter belt of pine trees that grow north of the house. Birds of every kind and color flit from tree to tree. North and east of the house and garage are wide, open fields. I wonder if the peace and quiet will inspire me?

If I were a tourist, Washington County Kansas and the small towns therein would be my preferred destination. Washington is the county seat with a courthouse presiding over the town square. Good food and plenty of it can be found in numerous restaurants, cafes and taverns. So far I've eaten at the Longhorn Bar and Grill in Washington, Our Daily Bread in Barnes KS, and Ricky's Cafe in Hanover KS. All serve generous portions of food like Grandma used to make. Northeastern Kansas is a tapestry of rivers, riparian shelter belts, rolling prairies and pastures, rocky outcroppings, and grain fields, not the flat featureless landscape tourists imagine it to be. The air is fresh, and no bluer skies exist anywhere else I know of. Meadowlark songs sound suddenly from fields. The scent of sweet clover in summer stirs on the wind. The people are friendly and open because they live, work, and thrive in clean, safe surroundings.

I was born and raised in a town twenty miles from here and my brother's family lives here, so Washington is a familiar place to me. Our new home is clean and comfortable, a very pleasant place to be so far. I'm happy to be here and back online. I switched to ATT/SBC Global DSL as my internet provider. Everyone associated with ATT/SBC -- from the folks at the other end of my telephone to the workers who came to my house -- has been helpful and kind. Life has been very good lately. May that continue.

A MOVING Testimonial.....

Every time we move, we swear it will be the last time. We pinky swear, "Never again!!" What dolts we are. Perhaps moving is the shape our spirit of adventure takes. Some people cruise to the Caribbean. Others climb mountains or bunjee jump. We move....and move and move and move and move. Eight times at last count, or is it nine? I forget.

Our soon-to-be ex-home is comfortable, peaceful and pleasant. Not "house beautiful" material but OK. When we moved the last time my one request was to have a house with two bathrooms. We have a lot of company and enjoy visitors. Two bathrooms just seemed a luxury to me. This old house has one so we and our guests made do.

Several months ago the almost ideal place materialized. We'd been looking for a small acreage for a couple years. This one has two acres just outside the city limits of a small Kansas town. The ranch style home has 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. And the huge garage has room for two vehicles AND my husband's garage sale treasures.

Within the next few days we will move our furniture and embark on our latest adventure. It's all happened too fast for me to absorb. These days I'm a slow plodder instead of the over-achieving workaholic I used to be. Slowly but gradually our new house will be turned into a peaceful, pleasant home -- one with two bathrooms!! :)

Michael Corrigan and the male grief process

Several years ago I discovered the writing of Michael Corrigan when I reviewed his book Confessions of a Shanty Irishman. I enjoyed and admired Corrigan's writing style, his use of humor and blarney, his expression of deep felt emotion at the death of the father who raised him. That first book was swiftly followed by
The Irish Connection and later by Byron. Corrigan is the quintessential Celtic writer -- gifted with a humorous take on life and blessed with the words to express himself. His writing can be playful, deadly serious, and occasionally stunning.

As sometimes happens, Corrigan and I maintained email contact after the reviews were written. As fellow writers we compared our successes and failures. I lived my rather humdrum life vicariously through him and his wife Karen and their travels to places I will never visit -- Spain, Ireland, San Francisco. The blow of losing his father, grandparents, and mother was softened, always, by Karen's joyous presence in his life. The sum of their marriage is expressed in the photo above.

On September 12 2005, Michael lost Karen to a brain aneurysm. His brief email saying Karen was in the hospital, not expected to live, chilled me to the marrow and broke my heart because I knew he had lost his anchor, his raison d'etre in life. Although we'd never met, I knew Karen and Michael Corrigan well. How could he survive the loss of his bright and shining girl, the respected business woman and activist? How could he give sorrow words in a world that had "turned black before his eyes" as Dylan said in a song?

After more than a year of solitary living, a life without Karen, Michael's introspective grief is reaching out to comfort others. He worries about men in particular because males rarely express their grief or seek the counseling they need. Weekly counseling has helped him survive the black emptiness of life without Karen. In the winter edition of an online literary journal, New Works Review, Michael Corrigan tells his story of grief and loss and reaches out to other men suffering as he is. His journey through shock, despair, and grief is beautifully written and helpful.

