Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 11

Deer Camp 2012 Closed?

After a drive through Stone Mountain State Park the other day all I can say is I’m sad. Stone Mountain is only a few miles from my house. Several times a year we travel there to hike or camp, other times to just ride through and take in the natural beauty and watch the deer graze. On a typical late Sunday afternoon ride through the park we’ve seen up to 120 deer. The other day we saw 3! Yes, only 3 poor babies.

Where have the deer gone? A disease called Blue Tongue or EHD (Epizootic Hemorrhagic Disease) is rampant in Wilkes County, North Carolina. Reports tell of farmers finding two, three and four dead deer at a time near their ponds or streams. This disease causes a high fever so the deer travel to the cool water for relief.

Even though deer have terrorized my garden spot for years I still don’t wish them any harm. The authorities say this disease does not affect humans, and that you can even eat the meat of these diseased animals… but I beg to differ. Who in their right mind would eat an animal that has died with a fatal illness that causes hemorrhaging?

The ailment is caused by the bite of a midge. What is a midge? Well the Webster’s Dictionary says it’s a gnat. After doing a more through search on the internet I found a midge is a tiny swarming fly: a small slender flying insect that occurs globally, particularly in swarms near bodies of standing water, or a related biting insect that can transmit blood-borne diseases. YUCK!

Now I don’t know about you but my house has been infested all summer with these little insects that I call gnats. They swam around my tomatoes that I’ve brought in from the garden. They love to land in whatever sweet drink I’m tasting and hang out near the trashcan, and bathroom. I’ve never thought too much about these irritating little buggers, not until this blue tongue disease came along.

How do I get rid of these pesky disease-carrying midgets? The only way I’ve found is to swat each and every one of them individually and pray for an early freeze. If anyone else has a better attack plan please let me know.

No kidding the deer population in some counties in North Carolina has declined up to 50% or more. Why, there’s even talk of canceling deer hunting season in Wilkes County this year. I’ve thought a lot about this. How will our men react? Testosterone levels will spike. They will go on a rampage and track down all who support this decision. If you think people who suffer from road rage are crazy, wait until you come face to face with a guy who cannot legally deer hunt for an entire year.

Women who were once widowed from the first Saturday after Labor Day until sometime in December will now have a full time husband…year round…every day. I’m trying to decide if this is a good thing or not. A woman needs her space just like a man does you know.

My husband isn’t all crazy about the kill anymore, but he once was. There have been fights with friends. Falling out with family members, and a few times there have been echoes of divorce coming from a far off place in my mind. Come on admit it. Men take on a different personality when they dress up in multi-colored earth tone clothes and get a gun in their hands.

What would it mean if deer season were really cancelled this year? Maybe a father would not miss his child’s basketball game, or supper most nights with his family. For four entire months he may very well be the partner that his wife desires. His mind would not linger on how many points that buck had in the photo that his game camera took, but he would dream of the softness of his wife’s skin and the smell of her hair. (I know. I’m really going too far now aren’t I?)

Anyway, in truth I really think it would be a good thing if deer camp was closed for business this year. The surviving deer population might have a chance to re-populate and husbands and wives might have a chance to see what fall of the year is like sharing it with each other.

Personally I don’t see anything wrong with a man going out into the woods and listening to the breeze as it shakes the autumn leaves. I can totally relate to connecting with nature and finding peace in the woods. But I can also feel the strife of many a lady, as she becomes a single parent for a quarter of the year.

God has a way of fixing things. Whether it is a disease to lessen the overgrown population of the white tailed deer or to calm down a man’s urge to escape reality and wonder off into the forest.

Another excerpt from my soon to be released novel, The Color of My Heart.

“What are you doing, Me-maw?”

Me-maw was planning her future instead of drowning in the sorrows of the past.

“Just making a list. Things I need to get done before I move home. I’ve already checked the first thing off. I called the electric company, and they said the power would be on by noon. Do you think the girls would come down on Saturday and help us clean? Maybe they could pick out some new curtains and accessories.”

Laura listened as her me-maw told of all her plans. Right at that moment, she felt much older than her great-grandmother. Inesta was on a mission and was determined to conquer any obstacle that came her way. She was going home, and it was obvious that nothing would stop her.

