What I'm Reading

This past week I've received several similar emailings from people concerned that our friends in Washington have a plan to control the internet. Internet search engines are one focus and for some reason, Google was singled out in the emails I received. Except for checking the weather, reading blogs, and monitoring a handful of favorite sites -- all of which I've listed in my links here -- I don't do much surfing or searching. Now, I fully understand why politicians might want to protect children from internet predators or monitor sites that might result in loss of human life. But with all the other problems in this country, I can't for the life of me figure out why our elected servants worry about which search engine or phone company or ISP we use.

I read one blog maintained at a personal website because I admire the writer's style. www.elburton.com/blog is the URL to Eric Burton's mostly political blog. Burton is a news junkie who examines the issues and writes about them honestly from his point of view as a citizen and taxpayer. I'm not surprised that these daily blogs are often picked up by newspapers in his area for op ed pieces because they're well and thoughtfully written. Burton sometimes labels his blogs rants, but I find them to be informative and a lot more even handed than the news stories I watch.

As a book reviewer, I'm privileged to read books that might not be best sellers but are excellent just the same. Many books I read for review are just as good or better than those on the New York Times best seller list. Today I'll give a brief thumbnail of recent standout reads.

The Revival by Max Yoho is delightful. Max Yoho is the King of charming humor. In my experience as both reader and reviewer, he has no equal. My grins, chuckles, and outright guffaws started in the first paragraph of The Revival. And Yoho's humor is not politically correct, which only adds to his appeal as writer and storyteller. This story of revival week in rural Kansas of the 1950s, with the Methodists and Holy Rollers competing for souls, is just downright hilarious. You can find Yoho's books on Amazon, or at www.dancinggoatpress.com.

For those who love poetry, Chopin's Piano by Charles Ades Fishman is amazing. ALL of Fishman's poetry is amazing, but this book might be his best yet. No modern poet shares his essence with greater generosity than Charles Fishman. His spirit burns with rage and grieves with inexpressible sorrow; this book is glorious and beautiful, haunting and horrifying. Every place humans starve, burn, or wither, Fishman's heart is there. You can find Charles Fishman's work on Amazon or at his publisher's website, www.timebeing.com.

I'm still reading The Passion of Mary Magdalen by Elizabeth Cunningham. This one may already be a best seller. The book has more than 600 pages and I've devoured every page. The premise is that Celtic princess Maeve Rhuad and young stranger Yeshua -- Jesus of Nazareth -- are lovers in youth and love each other passionately throughout their lives. Characters include numerous biblical icons -- Mary mother of Jesus, John the Baptist, the twelve apostles for example -- presented as they might have been in everyday life. Bible-believing Christians will reject this fictional story because every character, including Jesus, has feet of clay in various ways. But the lost years of Jesus not examined in the Bible are accounted for here. This book is surprising, touching and tender so far in its portrayal of devotion between God's Son and a woman forced into slavery and prostitution by the Romans.

That's enough for now. In the near future I hope to read Dispatches from Kansas by Tom Parker. His blog of the same name is exceptional and listed in my blog links. Parker's book is available on Amazon so I will order it there OR maybe schmooze him into trading books with me. Stay tuned.

The Wolves I Feed

Ahem. Gentle nudges have come my way recently via cyberspace, hinting that I mention poetry in my blog but never post a poem. Actually, I promise THOUGHTS on prose and poetry, but guess I can be brave and post a poem. I've been working on a book of poetry for a long time now "by spells and spurts" as Mother used to say -- taking my time. The Wolves I Feed is the working title, taken from an old Cheyenne parable in which an elder teaches children that the wolf they feed becomes strongest. That is, whether they feed hate, anger, envy, and cruelty or love, forgiveness, joy, and kindness, that part of them grows and thrives. Like most humans, I've occasionally fed the wrong wolves and my poetry reflects that. This book of poetry may never be published. In truth, my poetry is raw and undisciplined, but to satisfy those wishing for samples of my work, I've chosen one that's had positive comments from critics. This poem originally appeared in The Nisqually Delta Review:

Clear-Cut

Today my memory celebrates
low rolling ancient mountains folded
in upon themselves, fog fingers rising,
swirling, creeping through the hollers
in a dance primordial. My first vision
of those wild Kentucky mountains
haunts me. Back then my heart and expectations
changed, expanded to absorb the sight
of fog and forested granite wonders.

Skin remembers that first misty baptism.
Ears recall the sound of dripping branches
in the forest, nose breathes the scent of leaves decaying
underfoot. And there was silence broken
only by the muffled sound of squirrels seeking
walnuts and birds skittering from limb to limb.
Deep in the woods the sounds of motors
or a din of human voices couldn't penetrate.
Spirits walked the forests. I could feel them.

We can't go back except in fragments
of fond memory. The mountains have been gashed
and dynamited into gravel, making way for modern
roads. And those insulating forests
are no longer havens for the fog, the birds
and squirrels or me. They've been leveled,
clear-cut, eliminated, leaving an open wound
upon the mountain that even time,
my prayers, or hope can't heal.

