Remembering in writing.....

• Recently, Dandelion Books, the publisher of two of my books, asked me to write an article explaining why I wrote a memoir about my grandparents. The hope was to inspire others to write similar books about their ancestors. It seemed to be a perfect article in celebration of Memorial Day. My grandparents loved Memorial Day, but always called it Decoration Day. They loved the USA but were quite outspoken about politics, taxes, and government programs. Following is the article that can be found on the Dandelion website at www.dandelionbooks.net.

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Treasures in the Attic of Memories

When my uncle suggested an interesting writing project might be a book about my maternal grandmother’s life, I hesitated. Granted, my grandma and grandpa lived through pivotal periods of the 20th century -- World War I, women’s suffrage, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War, women’s liberation, and the Vietnam War. They saw the advent of electricity, the automobile, radio, and television. And yes, their love story was touching, funny, and engaging. Grandma’s marriage to the only man she ever loved, her gangly Kansas farm boy, lasted more than sixty years. So much of their history was lost when my grandparents died, I doubted my ability to tell such a story in ways readers would enjoy.

I knew many of their experiences from stories they told of early life on the farm and the struggles they endured trying to raise five children at a time when almost every American was poor. In way of encouragement, my uncle sent me audiotapes and videotapes of Grandma telling stories of her childhood and youth. Within those tapes I found treasure, and the framework on which to build the creative non-fiction novel, My Name is Esther Clara.

I’m still surprised at the response this book received. I’m not accustomed to such attentions:

The editor at Dandelion Books loved it. I had expected just the opposite;

A TV producer in Pennsylvania loved the book and scheduled an interview with me. This twenty minute interview featuring me and my book was shown twice -- once live and once in rebroadcast;

Libraries and gift shops in my home state scheduled readings and signings;

Relatives I’d never met discovered the book in various ways and called the publisher to get my contact information and to order copies of the book. Long lost relatives scheduled a reunion so they could meet me;

Fans of my earlier books said this might just be my best book yet;

Strangers who did not know Grandma or me related to her strength, her feisty personality and outspoken ways. One woman said she had read the book four times because she admires my grandma so much;

And, the book is under consideration for the Kansas Notable Book Award this year.

My grandparents were not rich or famous. Neither am I. If you’ve ever considered writing a memoir about your parents or grandparents, now is the time to start. The courage and determination of common everyday citizens in past generations made this country great. Their stories should be told.

Blogs that make you think??

THINKING BLOGGER AWARD. I tried to post the icon here but all that showed up is html that would not transform itself to the thinking blogger icon. You'll have to use your imagination here. Evidently my thinker is not working up to speed.

That space rascal Aston West nominated my recent posting "May Day Memories" for the Thinking Blogger Award. Thanks Aston! Obviously, I'm not a thinking blogger all the time because I'm supposed to add an icon to my sidebar linking to the post he nominated and.....I don't have a sidebar, can't figure out how to GET a sidebar on this new template, so readers will have to rough it and just scroll down a couple posts.

As part of the award, I'm supposed to list five blogs that make me think, so here goes:
http://elucas-taylor.blogspot.com Elizabeth Lucas-Taylor dedicates a large portion of her time providing helpful information for writers, authors, and freelancers. I visit her blog often to learn the latest tips and hints. Any of her posts qualify for the Thinking Blogger Award.
http://dispatchesfromkansas.blogspot.com Tom Parker's thought processes never cease to amaze me. He is the thinking person's writer par excellence but I'm nominating "Under the Shadow of the Potential" for this award. His thoughts on tornadoes, lives lost, and homes destroyed will definitely make readers think.
http://ackworthborn.blogspot.com I'm devoted to reading Gerald England's blog because he lives in an area of the world that interests me. His post "Windmere, or What's in a Name" contained information both interesting and informative.
http://evansonevans.blogspot.com John Evanetski combines multiple elements to create his blog. "A Lifetime Journey to Self-Realization" is the exceptional post I recommend to thinking bloggers.
http://tismoreblessed.blogspot.com In the post "Shyness" Gary shares his struggles with being shy. As a person who has battled shyness all her life, this post made me think beyond the end of my nose.

OK, my work is done here. Now it's up to my five candidates to pass on the mantle of the Thinking Blogger Award to others.

Waxing and Waning

My life has waxed and waned so often, sometimes I'm dizzy from the effect. This is especially true in the literary aspect of life. From the moment my first book was released, for example, sales have occasionally waxed but mostly waned. I say that with my sense of humor securely intact. That they sell any copies at all is a blessing for an unknown writer.