Spoiled Rotten

What does a girl do when she puts her coffee bag, (it’s just like a tea bag except it’s coffee inside the bag) in her coffee cup, runs it full of water, sticks it in the microwave and one minute and forty-five seconds later when she takes it out the water is still cold? I’ll tell you what she does. She gets a sauce pan from the cabinet, pours the coffee bag and water into it then puts it on the stove and turns the burner on high and waits for it to boil while she is calling the microwave repairman.

I had no idea how much I depended on my microwave. I’m a sipper. Every morning it takes me from one to three re-heats to get my cup of coffee down the hatch. So since last Wednesday I’ve been rushing my usual morning routine. I have to stay focused and drink my coffee fast before it gets cold. Where’s the pleasure in that?

I’m not the only one missing the fancy oven. My husband had to literally heat up a can of soup on the range the other day. His statement went something like this, “If I’d known it was going to be this much trouble I would have eaten something else.” Now if that isn’t spoiled I don’t know what is.

The kicker was a few nights ago. My granddaughter and I were about to settle in for the night with a good movie. I went to the pantry to grab a pack of microwave popcorn, and as my hand was reaching in I remember the microwave is broken. But never fear I have a bag of kernels in the fridge. I proceed to get a pot and pop it the “ole timey” shake, rattle and roll way. It turned out pretty good, but I have to admit I love the new Orville Redenbacher bowls. No shaking, no pot or bowls to wash, and it’s actually really good. Yes, I am what you would call, spoiled rotten.

I got to thinking about other ways I’m spoiled. Once upon a time I had to roll my long hair on plastic curlers and wait for it to dry naturally. Now I have a blow dryer and curling iron. My clothes dryer is another luxury. I don’t even have a clothes line stretched outside anymore. We pack firewood between the posts. I do however have a few lines strung up in my basement. I might be spoiled, but I’m always prepared. That’s one reason we have a wood stove in the basement.

I could go on and on telling you about all the wonderful modern things we enjoy. What about this computer I’m typing on? Back in the ‘90’s when I really got serious about my writing I bought a used computer for $200, printer and all. The poor thing had a mind of it’s own and I eventually went back to hand writing everything. In fact my first three novels were handwritten. I can boastfully say that I have now graduated to a higher level. My fourth novel was conceived on my iMac laptop. I’ve come a long way baby.

I really don’t think we realize how very spoilt we are. Could we survive if the power was shut off for a week, month, or year? Think about it. No lights, water, electric stove, fan, AC, hairdryer, alarm clock, refrigerator, washing machine, dryer, freezer, television, radio, or microwave! I do remember those days. My grandpa lived in a house at the foot of the Brushy Mountains with no power, and he got his water from a spring down the hill. Now that I think about it I deserve to be spoiled. Shucks, I didn’t even have an inside bathroom and hot water in my house growing up until I was ten years old!  Yes, I think I could survive without most of the modern luxuries, but let me tell you I wouldn’t like it, not one bit.

I think back to the days when men hunted the land for food and not for sport. A woman’s day was filled with preparing and preserving food for her family. That was just the way of life back then. My granddaughter asked me the other day if I’d ever looked at the face of a squirrel up close? It seems a friend’s dog or cat had killed one of the poor little animals and Emma had inspected it closely. When I told her yes, I’d seen lots of squirrels up close she looked at me real funny, like really. Then I proceeded to tell her about helping my daddy skin squirrel’s to eat and she quiet frankly didn’t believe me.

Doing without a microwave for a week has really made me appreciate it. If we think about it we treat people like fixtures sometimes. Things, and loved ones we have around us everyday usually get taken for granted and sometimes go un-noticed. Look at the people around you and think about what it would be like if they suddenly were not there. One minute the microwave is fine the next it’s in the microwave hospital. Did I appreciate that microwave enough? No, not until it wasn’t there. Something to ponder about, don’t you think?

Here’s another excerpt from, The Color of My Heart. My publisher tells me I might have cover designs to choose from this week. I can’t wait to see them.

For the next two hours, Lila, Inesta, and Lakin sat by Nelda’s side. They watched her chest rise and fall as the breaths came in irregular intervals, and then stop for what seemed like eternity. Then she would rasp and start up again. Now and then her frail arms would reach up, and her hands would stroke the invisible air.

“Me-maw, what is she doing?” Lila asked.

“She’s touching Jesus’ face. See the smile and tears coming from her eyes? She’s touching our Lord’s face!”

“Should we go wake Mom?” Lakin asked.

“No, child, it’s not time. Jesus is just comforting her, showing her how to let go and begin her journey home.”