History and book signings

Back when he was a young husband, my grandpa worked as a laborer building roads in Minnesota. He and Grandma Esther Clara had two children by then. Those of you who regularly read my blog know they lived in a raggedy tent through a harsh Minnesota winter while Grandpa helped build those roads.

Grandpa was in Iowa, working as a hired hand and sparking Grandma in 1914 when the Great White Way was built in Kansas. Highway 9, which passes through Grandpa's home town of Frankfort KS, was the Kansas portion of the Great White Way and stretched from Chicago to Colorado Springs. The inaugural run of this dusty winding highway was May 1914. This year on May 13, that run will be re-enacted on a modern highway instead of dirt and gravel. You can read all about the planned celebration in Lori Parker's blog found at http://kswhiteway.blogspot.com.

The Frankfort Kansas Public Library invited me to do a book signing for My Name is Esther Clara as a part of the celebration. I'm excited about this honor because I spent many happy times in Frankfort as a child, swam and played in the park there, enjoyed visiting my great grandparents and other real life characters in the book. If you live anywhere near Frankfort, Atchison, Concordia, or points in between, consider joining in the re-enactment -- which ends at the city park in Frankfort -- and come see me at the library. You don't even have to buy a book. Just stop by and say hello.

Networking is a wonderful thing. At some future time, not yet decided, I'll do a reading and signing at the Blue Rapids Mercantile in Blue Rapids Kansas. Tom and Lori Parker own the Mercantile. Both have interesting blogs listed in my links or discussed here or both. Grandma and Grandpa had many friends in Blue Rapids at one time, and visited the cemeteries there every Decoration Day. I'll be so pleased to take their story with me to Frankfort and Blue Rapids.

Stay tuned for full reports of both adventures.

A Husker from "OZ" travels cyberspace

How does a native Kansan, now living in Nebraska, travel the highways and byways of cyberspace without a net? How did I find myself in England, Germany, Italy, Israel, Australia, and zoom across time zones without jet lag? I got my first computer in 1995 but only recently discovered many of the wonders available to me. Maybe I'm just slow on the uptake.

I've always wanted to visit Australia. A writer, teacher, wife and mom -- Maureen McMahon -- made that visit possible. You'll find me listed under "Ask the Experts", along with dozens of other writers, reviewers, publicists on her website: www.maureenmcmahon.com. Maureen has enough helpful information available on her site to keep you busy for several days. I connected with Maureen via Fran Silverman, a writer from New York. Fran's helpful newsletter boasts 1500 subscribers -- writers, publicists, publishers, editors, ghost writers and book coaches from around the world. Fran's website is www.bookpromotionnewsletter.com.

A recent blog described my interview at WPSU-TV in Pennsylvania. After that program aired, it was available in streaming video on their website. Curious friends and colleagues in England, Arizona, and Germany watched that streaming video on their home computers. For a decidedly UNphotogenic woman like myself, the thought that anyone anywhere saw my interview is scary, but I'm grateful for the opportunity.

When The Alley of Wishes second edition was released by Dandelion Books, it was featured at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Germany and The Israeli Book Fair. My mind boggled, knowing a book I wrote was featured in such diverse parts of our world.

Cyberspace has been very good to this old country girl. Not only have I been around the world and back without leaving the comforts of home, but I'm BLOGGING!! So when I wax eloquent about the past and wishing I could see Earth as it was before modern technology took over, just bear with me. Even if visiting the past were possible, I'd still want to email you or write a blog about it.

back from my Nebraska Sandhills adventure....

This past week I attended a nursing retreat in North Platte NE. I'd never visited North Platte or seen the Sandhills so really enjoyed the vistas. Nebraska is not flat and featureless, as many people imagine in other parts of the country. The terrain is diverse and often spectacular, especially at sunrise and sunset when changing light creates shadows of gold, rose or purple on rolling prairies, sand dunes, or rocky outcroppings. That hills of sand can support wild flowers and prairie grasses seemed impossible to me, until I saw them with my own eyes. Today, cattle graze the sandhills grasses, but my imagination took me back two hundred years when only indigenous tribes, buffalo, antelope, and game of every kind inhabited the region. No fences, just grass and rolling dunes into the horizon in all directions would have greeted human eyes, with wind, rustling grass, and birdsongs the only sounds. Riparian woodlands thrive along each small creek and river winding through the sandhills. Any one who thinks Nebraska is flat and treeless should see these hardwood forests growing in the prairie grasslands.

This time of year the sandhills cranes return to their ancient home along the Platte River. They feed in corn stubble and shelter in trees growing along the Platte. The weather turned cold and snowy during my trip so I didn't get to see the cranes in their natural state. They huddled in the corn stubble, hunkered down against the gusting winds, so I couldn't see how large they are while walking.

The Sandhills Convention Center in North Platte hosted the nursing retreat, which was sponsored by the Good Samaritan Society. If you are ever in Nebraska and near North Platte, the Convention Center is beautiful, peaceful, and pleasantly appointed. The rooms were clean, the food great. My stay there was a joy. I've lived in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky and visited the mountains of central Pennsylvania, both beautiful. But I was born and raised in the plains of Kansas and Nebraska. If you've never visited the sandhills or the central plains, you're in for a pleasant surprise. Open your spirit to vistas that look much the same today as they did 200 years ago.