I encourage everyone, male and female, to read Corrigan's essay, in which he truly does "Give Sorrow Words." Karen would be so proud to know her death became a catalyst to help others. If even one person benefits from Michael's words, Karen's legacy will continue. Share the link with anyone you know who might benefit from Michael Corrigan's experience. http://www.new-works.org/9_1corrigan/sorrow.htm

Winter in the Plains of America

A friend from central Nebraska called to say the power had been out in her area since six p.m. Saturday night. Due to freezing rains followed by snow and wind, trees and limbs were down taking power lines with them. We were luckier here in southeastern Nebraska. We had slow soaking rains for a couple days with snow starting today.

When Arctic winds blow out of the North bringing snow and dangerous wind chills, I think of a story my grandma used to tell. It's one of my favorite stories, paraphrased from the book of her life, My Name is Esther Clara. It puts in perspective what little inconveniences we have today when winter winds howl around the house and snow drifts level with our porch.

In the early 1920s, Grandma and Grandpa set out from Kansas for a road construction job in Minnesota. America's roadways were sparse in those days. Cross country traveling and trucking were as rare as the roads. Americans were just beginning their love affair with motorized vehicles then, but wanted good roads to travel instead of rutted cowpaths.

Grandpa had been lured to Minnesota with the promise of good wages and "sturdy housing" if he was willing to work in winter. The phrase "sturdy housing" conjured up visions of a cozy little cabin where his family would be warm and safe. They arrived in a blizzard and were given a canvas tent to erect -- their housing for the winter -- and a small coal burning stove for heat and cooking. That they did not immediately return to Kansas is a testament to their determination, and their desperate need for decent wages.

Grandma, Grandpa, and their two toddlers spent most of that awful Minnesota winter living in a canvas tent. Wind blew so hard it ripped tears in the tent and Grandma kept the holes patched by sewing sheets over them. Her job was to get coal every morning from the company storage shed, to cook and wash their clothes by hand, and keep their kids warm. Grandpa's job was to work 12 hours a day, snow or shine, daylight or dark, in below zero wind chills to clear the woods for a roadbed. The workers got four breaks a day on schedule. Grandma kept quilts by the stove to warm her young husband at each break. She wrapped him in warm quilts, gave him coffee with milk and sugar and hot soup to heat his innards, and fed him fat sandwiches on home made bread for energy. Somehow they survived and thrived.

So today, when the snow blows and wind howls around my warm house, I'm thankful. Even if the electricity goes out, our kerosene stove is a handy source of heat and means of cooking. I don't have to patch holes in a drafty tent, and I don't have to live in the throes of winter with fragile shelter. Could I survive while roughing it today, like they did then? I doubt it. I'm two generations removed from coal stoves and life without electricity. And it's doubtful that I have their courage and resourcefulness. Modern life is a blessing that has spoiled me.

Christmas Memories Part 4

This will be the final chapter of my Christmas reminiscences. We lived in a different world when I was a child. My memories will take you back in time to an era I consider to be warmer, safer than the one we know today.

I don't have any pictures of the whole gang gathered for Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Their house was small so we had to pack ourselves into it in separate areas and the only time we were all together in one space was at mealtime. Otherwise, the women were cooking, the men out hunting or gabbing in the living room around the tree, and the children in various rooms or outside depending on the weather.

Togetherness ruled in Grandma and Grandpa's world. None of their family questioned where they would be on Christmas day. Everyone would be together, rubbing elbows in small spaces, surrounded by laughter and familiar voices.

World War Two was still a recent memory then, so Uncle Kenny Ketchell shared war stories or tales of the shell shocked veteran who lived with them. Homeless veterans were rare in those days because family or friends took them in out of respect and concern. We kids never tired of Uncle Kenny's stories, told proudly from a well of patriotism and amazing courage.

Grandpa and Uncle Don Ford took great delight in teasing and joking. No one escaped their mischief -- especially the children -- and they kept it up until Grandma silently intervened by giving them the dreaded "straight mouth." When Grandma pursed her lips together, even Grandpa hunkered down and took a break from mischief. Uncle Don was not so easily intimidated, but switched from teasing to intellectual challenges to appease Grandma.

Before we gathered for our meal, Uncle Jerome Lueers sang "Bless the House" as our family prayer. His beautiful Irish tenor voice penetrated every room from corner to corner, ceiling to floor, touching hearts and spirits. Stresses fell away and anxieties departed because his voice soothed and healed.

So many of the participants of our gladsome gatherings are gone now. I remember them with fondness today because they are a part of the tapestry that is my life: Grandma and Grandpa Ford; Mother, Verla Ford Smith; Aunt Maxine Ford Ketchell, Uncle Kenny, and their sons Randy and Keith; Uncle Jerome Lueers and daughter Nancy. I miss their presence and their gifts.