Are You a Peacemaker or Agitator?

Romans 12:18

If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.

While growing up on the banks of the Big Elkin Creek I found peace in listening to the water flow as it made it’s way down to the Yadkin. When all was not well, which was quiet often inside the walls of my home I would set out for the woods across from my house to the branch or down to the creek. My favorite place was at the end of Daddy’s bottomland. Here the Big Elkin is a bit louder as it turns the bend and rushes over rocks on it’s way to Carter Falls. Long ago there was a huge fallen tree that I loved to climb up on and think. Sometimes I’d take my pink bound diary and a pencil with me. There I’d write down what my heart was feeling. This place offered a young girl solitude and calmness. What more could a person ask for than to be at peace?

In that spot I made all kinds of promises to myself, and God. I thought I wanted to join the armed forces, or become a teacher. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be destined to write down stories. And especially not to have them published. But here I am typing away. I’m only a few short weeks away from having my second novel published and I’m pretty close to signing a contract to have one of my children’s stories published next year. I can say with all assurance, all is well with my soul. I am at peace with my life and what I am doing.

Often that peace is hard to find. Not everyday is smooth. Sometimes there’s a rough edge here and there that I have to maneuver around. An occasional splinter is bound to pop up every once in a while. Sometimes that splinter might disguise it’s self as the husband. And then there’s the daughter. Lord have mercy it’s hard to stop being a mama and let your child run her own life. Then there’s the granddaughter, no problem there. She’s still young enough to think I’m cool. Plus the fact I take her shopping.

Then there are other obstacles outside the family that tries to slip into a person’s life and prick our happiness. The neighbors kid rides his motorcycle on Sunday afternoon while you’re trying to nap, or the other neighbor’s dog is barking or coming over for a visit to eat the cat food. Then there’s the lady in the check out line in front of you that is bound to find the correct change even if it means dumping out her entire purse on the counter. Or, the slow poke in front of you on the highway that just won’t move over and let you pass. And what about that person who you know intentionally said something to hurt your feelings? Me thinks God’s children have become a bit impatient, unruly and opinionated.

The Lord tells us to live peaceably with all men. That is very hard to do when God’s children are not living in one accord. By this I mean when we are not in God’s will. One person wants this, another one wants that, one desires his way and another demands theirs. God’s people might just be grumbling and complaining too much, don’t you think? When we put our wants before Gods and stop asking Him for guidance things will never be the way God wants them to be, and we’ll never be at peace.

Yes, we are all individuals. Yes, we have minds of our own with thoughts of our own. And, yes we all want our own way. But, most often our way is the wrong way. Why can’t we just follow the Word of God and be about His business, instead of the business of others?

We live in a world of hurting people. Souls are hungering for assurance that there is more to this life than what they see in front of them. People want to find peace. Humans have a strong need to feel loved and cared for. My hope and prayer is that we will be a people of faith: That our homes and churches would be places where a stranger might walk in and feel the spirit of the Lord and love all around them. I want to be the part of God’s family who reaches out to the oppressed, the needy and especially the lost.

Where do we find that perfect peace? We start by searching our own heart. Are we trying to make decisions because that is the way we want things to turn out? Or, are we praying for God’s will? God wants His people to be filled up with Him to the point that He’s spilling out and onto others. We are to show God’s love and mercy, we are to live peaceably with all men.

Do I ever get mad? Do I say things I sometimes regret? Unfortunately yes. But I am trying harder every day to be the kind of person God wants me to be. James 1:19-20 tells us: Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath: For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. Needless to say I am a work in progress, but at least He’s still working on me. What about you?

Here’s another excerpt from my soon to be released novel, The Color of My Heart.

From the looks of Inesta’s hands, Nelda didn’t know how she could do anything with them. Me-maw’s fingers were twisted and knotted. Arthritis had settled into her once hard-working hands, leaving them as contorted as a wicked old witch’s. Inesta Calhoun was far from a witch, though. She was the most amazing woman Nelda had ever known. Her life was like a history book full of dramas. Defeat or accomplishment, no matter what, her me-maw took whatever life threw at her and made good with it. From her ancestors, Inesta inherited a strong will, quick mind, a good, pure heart, and a sweet spirit. Nelda wanted to do all she could for her me-maw while she was able, even if it meant climbing the twenty-seven stairs to Me-maw’s room to eat while gazing out the window at the mountains that Inesta loved so much.

