Kansas Book Celebration in Wichita KS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kansas Center for the Book

Tomorrow I leave for Wichita KS to experience a celebration by and for the Kansas Center for the Book. I enjoy visiting Wichita and the friends I've made there. Friday and Saturday will be filled with taking in Kansas-related programs. Native American Dancers, Bluegrass musicians, poetry readings, and book signings are only a few events on the menu. The Black and White and Read All Over Ball is Friday night. I won't be doing the bugaloo in my formal attire this year. Maybe next year.

One of my favorite writers, Max Yoho, will receive the Kansas Notable Book Award along with 14 others. A couple more of my favorite Kansas writers -- Tom Parker and Nancy Mehl -- did not win this year. I'll start right away thinking good thoughts for next year's nominations.

The highlight of any trip to Wichita for me is an evening at the Mosley Street Melodrama. I eat dinner and laugh myself silly at the vaudeville-esque antics and sing along with the wonderful music. Joining me in the fun and frolic will be writer Todd Hunter and his wife Cheryl, and Nancy Mehl. I might even have a libation in way of celebration. Smith and Kerns is a favorite after dinner drink of mine. The Long Island ice tea is great, but packs a huge wallop!!

I apologize to readers who must scroll down to the bottom of the page to see my profile and blogroll. Don't know what happened there but a technowhiz I ain't, so unless blogger techs know how to fix it, guess it will stay in its state of misalignment.

A fine day for a book reading......

We drove to Blue Rapids, Kansas in bright sunshine. The weather was near-perfect with a brisk breeze and temps in the low sixties. Whatever route you choose in that kind of weather provides pleasant natural vistas. Colorful scatterings of yellow and white daisies, goldenrod, and buttercups grow wild along the highways. Sleek cattle and horses graze on native grasses or drink belly-deep in farm ponds. Hardwood trees, just starting to turn fall colors, mark indelibly riparian causeways. Every so often a farmstead looms, nestled safely into vales between plateaus and rolling hills. As always, I imagine what this land must have been when native tribes were the sole human inhabitants. By the time we reached Blue Rapids, my mind and spirit were energized and ready for the afternoon event.

Shoppers browsed Mercantile treasures and a fascinating array of Kansas-made products as we breezed through the door. I joked that my "groupies" would be arriving soon. Owner Lori Parker set out tasty snickerdoodles, confetti cookies, and raspberry tea as treats. She also treated us to a sample of scrumptious Scuppernong Cider, made and bottled in Blue Rapids. This did not taste like any cider commonly known, but more like fruit juice of an indescribably delicious flavor. The legion of my faithful groupies arrived. With everyone sated by cookies, tea, and cider, the reading began. Tom Parker introduced me with a flourish and I was off and running.

Tom had insisted I lay out all my books, but My Name is Esther Clara was to be the main focus. I read a passage about the hapless rooster who got drunk on fermenting wine bubbling through the bunghole, followed by one that showed Grandma's strong opinions about politics and politicians, women's liberation, and setting priorities. I was center stage from one to two thirty and most of that time was spent answering questions or telling literary war stories. The audience was appreciative, but keep in mind that they were groupies -- friends, family, and loyal fans. I'm not certain what the response might be in an audience of strangers.

Before heading home I bought a bottle of Scuppernong cider. Can't wait to introduce my husband to it. Next time, I'm checking out the ear candles more closely and buying jelly. Maybe, if I'm lucky the Mercantile will have be back for another performance.

Thoughts on a rainy day....

Now that our fall weather pattern has set in, temperatures have moderated here in the plains. I hunker down through summer every year, waiting for fall and winter. Soon there will be no more flies and mosquitoes, no gasping-hot days and smothering nights. Today, with cool breezes blowing through the windows surrounding my computer desk and the first frost just around the corner, I'm celebrating life.

A couple days ago I started reading 1491 by Charles C. Mann. He provides a compelling picture of North and South America before the arrival of Columbus, de Soto, and the subsequent influx of immigrants from other lands. I must admit the North American Indian tribes interest me more than those in South America. So far, the book provides more questions to pique my curiosity instead of answers.

I'm surprised paleontologists and archeologists don't know more about the North American Indians. Granted, they did not build huge pyramids and cities made of stone like their cousins in the southern hemisphere, or create objets d'art out of gold, but their accomplishments were amazing. Perhaps the lure of finding gold treasures buried with bones adds interest to digs in South America? And stone cities don't deteriorate like those of wood, thatch, and animal skins. Mann proposes that millions of indigenous natives populated the North American continent, living in well organized cities, before the advent of European diseases. I want to know how they lived and what they thought in the millennia before the first European arrived. I want to know why they actually welcomed people they viewed as weird, smelly and unwashed instead of killing them the second they touched ground in the new land. How and why did the Indians see those first explorers as fellow humans and treat them as such?

Where I live now was at one time a lush river valley and crossroad of an ancient indigenous highway. Long before fertile grasslands were broken by plows, Native tribes set their tipis in riparian forests along the river. Game was plentiful here -- bison, antelope, turkeys, pheasant, quail, fish and fresh water clams. I wonder what their lives were like before explorers and immigrants arrived, in the centuries when only tribes with tradegoods from the east and west walked these trails? Maybe I'll find answers yet in 1491. I'm only halfway through the book.

The words of gods.....

A comment to my last blog prompted the title of this post. Now, I don't see physicians as gods. Perhaps a handful of doctors reign godlike over their domains, but most physicians I know understand their fallibilities only too well.

The commenter told his doctors that they BECOME gods to scared patients in pain. He stated, "The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Meaning, I think, that he wanted to be fully informed by the doctors who hold his life in their hands.

People with catastrophic diseases, those facing surgery or even simple diagnostic testing need information from the doctors and nurses responsible for their care. I wonder sometimes if medical professionals empathize with the shock, horror, and fright their patients experience when thrown into the confusing maelstrom of a modern health care system. Most people are not versed in human disease processes. All they know for sure is that they DO NOT WANT the disease, pain, heart numbing fear, surgery, and a body image different from the one they've had since birth. The only thing that helps frightened, suffering people in the slightest is compassionate teaching and explanations from the doctors and nurses they are forced by circumstance to trust.

Patients may be too shocked and scared to understand the words doctors and nurses speak, but they do sense an underlying kindness and compassion. They see the body language as a doctor speaks, hear the tone of voice, hold to any offering of hope and assurance. No communication is effective unless the patient understands. When a nurse or doctor says, "Do you have any questions?" the patient may not know enough yet to ASK a question. I'll use my sister as an example.

When doctors gave her the option of taking oral chemotherapy and radiation before surgery, each one said essentially the same thing: "I've seen tumors break up and shrink considerably with radiation." Granted, they did not PROMISE the tumor would shrink but that's what she heard -- the carrot on a stick, the hope of a tumor shrinking down to nothing. Nobody told her the radiation would burn soft tissues in the area of the tumor and she would suffer horribly with that. No, when she complained of horrible burning in her vaginal and anal area, she was told by technicians, "Hmm, you're the first one who ever complained of that." Really? The only one? If she had known healthy soft tissues would be "fried" by radiation, her decision might have been different because she ultimately found out that radiation did nothing to shrink the tumor.

Despite her long ordeal, my sister is a brave woman and presented a humorously courageous front to caregivers. But her words told anyone listening what her fears were. The outcome of radiation and surgery horrified her. She's only one of hundreds of thousands of patients shocked and horrified each year. In that respect, the commenter to my original post hit the proverbial nail on the head:

"The words of gods must be chosen carefully and be with the clarity of a god." Patient education is not effective unless it educates, informs, and lessens fears.

So many interesting writing projects, so little time...

September 1st is here at last. I can see and feel fall arriving in the prairies. I'm hoping for a spurt of creativity, or at least a steady trickle. A bit of added encouragement came yesterday when I checked two of my books on Amazon. Copies of My Name is Esther Clara and The Alley of Wishes had sold. It's impossible to know how many copies, but some at least, according to the much improved rankings.

The main book project I'm considering is a novel based on a relative's ancestors. Reading her genealogy information is a fascinating trip through time in the British Isles. Her ancestors have been traced back, so far, to the 12th century in England, with a handful of Irish and Scottish progenitors thrown in for good measure. Some day soon I'll dig out the genealogy search and begin in earnest. And once I begin, I'll be consumed. Writing My Name is Esther Clara inspired me to do more biographies. Real people, real places, can be more intriguing than fiction.

My co-author on the poetry book, Stephen Sulik, wants to begin a mystery suspense novel with me as editor. Sulik's previous book, The Tattered Coat, had action, mystery, and suspense with tinges of surreality mixed in. If he decides to write another book, I'll edit.