We epitomized the American family in those days, relatives who enjoyed every nuance of Christmas and made no apologies for it. We were a family who believed in God, a family that prayed together and took comfort in the Christ Child's message, who put angels on our trees and creches in our yards. This Christmas I will celebrate those times, envision those familiar faces, and fond memories will put a smile on my face. Merry Christmas!

Christmas Part Three

The old Methodist Church in Marysville Kansas was a large part of our social life back when I was a kid. Even practicing for the Sunday School Christmas play and carol sing was a thrill, back in the days before television dominated our lives. And all we Sunday School children knew that if we were good, if we played our parts and sang our carols well, Santa Claus would visit church after the Sunday service nearest Christmas.

After church, some of the people went outside to smoke. Others, ladies mostly, went downstairs to begin serving pot luck dinner. Mom and Grandma always brought fried chicken and some sort of dessert. Everything was made from scratch in those days. No KFC or deli cole slaw, no store-bought cakes or pies. Mom often made mayonnaise cake -- a rich, chocolate cake with fudge frosting. Grandma's old standby recipe was her world famous frosted molasses creams. I always made sure to sit with Grandpa. He knew ALL the best things to eat. He'd help me fill my plate, starting with Mom's or Grandma's fried chicken because he said theirs was the best. Finally, he'd say, "That oughta hold me over for awhile." That was the familiar signal to take my empty plate to the kitchen and go sit with Mom and Grandma. The most exciting part of the day was at hand. Santa Claus would soon arrive!!

The Methodist Church Santa was a tall man with twinkling blue eyes. He called all the children by name while handing out bags of candy, nuts, apples, and oranges. The genuinely happy sound of his laugh, the deep timbre of his voice, and the smell of his whiskers was comforting and familiar. When it came my turn to sit on Santa's lap and tell him my secret Christmas wishes, I wanted to snuggle in against him and take a nap. Mom always whisked me away before I could nod off.

Guess I was too young back then to realize why Santa seemed so familiar and comforting to me. Grandpa Ford was the quintessential Santa. He played his part to perfection and loved Christmas as much as any child. My grandpa loved Christmas and playing Santa almost as much as he loved me.

Christmas Part Two

I've often been told that whatever shred of creativity I have came from my mother. Mine just took a different form than hers. Mom took colorful, creative handiwork to a level beyond my capabilities. Holidays shined because of her imagination, especially Christmas.

Mom wasn't born with a silver spoon in her mouth and neither were her children, but she didn't let that lack dampen her enthusiasm. Every Christmas package she wrapped became a work of art so beautiful that even children hated to destroy her creations. No matter how mundane the content might be -- socks, overboots, even the dreaded underwear -- came packaged like the rarest treasure. She labored hours over each package. Using glue and glitter she created snow scenes with reindeer, laughing Santas, angels on heavenly clouds, baby Jesus surrounded by Mary, Joseph, wise men, shepherds, and lowing cattle. I've often wished that even one of those packages had survived intact so I could brag about her talent today. Mom's inspired art deserved to be framed and hung on my walls because I understand now that such handiwork was an extension of her love.

No Christmas season was complete without trays loaded with Mom's decorated cookies. Like her wrapped packages, cookies were transformed to high art with Mom's special touches. Flat cookies formed by cookie cutters became a three dimensional finished product. Even her four little cookie monsters hated to bite into them, at least until they'd been properly admired from every angle. Santas and reindeer, snowmen and angels took on a vibrant life of their own. Mom spent hours coloring bowls of frosting to just the right hues. My personal favorite was Frosty the Snowman, complete with gaily colored stocking hat, scarf, happy smile and carrot nose all carefully formed from frosting to accent his white roundness. My second favorite was Santa. Shredded coconut atop white frosting transformed his beard to a believable reality. Our classes at Lincoln Grade School eagerly anticipated a tray of Mom's decorated cookies each Christmas. Each cookie sat on its own paper lace doily and seemed too wonderful to eat.