Paid In Full

In the late seventies we planned a camping trip with my husband Jerry’s first cousin Alan, and his wife Debbie. We were to meet at the campground at Stone Mountain, in North Carolina. Alan gave Jerry a twenty-dollar bill to help pay for the food we’d buy for the trip. I know. You’re thinking, you can’t buy much for twenty bucks these days, but back then twenty bucks was worth a lot more.

For some reason Alan and Debbie didn’t make it to the campground. So we were left with Alan’s twenty bucks. Through the years at family reunions we’ve joked about the fact that we own them a meal. This past spring I told Debbie that if we were ever going to get our debt paid they were going to have to come up to our camper at the river. I threw out a couple of open weekends that I had and she picked one and we put it on our calendars. After all the years of planning a get-to-gather it was finally going to happen. Or, was it?

July 27th soon arrived and my husband and I anxiously awaited the collectors arrival. We had our junkyard RV all set up for them. We had even laid plans to take them out for a nice meal. We would finally have them paid back. As time elapsed on Friday I began to wonder if something was wrong. Sure enough, around five-o-clock my cell phone rings. On the other end is a distraught Debbie. It seemed Alan was stuck at work for an extended period of time and she didn’t know when he’d get home.

I calmed her down and told her we’d look forward to seeing them the next morning. The New River would still be there and the floats were ready and waiting. All the while I was wondering if this debt would ever get paid.

Sure enough around noon on Saturday our cousins showed up. We relaxed on the porch for a while then we donned our swimsuits and headed about three miles up river. What a relaxing time we had floating down the New. We talked, and laughed as if over thirty years had not passed. It was as if we had gone back in time and picked right up on our previous camping trip plans.

A sound reminder that the year was not 1978 was Debbie and Alan’s twenty-eight year old son, Zack with girl friend, Chelsea in tow. I was overlooking the few age changes in the four of us and was almost feeling twenty something again, but then there was Zack. Oh well, a girl can dream of still being young can’t she? What a wonderful time we had that weekend. Sometimes family is just family, but then there are those who seem much closer than kin, because they are friends.

I ponder on the years that have passed and other debts that have been paid like mortgages, and car and land payments. I think back to a time long before Alan, Debbie, Jerry and myself made those camping plans. Way back over two thousand years ago when a man named Jesus willingly placed his hands and feet on a wooden cross and allowed soldiers to pound wooden spikes into them. Jesus didn’t have to do that you know. He could have called for His father, or ten thousand angels to lift Him down from that cross and spare Him from the pain He was bearing.

But He didn’t. He loved us, all of us, every man, woman and child in this whole entire world enough to die the most painful death a person can experience. He shed His own precious blood for every last one of us. His blood covered all my sins and left me debt free. What a wonderful feeling to know that no matter what kind of financial shape I’m in the most important debt I’ll ever owe has been paid in full. May you all experience the joy of being a child of the King?

An excerpt from, The Color of My Heart.

In a weak voice, Nelda spoke, shifting her eyes to make direct contact with his. “Come closer, Tam. Do you know Jesus?”

The question surprised Tam, so it took him a few seconds to respond. “Yes, I know who Jesus is.”

“No, I mean do you really know Him? Do you believe He died for you, was buried in a sealed tomb, and then arose after three days? Do you believe that He loved you enough to suffer the slow and excruciating pain of being crucified? Do you believe He asked forgiveness for the ones who had nailed Him to that cross?” Nelda stopped for a minute, as if she had to muster all her strength to finish, her eyes never leaving Tam’s.

“Do you believe that you are one of those people who helped pound the spikes into his hands and feet?” Nelda didn’t wait for an answer, but continued. “I believe I am one of those who took a turn pounding in the nails. Every one of my sins, past and present, drove the spikes deeper and deeper into his flesh. Why would He do that, Tam? Why suffer and die for pitiful sinners like you and me? I’ll tell you why, Tam: forgiveness, that’s why. If Jesus can forgive us for what we do to Him and to each other, who am I to deny forgiveness to anyone?

Matthew 26:53

Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?

Back to School… and Work

I was born, raised and still live in the Foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. While growing up my days in the summer were filled with working in the garden, tobacco priming, playing in the creek, catching Lightning and June bugs and worrying about school starting in the fall. Even though summer break was much longer back then, it still wasn’t long enough for me. Needless to say I was not crazy about school.