My sister Pam thinks I should write a book about her experiences with colon cancer --

• radiation, chemotherapy, and their side effects
• what to expect from the surgery and post op course
• the importance of faith and a positive attitude on patient outcomes
• the detrimental effect on patients when they don't have adequate teaching each step of the way
• and the impact of various physician specialists on their patients.

I haven't investigated yet to see how many other books have been written on the subject .

Several others have asked me to write memoirs of their parents/grandparents' lives. I use the "method acting" technique while writing. I become the characters, live in their milieu, and act them out in prose. Some characters are easier to "become" than others.

Stay tuned to see if this old lady writer has it in her to complete another book or books.

How I Occupy my Retirement Time

I've heard some people are bored after retirement. Boredom has never been a problem for me, not during the days I trucked off to work each day and certainly not now.

My day begins by feeding the feral strays, dumpees, and tamed cats that eat at what I call our "smorgasbord" each morning on our patio. I'm the alpha female of this feline colony. Some love me, others fear my presence, but all quickly learn that no fighting is allowed within the confines of our yard. Two females are currently slated for spaying, if my husband and I can figure out how to get them into the pet taxi.

Housework. I often wonder now how working women manage to clean house. Half my time is taken up each day with shuffling and reshuffling the clutter that accumulates around my computer desk. Books, review notes, phone numbers and addresses jotted onto sticky notes, dates and times of trips or meetings -- all join the clutter I shuffle every day.

Reading blogs. I check certain blogs each morning. Most are on my blogroll, which is in serious need of updating. On Aston West's blog I learned that fellow writer Matt Dinniman was named Blogger of Note. Congrats Matt! I imagine one of my favorite heroic characters -- Aston -- is toasting you with Vladirian liquor as he zooms recklessly through deep space.

Over at K.K.'s Profound Thoughts, that long time friend shared her thoughts on turning 60 and not appreciating her mother in youth. Life is short and passes swiftly by. Our priorities change with age. Today I'm empathizing with K.K. because my mother died too young, also. Her loss more than twenty years ago changed my outlook on life.

At Tom Parker's Dispatches from Kansas, he took me on a lively journey to the edge of the world and beyond. My main whine about Parker's blog is that he doesn't have a new one posted to start each day. His writings are addicting.

Reading books and writing reviews of same: Some of the books I review are easy to read while others require extra time and concentration. I'm a volunteer reviewer, which means I don't get paid. :) People ask me why I devote so much time and energy to reviewing without compensation. The answer is complicated. One, I have always enjoyed reading and reviewing allows me that pleasure without having to buy books. Two, crafting a review is an exercise in writing. Each book and review is different so I try to capture the essence of the book and its author in my reviews. Three, reviewing introduces me to a wide array of gifted writers, their publishers and publicists. I've "discovered" many unknown gems in my tenure as a reviewer. Believe me, many talented writers never see the best seller list, which is a sad commentary on our times. I believe that the Kerouacs, Hemingways, Fitzgeralds, and Cathers of our time are mostly undiscovered.

So those are the highlights of this retiree's day. I'm never, ever bored because I don't have the time. Sometime soon I'll add "Starting on my fifth book" to the list and then for SURE my waking hours will be packed full.

Book Readings and Signings

I used to hate book signings, and shied away from readings. It's not that I'm bashful. Actually, I've been a public speaker all my adult life and can ham it up with the best of them....off the top of my head and without notes. Crowds don't intimidate me. But when it comes to reading from my own books, I flounder a bit.

Selling myself as a writer is hard. I'm more charismatic in print than I am in person. I've even tried to schmooze an attractive friend into making personal appearances and pretending to be me. Darn it, she refused.

In September a book reading is scheduled at the Blue Rapids Mercantile. My sisters call it "the Merc" because they enjoy giving everyone, everything, and every place nicknames. The Mercantile is a very cool place, with the personality of an old time general store. You could wander for hours there, checking out all the antiques, collectibles, and gifts on display. Blue Rapids is a small northeast Kansas town on the Blue River, nestled into a broad valley and rolling hills. I'll be reading from My Name is Esther Clara.

Esther Clara -- my grandma -- loved Blue Rapids so it's fitting that I'll be reading from her book there. I need to choose several interesting passages to read. Everyone likes the chapter where she burns the outhouse down at age five. Me, I like the time she and her siblings dyed their father's prize winning geese green, the time they "helped" the rooster get drunk on Pa's home made wine, or when she nearly killed the hogs by scraping pepper she'd spilled into the slop bucket. Reading those passages, I could ham it up big!

Guess I'll think about it some more. Wish me luck with the reading.

Moonflowers and templates

Over at KK's Profound thoughts, (she's on my blogroll) she wrote about the moonflowers growing along her back yard fence. Her blog reminded me of the moonflowers growing under our bedroom window in a previous home. The fragrance is beyond description -- lush, exotic, spicy, sweet -- and I swear the huge white blooms glow in the moonlight at night.

The blooms often come out on cloudy days too. Hummingbirds love them. I can't get them to grow where I live now, but I'd love to have a huge bed of moonflowers to scent the night air.


So far only two readers have commented on changing my current blogger template. In addition, I've received five emails on the subject from people who either did not know how or preferred not to post a comment. Sorry Cash, but the vote so far is against changing my template to gray or anything else. Maybe the readers who knew me as a nurse, and know me as a writer, think I'm more a peach orchard purple person than gray. I'll continue to take comments for awhile before considering a template change.

Now, go plant some moonflowers for inspiration and an unequaled perfume.

Bellowing Ark

Look: I build my bellowing ark to the best

of my love as the flood begins...

Dylan Thomas

I had heard of Bellowing Ark the journal, and had even reviewed a book released by Bellowing Ark the publisher, but knew very little otherwise until visiting their website. With one brief pass through the website, I understood their philosophy. The Dylan Thomas quote above explains their mission as I see it, from strictly my point of view: Life can be noisy, scary, and messy, so we offer hope and love wherever we can find it.

My adventure began when CarrieAnn Thunnell, a poet and journal editor from Washington State, suggested I visit the B.A. website and read "The Conversations: Unchain the Power of Women as a Mighty Force for Revolution." As an editor familiar with my poetry, she also thought I should submit samples of poetry for consideration, something I rarely ever do.

I don't have the time or energy for this! was my thought at the time, but I dutifully checked the B.A. website. B.A. Editor Robert Ward's "Conversations" were not at all what I expected. His commentaries and responses from subscribers hooked me, took me back to childhood to a time of hope in a flood of happy memories. His words inspired and intrigued me, so I sent off a response to his commentary along with several poems. I'm delighted to report that Mr. Ward printed my response AND my poems and even solicited more. When my complimentary issues arrived, I discovered poetry, prose, serialized novels, commentaries, and interviews featuring known and unknown writers, all in a roomy newspaper format WITHOUT advertising.

Robert Ward and I have communicated numerous times since my initial visit to the Bellowing Ark website. Some of my poetry is too dark for his journal's philsophy, lest you think he accepts everything I submit. But I understand his goals. This is an excellent journal, presenting hopeful thoughts and concepts to a world staggered by war, disease, greed, and depletion of natural resources. We have too many dark spectres shadowing our world and Robert Ward is determined that Bellowing Ark will not add to that darkness.

If you enjoy a variety of poetry and prose and need a dose of hope and courage, check out www.bellowingark.org. If you are a poet or writer, gird your loins and send Robert Ward a submission. Or if the "Conversations" spark an opinion, send him a response whether you agree or not.

Klyd Watkins' The Time Garden

I should be doing shameless self-promotion, hawking my books, but I'd rather talk about interesting people and websites today. Klyd Watkins and his website The Time Garden are favorites of mine.

An interesting and diverse group of writers, poets, and musicians pop into Klyd's garden from time to time. In fact, that's where I discovered some of my favorite contemporary poets. I never know whose work will be featured when I visit. Christina Pacosz, Sharon Doubiago, David Pointer, Charles Ries, Charles Potts, and Dan Powers can be found in a multitude of journals and websites, but I read them first at TTG.

Watkins is a humble gardenmeister who hovers proudly in the background as his guests enjoy the poetic flowers and sometimes lively discussions or commentaries. "The Great Duckweed Debate" is a personal favorite of mine, where Reed Richards and Klyd Watkins square off poetically. Yours truly has even been known to comment.

The Time Garden is unusual, the ambiance casual, much like the man who tends the garden. Watkins and his visitors prefer it that way. If you enjoy poetry or music, check it out at www.thetimegarden.com. Check the Poet Index, the Theme Patch, and the Fresh Produce Stand to get an idea of what Klyd's Garden is all about.