One year in particular stayed firmly in my memory. Our house was heated by a warm morning stove with isinglass doors. A howling blizzard knocked out the electricity but our house stayed warm and cozy, thanks to our gas stove. Bitter winds drove temperatures down below zero. Mom bundled me up in a snow suit and sent me across the street to our neighbors, who heated with electricity, and said to tell them our house was warm if they wanted to come over. Before long our living room was packed with people, laughing and talking while their kids ran and played and jostled each other. That day had started out as cookie baking day. One tray had been completed with individual rows of Santas, angels, snowmen, and reindeer. When that tray of treasures was knocked to the floor by careless children, the entire house went silent. Then Mom cried while the neighbor ladies tried to rescue a few unbroken cookies from the fractured mess. Mom said, "No, I'll just start all over in the morning." And she did. I don't remember how long our neighbors stayed with us that day, but Mom's broken cookies were a loss that silenced all the jabber and play.

Christmas memories Part One

Yesterday was sunny and breezy, with high wispy clouds in a bright blue sky, a perfect winter day. I sat on my back porch and watched the clouds awhile, overcome with imprinted sensations from another place and time. I was a child again, bursting with excitement, walking to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Cold air bit at chubby cheeks and knees. I wanted to break loose and run, but Mother firmly held my mittened left hand. I skipped and chattered at her side, hoping Santa Claus would greet me at their door, asking Mom if Santa visited everyone or just Grandma's house. My memories of past Christmases may not be on a par with IDEALS magazine, all beautiful in their perfection, but they're mine and I want to start the season by sharing them.

In December 1945 I was three going on four. The world war was winding down, but I knew nothing about war in those days. What I DID know for certain was that Grandma's house was bright with shiny decorations and a fat cedar tree with piles of gaily wrapped packages under it. My child's mind reasoned that a fair number of those presents would be mine! I had been a very good girl, nice not naughty, so Santa surely had not forgotten me as he flew around the world with sleigh and reindeer.

Grandpa met us at the door that day, smiling ear to ear. He picked me up and swung me around the living room, then held me high so I could touch sweet Angie the Christmas Tree Angel at the top of their tree. The air inside their house was moist and fragrant with scents of a baking turkey and dressing. Piled high and colorful along the buffet in their dining room, Grandma had arranged home made cookies, pies, candy, and frosted molasses creams. Now if there was anything I loved better than presents, it was food, especially desserts. Grandpa knew that, so after he piled my coat, hat, and mittens on the bed in their back bedroom, he snuck two cookies from the pile. He had a colorfully decorated snowman and I had a reindeer. Grandpa was the absolute BEST at sneaking goodies behind Grandma's back so I learned that technique from a master.

That year Santa brought me a doctor kit, a gift I put to immediate use. Uncle Don and his friend Earl Elliott ate too much and needed doctoring. Uncle Don crashed on the couch, moaning and groaning and rubbing his full stomach. Earl sprawled on the floor beside the couch, swearing he would die at any moment. Lucky for them, a fledgling doctor/nurse was on the scene to administer emergency treatment. With the little stethoscope around my neck and a fake plastic thermomenter in my hand, I listened to their hearts and lungs and gurgling tummies, then took their temperature. Both patients lived and are still alive today as a testament to my skill in 1945. No need to thank me now, Don and Earl. I was just doing my job.

One of these days soon another memory will take hold. Stay tuned until then.

A Kurdistani nurse and me......

I've lived a rather humdrum life with only rare occasions readers would consider out of the ordinary. But recently, a wondrous and unusual opportunity presented itself in the form of a Kurdistani counterpart. A delightful woman / nurse / writer from Kurdistan emailed asking to interview me. She hoped to translate the interview into her language and submit it to regional nursing magazines and poetry journals. I'm not certain how or why she chose me after searching the web for female nurses who are also writers, but I'm so pleased she did. I do not mention this fine woman's name in my blog because I forgot to get her permission for that. She did, however, give her enthusiastic permission to write about our interview.

I'd heard of the Kurds, of course, and knew that they are a people with a rich history, culture, and roots in ancient times. Kurdistan today is a large region that covers northwestern Iran, northern Iraq, northeastern Syria, southeastern Turkey, and a portion of Armenia. At this point in time, it's a region and not a country, but Kurdistan has its own language and its own flag.

She captured and held my interest immediately with one sentence in her first interview question: "I think doctors and nurses must tenderize themselves with literature." What an amazing thought!! That one sentence opened up a dialog that freed us both to be ourselves, to talk as friends and fellow travelers, to share an honesty rare between our cultures. During our interview, we spoke of many things: our work as nurses, our love of poetry and prose, the sorrows humans of all cultures experience in times of war, our cultural differences and human similarities. She contacted me in early October 2006 and the interview ended this week.