School in the county I lived in never started until after Labor Day. My granddaughter Emma now attends Wilkes County schools and this year the first day is today, August 9th. That’s right, almost an entire month earlier than way back when. Times have surely changed.

What ever happened to the days when children were kept home until the crops were in? Now if a child is late for school for three days they are suspended or something crazy like that. I would have spent a lot of time in suspension.

When I was in the eighth grade, I was late for school every Friday. My daddy needed me to help get his weekly load of scrap iron cleaned and ready to take to the buyer. My wonderful teacher, Mr. Gayle Anthony didn’t reprimand me because he understood that I had to work. I was not laying out of school I was merely contributing to the livelihood of my family.

I understand the new school calendar. It makes sense. By starting earlier in the fall the children have more days off during the school year and they get out earlier in the spring. This certainly gives the kids and the teachers a break more often. When I was in school I only remember being off for Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. And, of course a few cherished snow days now and then.

Back to school for my granddaughter means back to work for me. We had a great summer together and I miss her all ready, but all good things must come to an end. (I hate that saying and don’t really believe it.) The house is so quiet this morning. The only noise is me banging the keys on my keyboard and the washing machine churning.

It only seems like yesterday I was sending my own daughter off to third grade. I believe her teacher that year was Libby Beshears. That was also the year we took her to Disney World. Funny how our minds drift remembering all the little things that really didn’t mean much then.

Oh well, enough reminiscencing. One of my mottos is look forward, not back. We can only change the future not the past. Today I will be happy for Emma as she starts a new school year and renews friendships. And I am back to work looking forward to the release of my new novel, The Color of my Heart late this fall. The last edit is finished on my children’s picture book titled, The Manger Mouse and I am ready to start the second edit of my next novel, The River Keeper.

Yes, it’s been a fun summer but I’m ready to move forward: To put words down on paper and create scenes and plots. Lately ideas for another novel have been popping into my head. I can only clear my own thoughts and let the characters have their way. I never know what I’ll write next. Some ask me what genre I write and I can only answer, what genre do I not write?

Since we’re talking about heading back to school I thought I’d share an excerpt from The Color of My Heart with you about my main character Laura who is sending her oldest daughter Lakin off to college.

Excerpt, The Color of My Heart

The day was overcast as Tam, Laura, and Lakin arrived on the North Carolina State campus. The dreariness of the day did nothing to dampen Lakin’s mood. She was literally bouncing up and down with excitement. The car was piled to the roof with everything a girl would need to set up housekeeping in the confines of a small dorm room. Lakin already knew her roommate’s name, Jade Mastin. They had spoken on the phone a couple of times since finding out they were paired, but still knew very little about each other.

After a dozen trips up and down to Lakin’s dorm room on the second floor, the SUV was unloaded. Then after another two hours, her bed was made, the matching curtains were hung on the window on her side, and most of the boxes were emptied. Drawers and the desk were crammed full. The worst part was sharing a bathroom between two rooms and three other people.

Before Tam and Laura left, all three went out to supper. They ended up at a popular chain restaurant where all the young people liked to hang out. Inside the parents got a glimpse of life in a college town 2004 style!

Kids were everywhere, laughing, talking too loudly. Some were at the bar drinking. Laura hoped they’d been carded. It was a reunion of scattered souls, a happy place for Lakin, but a worrisome experience for Tam and Laura. Wading out through the crowd, Laura had never seen so many tattoos. Back in the car she promised Lakin she’d kill her if anything other than her ears got pierced. Why in the world would someone want a nose ring or their eyebrows pierced? Not to mention the haircuts and strange colors like purple hair. Why would anyone want purple hair?

The Power of the Unseen

For the past two weeks my Internet has been laying down on the job. One minute I have access, the next it’s dead as a poor old frog who has just encountered the weight of a truck full of logs. You never know how much you rely on something until its not there. Using the Internet six to twelve hours a day, I am literally shutdown without it.

You know how it is when something tears up? You go and get a hammer, or screwdriver and you pound and twist until the broken object is fixed? Well with the Internet I don’t have anything to beat on. Only airwaves, or radiation bouncing off a satellite or something else invisible like that.

I really don’t understand how things work these days. Just how does a GPS know I have left the pavement and am now driving on a dirt road? Or, when the speed limit changes from seventy to fifty-five. How can one small object contain so much information? It doesn’t. The data is magically filtering through the air. Right?