Comment from across the pond.....

No, not just any pond, THE pond. Today I received comment on Grandma's book from a reader in the UK. Since I call these folks my "Britbunny pals" they just might be a bit prejudiced in my favor. I call the male half of the Britbunnies "our gallant knight." He had this to say about the book:

The good times at the beginning were brilliant.
The chapter "Decoration day", very poignant It's a pity we do not have that special day over here.
Esther Clara was quite a woman.
Husband Herb was a very good and kind man.
As a pair, they set a good example to the rest of us, as we should be living our lives today!
The best book I've read in a long time!



You know how we writers are. We treasure such kind words about the work we've poured our life's blood into. So thank you dear gallant knight, for the review. I'll treasure it.

Dreams and Regrets

One of the chapters in My Name is Esther Clara is "Dreams and Regrets." In that chapter, my 90-year-old Grandma reminisces about the small dreams that came true and her regrets about the ones that didn't. The dreams she and Grandpa transformed to reality were small ones, but life-enriching in ways meaningful to them:

• they hoped to own their own home and finally fulfilled that dream after 29 years of marriage. Home ownership, in their eyes, measured their success as a couple;
• Grandma wanted a modern automatic washer and dryer so Grandpa saved his money and finally bought her the best they could afford;
• Grandpa had dreamed of seeing the ocean since he was a young lad feeding his imagination through books. One year during a trip to Pennsylvania, their son took them to the Atlantic shore so Grandpa got to roll his pants legs up and wade the waters he had dreamed of all his life.

The regrets Grandma contemplated were dreams left unpursued for one reason or another:

• after retirement, Grandpa wanted to take her to Hawaii as the honeymoon they never had. Grandma said no, because she feared leaving the continental U.S. and also thought they were too old;
• Grandpa loved caves and dreamed of visiting Carlsbad Caverns. By the time they could afford such a trip, Grandpa's vision had failed and Grandma's practical side prevailed.

Most people I know are just like Grandma and Grandpa, postponing their dreams until they have more money or time. Hopes, dreams, plans are put on hold until retirement, until the kids get through college or the house is paid off. There's no sin in being practical, but life is short and sometimes we face a hard row to hoe from cradle to grave. Our dreams are the flavoring that makes hard times palatable. Grandma saw that clearly near the end of her long life.

So what are your dreams, large or small? Like Grandpa, I've always wanted to experience the ocean. So what's stopping me? I've dreamed of owning a home that would be ideal for a writer's retreat? Why didn't I follow through? If my dreams don't come true, should I blame lack of time, money, planning, vision, courage? I wonder what Grandma's answer would be to that question.

Rain and Tom Parker

This is a good day. After a week of temperatures in the high 90s and low 100s that baked every living thing to toast, a cool front has arrived with soaking rains. So far this morning I've watched robins, blue jays, cardinals and meadowlarks splash and frolic in the yard, fluffing their feathers and singing joyfully as the dry earth cools and softens. Trees raise their branches to the rain, sighing a collective relief. Brown grass is greening as I write. The scent of rain-washed air drifts through my window on a stirring breeze. Yes, this is a very good day, indeed.

Today is a gift in more ways than one. While checking the blogs I regularly read, I discovered Tom Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas" had TWO new postings. Any new offering by Parker is Literary Nirvana and two is a bonus! So with the sound of gentle rain dripping outside my window, I read Parker's poignant tributes to two old friends: one a man who served his community with a cheerful energy all his life, the other an ancient cottonwood whose shade had sheltered humans and animals for untold centuries. (I couldn't help but imagine how many droughts, healing rains, blizzards, and tornadoes that old tree survived in its lifetime.)

Anyone reading my blog needs to hop on over and read Parker's "Dispatches from Kansas." A link to his site is on my blogroll. Discovering the people, places, and things of rural Kansas through his eyes is a treat akin to a ghastly summer drought relieved by rain.

Nurses, Writers, and human nature

Back in the early 1960s when I was an impressionable young nursing student, one of our instructors made a dire prediction. Petite, feisty, and outspoken, fire blazed in her eyes as she stalked the aisles of our packed classrooom, tossing a stub of chalk from one hand to another. Her words are as fresh in my mind today as they were more than 40 years ago.

"Before you reach my age, you'll see the beginnings of a nursing shortage in this country. It's inevitable."

None of us believed her, and thought her classroom teaching had veered off in the wrong direction. She'd been a young nurse during W.W. 2 and then Korea. Nursing schools in my home state still reaped the benefits of those war years, with classes bursting at the seams and quotas exceeded to the point that prospective students had to be turned away. I watched her eyes spark, watched that bit of chalk traverse an arc from hand to hand.

"Those shortages are bound to happen because nurses have a bad habit of eating their young. In this class, you're gonna learn not to do that or I'll die trying."

Eat their young? What the hell does that mean? She read our collective thoughts that first day and laughed, with very little humor in the sound of it.

"Older nurses will try to figuratively eat YOU and I will just be DAMNED if that is gonna happen!" She saw the furtive looks that passed between us while we wondered if she might be crazy and paused a couple beats before continuing in a softer, sadder voice. "OK. Here's what I mean. You've worked the floor for several weeks now. How many welcomed you with open arms?"

None for most. Only a couple in my recollection.

"How many tried to orient you to meds and treatments in any meaningful way?"

Again, none or maybe one was the class concensus.

"How many slept and left you on your own at night? Complained about your ignorance behind your back and joked about 'baby sitting students' just loud enough for you to hear? Ridiculed your nursing documentation and lack of knowledge about charting?"

She watched the light dawn as our minds ran through the weeks of floor assignments. I could think of two helpful staff members. One was my aunt, a nurse, the other an intern who welcomed any set of hands available in holding death or disease at bay.

"That's what I mean by 'eating their young.' If they don't make positive contributions in helping mold students into accomplished nurses, if they tease and ridicule and gripe instead of teaching in positive ways, I call that 'eating their young.' That isn't gonna happen on my watch!"

That instructor taught us, one scenario at a time, how NOT to be discouraged when older nurses put us down. She taught us how to find the information we needed to enhance our classroom education, how to gain experience and strength from every patient in our care. And most important of all, she provided step-by-step guidelines to prevent her students from eating their young when they became Registered Nurses. The philosophy she shared was simple: Do for others what you hope others will do for you. Have patience. Be kind. Make suggestions. Teach by example. Nurture. Help others become the best they can be.

Her prediction came true. There HAS BEEN a nursing shortage in our country. I often wonder if the nursing shortages in this nation have a bit to do with that long-standing human tendency to gripe and complain about others instead of nurturning.

Forty years passed and I moved from nursing to writing. That nursing instructor's words seemed appropriate for writers, also. I thought writing might be different, that writers might not eat their young, but it isn't. A few writers DO nurture and support their colleagues in many ways, are kindly and encouraging. Others publicly shame and slam inexperienced or unknown writers, zeroing in on every typo and tense shift with gusto. You can read such slams on message boards, on amazon, and a multitude of places around the web.

Granted, maybe losing a few writers through discouragement, slamming, and shunning can't be compared to losing nurses. Nurses, when they are at their best, benefit humanity. They labor selflessly in obscurity, saving lives and easing pain. But what of art, the miracle of words? What if the work of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, the Brownings, Cather, Camus, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Morrison, Wiesel had been shunned and ridiculed out of existence before it gave voice to their times? Would that be a loss to humanity?

A birthday for Esther Clara's husband

July 11 is my maternal grandfather's birthday. Herb Ford was born in 1892 and died in 1981 and let no grass grow under his feet at any point in between. Shown here with his great-grandson Kevin, Grandpa's face reflects his mischievous and playful side. Grandma often said he had a streak of mischief in him a mile wide. He liked to gently tease and play with his grandchildren and great grandchildren, making up for lost opportunities and the years of hard work that occupied his time and energy when his own kids were small.

Grandpa was 50 years old when I was born, no longer young, but youthful. Until his death he was the dominant male figure in my life. His philosophy of life influenced my personality and behaviors from birth through young adulthood. His own life had been one of hard work and struggle. Such a life is all he'd ever known. But he enjoyed the small happinesses of life with a childlike optimism. He looked forward to Grandma's fried chicken on Sunday with as much anticipation as he did Christmas. Ice cream and cake on his birthday was a major event. His dreams and needs were simple ones, easily fulfilled and always accepted with twinkling eyes.

The day before Grandpa died, Grandma baked one of his favorite treats -- Bulgur wheat bread. He waited patiently, as usual, for the first loaf to come out of the oven so he could lather a thick warm chunk of fresh bread with butter. Late that afternoon before suppertime, he delivered a loaf of Bulgur bread to my door, all smiles, saying he'd already "tried it on for size and it was some of Grandma's best yet." The next day after breakfast, unexpectedly, he was gone.