Lan Samantha Chang and other thoughts

If you haven't heard of Lan Samantha Chang, she's the new Director of the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her credentials are exceptional and include two works of fiction published by W.W. Norton. I read the Q & A with Ms. Chang and Poets & Writers Doug Diesenhaus with interest, and was especially impressed by one quote:

"The best writing reveals the texture and the depth of the consciousness that wrote it..."

Occasionally, while reading poetry and prose for review, the author's heart and spirit shines through so clearly that their words stun me to silence. With rare exceptions, most of the books I review are by un-famous poets and writers. But being unknown does not mean their writing is inferior. Far from it. Excellent writers and poets who are unknown simply have not been effectively promoted, have not found an agent, or have been rejected out of hand by A-List publishers who are looking for another Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, John Grisham, et al. So I was pleased to see that quote from the Director of one of the most prestigious writing workshops in the world. Now if a few writers I know could just attend the Iowa Workshop.............

See, I avoided shameless self-promotion this time!! But I do want to warn those who follow my blog that I will be gone for nearly a week. I'll be absent from the internet from April 5th through 11th so I hope none of my faithful following have withdrawal. I shall return.

Firestorm!!

I WAS ONLY KIDDING FOLKS!!

In yesterday's blog when I ended by saying I would give things some "balanced thought" and get back to you, that was supposed to be a tongue-in-cheek hint -- like when Grandpa used to say he'd chalk it up to the dust and let the rain settle it.

Based on the emails I received in the past 24 hours, my tongue-in-cheek humor didn't hit the mark. Readers in UK wished to see the "shitehawk" that called my book shlock publicly shredded. A fan in Germany stands ready to do battle if I stop writing. Others were less kind, making certain anatomical reference to the person in question and the horse they rode in on. A writer in Arizona sternly took me to task for even considering rewriting my book. Aston and Joshua posted encouraging comments to my blogs.

It's comforting to know my fan base -- although small -- is loyal and vocal. For their reassurance I will state emphatically that my books will remain as written. The Grass Dance, The Alley of Wishes, and My Name is Esther Clara say exactly what I wanted them to say when I wrote them. The poetry book publisher has gone out of business so my poems in Color of Laughter, Color of Tears may eventually find their way into a new book. Otherwise, unless Knopf or St. Martin's buy the rights for my books from the current publishers for big bucks and subsequently ask for editorial changes -- a MOST unlikely scenario -- my books will remain as they are.

So I did give that criticism of The Grass Dance some balanced thought and came up with exactly what I said today in this blog. I will NOT be rewriting my books. But in the meantime I need to work on broadening my humor, take lessons from Letterman or Leno maybe.

Thanks for the kind words, all of you who appreciate my writing and support me as a friend or colleague.

A new accomplishment: Schlockmeister

I like to keep a balanced view of everything because, in my life anyway, there are no absolutes. Good mixes in with bad on a daily basis. Love can't always be moonlight and roses. Life has its extremes. This is true whether you are a nurse, a writer, an icon of industry, or a plumber.

My balance sheet for 40 years as a nurse, for example, would be mostly positive. But mixed in with the compliments would be the enraged gentleman who told me, "You're so effing dumb you couldn't put out a fire on your ass with both hands and a fire hose!" That incident was 30 years ago and I've forgotten many of my experiences, but not that man, his words, or how he looked screaming at me in the Emergency Room entrance.

As a writer I joke about "shameless self promotion" but the truth is that tooting my own horn is hard for me. When presented with golden opportunities to promote myself, I usually fall short. Glowing reviews of my poetry and prose are privately savored. I'm pleased when other writers ask me to host retreats so they can learn to write in my style. When a critic says, "Her poetic words flow seamlessly, creating a story of incredible depth." I'm thankful and file that away for future reference. And when someone says of my first book, The Grass Dance, that it's "the worst schlock I've ever read" I give that statement considerable thought.

What is schlock? An online dictionary says schlock is inferior goods or literature. So if my book is the worst schlock that person ever read, that makes me a schlockmeister, right?

Could it be that The Grass Dance really is schlock? If I could rewrite it today, would it be a better book now than it was when published in 2001? Hmmm. I'll give this some balanced thought and get back to you.

Writers LOVE publicity!!

It's been awhile since I've posted here. A couple of my faithful readers gave me gentle hell about that. Sorry, but I've been meeting myself coming and going, meeting deadlines and making road trips.

OH publicity!! I tried to insert a smiley but could not figure out how to make it work. :) Copy and paste was not effective.

Unknown writers like me rarely enjoy even tiny bits of publicity. Thanks to several nice FANS, I have some better-than-average publicity going for me.

Thursday March 30 I will be featured on WPSU TV and their evening program Pennsylvania Inside Out. The interviewer, Patty Satalia, and the technical staff did a beautiful job of promoting me and my latest book. Several of you have asked if this program will be featured on national public broadcasting stations. No, WPSU broadcasts through most of Pennsylvania and a small corner of New York but not across the country. Sorry folks. Check them out at http://wpsu.psu.edu. This TV appearance is related to My Name is Esther Clara.