Twenty years ago I sent a children’s story out to a handful of publishing companies. I had to literally type the story on a manual typewriter, fix type-os with an ink eraser, and get to a print shop to make copies and then snail mail the story. Today, even though mine is broken I love the World Wide Web and my iMac… printer… copier…and fax machine. These modern gadgets make my life so much easier.

At church last Sunday morning while sitting by the banks of the New River listening to the special music and preaching, I couldn’t help but ponder the mystery of the Holy Spirit. That part of the Trinity that is always with me, comforting, giving advice, leading and guiding my every move. I can’t see the Holy Spirit, but just like that GPS He seems to know everything. The Holy Spirit is always mapping out the route He wants me to take. Ready and waiting to set me straight and get me on the right path if I venture off the straight and narrow.

Sometimes when that GPS voice is telling me to go where I don’t want to I simply shut her down. When I’m feeling the urge to do something I know The Lord doesn’t want me to do the human part of me wants to turn the Spirit off. But just like Jesus promised, the Spirit will never leave me. Thank God I have a constant companion who is with me always. Good days and bad, Internet or not.

This past Sunday at our little church along the river the Spirit weaved its way into my heart. Overwhelming me with perfect peace, revealing all the blessings in my life. One never knows when we’ll be faced with the unknown. Without the help of a GPS we may become lost. Our lives may run into a dead end, like sickness or death. But we can lay our heads down in peace at night assured that Sweet Spirit is with us.

The power of the unseen is apparent when we use all our modern gadgets, as is the presence of the Spirit to all who believe. We probably wouldn’t trust ourselves to find our way to a distant land without a GPS? So why would we reject the One the Father sent to comfort and guide us?

John 14: 26-27

27) But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.

28) Peach I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Picture caption: A heartfelt thank you to Steve Martin, Charlie, Luke, Brooke Sealy, and Winfrey Caudill for bringing their beautiful music and singing to the river.

Here’s another excerpt from my soon to be released novel, The Color of My Heart.

Lakin went to the door and shook it with all her strength. It rattled and gave a little, but the lock didn’t budge. So she decided to scream. She screamed, yelled, and hollered until her throat was raw. Obviously, there was no one close by. She sank down on the splintered, cold floor and cried. Devin would have to be insane to have done this to her. A feeling of cold, dark dread crept into Lakin’s soul. She shivered again and then started shaking. Lakin was lost, alone, and in real trouble. She cried out again, and she prayed.

Old Dog, New Tricks

I just finished going over the first round of editing notes for, The Color of My Heart from Brenda, my editor at Ambassador International. I was both humbled and intimidated when I opened her email on Sunday afternoon. Her comments were: “It was such a joy to work on a manuscript with strong, well-rounded characters and a compelling plot.” In another place she went on to say, “A very gripping story! Well done.” A girl can never get too many compliments about her hair, or her writing.

I am a writer, plain and simple, nothing more, nothing less. I know how to type, maneuver my way through spell check, copy and paste and maybe a few other things on a computer, but other than that I am lost. So when Brenda asked me to please do my revisions using “Track Changes,” I knew I was in over my head. What’s “Track Changes?”

I do a quick once over of the tabs above my Word document. No “Track Changes.” So reluctantly I email my new editor and tell her I’ve never used this program, and could she please advise me on how to access it. I didn’t want her to think I was simple minded, but oh well, I am what I am. Brenda shoots me back an email that says to go up under tabs, then to Review, then “Track Changes.” What Brenda doesn’t know is I’m working with an old version of Word and she’s working with a new version. In the meantime I’ve emailed another friend, and she’s not much help either because she has recently updated her version of Word. Something’s telling me I might need an update.

On my version of Word of course the tabs are in a different place, but this old dog isn’t ready to give up yet. For those of you who might not have updated their Word program recently I’ll share with you exactly where “Track Changes” is located. On the tabs above your Word document go to View, then Tool Bar, then Reviewing, (not Review like the new version says) click the sixth icon and there you will find “Track Changes.” Simple. Right? You’ve just got to figure out which buttons to push.

I have a lot of weaknesses but I can promise you there “ain’t no” give up in me. Once I found “Track Changes” the edit was pretty simple. And, I may add, “Track Changes” is a wonderful tool. To think it’s been right there under my nose all these years hiding behind a tab. I have to wonder what else I am missing in my life? Do I merely see the surface of an individual and overlook the real person that may be hiding inside?