Now I don't mean this post to be pitiful in any way. Grandpa got his wish for old age and its inevitable date with death. He still got around on his own two legs, still enjoyed his eats with gusto, and did not have to linger in a nursing home. He exited life happy and content, with a tummy full of Grandma's delicious Bulgur bread.

If he happens to be hanging around in the invisible realm, I just want to say, "Happy Birthday, Grandpa!"

A Moveable Feast

Readers who know I'm a writer may find this hard to believe, but I'm not all that familiar with the work of Hemingway. In my high school years, The Old Man and the Sea was required reading, but most of what I remember of the story comes from the movie of the same name. I've always been a voracious reader, since early childhood. Certain books and authors made a lasting impression on me: Mazo de la Roche; Gene Stratton Porter; Colleen McCullough; D.H. Lawrence. But Hemingway did not make my preferred reading list. Ditto Faulkner, Camus, Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. That brings me back to the main topic, which is
A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.

I had preconceived notions of Hemingway's writings, based on nothing, really. Assumptions I guess. I'm not a fan of terse prose, of which I assumed Hemingway was master. His mystique was lost on me. Author Michael Corrigan strives mightily to expand my horizons as a reader so finally convinced me to read either A Moveable Feast or The Sun Also Rises. I chose the former because it entails Hemingway's memories of Paris in his early years with first wife Hadley, before the fame, before the subsequent wives. Paris in the 1920s appealed to me.

What I discovered was not terse, dry prose at all, but words carefully chosen and lovingly crafted. Through Hemingway's eyes, I found the true essence of Paris as it was in that time and will never be again. In his day, an expatriate in Paris could live on five dollars a day and still have the money to travel. At his side, I walked the streets he loved and saw them as he did -- the trees and parks, quais and bistros, shabby flats. And I participated in intimate conversations with 20th century literary icons, laughed at the oddities of personality, empathized with their doubts.

Critics have called A Moveable Feast an irreverent portrait of such literary icons as Stein, Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford. I found these portraits to be anything but irreverent. In fact, Hemingway's depth of compassion for dysfunctional friends and peers amazed me. In most cases he empathized, sympathized, made allowances and gentle observations in his recollections. And always, he focused on improving his own writing without envying the successes of his peers. Only the very rich were roasted. He spared the rich nothing in his memories of traveling and enjoying life on a shoestring. Hemingway believed the very rich ruined pristine places for common travelers, and robbed people of their innocent pleasures through wickedness and excess.

So hmmmm. Hemingway was not the man or writer I expected him to be. I can see now why his persona was so appealing to a generation of readers and why so many writers wish to emulate his sparcity of prose. I can't decide which Hemingway book to read next, but am leaning towards For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Sometimes the old classics said it best.....

The World is too Much With Us; Late and Soon by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

My apologies to Mr. Wordsworth for not quoting his fine poem in its entirety. Those of you who are poetically inclined may find it strange, as I do, that the words of this poem are as appropriate today -- perhaps more so -- as they were 200 years ago. It's the small things that get me down until the world is too much with me, flaws in my everyday world. The flaws that throw my spirit out of tune are nothing in the grand scheme of things, but enlarge incrementally until they're all I can see.

For example, we live in a small town of roughly 4,000 people. A copper-domed court house dominates its central square with dignity. Raised sidewalks, a holdover from the horse and buggy days, set apart the downtown area from others of its size. Stately shade trees line brick streets laid in another century. All roads leading into town pass wheatfields, cornfields, rolling pastureland, or milo fields. Clumps of cottonwoods, elm, and oak line creeks and rivers. Charming.

Unfortunately, this town boasts a larger feral cat population than human. Cats live in the storm drains, in sheds and garages if they can find entry, in and under every sort of shelter imaginable, such as porches. They breed incessantly, and God help you if your porch or garage is their chosen shelter. Local authorities say there is nothing they can do.....unless said cats congregate on your property and the neighbors complain.

Our retirement years have not been the peaceful golden time we expected. In a desperate attempt to stem the cat population, we spend endless time and money worrying about, taming, spaying, and neutering feral cats. My husband, ever the old softie, insists that any cat visiting should be fed. He can't go along with the advice of locals who say, "Just let them starve." (Yes, he feels the same about humans. We'd be bankrupt if we lived in a city full of homeless starving people.)

My computer desk is in a window-lined room on the south side of our house. Every so often a car stops in our alley, easily visible from where I sit. Such stops are dumpings in progress. Half grown pregnant house pets, kittens, or ancient house cats in dire need of euthanizing are deposited by their loving masters in our alley. You don't want to know the punishment I wish on such people, but here's a hint: It has something to do with being hung by their boobs or balls and left to twist in the wind until half dead from starvation.

Most people love and nurture their pets, regardless of species, just as most people do their children. It's the tiny handfull of those who don't that throw my spirit out of tune.

Writing does have its rewards sometimes.....

Every writer enjoys praise for their work and I'm no exception. Whatever form a compliment may take, however unusual, I happily receive it. Since I dedicated a post to the reader who called my first book "the worst schlock she ever read," today I'll share a review that's as far to the other end of the spectrum as you can get. I'm betting this complimentary bouquet is rarely received by writers.

This particular reader started by saying all the usual things we writers love to hear. The book referred to is My Name is Esther Clara:

• could not put the book down;
• excellent;
• felt a part of Esther Clara's life and times;
• experiences in the book rang true.

And then this reader put a capper on it that was priceless. Have you ever had a colonoscopy prep? For two days before the main event you eat nothing but clear liquids while taking strong laxatives at prescribed intervals. As a result, long spaces of time are spent in the bathroom praying to survive the abdominal cramping and other icky ordeals. The reader said being engrossed in My Name is Esther Clara made that colonoscopy prep less stressful and easier to endure. Reading my book got the intrepid soul through a long, difficult prep.

Unusual as compliments go? Yes. But ever so gratifying. I'm happy to have been of service. Anyone scheduled for a colonoscopy might keep this satisfied customer in mind. As the reader said, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, "Nothing passes the time more pleasantly than a good read."

POD-DY Mouth -- a person of generosity and vision

In keeping with my blog's stated philosophy, the third prong of which is showcasing exceptional blogs and people, today I want to discuss POD-DY Mouth. Her blog can be found at http://girlondemand.blogspot.com and she's well worth the read, especially if you are an author familiar with print-on-demand publishing. (POD)

The designation of POD has been called the kiss of death by some and the best thing that ever happened to publishing by others. POD books can be self-published by the author, as those with iUniverse, AuthorHouse, Lulu, XLibris, and others. There are also numerous small press publishers who utilize print-on-demand publishing because it is more economical. Huge print runs and storage of said print runs is unnecessary with POD-published books. Books are literally "printed on demand." Whether one book is ordered, or ten, the order is printed and shipped when received.

Now back to POD-DY Mouth. The purpose of her blog is "Wading through the sea of print-on-demand titles, one overpriced paperback at a time...and giving you the buried treasure." Since she is a published author whose books are with PENGUIN, her goal of reading POD books and sharing the gems with readers is a generous undertaking. Instead of sitting on her laurels, feeling superior, she has the vision to realize that all POD-published books are not necessarily stinkers. Similarly, all authors with POD publishers are not untalented hacks and losers.

As a reviewer for several online and hard copy groups, I've waded nose-deep in the same sea of POD titles as POD-DY Mouth. If not for POD publishing, I would not have discovered Tom Sheehan -- a national literary treasure if there ever was one. I would not have experienced the joy of reading Kevin Watson. The shattering prose of Michael Corrigan would have been lost to me. None of these, or the glorious prose of Tom Parker, would have permanent homes in my book shelf today if POD publishing did not exist. For brevity's sake I won't go on, except to say that some of the best books I've ever read, books I treasure, are POD-published books.

I'm a POD-published writer myself. I chose that route deliberately because I'm no spring chicken anymore for one thing, and my patience with rejection has worn thin. As stated in a recent POD-DY Mouth posting, "Not everyone equates success with the best seller list." That's me in a nutshell. The POD company that published my two most popular books -- without a penny's cost to me -- says they are arrows of love shot out into the world. I'll never be famous, maybe, and major reviewers won't review POD books, but my arrows of love have reached many of their marks anyway.

Once you've waded through my ramblings, go read POD-DY Mouth. Her blog is exceptional many ways. I applaud her efforts and her honesty. And if she had not vowed to remain anonymous, I'd extol her books here too. Thanks so much, Girl On Demand, for your generous spirit and vision. Take a bow. Take several bows.