April 6 and 7 I will attend a nursing retreat in North Platte NE. I've never been to North Platte so will be excited to see new territory. Attendees will be Directors of Nursing and Nurse Managers employed by the Good Samaritan Society. Each will receive a copy of the Cup of Comfort for Nurses anthology. These anthologies are best selling books of inspiration and comfort. A short story of mine appears in the one for nurses. Thanks to another FAN, I'm privileged to be a featured speaker at the retreat.

Finally, something wonderful happened this past week. A favorite writer of mine, MAX YOHO and his wife CAROL, suggested I contact the Director of Kansas Center for the Book. The KCFB Director, Roy Bird, is helpful and encouraging, quite excited about the KCFB goal of encouraging Kansans to read for pleasure. The programs in place are numerous and I suggest you check their website at www.kcfb.info to learn more about them. The part related to me is the Notable Book Award. Twenty books are chosen each year as notable books, each written by a Kansas author OR content related to Kansas in some way. Since I am a Kansas native, and My Name is Esther Clara features various locations in Kansas prominently, I qualify for nomination. Now I understand that out of heaven-only-knows how many books nominated, my book has only an outside chance of being chosen as a Notable Book, but it sure has been a thrill to be considered.

So here is my heartfelt public "THANK YOU" to the fans who opened these DOORS and made this publicity possible: Don and Carol Ford and TV personality Patty Satalia in State College PA; Eldeen Watson of the Nebraska Good Samaritan Society; Max and Carol Yoho and Roy Bird of Kansas.

Check out Max Yoho's books at www.dancinggoatpress.com. I've read them all and his writing style is exceptional.

Why does Laurel Johnson write?

Readers, writers, and my tiny fan base have asked me why I write. What drove a retired Registered Nurse to write novels, short stories, and poetry? This is my answer.

One cold November day in 1981, life changed for me. My thought processes radically shifted when I saw the orange-sized mass growing on the underside of my mother's breast. Just as she had coexisted with violence and sorrow in her marriage – with hopeless resignation -- my Mother had silently and stoically allowed a vicious cancer to metastasize.

In my head and heart the horror of that moment halted and reversed the progression of time. I became a frightened child again, hiding out in the alley where my mother couldn't see me. The alley was where I cried, wished, and prayed for a new life for Mother and her kids, where I trembled and vomited when Dad had been particularly drunk or violent. I relived everything from age three until I had arrived back at that horrible morning in November. I knew my mother would die without knowing what life could be with a man who did not batter flesh and crush dreams. She was a hopeless romantic who would die without ever knowing tenderness or romance.

I'd always had a good vocabulary and a "way with words." Mother had encouraged my writing of poems and short stories in childhood, but adulthood had ended all thoughts of creative writing. Desperate for a means of venting rage and horror, I began to write around the time Mother was recuperating from her mastectomy. I wrote to create a new reality for her. I wrote so she could figuratively travel and experience a devoted lover's sweetness.

I say The Alley of Wishes is a fictional allegory, a blending of my mother's life and my thoughts. Yes, an alley figures prominently in the book, but love blossoms and thrives in my fictional alley. A vicious monster bullies and brutalizes but is not allowed to permanently rob a loving woman of her essence. Best of all, I created for my mother the lover she should have had in life. A man can be flawed without losing humanity or tender feelings. Large work-rough hands can ease sorrow, create beauty, or enhance sexual pleasure. It is possible for the explosive expression of physical passion to coexist with unconditional love. These were the gifts I gave Mother through my writing.

That was 1981. My mother died in 1984 without ever reading that book and here it is two decades later. What happened to The Alley of Wishes in that interim? For most of those years it lay dormant in a friend's closet, forgotten and abandoned. No, I didn't have writer's block, just forgot about writing and the book itself. In 2001 I wrote a memoir that included the awful time while my mother was ill and dying. The time was right to get that off my chest and move on. Strangely, that first book did not completely purge the residual pain I felt from her loss. More remained to be said, with imagined endings to create for my mother in her absence. So I tackled The Alley of Wishes again.

As a writer, I create much like the farmer / warrior / lover / artist Beck Sanow, the book's main character. Words explode to life on paper instead of on canvas with paint. I finessed and revised the original manuscript for a year or more. As an unknown writer, I knew there was small chance of gaining the attention of an agent or publisher and I did not have the heart or energy to face innumerable rejections. The most important goal for me was to have this fictional story I wrote for my mother in print, to hold in my hands. I self-published through 1stBooks, an expense I could not afford but felt necessary. Less than two months after the book was released through 1stBooks, Carol Adler of Dandelion Books asked to see the manuscript. She saw in it what I had hoped the world would see, a love story unlike anything most readers have experienced.