The Grass Dance was published in 2001. It is not my best book but received glowing reviews and continues to sell regularly. The inception of my modest but vocal fan base came as a result of this first book. I've never understood the appeal of this non-fiction book but am surely grateful that most readers continue to embrace the message. Not everyone loved the book. Yes, it's had an occasional bash but continues to sell steadily, especially on Amazon.

The Alley of Wishes hit the bookstores in 2003. I'd been working on this fictional book for more than 20 years as the story and characters evolved and my interest in it waxed and waned. Some readers connected with this story of unconditional love in incredible ways. Others thought the writing style "too literary." The most helpful feedback I've received as writer came from this book. This is the book of my heart. Die hard fans adored it and beg for a prequel or sequel, but my interest in writing has waned. This is the one book I expected to outsell all others I've written.

My Name is Esther Clara was released in 2006, another non-fiction book, the first person rendition of my maternal grandmother's life. I received more media attention for this book than any other but didn't see a remarkable spike in sales as a result of such publicity. If I had to choose, this is the book I'd want to succeed because my grandparents were so dear to my heart. Fans were less enamored of this book than they were the first two, probably because The Alley of Wishes was a tough act to follow in every respect.

Color of Laughter, Color of Tears was a book of poetry released in 2005, written with Stephen R. Sulik, a Texas cop. Unfortunately, this book is no longer available because the publisher went out of business. Anyone curious about my poetry will have to remain curious. Sulik originally wanted the poetry to represent "harsh and soft" -- an interplay of male and female. He soon discovered that my work represented harsh, stark realities and was in no way soft so he had to regroup. We were so proud to have a book of poetry published and regret our publisher's demise.

Will I add more books to my list of accomplishments? I hope so. The book I'm working on now will be different than all the others.....if I can make it work and do the subject matter justice.

May Day Memories

I spent the day yesterday thinking about what May Day meant when I was a child. Mom loved May Day and threw herself into celebrating it with the same gusto she assigned to every other holiday. For several days before May 1st, she assembled gaily colored construction paper, glue, scissors and lacy paper trim. Mom didn't have much money for such frivolous purchases, so bought her May basket makings at the five and dime a bit at a time for weeks in advance.

All four of her kids sat around the kitchen table with Mom, constructing May baskets. She encouraged us to use our imaginations. Mom was a master at such encouragement. Even the clumsiest attempts at creativity were praised to the high heavens. Some of the baskets were works of art, others barely recognizable as baskets. Just as long as they were sturdy enough to hold flowers, candy, or cookies, Mom's goals were met.

The evening before or the morning of our basket deliveries, we kids picked flowers. In those days by May first, we had blooming forsythia, lilacs, and spirea in our yard. Each basket featured Mom's home made goodies and a cheery nosegay of flowers. Grandma and Grandpa were always our first recipients. The fun of May Day was that the baskets should be a surprise, delivered in secret. I doubt if it was much of a secret, four chubby munchkins sitting May baskets on their porch while giggling and scrambling to run off before being seen. But we carried out our deliveries enthusiastically.

Mom made a list of those who received May baskets. Her list included relatives, neighbors, teachers, and friends. We kids ran all over town delivering our gifts, thrilled with the task and proud to be brightening the day of people we knew.

Mom said the purpose of May Day baskets was to bring joy to both the givers and the recipients. I miss our May Day activities. Do people deliver home made May baskets today? I haven't seen one since childhood. But every year on May 1st, I feel an overwhelming need to make and deliver baskets. The child in me surfaces and a little spark of joy sneaks in. Just about everyone I love is scattered around the country now. I'd love to magically transport myself to their doors, deposit a basket of joy then run away to hide and watch their faces when they discover the gift.

I hope you enjoy the nosegay of flowers I put on your grave, Mom. It was a combination birthday and May Day present. It was sister Jeanne's idea because she remembers May Day too. We all do.

Happy Birthday, Mom

88 years ago today, my mother was born. She presented to the world as a chubby, pink bundle with wispy brown hair. Her parents named her Verla Mae. Those were the days of home births. Pre and post natal care did not exist; no footprints were taken; no lab work was done.

Mother grew to be a beautiful young woman with green eyes shining in a heart shaped face. She married her childhood sweetheart. Their first child, me, was conceived just before Dad left for basic training in World War Two. I was almost two years old when he returned at war's end. Between 1946 and 1951, our little family grew by three more children.