Sanow Family ties....

Until I reached my forties, family history meant very little to me. Maybe I was too focused on my job or other mundane things. Life gets in the way sometimes, and then before we know it we've lost an entire generation of people who were a large part of our lives. I tried to rectify that in later years by writing a book about my maternal grandmother and her family.

In the photo above left, Esther Clara Sofia Sanow is standing on the far right, next to her seated mother, Emelie Schultz Sanow. My Name is Esther Clara is the story of her life and times. Esther Clara is the little Cherokee County Iowa girl who burned the family outhouse down and nearly killed the hogs by putting pepper in their slop when she was five. Her adventures were many and varied throughout life and certainly did not stop when she met and married Herb Ford from Kansas. Whether burning outhouses, sick hogs, drunk roosters, mean goats, white witchcraft, blizzards, bedbugs or World Wars, Esther Clara took life head on.

Any Sanow descendents out there searching the web for information, I hope you find this blog and contact me. The Sanow children in the photos are as follows:

• Anna Augusta
• Amelia
• Louise Emma aka "Lizzie"
• Esther Clara
• Carl Albert
• Frank August
• Otto Carl
• Henry
• August
• Alfred

Emelie Schultz Sanow and August Ferdinand Sanow were their parents, who raised their ten children on a farm near Marcus, Iowa from 1878 until the last child left home.

A meandering Father's Day train of thought....

Mom always said her kids were a "duke's mixture." What she meant by that, I was never quite sure, but guess it referred to the several different nationalities swimming around in our gene pool.

Dad's side of the family was predominantly English and Irish with a soupcon of Cherokee to enhance the mix. Mom's people were Polish / Prussian / German and English. All our ancestors, except the Cherokee woman who married an Irishman, emigrated to America on boats. It's safe to say that none of them traveled in first class accommodations on their voyage to a new land. We came from poor but sturdy European stock.

My ancestor's first order of business was to learn the laws and language of the land. The Germans, especially, made it a family rule to first establish citizenship and then to speak only American English in their homes. Grandma said sometimes her parents argued behind closed doors in German, but the children were required to converse only in the language of this land. As a result, Grandma and her siblings knew a few cuss words in German and how to say "I love you" --"Ich liebe dich" -- but very little else.

All I know about the Cherokee woman in my father's ancestry is that she ruled her marriage with matriarchal determination. She refused to "lay" with her handsome dark haired, dark eyed husband until he homesteaded land in Kansas. She also stubbornly refused to register as an Indian, and insisted whatever children their marriage might produce be born outside the reservation on their own land. I suspect he swiftly complied because 12 children came of their union. No one in later generations ever met the woman, but her strength is in her descendents to this day.

My father left my life early, via divorce, but his ancestors live on in his children. They are indelibly stamped into our DNA. So thanks, Dad, for the Irish--Cherokee genes you passed along to your children.

Jesus in Song -- Shirley Priscilla Johnson's website

Today I segue from hard line rock and roll to an exceptional Christian ministry. Never let it be
said that my blog does not offer a variety of talent from which to choose!!

Shirley and Robert Johnson have co-pastored He Lives Ministries in Florida for more than 25 years. Shirley also has a degree in Christian Counseling, is a published writer and songwriter, and reviewer for Midwest Book Review. Although we share a last name, the Johnson's are no relation to me. I do claim Shirley as a treasured friend and colleague, however.

In the beginning of her music ministry, Shirley created glorious praise songs inspired by God. Although these songs were sung by only her voice and occasionally that of her nephew, sometimes a chorus of Angelic voices were clearly identifiable as accompaniment. Now I am nowhere NEAR as faithful in my service to the Lord as Shirley is, but those angelic choirs on her recordings inspired even me!!

In the years I've known her, Shirley has added to her list of Christian music and books.

• A Divorced Mother Talks to God and Whispers of Life -- Poetry from the Heart are traditionally published books.
• Her child-friendly, inspirational packets of colorful booklets, tapes, CDs, coloring books, and crayons make delightful gifts for children and Sunday School classes.
• Her Covenant Package containing a beautiful book, pen, music CD, and salt pouches in a striking tote bag makes a perfect gift for adults. (Why salt packets? God made a Covenant of Salt in Numbers 18:19. Go read it for yourself.)
• The Fos and Prissy Series for adults and The Nothing Book for kids of any age are humorous tales that often made me laugh out loud.
• Her latest project is Shiloh Cards for pets and people.

One goal when starting this blog adventure was to feature talented people who don't get the publicity they deserve. Shirley Priscilla Johnson surely qualifies. Read more about her ministry at http://www.funport.com/insong/default.htm

Thundershack.net -- rock and roll and more.....

I enjoy expanding my horizons and making new discoveries. I love rock and roll and the people who make the music. Thundershack.net is two treats in one -- a new discovery, and people making great music.

If there is a partiarch of Thundershack, I guess it would be Klyd Watkins. He's the one with the long gray hair and beard in the montage to your left. He's been working at making Thundershack a reality for a long time now. To quote him, "Thundershack is a studio built out of concrete blocks and a love of music." Klyd was determined to have a state of the art studio, and he finally got what he wanted.

I guess you could say Thundershack is a family affair because Klyd Watkins' sons Bob, David, and Eric are also first class musicians. These folks, along with fellow musicians from the Nashville area, can play anything and I DO mean ANYTHING. Their CDs include everything from old time rock and roll to country raunch to experimental rock to spoken word poetry accompanied by world class music. As a rock and roll lover since its inception in the 50s, I'm a die hard fan. I've seen the music transform itself over five decades now. These guys are unusual, off beat, unique, and march to their own drummer, which is what rock and roll is all about. Don't expect a formula approach or laundered lyrics from this music!!

In addition to music made by the Watkins family and colleagues, Thundershack records intense, aggressive groove metal by Thousandfold; music by rock and roll singer/guitarist Marc Harris; and the latest work by hard core rockers The Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies. In other words, this studio produces music for devotees of rock and roll. If you are on the lookout for something different, not the same old everyday stuff, Klyd Watkins is your man and Thundershack will deliver. Check out www.thundershack.net to learn more.

The Alley of Wishes

A writer is always so pleased when a flurry of interest is created about their book or books. The Alley of Wishes was published in 2003 by Dandelion books. Now, almost three years later, renewed interest in readers has snuck up and surprised me.

Alley is my sentimental favorite book, a testament to the power of unconditional love, hope, and friendship. As fiction, it's quite different from My Name is Esther Clara. Readers who loved Esther Clara, or my first, The Grass Dance, were either delighted or shocked by the Alley story line. It's not an easy book to pigeon hole in any particular genre. I say it is a fictional allegory, and prefer to think of it as literary fiction. Others say it is historical fiction or romantic fiction, despite the fact that it was not written according to any set formula.

I wrote Alley for my mother, who died in 1984. Her marriage to an alcoholic man was often violent and a sorrow that stayed with Mom all her life. When I talk to writer groups about this book, I tell them that every sorrow, rage, and joy I've ever known was called upon to create Alley. The violence in it seems real because I've known violence first hand. The sorrow experienced by the main characters is real because I've lived with great sorrow. The love, joy, and hope they feel was alive in me as I wrote the book.

Faithful readers and fans of my work often express the hope that I'll write a prequel or sequel to Alley. I'm not convinced that will ever happen. I think it's best that The Alley of Wishes stands alone as my gift to the world because that's what I intended it to be. I want it to shine as an example of how love, hope and friendship can mend shattered lives in beautiful ways. I'm not an arrogant or proud person, just one who accomplished what she set out to do in a book.

Thanks so much to the readers who buy this book and take the time to comment on it in emails and letters. My mother loved reading. By reading this book I wrote for her, in my mind you honor her.

The HyperTexts.com

Now that the hubbub of my book signings is behind me, it's time to forsake shameless self- promotion and tackle other topics. I've been meaning to talk about The HyperTexts website for awhile and now is the ideal time.

Editor Mike Burch believes that more can be accomplished internationally by reaching out with WORDS rather than with guns and bombs. Visiting this website is always an exhilarating and enlightening adventure. It's easy to navigate and positively loaded with memorable poetry and essays. Burch carefully chooses gems written by past poetic masters and new, compelling offerings from contemporary poets.

At The Hypertexts you can read the best of Edna St. Vincent Millay, John Donne, Czeslaw Milosz, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lord Byron, Shakespeare, Plath, Kipling, T.S. Eliot, Yeats, Shelley, Longfellow and a hundred other poetic icons of the past. Of equal importance to the mix are international poets laboring under often grim conditions in our modern age. Pay close attention to these names: Jerzy Ficowski; Miklos Radnoti; Blaga Dimitrova; Nadia Anjuman; Mahnaz Badihian; Makoto Fujimura; Soufi Mostafavi. Burch seeks out and publishes an astonishing array of translations. Each one is well worth reading.