As a free lance journalist, my Kurdistani interviewer is very skilled at framing pertinent questions and understanding her subject. She opened her heart and spirit to me, an American, and shared pieces of herself. She knows and understands our culture far better than I do hers. And now, I'm blessed with a new friend. We may live on opposite sides of the world, but our similarities as humans far outstrip our differences. The experience of knowing this woman has been a gift.

Random thoughts

I'm still giddy because a major online bookseller finally has my two Dandelion-published books for sale. The Alley of Wishes was released in 2003 and My Name is Esther Clara early in 2006. Neither had been available for purchase from that bookseller until recently. The mysterious ways of booksellers boggle the mind. Most brick and mortar bookstores don't carry my books unless I place them there on consignment, so people hoping to purchase my work must buy from the publisher, amazon.com, or me. Amazon.com has always featured all my books as soon as they're available, so I'm grateful for that.

I've mentioned Tom Parker's blog, Dispatches from Kansas, more than once. Anyone who has not been following his serialized journey to the desert southwest needs to hop on over to his blog immediately. Parker's writing style is amazing. That old Colorado country boy turned Kansan tells a compelling story. Go to http://dispatchesfromkansas.blogspot.com and read for yourself. Parker has a book out with the same name and I'm hoping a sequel will soon follow.

No one writes a humorous story better than Kansas author Max Yoho. His latest book, The Moon Butter Route, received the Kansas Notable Book Award for 2006. What exactly is moon butter? Well, think delicious fresh-churned butter blended with moonshine and other tasty ingredients. If you think Kansas and Kansans are boring, Max Yoho's characters will convince you otherwise. You may even want to MOVE to Kansas for the fun.

The Christmas season is upon us. Just in case book lovers on your list are bored with the same old formulaic books, maybe it's time to think outside the New York Times bestseller list and go for hidden gold with a book by Tom Parker or Max Yoho.

Laura Sanow, HELLO!!

I was so pleased to see your post about the Sanows. But I wish you had left your email address so I could communicate with you. Next time you visit my blog, please leave your email address. I'd love to meet more of the Lawrence Sanow and August Sanow relatives.

My trip to Iowa in October was a wonderful experience. I got to see the Sanow homeplace and take pictures of it, and met some really nice relatives. Wish you could have been there.

Stay in touch. We can swap Sanow stories.

Drum Roll Please.......

Did you miss me? Were you bored with my blog about agents and publishers? Well, you'll have to take the bitter with the sweet. I'll try to redeem myself today. Today's info is sweet because a couple pleasant happenings occured in my world.

First, this past week I discovered my two Dandelion-published books are now available on Barnes and Noble website. The Dandelion edition of The Alley of Wishes was published in 2003 and has never been available for purchase on barnesandnoble.com. My Name is Esther Clara was released in January 2006 and was also unavailable....until recently. I can't explain why BN did not make them available when first released. That's one of life's writing related mysteries. But I'm happy they're available now and grateful to my publisher for making that unexpected miracle happen.

Second, we may be moving soon. We've moved many times in the last 40 years and swear that each time will be the last. Moving is not an easy task and gets less easy, less an adventure, the older we get. Still, if all goes as planned we will be moving to another town soon. I'll keep you informed as we progress.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Agent and publisher queries

Several writers contacted me in recent weeks hoping I could advise them on either agent or publisher queries or both. Most writers I know consider finding a reputable agent and "name" publisher necessities. Unfortunately, I'm not much help in that arena.

Twenty-five years ago I had a New York agent who snagged a reading for an early version of The Alley of Wishes with Knopf. For reasons I won't go into here, that placement was not pursued to final acceptance or rejection. When I revised TAOW early in the 21st century, I queried Knopf. Their reply was swift and professional. I received a small manila envelope containing my query, uopened, and a letter explaining their action: Due to the threat of anthrax prevalent at that time, Knopf was not opening unsolicited mail. So I self-published TAOW and several months later Dandelion Books asked to re-publish it. I happily agreed.

I've never queried a New York publisher since. Dandelion published My Name is Esther Clara, also, and I'm thankful for that blessing.

In the last six years, I've queried two agents. Both read the first two chapters of TAOW and gave two different critiques. One agent took a pass, said I TOLD her about the characters instead of SHOWING them. The other agent said I did a wonderful job of SHOWING her the characters, but since the book did not fit into any particular genre niche, she had to take a pass.

So there you have it in a nutshell, writers and readers, why I'm a poor one to advise anyone on agents and New York publishers. Between writing, reading books for review, and living a normal everyday life, I don't have the time, energy, or patience for such games. It isn't rejection I fear, it's wasting months of precious time.