My purging is not complete. There are fictional allegories simmering still, waiting to become prose. If I can find the time and energy, more such books will follow. The stories, characters, and locations will be different but the message will continue to be for my mother. Unconditional love is possible if the right people connect. Sexual passion can be pure and free of wounds. Decency and devotion can exist between lovers. Life CAN have happy endings and does not have to be a nightmare of physical, mental, and emotional violence. I am the living proof of that last statement. I have gone from battered child to troubled adult to successful writer. No, I'm not a well-known author with best selling books, but four have been written and published to my satisfaction and that is success to me.

Prospect Hill Cemetery and other wonders.....

My youth was spent on mundane pursuits, most of which I can't remember now. My siblings, the neighbor kids, and I splashed barefoot through puddles after a rain. We picked dandelion, poppy, and rose bouquets for our mothers. Reading library books and listening to the radio each evening provided exotic worlds to visit through words and sound. But I can't remember ever noticing the beautiful sights around me. That came when I was older, much older, and wearied by the sad predicabilities of life.

Yesterday I visited what has to be one of the most awesome spots in Kansas, Prospect Hill Cemetery near Blue Rapids, Kansas. Early pioneers surely chose this isolated place for the peaceful vistas spanning miles around the cemetery. A brisk, biting wind froze hands and cheeks and soughed through ancient pine trees as we laid our friend to rest on Prospect Hill. Such winds are common in the plains and carry with them scents and spirits not present anywhere else on earth. Prairie winds howl down from the north in winter, roar in from the southwest in summer, stir gently through native grasses and trees in season. In childhood I can't recall loving or even noticing these winds, but I welcome them now.

Prospect Hill overlooks the vast Blue River Valley. In times primordial, native tribes enjoyed her bounty: riparian woodlands rich with game; pure water ever present, gushing from the heart of limestone cliffs; and great grassland prairies grazed by herds of antelope and buffalo. Seen from the top of Prospect Hill, the Blue River winds serpentine through a pristine valley. Black earth that once supported tipi villages of hunter-gatherers has now been broken by the plows of farmers for several generations, but despite the changes two hundred years of settlers have wrought, the Blue River Valley is still breath taking and sparsely populated. The face of this place was carved by an inland sea, the ice ages, the sediments of flooding creeks and rivers, harsh winds, and untold eons of time. That thought humbled me yesterday as my eyes and spirit took in the broad rolling river valley. And I wished that I could live there for what remains of my life, there with the changing winds and seasons at the top of Prospect Hill.

Jokesters call Kansas the land of Oz. Those who make jokes about the bland topography of Kansas have never been to Prospect Hill.

Esther Clara and Politics

While watching the news on TV lately, I think of Grandma. Esther Clara had definite opinions about everything and politics was no exception. Or maybe I should say ESPECIALLY politics. Grandma would be shocked to know that nothing much ever changes where politics are concerned. The government is so deep in debt that the Depression years seem like a picnic. 70-plus years ago she said, "How could the brightest, richest country in the world get itself and its people into such a pickle?" She'd be repeating that mantra today.

The Medicare D confusion is ongoing. A tiny handful of politicians say that everyone should have the same insurance our congressmen and senators have. Grandma and Grandpa would have had fiery debates about that!! Decades ago they both believed a stern lesson in setting priorities was in order for our government and the world. They'd be even more adamant about that today while hearing of cuts to Veterans, education, social programs for children, Social Security, or health care. To quote one of their favorite discussions: "Herb wasn't one to argue, but he could get riled up about what he saw as injustice. We both found it curious and disturbing that our government can't find the money to benefit veterans and education, but seems to find a few stray billion dollars to funnel overseas. And those same elected politicians who say our government is going broke funding social programs, well, Herb was of the mind that they have a nice social program of their own going. Politicians have the power to vote themselves the best health care, wages and benefits, regardless of what the voters think. And once they have it, they sure don't ever let go."

I love our country as my Grandma and Grandpa did before me, but the nice thing about living in America is that we can say what we think. I tend to agree with Esther Clara's philosophy: "We live in a wonderful country. I've seen our growing pains transform themselves over time into positive changes. But I do think our government's priorities are out of line. My thought has always been that the value of our citizens and taxpayers cannot be measured in money or words. The citizens who fought our wars, paid taxes, and raised the current generation of taxpayers were forced to set priorities, and elected officials should be measured by the same yardstick. Our personal budget was not limitless, and politicians should not be living like tax money grows on trees."

Thus sayeth Esther Clara, wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, citizen, and taxpayer. She and Grandpa Herb were working class patriots. They proudly posted one star in their window during W.W. 1 and two stars during W.W. 2. They raised Victory Gardens, bought war bonds, and cooperated with rationing during two wars. But they did not always agree with the politics involved in government decision making. They were not bashful about spouting their opinions. So as I watch the news each day, I find it frightening that the scenarios they fussed about decades ago are more firmly entrenched than ever today.

All quotes taken from Grandma's memoir, My Name is Esther Clara.

Dispatches from Kansas

I love making intriguing discoveries. Today I simply must rave about a blog I discovered on my nephew's page. Dispatches from Kansas is the blogspot. Readers from other states who think Kansas and the plains are dull and lifeless will have a different thought once they read Tom Parker's paeans to his prairie haunts.