A new feature added recently is In Peace's Arms. Featured here are Hungarian, Afghani, Iranian, Czech, American, English, Indian, and Russian poets -- the famous and not so famous -- who speak out against all forms of war and subjugation. Another popular feature, Mysterious Ways, addresses life's great mysteries, and sometimes God's place in it, through the provocative voices of known and unknown poets.

For those who prefer lighter fare, Wit and Fluff and Rock Jukebox are whimsical and fun. Yes, The HyperTexts has so much to offer that I can't possibly discuss every feature here. I'll let readers make those discoveries themselves. Whether you like rhyming, metered poetry or modern free form, are a committed anti-war activist or a Romantic, a tortured deep thinker in search of answers or a frolicsome funloving spirit, you will find something to feed your senses at www.thehypertexts.com.

Marysville KS Library Book Signing

Left to right, Max Yoho, me, and Tom Parker at my Marysville KS Library book signing. Max and Tom are two of my top five favorite writers of all time. Both are exceptional in every way and better than most writers you will find on the New York Times best seller list. Max is a Kansas icon and Tom is a popular newspaper columnist as well as book author.

Marysville KS has a beautiful, modern, public library with every amenity imaginable. I was particularly pleased to do a signing there because Marysville is where I was born, raised, and lived for much of my adult life. Classmate and friend Leanna Stenglemeier made the initial arrangements with Kathryn Hatfield, Library Staff person responsible for technical services and interlibrary loans. This signing was a success by every measure.

I've said in a past blog that book signings are about more than simply selling books. They are about the new people a writer meets, the old friends who stop by to gab or show support, and the family members who stand beside a person in good times or bad. If a few books sell, that's frosting on an already tasty cake.

Don and Leanna Stenglemeier were waiting for me when I arrived. A gorgeous bouquet of white roses with burgundy trim from the Stenglemeiers and my high school classmates graced the table. And before the books were unpacked or arranged on a table, the area assigned for me filled up with people. Aunt Lois Ford Lueers arrived, and Emma Ford Suther close behind her. Lois is one of the stars of My Name is Esther Clara, and Emma's father Elmer Ford is a hero in the early years of my grandparents' marriage. Dora Jones, mother of one of my best friends and lifelong pals, was also an early arrival.

My sisters Jeanne Smith VanLoenen and Pam Smith Sutton drove in from Nebraska to help Aunt Lois ride shotgun. And our long time friend Karen (K.K.) Wiemers arrived shortly thereafter. A happy time was being had by all, with everyone talking at once or in small groups when Max and Carol Yoho meandered in all smiles and hugs from Topeka, followed soon after by Tom Parker and long time friend Jan Koll.

It bears repeating that Max and Tom are two of my favorite Kansas writers. Tom had already forewarned me via email that he expected me to read and that he planned to make faces at me throughout. Max and Carol joined forces with him and, much as I was reluctant to do so, I read a short section from Grandma's book. My reluctance to read had little to do with shyness and much to do with reading in front of two very accomplished writers. If Max and Tom enjoyed the same sort of publicity, promotion, and advance hype provided Brown, Frey, et al, they would be reigning in New York too.

After the reading, old friends Mina and Howard Zimmerman arrived, followed by another friend from high school days, Lynn Millenbruch. My alloted time passed swiftly and I think the Library staff was desperate for me to clear out. People were still coming and going at two, and I was still signing books.

This experience was exactly what a book signing should be: stimulating conversation; a pleasant atmosphere for folks to visit and mingle; a helpful library staff; and excellent advance publicity in The Marysville Advocate. This writer, who prefers to remain anonymous and shuns public appearances, was allowed to shine with the encouragement of fellow writers, family, friends, and readers. An added bonus was that I came home with an empty book box. Every book I took with me sold.

Thank you so much to everyone who made this signing a success. As Grandma and Grandpa used to say: "Thank you all so much until you're better paid."

Where your heart is, there is your treasure also....

Or maybe it's vice versa. Without looking up that particular Bible verse, I can't be certain.

One of my many bios circulating about on books or websites states I love the plains and Kentucky mountains in equal measure. Both are "home" to me.

While living in the mountains of Kentucky I longed for the plains of Kansas and Nebraska, the winds that blow here almost daily, the often violent demarcation of seasons, the smell of sweet clover and ripe wheat or corn silage simmering in silos. Nowhere on earth does crisp, snow-washed winter air smell as sweet as it does here in the plains.

Now I'm in the plains and grieving for the rugged terrain of my southeastern Kentucky mountains. I especially miss those spectacular morning and evening fogs, creeping fingerlike through hollers, suffusing forests in shrouds of white, and streaming straight up into the air from caves. And I miss those cold Kentucky rains memorialized in song by Elvis.

The ideal would be to own houses in both the plains and mountains, but interstate travel is daunting and I'm not as adventuresome as I once was. My adventures today are travels of the mind and spirit, savoring moments and memories. Today I look out the window to my left and see limbs bowed with the weight of apricots. At this very moment in Kentucky, the dogwoods are in bloom and morning fog is swirling skyward in the sunlight. I'm blessed to have two homes and a mind that will transport me instantaneously between both places.

Home is where my heart is, here or there, wherever memories, friends, and loved ones live. My treasure lies at both ends of a rainbow that arcs between two places.

Esther Clara's thoughts on celebrating Memorial Day

With Memorial Day so near at hand, I'm thinking of my grandparents and the years we decorated graves together. They always called it Decoration Day, even after the name was changed and it became an official weekend.

Every notion I have about the holiday that has become the harbinger of summer, I learned from them. Grandma was a pro at decorating graves. She'd learned the art from her mother. Now Grandma Esther Clara's mother was not a frivolous woman in any way, shape, or form. Everything she did was for a valid reason and she wasn't too bashful to share those reasons when pressed. In her own words, here is what my grandma passed along to me about Decoration Day when I was a pup: (following quote taken from My Name is Esther Clara, Grandma's memoir)

"One of my responsibilities as a girl was gathering bouquets from Ma's flowers to decorate the family members, friends, and veterans who had passed on. Each bouquet had to contain roses, peonies, and iris in full flower, plus fat buds not yet ready to burst into bloom. Ma said that way her bouquets would look pretty longer at the gravesites. I cut the stems carefully with a sharp kitchen knife, just the way she taught me, so as not to bruise or strip them. Each bouquet was then arranged in cans or jars she saved for just that purpose.

Decorating graves was an all day job, traveling in our wagon to cemeteries for miles around the home place. Ma got up early and fried chicken, which we ate along the way with her big soft biscuits. We also took a jug of water in case anyone got thirsty. One year when they got roped into loading flowers in the wagon, my brothers teased Ma about 'decorating every grave in Cherokee County.' She gave them the straight mouth while thinking on a snappy comeback. What she finally said stuck with me.

'The graves I decorate may not be veterans, but they're the relatives of veterans. The War Between the States is not the only war this country ever fought. The fallen of this country go back several generations.'

That made a lot of sense to me. By honoring a veteran's relative, in a way we honor him too. Why shouldn't we honor the relatives of men buried in long-forgotten graves in places we might never see?

Maybe modern folks don't have the same sense of collective memory we had in past generations. By that I mean the spirits of their pasts may not influence them so strongly in the present. Maybe life gets in the way and visiting cemeteries is far down on their list of priorities. Or maybe the government changing Decoration Day to Memorial Day and designating it a three-day weekend changed the viewpoint from honoring our dead to having time off work. My belief is that the influence of people dead and gone made us what we are as a country, and as humans. Putting flowers on their graves in tribute one day a year is no sacrifice at all."

As always this time of year I think of Grandma and Grandpa and those hot days we spent delivering flowers to every cemetery in Marshall County Kansas. They offered their floral bouquets with reverence, laughed, cried, and reminisced about lost friends and loved ones. This time of year has always been and will always be one of remembering my friends and relatives resting beneath the sod of many states. Too many of the people I love are gone, but surely not forgotten.