Mom's creativity took many forms. Halloween was one of her favorite times. She made our costumes and applied face paints or make up before we kids went trick or treating around town. And for years I kept the elephant costume she made when I played the mastodon in a high school play. She made our Easter outfits and every other creation on an old treadle sewing machine.

Mom loved every holiday, but Christmas was her favorite time of year. She baked Christmas cookies so wonderful that even little kids hated to eat them. Santa heads were decorated with fluffy icing beard and chocolate chip eyes. Christmas trees iced with green frosting and candy baubles looked as festive as the real thing. Every raindeer was Rudolph with a red icing nose and a jaunty look. Candy canes, angels, stars -- all were decorated with different color frostings and so tasty that I can still remember the first bite. A dab of icing stuck each cookie to a paper lace doily. Beautiful, appealing to the eye, and special because of the effort put into it. Mom's cookies signified to everyone what she was as a person.

Mom divorced our father when my brother was a baby. From that point on she became a master at creating something out of almost nothing. Yes, we were poor as the proverbial churchmice but did not realize it then. She fed us nourishing food, made every holiday special, and took any job she could find to support her little brood.

Mom died more than twenty years ago, but I still remember life when she was in it, baking cookies, simmering chicken and noodles or navy bean soup. So I just wanted to say Happy Birthday, Mom. The older I get, the more I miss you.

Strange Bedfellows?

Garage sales and gusting prairie winds are the bedfellows of which I speak. My mother used to say, "People will buy a piece of paper if it's priced right." That might have been true in her day, but not today. Maybe we've all watched too many episodes of The Antiques Road Show or Cash in the Attic. We're all looking for that ten thousand dollar treasure, bought for a nickel.

Box after box of treasures accumulated by three families made their way to our garage from pick up trucks. Unloading and arranging said treasures was a royal pain with a stiff wind blowing sand and dust in our eyes. Anything weighing less than five pounds blew off the tables, keeping the young, strong legs of my nephew busy chasing down the wind-blown treasure. Shoppers persevered with mostly good humor and high spirits. Folks from Kansas, Nebraska, and even Colorado cruised the tables while holding to their hats or skirts, grinning a greeting, "What a beautiful day!" Yes, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and people living in the heartland of our country take the wind in stride.

Those pieces of paper of which my mother spoke would not have lasted long yesterday. Pillows and curtains blew down a slope into our woods. One departing woman lost a stuffed animal purchase. We found it rolling in the driveway after she left, pushed along by the wind. Two of my husband's treasured green glass canning jars blew off the table onto concrete, but did not break. The day was interesting but draining. I ended my day covered with grit and wind-blown to distraction.

The third bedfellow added to the mix is my writing. I'm not inspired right now, but keep working at it. A short story submitted to the Kansas Voices contest didn't make the winners' list. But a poem submitted to Bellowing Ark fared better. The editor said it was one of my best poems in his opinion, even though my customary sturm und drang were missing.

That's my garage sale in rural Kansas report. I'll spend today recuperating and regrouping from the excitement and the wind.

Has anybody seen my Muse?

Writers and poets speak frequently about their Muse, the ethereal spirit that inspires our work and whispers sweet words into our ears. My Muse has been missing for quite some time and I can't give you a good physical description of her. At one time she was a strict taskmistress, a glowing alter ego, a top notch idea advisor. My personal Muse inhabited the joy in my smile, the light in my eyes, the electrical impulses in my brain. She pulled my random thoughts together and transformed them into poetry or prose. She memorialized my mother and grandparents and created flesh and blood people out of fictional characters. She left as suddenly as she came. I miss her, especially now, when the world is providing such pithy grist for writers and poets.

One of my favorite poets, Christina Pacosz, writes breathtaking poetry about the Iraq situation, Afghan women, and the plight of suffering humanity everywhere. Her work is pertinent to the times, beautiful and touching. A long-time favorite novelist, C.H. Foertmeyer, just had his 12th book published. Badr -- an intriguing, imaginative, surreal story of an Iraqi and an American -- just may be his best book yet. Pacosz and Foertmeyer express well their shocks, fears and hopes for a shaken world.

Without my Muse, my literary tongue is silenced. Even my thoughts are hogtied. Maybe I took her for granted. Maybe I ignored her nudgings and she finally gave up on me. Or maybe she's simply on vacation, regrouping because I worked her too hard for several years. Wherever she is, I miss her and wish she'd come home.

Happy Easter!!