As a writer, I'm always humbled to read prose that stuns me to silence. Tom Parker's prose is extraordinary. I rarely envy any other writer's voice, not because I'm arrogant but because each writer creates from a different core. Parker's core, his roots, are very similar to mine and yet his prose style is so far superior that I'm envious. Yes I am. I confess it. I envy his writing style, the breathtaking way he manipulates words to paint a picture for his readers.

Tom Parker is from small town Kansas, as I am. He loves the people and the lifestyle, grieves over lost habitat and rejoices when he finds those pristine places that lift man's spirit. If you don't venture into any other unknown blogger territory, this one time visit Parker's blog. Read one or two of his stories. Leave him a message. I intend to be a regular visitor to his world from this day forward.

Kudos to you, Tom!! I can't wait to see what you share with us next.

WPSU -- Penn State Public Broadcasting and Me

Or, how a writer from the plains of Kansas and Nebraska found herself on TV in Pennsylvania.

This will be my last in the series of Pennsylvania trip blogs. The series would not be complete without sharing my experience as a guest, interviewed for Pennsylvania Inside Out. WPSU staff contacted me well ahead of time about the interview via email and letter. Producer Marie Hornbein and co-host Patty Satalia provided helpful suggestions about appearing on a live television taping. Dee Fudrow sent a complimentary parking pass for the event.

Now, a TV interview is not something I'm asked to do on a regular basis. In fact, as the relatively unknown author of four books, I'm not accustomed to media attention of any kind. The WPSU staff, program producer, crew, and host went out of their way to ease me into the limelight.

The subject of this interview was my latest book, My Name is Esther Clara. This first person memoir of my maternal grandmother's life had been reviewed by Ms. Satalia and contains lengthy segments about areas of Pennsylvania visited by my grandparents. The interview questions asked were thoughtfully chosen, pertinent to the book and me as writer.

I had been advised by writers with TV experience not to act like a deer caught in the headlights, not to watch the camera crew, and NOT to watch myself on the monitor. Boy, was that ever good advice!! I tried to comply, especially after catching a glimpse of myself on the monitor as viewers will see me. Ms. Satalia put me at ease and I was less nervous than expected.

The entire experience was a treat, thanks in large part to the professionals who work at WPSU. I'm not sure when my segment will air, but am grateful for the opportunity to talk about my work on TV. This was an experience few unknown writers have. Many heartfelt thanks to WPSU, Patty Satalia, Marie Hornbein, and everyone involved in making this opportunity happen.

Elwyn

I made a delightful discovery during my Pennsylvania trip. As the history goes, first there was a pet mouse who died, was buried in a matchbox, and mysteriously disappeared from its makeshift coffin. Was Elwyn the mouse resurrected? Risen from the grave like Phoenix rising from the ashes? The mystery of Elwyn the mouse remains unsolved but four friends honored him by choosing his name for their band. I saw humor in that, compassion, and a hopeful optimism.

One night at dinner, playing in the background to our conversation, I heard music. Funky, jazzy, bluesy, sophisticated, seductively appealing music with the occasional Latin influence. The music flowed smoothly from one sensational track to the next. Lyrics were earthy and exciting, vocals delivered with control and passion. When they noticed I had one ear cocked to the music, Pam and Doug Ford said, "Oh yeah, that's Elwyn."

Their son Ryan smiled shyly and said, "Elwyn is our band." By OUR, he meant four long time friends: Dave Anderson, John Adamski, Brian Miroff, and Ryan Ford. All are gifted musicians, but are also intelligent and accomplished in other ways.

Now readers of this series of blogs already know I'm OLD, but I'm not too old to recognize tremendous music when I hear it. My youth was spent in part listening to young, new, unknown singers and musicians who would eventually become icons of several generations: Buddy Holly; Ritchie Valens; Jerry Lee Lewis; Bill Haley and the Comets. I saw them all in person in the tiny dives of rural Kansas in the days they schlepped from one small town to another, before the fame set in. One thing they all had in common was a distinctive sound, a sound every group from the Stones to the Beatles said influenced their creative process.

That brings me back to Elwyn. Their sound has the same excitement, the same raw-nerve-ending rhythms composed and delivered with sophisticated style. Check out their website at www.elwynmusic.com if you want to hear a sample of their music and learn more about the band. Or see them live in the second round of the Emergenza Music Festival at Cambridge Mass. on March 17. I'm guessing they're amazing in front of a live audience.

As for me, this old lady writer keeps their music playing in the background while I write. I'm addicted to their sound.

Legacies

Thanks to all the regular readers of my blog who sent email commentaries about my trip to Pennsylvania. If I have any sort of legacy, it's that my friends and relatives love me and I am delighted to love them back. My Pennsylvania relatives may be embarrassed that I brag about them, but they are the main reason I have such fondness for State College, Penn State, and the Keystone State in general.