Every person has different goals and dreams. I write my books for reasons that have nothing to do with money or fame so the way I've chosen to publish my books works well for me. My way is not acceptable to writers who prefer the New York route to publication. Whichever way you choose, good luck!!

Surprise, surprise......

The gas prices that had dropped so dramatically before the election jumped a dime after the election. At least that's what happened in my neck of the woods. I doubt if the price increase will stop with a dime.

Maybe the increase in gasoline today is an amazing coincidence. Maybe the decrease in prices before the election was another coincidence.

Maybe I'm just too suspicious.

No Paris Breakfasts, but.......

"Paris Breakfasts" is the blog of the day today. I thought, well crap. I've never had breakfast in Paris KY, let along THE Paris. But every life is different. What may seem mundane to some brings joy to others. Two major holidays are fast upon us and my mind is taking me back through several decades, remembering.

I'm old enough now to look back on the past with fondness. The mind is an amazing instrument. Some memories hide behind doors, just waiting to be accesssed so they can dance through my thoughts again. Five generations have been carefully stored behind those doors.

Great grandparents were an important part of my life as a child. Nearly every Sunday after church, Grandma and Grandpa Ford, Mom, and her four urchins piled into the car and headed for Frankfort, Kansas to visit Grandpa's parents. A mob of great aunts and uncles and second cousins ate, played, gabbed, argued politics, and pranked each other for several hours. In the middle of all this activity, Great Grandma sat quietly observing while Great Grandpa joked and teased the children. They've been gone for more than fifty years but they still live, tucked away in my memory banks. Once they were young, dreaming of what life would be when their kids came along, now they're a part of my history.

My maternal grandparents were almost like parents to me. I grew from infancy to adulthood with them nearby, correcting or encouraging in tandem with my mother. I am who I am as a person today, in part, because of their influence. They lived in a very small house, but every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas is memorable because of them. When their four children and fifteen grandchildren packed themselves into that tiny space, bedlam reigned. All it took to bring instant silence to the place was Grandma or Grandpa saying one word or pointing one index finger at the gang. I miss those days of family togetherness, and the food at Grandma's house was at least as good as anything in Paris, France. That's what I imagine anyway.

Mother, grandparents, several aunts and uncles, and two cousins have gone to glory. That's sad and I miss them, but they still live in the passages of my mind. Mostly I allow them to be young and vibrant, laughing and telling stories about their youth. Or sometimes I envision them playing cutthroat games of pinochle after dinner. Families used to do such things before football games on television or other exotic pursuits took precedence. Can you imagine it? And I'm old enough to remember those times, if only in memories.

Kansas Authors Club

I'm a native Kansas author currently living in Nebraska. A few weeks ago, Carol Yoho suggested I become a member of the Kansas Author Club. (I mistakenly believed a writer had to be a Kansas resident to join KAC.) Carol is website manager for KAC, a woman who treats her webmistress responsibilities with loving detail. Their website is visually attractive and easy to navigate.

Two of the KAC programs, especially, appeal to me: Writers in the Community and Writers in the Schools. These two programs work hand-in-glove with Kansas Center for the Book programs, in which writers reach out into the community.

Literacy is a pet concern of mine because reading and writing impacted my life as a young child. When I was five, just learning to read and write, Mother gave me Golden Books and fairy tales to read and often read them with me. She put a Big Chief tablet and a fistful of pencils in my hands and suggested I write stories or poems for her. Even at that tender age, I was a dreamer, spinning imaginary tales in my head. Mom's encouragement to read and write nurtured a creative spark in me that continues today. The reading and writing of poetry and prose has been a faithful companion through every sad and joyful moment of my life. Reading opened new worlds and realities for me when I was young. That benefit has continued to this day.

I believe reading and journaling can change lives in positive ways. One doesn't have to be a world class writer or scholar to reap the benefits. Transforming the jumble of thoughts in our heads into words on paper can free us from sorrow over time, or bring vibrant life to our joys. Writers can be the flint that strikes a spark of enjoyment for reading or expressing through words in others. That's literacy at its finest in my opinion.

Long story short, I'm thankful to Carol Yoho for encouraging me to join KAC. Many gifted Kansas writers are members so I'm in good company. Check out their website at www.kansasauthors.org. Maybe some day you'll see my name associated with a program in a school, a nursing home, or a public meeting, extolling the benefits of reading and writing in a chaotic modern world.

the sweet, sour, and bitter of it.....