Our morning here on the Ponderosa dawned sunny and cold with a clear blue sky. Today I commemorate the occasion with thoughts of my mother and grandparents. Mom was a woman of limited financial means but struggled to celebrate each holiday in memorable ways for her four children.

All four of her little munchkins always had an Easter basket on Easter morning, filled with colored eggs and chocolate rabbits and marshmallow chicks. Sometimes when she could afford it, a stuffed animal graced each basket. But Easter was more than treats in our family. We all had some semblance of a new Easter outfit for church -- new shoes and white anklets with ruffles for the girls, a new bow tie for our brother, sometimes new dresses Mom sewed on her machine. We walked as a family to the old Methodist Church down by the city park, looking spiffy and feeling grand. I'm sure we all had wide grins as we slid into the pew to sit with Grandma and Grandpa for Easter services.

We all knew the Easter story from the time we were toddlers. We learned that message in church. And Christ's message of love was taught daily by our mother and grandparents. Love and sacrifice was their message to four little kids who'd had a hard upbringing but did not realize it then. That message will not be lost as long as we remember those early times of innocence. When people wonder why I write so often about my mother and grandparents, that is the reason. They loved and protected us, corrected our missteps firmly, and lived the Easter message in their daily lives.

A report from the Ponderosa

My brother calls our new place "the Ponderosa." Two acres does not quite qualify for Ponderosa status, but those acres do seem to grow incrementally when it comes to yard work.

Life in the Land of Oz has its excitements and unexpected shocks. An eagle or large hawk took one of our outdoor cats. That's what we think since she simply disappeared and her remains have not been found anywhere on or around our property. Such a loss was not on our wish list. Then, our famous Kansas winds blew a strip of shingles off our roof. Reroofing the house was also not on our list of things to do. We planned to plant a garden, trees, and rose bushes this week, but that project will have to be postponed awhile because temps in the 70s and 80s swiftly plummeted into the 20s at night and 40s by day. Plainsdwellers often joke that we have to run our furnace in the morning and the air conditioner in the afternoon. That joke loses a bit of its humor when those wide temp variations start in MARCH.

Meanwhile, inside my climate controlled house, I'm working on a new writing project. I enjoy writing and the creative process involved, but it's darn hard work that, for most writers, produces very few rewards. My writing technique is that I don't write for fame or money. Unknown writers are better served if they don't have grand expectations. My writing projects are outcome oriented. I strive to create interesting stories, written in a distinctive style. Once that is accomplished I hope for a publisher willing to at least look at my work. I don't query agents because several very good writers I know are worse off now than they ever were before finding an agent. But thinking about publication is a moot point until this latest writing project is completed.

All in all, life is good here. Brightly colored songbirds flit from tree to tree around our house. Cardinals, bluejays, and woodpeckers swoop down to snag the bread I put out for them each morning. Except for the occasional trilling bird song or squawking of bluejays, life is quiet on the Ponderosa. This cold snap will end. Warm weather will arrive and stay until late fall. The trees will leaf out and our plantings will eventually grow, flower, or produce food. And barring any unforeseen complication. my latest writing project will bear fruit.

Thoughts on a Rainy Day

Rain is almost always a blessing in the plains. We rarely have daily rains and flooding, usually the opposite with day after day, week after week of hot dry weather. By July and August, every living thing droops with the stresses of such weather. Any time rain falls, I'm thankful. I can look out the south facing windows in my computer room and see a forsythia bush blooming yellow and a yet-to-be-identified fruit tree with white blossoms, soaking up the moisture.

I'm particularly happy to see that mature forsythia bush growing on our new property. Mom loved forsythia bushes. When we were kids, seeing the ones in our yard bud and bloom brought a smile to her face. She often cut sprigs to brighten up the house or share with Grandma. For Mom, more than any other flowering plant, forsythia was the bellwether of spring. I'm thinking of planting a row of forsythia bushes along the road in front of our house. I'll call it "Verla's garden" in my mind and dedicate my labors to her.

Mom also loved flowering crabapple trees, the ones that bloom rosy pink in spring. I make a point of planting at least one every place I live. My husband thinks less is more when it comes to planting trees because it's such a hard job, but I think MORE is more. We'll compromise. I'll plant at least two flowering crabapple trees in bare areas to the south of our house. Then next year I'll have two more visions of spring to brighten my view.

The Joys of Spring

I love winter best of all, no matter where I'm living at the time. Wind howling in from the north and blankets of snow transport me to childhood winters of snow forts and snowball fights and Mom's hot chocolate. But the arrival of Spring in a place surrounded by budding trees is a joy to behold.