One thing all Ford and Sanow descendents have in common is a strong work ethic tempered with energy and humor. And they tend to marry spouses who are gifted and humorous too. The patriarch of this clan, Don Ford, came to Penn State from Kansas State University in the era of Milton Eisenhower. Don was awarded his PhD at Penn State and later developed a new college of Human Development. He is retired now, Professor Emeritus and Dean Emeritus of Human Development. Despite his many accomplishments, Don's roots remain firmly planted in the Kansas plains from which he sprang. He still enjoys the scent of fertile earth and tending growing things. He works the soil now just like he did in boyhood. This man who educated himself and exerted positive influence on generations of students has the same boyish energy and sturdy core he had 60 years ago. I appreciate that.

Don's wife, Carol, has quietly asserted her own impact throughout the years. Profits from her craft business, The Personal Touch, went to fund needed services such as Meals on Wheels and health services for those who might not afford health care otherwise. It's safe to say that the effects of her benevolence are still rippling outward in State College, Centre County, Pennsylvania, and elsewhere, although she is now officially retired. Her legacy is of equal importance to Don's, just took a different form.

As mentioned in an earlier blog, their first born Russell Ford has accomplishments of his own. Russell will give the commencement address at Penn State this Spring. With classic Ford humility, he wondered why anyone would consider him accomplished. What sort of legacy did HE have to offer, was his question. His brother Doug laughed at that ingenuous question and said, "Good grief, Brother! You've been instrumental in systematically renovating downtown Harrisburg one building at a time for more than 20 years! What greater legacy could a man want?" There's that Ford humor again, and the ability to zero in on the truth. And Russell's wife Barb is a stylish businesswoman now that their children are adults.

So now you know a brief bit about my Pennsylvania relatives. Don and Carol, Russell and Barb, Doug and Pam. Their son Martin and wife Sheri live in Virginia and son Cameron and wife Gricel live in Florida so I did not have the opportunity to spend time with them. Maybe another time. My next blog will be a change of pace and a surprise so stay tuned.

Joe Paterno, the Ratskeller and a stage play

Yesterday's blog inspired an angry comment from "Townie" in State College, who suggested perhaps I am too old to enjoy what Happy Valley has to offer. Well, I AM a certain age and mourn the destruction of wilderness areas in several states I've lived, worked, or visited. Today I'll try to do better.

It's been years since I've experienced a stage play so was thrilled when my State College cousins asked me to accompany them to The Boyfriend. I'm no critic, but the whole production was professionally done and lots of fun. The Penn State School of Theatre and University Resident Theatre Company can take bows all around. The choreography was top notch, the music entertaining. I'm not artistic by any stretch of the imagination, but even I was impressed with the scenery. Cousin Pam Ford is a gifted artist and has worked on numerous stage productions, so she gave me a birds' eye view of why background scenes are important to a production. So, The Boyfriend was educational as well as entertaining. Well done, Penn State. I'm grateful for the opportunity to see your theatrical troupe in action. Thanks to Pam and Doug Ford for taking me along on their evening at the theatre.

Since my last visit to State College, a bronze statue of Joe Paterno has been added to the front of the stadium. I've been an admirer of Paterno for decades, as both coach and human being. When Doug and Pam suggested I have my picture taken with Joe Paterno's statue, I was excited. The statue is beautiful, a fitting tribute to a man who influenced college football forever with his philosophy. Whoever created that bronze is an artist.

No visit to State College would be complete without lunch at the Ratskeller. The ambiance is rather like an old English or Irish pub, nothing fancy, a little worn from years of use, but comfortable. The menu offerings are interesting, prepared by a chef, and well-presented. I had the club salad, which was excellent. And the luncheon conversation was intriguing thanks to cousin Doug Ford, Assistant to the Dean of the College of Health and Human Development, and his boss Fred, the Dean. Pam, Doug, and Fred regaled me with Penn State stories past and present while we ate our delicious meal. Anyone visiting State College or the Penn State campus there should definitely plan a meal at The Ratskeller.

OK, that's it for this segment of my trip. Stay tuned.

Happy Valley revisited

Our long descent down the mountain road into State College PA fed my imagination, as it had in 1983 when I first visited. Mountains and forests rim the valley, dubbed Happy Valley by residents who consider themselves blessed to live there. Some go so far as to say the sun always shines there -- figuratively if not literally. Mt. Nittany presides over the glorious terrain that has been home to ancient Native American tribes, pre-Revolutionary War pioneers, and now modern inhabitants. In or near the Valley, visitors will see awesome stands of primeval forest, fast running rocky streams, caves, and other natural wonders preserved from times primordial.

But changes have transformed the landscape in the last two decades. State College is larger, with more people, houses, malls, businesses. Once picturesque wilderness areas have become housing developments. Slab Cabin Run, that wild creek coursing through a small farm with only one or two houses in view, is now lined with homes. The homes are beautiful, to be sure, but the creek is no longer an isolated place of quiet contemplation. Yes, the birds still sing and flitter happily from tree to tree. Wild creatures visit on occasion. But the pristine peace has been shattered by a four lane highway built nearby in recent years. Much has been lost in the name of progress. Day and night, traffic noise from 16-wheelers and pick ups and cars now forms a roaring backdrop to the peace my aunt and uncle once enjoyed along the creek. Gone is drinking coffee on the deck at dawn, basking in nature's quiet while watching mist rise from the creek. Muted conversations and introspective meditations must occur inside four walls now.