We all get stuck in a rut at times. Week after week, year after year we follow the same old routines. Wash clothes on Monday, mow the lawn on Thursday, church on Sunday. There’s nothing wrong with that, but every once in a while we should mix things up a bit. Try a new recipe, or restaurant. Listen to a new station on the radio, or watch the history channel on the TV. Like me, you might want to just sit down at your computer and see what all those tabs can actually do.

Most of the time we make things a whole lot harder than they have to be just because we’re not willing to try something new. Well, I’m thankful that Brenda, at Ambassador International showed this old dog a new trip. And, I’m looking forward to learning many more from her and the Ambassador team. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re too old to learn something new.

Here’s another excerpt of my soon to be released novel, The Color of My Heart.

October 4, 1858

Off the coast of Africa

Captain William C. Corrie

Today we arrived at the port of Benjuela on the Congo River. The Wanderer will not be loaded with passengers of wealth for this sail. There will be no cruising about on a pleasure voyage. Today the pit of this once impressive amusement craft will be filled with the souls of 487 men, women, and children from this godforsaken country of Africa. The stewards of this trip will be serving no wine or fancy food for the guests. The passengers on this trip will be lucky to survive the next six weeks on our journey across the Atlantic. I simply am charged with keeping enough moldy bread and water in them to keep them alive. Every head I have to throw overboard costs me money!

(Thank you to Abby, the mascot at New River Campground for letting me use her picture in this blog.)

Hummingbirds In Flight, An Author’s Journey

I love watching hummingbirds. Right now there are anywhere from four to eight fluttering back and forth fighting their way to the sweet nectar inside the artificial feeder hanging on my porch. I not only love watching them but also enjoy listening to the sounds of their wings as they beat rapidly back and forth. They talk to each other too. Making a noise that only a hummingbird can. They sound sort of like a squirrel hipped up on caffeine, only a bit more frantic. Get back, that’s my sweet nectar. I’m warning you, leave now or I’m going to peck you.

As I watch the little multi-colored birdies I wonder why they are so territorial? Can’t they just get along and share? Sometimes there will be four or five sitting peaceably on the feeder together, but most of the time there is one that bully’s the rest. Guarding the plastic flowers from the others. They are constantly fighting for a turn at the feeder. They chase after each other, often times pecking at one another shooing the other one away. They just can’t seem to get along.

Humans are a lot like the hummingbird. We flutter along fighting our way through life.  Constantly struggling with family matters, work schedules, and personal dilemmas. Often times we don’t even realize that we are pecking away at those around us exactly the way a hummingbird does. We put ourselves under so much stress trying to achieve things that really won’t matter in the end.

Right now I have at least a half dozen projects going that everyday demand my attention, or at least consume my thoughts. Like the hummingbird I crave the sweet nectar of completion for some of these projects. I am close to finishing my fourth novel. The first official edit is complete on my children’s picture book. I am waiting for my publisher to send me the first edit of my third novel, and I am anxious to have my publisher look at another novel I’ve written, while marketing the one I have already published.

Amongst all that I’m trying to help a new author find a publisher for his work, and mentor a young author who needs lots of moral support to finish her novella. I love helping others achieve the desires of their heart. What is success you might ask? Success for the hummingbird is a full belly. Success for me is lots of different things, like knowing my family is loved and cared for. Professional success was when I held my first published novel in my hand. No, it did not become a New York Times Bestseller, not yet anyway, but it did bring pleasure to the many who read it

Success cannot be measured in dollars, or the number of publications you see your name show up in. True success comes from achieving something you’re passionate about. I set a goal to write a novel way back in the 1990’s. It took me thirteen years to write my first book, a work that is yet to be published, but I did it. I try to tell new authors that what we are doing is something pretty special. Not everyone can paint a beautiful portrait, or sing a song in tune, and not all can write a novel. Yes, I’ll be the first to admit that not every book I’ve read is wonderful, but most have had something unique about them. Every person being different brings something new to the table, or should I say to paper.

Like a hummingbird craving that sweet honey from the heart of a petal, we as authors seek our pleasure from putting words down on paper. Like the dominant hummingbird we must be strong and diligent. We must believe in what we are doing, and ourselves. Like a hummingbird in flight, we might have to flutter from one rejection to another, but as the hummer we never give up, always hopeful that just around the corner we’ll find the perfect publisher for our work and our bellies will be full. I have been very fortunate to find a new publisher, Ambassador International. So far they have been wonderful to work with. I can’t wait to see what they’ve done with the cover of, The Color of My Heart.