This spring at our new home will be an adventure. Each new plant pushing through the soil will be a surprise. Checking for mushrooms in the woods will be a daily sortie for awhile. Raking the accumulated thatch of years to make room for new grass is a hard job, but rewarding. Planting trees and rose bushes will be labor rewarded for years to come. Setting up watering and feeding stations for a variety of birds will be, perhaps, our greatest challenge. Our neighbors across the roads have cats who visit our outdoor cats regularly so protecting native songbirds will be a high priority.

We are tree people and bird watchers. We believe there can never be enough trees surrounding us. One of our favorite relaxations is sitting in the garage watching rain fall in the woods behind our house. We don't have a porch for sitting yet so make our observations from the garage. Watching redbirds, bluebirds, woodpeckers, and the occasional oriole flit from tree to tree is a joy. Behind our property, to the east, a sprawling field hosts the musical song of meadowlarks and the raucous calls of crows. Our days and evenings will be blessed by such sights and sounds.

Yes, I guess we are easily entertained. Such entertainment is free for the taking this spring, and we don't have to travel to exotic places. All we have to do is go outside, listen, and look around us. For an added bonus, we get to breathe air fragrant with the scents of rich earth and new growth.

Pea soup fog, awards, and housewarming gifts

One of the joys I miss most from our years of living in Kentucky is fog. We loved sitting on the porch morning and evening, watching fog creep up the hollers and swirl around us ghostlike. Through some quirk of nature, Kansas and Nebraska have been enjoying such fogs in recent months. Yesterday afternoon I watched out my kitchen window watching fog roll in across the field behind our property. This morning we woke up to thick, white, swirling fog. Fog is dangerous for folks traveling the highways and byways, but a beautiful phenomenon for those safely cocooned inside the house.

My admiration for writer and journalist Tom Parker is no secret to those who read this blog. I often struggle with the reality that writers like Parker do not receive the recognition they deserve. Well, now I can rejoice. Tom Parker won TWO first place awards in the Kansas Press Association's 2007 Awards for Excellence. Parker has a weekly column in the Washington County News, maintains a blog at http://dispatchesfromkansas.blogspot.com, and wrote a book of short stories by the same name. (The News also won several awards. I was especially pleased with the award for their Opinion page, which is one of the best and most interesting I've ever read in any newspaper, thanks to Editor Dan Thalmann.) If you have not followed Tom Parker's blog, you're missing a treat. Who woulda thought that living in Kansas would be so exciting??

Another of my favorite writers is Elizabeth Lucas-Taylor. Her first book, Unfinished Business, just literally blew my mind. She's a woman who can write sizzling romance and intrigue as well as or better than any big name best selling writer. Her talents are many and varied, including crochet work. She crocheted and sent me a lovely throw as a housewarming gift, to keep me warm on cold Kansas nights. Taylor has too many credentials to list here, and dedicates much of her time to helping other writers. She's also a woman of strong opinions, which she shares at http://elucas-taylor.blogspot.com. To learn more about her, visit her blog.

Personally, I plan to snuggle under my warm throw on this foggy morning and read Parker's latest column in the Washington County News.

Poet and cartoonist Ed Galing

A year or so ago, the editor of a poetry journal sent me Ed Galing's chapbooks to review. I was immediately charmed by the man and favorably impressed by the depth of his poetry.

Galing is almost 90 years old, a typical American of his generation. He served in World War 2, raised a family, and was married to the same woman for more than six decades. He's wanted to be a writer all his life, but poetry and prose does not put food on the table and pay the bills for most writers so he placed that calling on hold until retirement.

Ed Galing has had regional recognition for years. He's the Poet Laureate of Hatboro PA for example. It's only been in recent years that Ed has begun to receive wider recognition. That recognition is long overdue in my opinion. He brings to his poetry and cartoons a lifetime of watching the world around him. He zeroes in on human strengths and foibles as well or better than any poet or artist you can name, living or dead.

Ed does not have a computer. All letters and submissions are either hand written or typed on a manual typewriter. The lack of a computer does not hamper him in any way. Many of the best hard copy journals today feature his work.

If you want to learn more about this amazing man and his work, poet Doug Holder has created a blog for Ed. There you will see samples of his poetry and his bio. Holder has done a great service with this blog. The world needs to discover Ed Galing.

http://edgaling.blogspot.com is where you will find him. Thanks, Mr. Holder, for sharing an American icon with the public.

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.