I live in rural Nebraska, far away from city noises and interstates. Miles and miles of pastureland and crop ground separate me from the nearest city, and that is just the way I like it. I love my aunt and uncle and cousins who live in Pennsylvania. I treasure memories of my visit. But now that my trip to State College is history, thoughts of blown up mountains, decimated forests, fractured peace, and noisy trafficways remain. Is it expedience, politics, or ignorance that prompts state and local governments to ruin paradise for taxpayers?

The Lonely Canoli shines in Harrisburg

I'm home from my Pennsylvania trip and have many tales to tell with photos to share. The photos will have to wait until they are digitally available, but I could not wait to write about the Lonely Canoli. The Lonely Canoli is real. It is also a metaphor.

My relatives in Pennsylvania are beautiful, accomplished people. My last night in Pennsylvania celebrated life and captured the essence of what it means to be family. Cousin Russell Ford, his wife Barb, cousin Doug Ford, his wife Pam, and I gathered at a new Italian restaurant in downtown Harrisburg. Bricco is a dining experience and not simply a place to snarf a meal and run. It epitomizes to me the goals of the Harristown Development Corporation which has been renovating downtown Harrisburg for more than 20 years. Russell Ford is President and CEO of the H.D.C. so Bricco is a pet project of his.

It's been more than 40 years since I've had authentic Italian cuisine. The ambiance of Bricco's is aesthetically comforting, the staff friendly and helpful, and the Chef a creative gem. And oh, the wine list is impressive. I'm no connossieur of fine wines. Cousin Russell knows that about me, so chose a fruity white with a delightful name -- Menage a Trois. As a writer, many racy thoughts passed through my fertile mind while sipping that delicious wine, but I was wise enough to keep them to myself.

The meal itself was experienced in true leisurely Continental style through several courses, with a nibble of beautifully presented antipasto dishes first followed by entrees pleasing to both eye and palate. It interested me to see that Bricco includes ingredients from Pennsylvania in its menu, such as duck, combining two worlds with great results. The setting and service encourages relaxation, conviviality, and conversation, which was ideal because two activities my family enjoys are eating and talking!!

By now you may be wondering where the Lonely Canoli comes in. I have never had a canoli so could not wait to taste one. Doug, Pam, and I ordered a wonderful dessert with a demitasse cup of bittersweet chocolate with biscotti and canoli to dunk in said chocolate. WONDERFUL!! But Russell's wife, Barb, is more calorie conscious than I am so she ordered one canoli for the dessert course. Pam Ford immediately dubbed it "The Lonely Canoli" and thought that would make a wonderful title for a short story or poem if the writer among them cared to tackle such a project. But at that moment, my focus was on eating my biscotti and canoli drenched in chocolate. And metaphorically, I could not help but compare myself to this group of wonderful, beautiful people. I was the lone canoli, the not-so-beautiful cousin from the heartland, somewhat awed and tongue-tied in their presence. But they all love me despite my shortfalls and that knowledge put a shine on my last night in Pennsylvania -- the chocolate on my canoli, so to speak.

Any person reading this, if you live in Pennsylvania consider visiting Harrisburg and Bricco. Those of you from other places, Harrisburg has my highest recommendation as a destination. I'll share more memories of this Pennsylvania trip in later blogs when photos are available. The lovely meal at Bricco with my Ford cousins is only one of many highlights.

The literary Grandma Moses???

My Uncle Don calls me the Literary version of Grandma Moses because my creative writing career came, well, if not in my dotage then nearly so. Tomorrow I embark on my big adventure, a trip to Pennsylvania to visit Aunt Carol and Uncle Don in State College PA.

I've visited State College before. It's a beautiful place, deserving of the name enthusiastic Penn Staters call it -- Happy Valley -- with its mountains and forests rimming the town. This time a few new wrinkles have been added.

This time I fly the friendly skies from Lincoln NE to Chicago, where I change not only planes but terminals. Guess there are no such things as straight through domestic flights anymore, as there were when I traveled decades ago. From Chicago I proceed to Harrisburg PA where my cousin Russell will meet, greet, and whisk me away from those friendly skies. All this is dependent on the weather, which I hope cooperates until I reach State College.

I haven't seen my Pennsylvania relatives in years so am looking forward to this visit with enthusiasm. And here is where I bring back the Grandma Moses part. My aunt and uncle contributed many fascinating details to my latest book, My Name is Esther Clara. I plan to discuss that project with them, and maybe kick around a new book project too. I'm certain fresh ideas will flow during Happy Hour each evening, when they ply me with tasty libations.

On Feb. 23rd, I will be interviewed on the PBS station in State College, by the Producer, Patty Satalia. I've never been on TV before and this will be LIVE TV. So this Literary Grandma Moses better be on her toes if she wants to be a STAR!!

I'll be returning home Feb. 25th, refreshed and rejuvenated. I hope to bring back Paternoville t-shirts and Hershey's Chocolate. And some irreplaceable memories.