This morning I'm running vinegar through my coffee pot and thinking about politics. If only mean spirited political advertisements could be as easily dispatched as the lime in the inner workings of my coffee maker!

One ad in my state shows all the African animals a candidate killed on safari. Another features a candidate running, running, running on a narrow highway, up hills and down, trying to escape the fact that he's "gone Washington." Some use humor to soften the rhetoric, others shock my sensibilities so harshly and thoroughly I'm queasy after viewing them. Candidates for higher office admittedly spend millions of their own money and more millions from political contributions for these ads. When they discuss the problems concerning voters, all make the same big promises that never seem to get addressed once they reach office.

Who can we believe? More than one candidate has gone to Washington with stars in their eyes and the determination to make a difference, only to discover it ain't that easy once they get there. Political gamesmanship must be learned and practiced like a pro to reach their goals.

A friend told me recently that the problem with us -- citizens of the U.S. -- is that we want something for nothing and our checks for free. (Yes, she was quoting a popular song.) I don't believe that's true of the majority. If it were true, we would not be the richest nation on earth and politicians would not have a trillion dollar budget to juggle. So here are the concerns I have for any politician seeking office this year or next. And none of them have anything to do with safaris, how much land they own, or how many taxes they pay:

• why is it that we can't afford as a country to raise minimum wage but we CAN afford to raise YOUR wages?
• why is it that social security is going bust after being used for decades for spending projects other than what it was intended? Is it, perhaps, because Washington politicians have their own retirement plan that pays far better than Social Security, regardless of how long or how short your political career has been?
• why the cuts each year to federal health care plans, such as Medicare and VA care? Can it be because politicians at the federal level have their own special health care plan firmly in place and don't have to pay a dime for anything? Not even a small co-pay?
• why are wars a higher priority than health care, education, and infrastructure? It seems to me that the national budget should be like my own. Financial responsibilities have priority. Then if anything is left over, outside interests can be pursued. If my house, yard, and car are falling apart, that's my fault. If our schools, roads, and health care system are deteriorating, that's your fault because you've sent too much money out of this country.

We live in a wonderful country and I'm thankful to be a citizen. I take my right to vote seriously but I'm not sure any more whether votes have an effect on what happens in Washington. Still, I keep hoping with every election that my doubts will be proven wrong. Wouldn't that be sweet?

Part 2 -- Remsen and Marcus Iowa

My trip to Iowa was delightful in every way. First, I must mention the scenery. I've mentioned several times on my blog that people are mistaken to imagine Kansas and Nebraska as flat, featureless, and boring. The same can be said for Iowa. For miles past Council Bluffs, travelers see high plateaus and bluffs topped by hardwood forests. The poet in me imagined the Native Indian watch fires atop those bluffs in ages past. Bluffs along the Missouri River are easily as tall as many of the worn down mountains in the Appalachian chain. Iowa is blessed with fertile valleys and rolling hills, where corn grows in fields far as eye can see and sleek cattle graze along the roadsides.

My friend and I stayed at the Frontier Motel in Remsen. Remsenites say the Frontier has been there as long as they can remember. It is not fancy, but is clean and comfortable at $28 per double occupancy, and is within easy walking distance of an excellent restaurant, The Golden Pheasant. We chose Remsen as our home base because Marg Sanow and her uncle Dale Sanow live there, a town of about 1400 people.

My friend said she'd never eaten so often or so well as we did in Remsen. We had the absolute best pizza EVER at Greg's Pizza and Grill, made from scratch on site. We had a whopping big and delicious breakfast at Ruth's Cafe. If you ever eat there, order the breakfast sausages. OH YUM!! And one day we had a generous lunch at The Remsen Cafe. Dale fed us broasted chicken and potato wedges one evening from Mrs. B's, and cooked spaghetti sauce from scratch another night to top his perfectly al dente pasta. Grandma Esther Clara often said, "We Sanows like our grub." That appreciation has been carried down through several generations, and the food we had in Remsen was exceptional.

Friday night, Marg hosted a gathering of Sanow descendents in the basement meeting room of The Happy Siesta Health Care Center, where her mother resides. We Sanows snarfed ham and cheese sandwiches, pickles, chips, and cake while we gabbed a mile a minute and exchanged information. I was thrilled to meet so many relatives in one spot and only wish I had had longer to visit. But now I am armed with names, addresses, and emails so I can keep in contact with branches of Grandma's family.