Dispatches from Kansas

Some of you who read my blogs know I am a book reviewer in addition to author. I've been reviewing for five years now, for various online and hard copy journals. Today, in my ongoing effort to do more here than simply shameless self-promotion, I'm posting the review of a wonderful book I read recently. I won't be doing this often, but since Tom is a fellow blogger and Kansan, and because his book presents a realistic view of Kansas, I'm making an exception. So without further gabbing from me, here is the review of Dispatches From Kansas by Tom Parker:

Dispatches From Kansas
by Tom Parker
ISBN 1-4196-1368-5

On rare occasion, I discover a writer whose lyrical prose style stuns me to silence. "Stun" is the key word here – stunning stories so beautifully told I contemplate them, relish the words, and stare off into space as if struck dumb in appreciative silence. Tom Parker is one of a handful of writers whose name has joined that list of the uncommonly gifted.

Tom Parker is not a native but believes Kansas is one of America's best-kept secrets. He and his wife Lori moved to Kansas from Colorado several years ago when they had wearied of sprawling cities and corporate ladders going nowhere. He's been waxing eloquent about tall grass prairies, Kansas towns and people in his newspaper columns ever since. This book is a random sampling from his column of the same name. One excerpt from one column states Parker's sentiments clearly:
"What's wrong with Kansas? I leave work as the sun becomes airborne. Mist chokes the valleys, shadowed yet by dense woods. The road slips into a slight depression and then rises and the Blue River Valley spreads before me as far as the eye can see, a verdant channel winding southward between grassy bluffs. The road descends and leaps the river and curves into town.
I stand on my front porch, the song of dickcissels calling the sun up. A cuckoo cries behind me. Warily eyeing me, a cottontail sucks down a long dandelion stem."

Life in the prairies has been peaceful and Parker is not hesitant to share the divine he sees in everything around him. Birdsong is surreal and ghostly in early morning fogs along the rivers and streams. Thunderstorms are awesome, electric, transforming. Winter winds roar from the north to rattle windows, freshen air, and freeze nose hairs. Dwelling in the plains requires a sense of humor and a hardy spirit. Amidst nature's bounty, the Parkers discovered mysteries of daily life in rural Kansas: the art of waving at everyone you meet; the odd case of the clairvoyant cashier; the joy and adventure to be found in following grain elevators home; anti-terrorist plans, rural Kansas style. Parker's delight with his new home is obvious, with the exception of ticks, mosquitoes, and grasshoppers.

Tom Parker shares his Kansas experiences with subtle exaggeration, gentle irony, and incredible poignance. He salves occasional bouts of blind despair and dark depression with daily doses of nature. In his world, Nature is a blessing and a balm. And because he shares his vision generously with an honest spirit, readers will enjoy his stories whether they live in Kansas or not. Tom Parker's writing is exceptional and Dispatches from Kansas is highly recommended.

Starving artists, writers, and poets...

Why do a tiny smattering of creative people gain fame and glory while others languish in obscurity? Is it the luck of the draw? Do Universal Powers or God, or the Fates smile on one arbitrarily while leaving others scrambling in the mire of anonymity? If talent alone is the yardstick by which creative people are measured, some people I know would be icons instead of unknowns. Today I'm thinking of several people who may not be exactly starving, but probably receive less attention than they deserve for their creative work.

Dee Rimbaud is a writer, poet, and artist whose dream is to travel and gain new insights to expand his creative vision. Everywhere he turns, it seems, his hopes and plans are thwarted, complicated by happenings beyond his control. I wish Fortune would decide to smile on Dee for once. If you are the least bit curious about the man, http://www.thunderburst.co.uk is his website. If you enjoy modern art, Rimbaud is your man. Dee's is one of the blogs I read, by the way, and is listed under my blog links.

Fellow traveler Aston West, whose alter ego is Midwestern Writer Wannabe, is another unsung hero. Hero is the operative word here. Aston and Wannabe are quiet, unassuming, self-effacing guys who tackle life with dogged determination. They create from a core of strength fed by their own live-and-let-live philosophy. You won't find this twosome shafting or trashing other writers to get ahead. They prefer honest achievements, earned through honest labor. Wannabe is one of my favorite writers and Aston is every inch the compelling hero. Visit my two heroes at http://astonwest.blogspot.com/ or http://midwesternwriter.blogspot.com/

Some people don't like to wade through long drawn out blogs so I'll end this one now and write more another day.

Contemplations.....perspectives

This past week has been one of ups and downs, highs and lows, good news and bad. In other words, life is conducting business as usual. In the midst of accompanying my youngest sister to the outpatient department while she had test after test after test, that wonderful book signing in Frankfort got sandwiched in somehow. The medical testing did not turn out as well as the book signing.

According to two doctors so far, my sister's colon cancer might have been growing silently and symptomless for years. Ten or fifteen years. It might have started out as a polyp and gradually transformed itself. Hearing that, I thought back to the years she worked as a nurses aide in long term care. She labored 12-16 hours a day for minimum wage and certainly no health insurance. When that labor intensive job became too much, she washed dishes in a restaurant, again for minimum wage and no benefits. No health insurance. Was the cancer growing then, undetected, because even the most rudimentary medical testing cost too much? How much does a colonoscopy cost? My guess: it is far more than most people without health insurance can afford. And even if a person has health insurance, without symptoms or a strong family history, most plans won't pay for screening tests.

If you haven't struggled to survive financially, let me remind you of the age-old hierarchy of needs. Food to nourish and sustain life, clothing to protect the body, and shelter to keep us safe from the weather are necessities. Nowhere in that hierarchy is the christ-awful cost of said food, clothing, and shelter mentioned. Nor is the cost of medical screening or treatment mentioned.

Some will say I'm a bleeding heart liberal. Others, who have their investment portfolios and the best health care available -- say, politicians for example -- will poo-poo my contemplations about hard working underpaid workers and their lack of adequate health care. Such workers have paid their bills, paid their taxes, and been a productive part of society all their adult lives. What about the citizens who, for whatever reason, cannot be a politician, rocket scientist, or heart surgeon. Do minimum wage workers contribute less to this huge, voracious, tax machine we call the USA?

My perspective is that fewer billions should be spent supporting the current despot of the day in foreign lands in hopes he will align himself at some future time with U.S. goals and schemes. Fewer billions should be spent on pet projects overseas that never seem to help anyone, here or abroad. And fewer billions and trillions should be spent on endless warring around the globe. That money would be better spent ensuring a healthy citizenry of America and supporting research to eliminate catastrophic diseases here, at home.

If my sister, for example, had been able to afford a colonoscopy five or ten years ago, she might not have colon cancer today. As it is, no doctor ever suggested that or any other screening test in years past. Why? Because they knew she could not PAY for it.

How many hundreds of thousands of Americans are in the same boat as she is today?

Frankfort KS -- library book signing

Of all the activities associated with being a writer, book signings are the hardest for me. I can talk with anyone about anything......just as long as the focus is not on me. When someone talks to me about me, my normally agile brain goes on vacation and I start stammering. Still, the Frankfort KS book signing was a delightful experience.

Frankfort is a pretty little town, nestled in the rolling hills of northeast Kansas where Highways 9 and 99 meet. As a child I visited my great-grandparents there frequently. Gathered almost every Sunday would be my grandma and grandpa, Mom and her little brood, Grandpa's brothers and families. Grandpa's family was a miscievous bunch of folks so there was always bantering and pranking. Frankfort today has progressed in the ensuing decades. They have a new library, for example, which is well organized and computerized. The physical layout is quiet, peaceful, and pleasant.

Alice Jones is the Librarian. She did everything she could to make my visit to her library comfortable. Alice wrote a detailed, interesting article about me and my books for area papers so the event had excellent promotion. As a result, a steady stream of relatives, friends, and strangers visited the library during the signing. My brother and nephew rode shotgun; that is, they chaperoned the entire event. Long time friend Jane Burkhead brought a breathtaking bouquet of spring flowers from her garden for the book table. Classmates Mary Long and Mike Simmons popped in to lend support and/or buy books. And I got to meet a writer I admire, Tom Parker, author of Dispatches from Kansas.

As an added bonus to an already lovely day, I met Nancy Schreiner, a relative from my grandpa's side of the family. I'm sure we have not seen the last of each other.

The event in Frankfort KS was my idea of what a book signing should be. I felt comfortable and relaxed in a pleasant environment. People purchased books if they felt like it, but chatted amiably if they didn't. I think book signings are not necessarily about selling books. They're about human interaction first and selling books second. This mostly unknown writer had a memorable experience at the Frankfort KS Public Library.

Other forms of writing to explore

I often speak of unknown writers and their struggles. Friend and fellow unknown author Eric Burton has discovered the ideal way of getting his writing fix. A few years ago Burton's book $oft Money was published. His book was a mystery thriller with government cover up and conspiracy at the heart of it. A couple years ago he wrote Conspiracy of Fear, which is still unpublished. Burton leans towards the political so when web logs debuted, he decided to give that form of writing a shot. His is a personal blog, on his own website. His political blogs have been picked up as editorials by the East Valley Tribune and he has recently contributed to their newspaper blogs also. Burton spares no one and speaks plainly. Here is an excerpt from one of his recent blogs, written May 9, 2006. I read this one after voting last Tuesday and thought WOW. The disparities between his subjects and the average tax payer need no further comment:

WHO AM I?