Saturday, Don Sanow, another long lost relative, bought our breakfast at the Marcus truck stop -- good food, cooked to order. After our tummies were full, he took us on a driving tour so we could see Grandma's home place memorialized in My Name is Esther Clara. Much has changed in the years since the Sanows lived there, but seeing the place, walking the same ground they walked a hundred years ago, was a bittersweet experience for me. From there, Don drove us to the cemetery where Ma and Pa Sanow and several of their older children are buried. The last thing on his agenda was to show us Marcus, a town roughly the size of Remsen. Main street looks much like it did when Grandma was a girl, lined with stone and brick buildings built to last. Marcus has its own home-owned ethanol plant, a huge operation that awed us all with its size.

Later we visited Lois Krekow, the woman who originally put me in touch with Marg Sanow. I wanted to thank her in person for her kindness. Lois is on the Marcus Library board and read my post searching for Sanow relatives on the Marcus Iowa Blog. She and her husband live in a comfortable home in the country outside Marcus.

Sunday, suddenly, the visit ended and it was time to head home. Whether relative or non-relative, the people in Marcus and Remsen were friendly and helpful. I need to thank them all in writing, but will also thank them here, for making my visit pleasant and memorable. I miss everyone who lives in that pristine Iowa valley.

Marcus and Remsen Iowa

Next week I'll be visiting my grandma's birth place, Marcus Iowa. Regular readers and fans know that Grandma's life began on a farm near Marcus. Early chapters in My Name is Esther Clara feature that farm, Grandma's family, and the town of Marcus itself.

Grandma and Grandpa returned to Iowa regularly for visits, funerals, and family gatherings. Many Sanow relatives lived in Remsen. One of my happiest memories as a teenager is of a visit made to Remsen with Grandma and Grandpa. It's been decades since I visited there. All of Grandma's generation are gone now, and many of my mother's generation, but my generation and younger are very much alive and still kicking.

After my maternal grandparents died, I lost track of the Sanow relatives. I'm looking forward to meeting long lost relatives and renewing family ties. Stay tuned for a report when I return.

www.marcusiowa.com and www.remseniowa.net will tell you a bit about the area I'll be visiting. Marcus has it's own blog, which I'll place on my blogroll. http://marcusiowa.blogspot.com is that URL.

Kansas Book Celebration in Wichita KS

Is literacy really on the skids today? Evidently not in Wichita KS Friday and Saturday, September 29 and 30. When this first ever celebration of books, authors, the Arts, and Kansas heritage was scheduled, I wondered what the outcome would be. I don't have to wonder anymore because I saw the proof with my own eyes. Kansans, at least, value books, writers, the arts, and their heritage in great numbers.

Wichita author, Nancy Mehl, and I arrived at Lawrence Dumont Stadium on Friday to a crowd of several thousand people. While picking my way through the crowd, I noticed:

• school children engaged in rapt conversations with writers;
• adults in electric wheelchairs scooting from one tent to another;
• people of all ages buying books from vendors;
• TV, newspaper, and radio crews filming, photographing, or interviewing writers and vendors.

Kansas Governor Kathleen Sibelius kicked off the celebration which had been carefully planned by the Governor's Cultural Affairs Council and Kansas Center for the Book. A diverse group of authors spoke to attentive crowds in large tents. Topics included everything from the archeological history of Kansas to the cowboy life to fiction about American Indians.

Visitors to the event on Saturday demonstrated the same enthusiasm. Independent Book Store vendors seemed to be doing a brisk business selling books. Despite temps in the nineties, crowds fanned themselves while writers entertained them with stories from and about their books. An impressive array of sponsors, writers, entertainers, and vendors pulled off this two-day celebration without a noticeable hitch.

Enhancing this already exciting experience, I was privileged to socialize and break bread with a few of my favorite people. Wichita author Nancy Mehl provided transportation around the city and introduced me to a few new restaurants. We were privileged to have dinner with Tom and Lori Parker Friday night, lunch with Max and Carol Yoho on Saturday, and dinner with Todd and Cheryl Hunter Saturday night. Visiting with a few of my favorite writers was a bonus! (Max's book, The Moon Butter Route, was one winner of the Kansas Notable Book award. Tom's book, Dispatches from Kansas, and Nancy's book, Malevolence, were Notable Book nominees.) I also got to gab briefly with one of my favorite independent bookstore owners -- Stormy Kennedy of Claflin Books in Manhattan, KS -- and to meet Kansas Center for the Book Director, Roy Bird.

Today that weekend celebration is history. I returned home with fond memories of the experience and look forward to next year.