• I assault police officers.
• I drive under the influence and then get a ride home from the police.
• I flaunt campaign laws and the law in general.
• I write the laws that I flaunt.
• I use federal employees to remove my things from my flooded home.
• I eat at a cafeteria for free.
• I can shoot a friend in the face and well….
• I have my hair cut at a salon in the building I work in, also for free.
• My healthcare package is top notch, blue ribbon and follows me to the grave.
• My retirement benefits are for life and ensure that I will continue my pampered lifestyle.
• My friends fly me around the country free (even if they aren’t my friends they still want things from me and I am more than happy to ride along).
• I can cavort and golf around the world on someone else’s dime and call it work.
• I don’t have to ever tell the truth.
• I can have sexual relations with my employees during work hours.
• I make promises that I have no intention of ever keeping.
• I will kiss your baby then run up the deficit so your child will be mired in debt when they are older.
• I send men and women into battle to fight and die, never having put on a uniform myself.
• I can sexually harass, rape, have morals as low as my approval ratings.
• I can make evil look good and good look evil.
• I spend money, your money, like a drunken sailor on leave for the first time in over a year.

Who am I? I am an American politician.

Anyone interested in more straight-talking topics can check Burton's blog at www.elburton.com.

Beyond the DNA -- Discovering your Ancestors

Photo of Herb and Esther Ford, my maternal grandparents and the main subjects of their story, My Name is Esther Clara.

• No, this is not an outline for a family genealogy search. Examining your heredity is more personal than that. The life experiences of our parents, grandparents, and great grandparents contributed to what we are today as people, as a country. For me, writing about the lives of my maternal grandparents became a grand adventure. If only I had started decades earlier, while they were alive to share more stories of their early years.
  
  Since writing this book about my grandparents, many people have said to me, "Oh I just wish I had learned more about my parents' or grandparents' lives while they were still with me." It's not too late to begin gathering information. Elders of your family are a rich source of information.
  · aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, great grandparents and even their friends have memories to share
  · having the opportunity to share such memories can be a blessing for them and a gift to you
  · NOW is a perfect time for teenagers and young adults to harvest such memories while your older relatives are alive to reminisce about the past. Such history will become more precious to you as you age.
  · the more you learn about your relatives and the past, the greater understanding you will have of yourself and the world, and….
  · some day you will either wish you had learned more about your relatives when you had the chance, or will be very thankful that you took the time to listen to their stories
  
  How can you record the stories your relatives tell?
  · don't trust your memory alone. I relied on certain memories while writing about my grandparents, but memories often fade with time. Write things down in a special notebook you keep for just that purpose.
  · record their stories about the past on audiotape or some modern version of that
  · at family gatherings, videotape relatives who happen to be reminiscing at the time. ENCOURAGE their reminiscences.
  · the audiotapes and videotapes my uncle made of Grandma talking about her childhood and young married years were priceless sources of information when I wrote my book. If he had not had the foresight to record such stories, many of them would have been lost forever when she died
  
  If you decide to write a book about your ancestors:
  · your book can be printed off on computer and given to family members as a gift. This would be an easy gift at reasonable cost.
  · you can self-publish your book. This will cost a lot of money, but you'll have a professionally produced book
  · you can seek a traditional publisher willing to publish your book at no cost to you.
  
  Parents, grandparents, great grandparents – back through time – have contributed more to us than simply strands of DNA. Our beliefs and philosophies are often a product of their life experience. Learning more about their lives can open up new worlds to us and enhance our self-awareness.
  
  

Book signings galore!!!

Book signings are part of every published writer's life. Some call book signings a necessary evil. Others consider them to be golden opportunities. I've had book signings where flocks of people show up, and others where nobody comes. The book signings scheduled for me in the near future are golden opportunities. I'm so excited!!

The first book signing is at the Frankfort Kansas Public Library May 13 as part of the historic celebration of the Great White Way highway established in 1914. Since my latest book encompasses the time period from 1898 to 1989, it's a piece of history itself so will fit right in. My grandpa was born and raised on a farm near Frankfort, and he brought his new bride there in 1916.
I'm hoping to meet a few long lost relatives that day. And an extra bonus will be that I finally get to meet a writer I admire -- Tom Parker, author of Dispatches from Kansas and a blog of the same name -- and his wife Lori.

The second book signing will be June 3rd at the Marysville Kansas Public Library. I was raised in Marysville and lived there much of my married life. And my grandparents, memorialized in My Name is Esther Clara, lived in Marysville for 50 years or so. Marysville sits near the Big Blue River and has an interesting history. A ferry across the Blue served Fort Riley troops policing Indian Territory, and later provided crossing to pioneers heading west. Many friends and relatives live there and I'll enjoy seeing them whether anyone buys a book or not.

In the future I hope to arrange a book signing or signings in Iowa, my grandma's home state. She was born near Marcus Iowa, and also visited nearby Remsen Iowa many times throughout her life. A signing in that area would also be a golden opportunity to meet relatives I've never met, or haven't seen in years.

Book signings are not primarily about selling books. Yes, it's nice if people are interested enough in a writer's work to buy a book. But the joy of such gatherings to me is in seeing familiar, friendly faces on people who are glad to see me. Selling copies of the book is just an added bonus to the day.

Meet Joe Box......

A few years ago I met an unforgettable human named Joe Box. Joe is a Private Investigator and true Kentucky gentleman transplanted to Cincinnati OH. But a Mike Hammer clone he isn't. Joe is tall and a little gangly, not a bit stylish. Most of the time he doesn't know where his next buck is coming from and his lifestyle demonstrates that. He lives in an el cheapo apartment, drives a classic clunker, and his clothes look like he shops at the Salvation Army store. Joe's life experience is written all over the lines and angles of his face and flickers in the depth of his eyes. He's the kind of man you can't tear your eyes away from once you've met him, not because he's handsome but because he's so damn charismatic.

Joe Box may not look like much but he's rough and tough and hard to bluff. He knows evil and what drives men to crime and cruelty. Joe comes from a hard scrabble childhood and he lived through Viet Nam, sort of. For a big part of his adulthood he drank too much. Sometimes his hands shake just thinking about how a bottle or glass would feel in them again and his mouth waters just imagining the taste of liquor burning down his throat. But Joe stands firm because the ex-Viet Nam vet and alcoholic recently turned his screwed up life over to Jesus. His was not one of those easy, sweet and gentle transformations you read about in Christian magazines. He had to be torn down first, ripped apart and reassembled like an old stone building. I love Joe like a brother, root for him, pray for him. I want so much to see more of his delightful self effacing humor, to laugh at the southern Kentucky homilies he learned at his Granny's knee. More than anything I hope Joe wins the fight against those internal and external demons that want to see him fail.

OK, now I must confess. Joe Box is the main character of a series of books. But Joe is as real to me as any person I know. He's like Father Ralph in The Thornbirds, or Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath -- a character so fully developed, appealing and deliciously flawed that they never leave a reader's mind forever. The first in the Joe Box series has haunted me for several years now. The book was so entertaining, so surprising with it's flashes of humor and horrifying bad guys. And standing tall -- or trying to -- through every shattering page was the man I've described today, Joe Box. Even when hammered to his knees by life, Joe Box stayed true to everything he ever held dear.

John Robinson writes the Joe Box mysteries. He's one of those writers I envy, one of those still unfamous writers I talk about here from time to time. Readers weary of the same old genre clones, discriminating readers who appreciate good writing as well as intriguing stories, might find what they crave in Joe Box. And don't let Box's newfound faith put you off. Neither Robinson nor his hero are preachy types. Just the opposite, actually. Box has more rough edges than most Christians want the world to see.

And Hollywood needs to discover Joe Box too. Joe Box doesn't cuss his way through life like so many heroes do. He's not a womanizing rakehell. But Joe's life has more excitement, intrigue, danger, and action than Hollywoood will know what to do with. Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt probably would not be good choices to portray Joe Box. He's more a Liam Neeson type.

John Robinson's website is www.johnrobinsonbooks.com and don't forget to check his personal blog there. He's new to the world wide web and its potential, so be kind. I have the first edition of his first book in the series and nothing on God's green earth will part me from it. Robinson is working on a retitled second edition now and that one will have a permanent place on my bookshelf also. Like Joe Box, John Robinson as writer is one of a kind.