So, authors take on the armor of the hummingbird. Yes, we are small and meek and one among many, but we shall stay strong and thrifty as we fight our way through queries, synopsis’ and cover letters. We may have to fight our way to the feeder/publisher, but we’ll never give up. As long as there are thoughts to put on paper this lowly author will continue to fulfill the desires of her heart, best seller or not.

As promised in last week’s blog, here’s an excerpt from, The Color of My Heart.

November 1858

Jekyll Island, Georgia

Lucia

My little Zessia is waking up. I’m not sure I slept at all last night. But that isn’t anything new. Most nights by the time little Zessia has been asleep for a few hours, my body feels the need to stretch and unfold from this ball I’m always curled up in. But I don’t dare leave little Zessia’s fingers and toes out in the open for the rats to have for supper. No, I’ll be fine. I can stand anything as long as Zessia is not harmed.

The uncertainty of what will happen to us now that we have landed in this new world is twirling in my head. My mind is as the monsoons that whirl in my homeland of Africa. Will I be separated from my baby? Will they find out she is a girl? And then what will they do? I know what will happen for I’ve seen the shape some of the other children have been in when the mean men throw them back down into the pit of the ship. I know all right and I will die before I will let that happen to my Zessia.

Tools of the Trade

There’s a lot going on in my life this summer: Vegetable canning, hanging out with the granddaughter, sitting in the cool waters of New River, writing books, and editing. This week my personal editor sent me the first edit of a children’s picture book I’ve written titled, The Manger Mouse. I can’t wait to type in the grammar corrections and make revisions. I know most of you think I’m crazy, but I really don’t mind the edit work.

It seems every time I go through a piece that I’ve written I see a way to make it a little bit better. Sometimes an entire chapter may change, or the ending may take a different route. I was hoping to have this children’s book published by late fall, but I’m waiting on the illustrator, and artists can’t be rushed. I’m sure the wait will be worth it.

I’m equally excited about the release of my next novel, The Color of My Heart late this fall. The editor at my publishing company, Ambassador International will have the first edit back to me this week. As the next couple of months progress, I want to share bits and pieces of the editing journey of a Christian author with you. How long does the editing process take? Do you pay heed to all the suggestions of your editor, or follow your own gut? Just like with gardening you need certain tools to write and edit. What kind of tools: A thesaurus, Bible, dictionary, Bible concordance, and lots of research via the Internet and my World Book Encyclopedias. I also want to start sharing a few words here and there of my work.

Before I start a novel I write a poem about my story. Sometimes my characters deviate from the original plot, but that’s okay, it’s their life anyway. Below is my poem titled, The Color of My Heart. I hope you enjoy, and get a feel of what my new novel is going to be about. I hope this novel will be entertaining to all who read it, but mostly I pray it will change lives. Enjoy.

P.S… I’ve also included my favorite sweet pickle recipe at the end. The recipe is a little time consuming, but if you like sweet pickles they’re worth it.

The Color Of My Heart

Pitching and swaying, the ship rolls over the hump-backed crests

Inside I, too, churn just as the sea

The force piles us high, one on top of the other

Woman, child…man and boy

Dirty, starved, abused, and shackled

Can’t anyone see the color of my heart?

Herded, chains binding, they check our bodies

Not seeing our souls

Fingers prying, muscles tested, hands on flesh

Who will have us

Where will we go?

Loud voices drown out our cries…sold…sold…sold

Can’t anyone see the color of my heart?

Dragged away, where’s my mama, my daddy, my brothers?

Someone help, take me back, I want to go home

New place, obey the rules, yes ma’am, no ma’am,

Always yes sir!

Please don’t touch me like that… I’ve never before

Can’t you see the color of my heart?

Years come, years go, babies are born, babies die

One has coal-colored skin

The other, skin olive with blue eyes

Some love, most hate, all ache

I yearn for the world to see

The color of my heart

Rejected, rebuked, shut out, shut in

Proud, confused, controlled, judged

Freedom does not always mean you’re free!

One maker…one man…one woman…

One creation…one color heart?

What do you see?

Icicle Cucumber Pickles

Take 2 gallons of cucumbers, slice but do not peel before measuring. Pour 1 gallon of boiling water with one pint of pickling salt added over cukes. Let stand 1 week stirring or shaking every day. Drain and add 2 tablespoons Alum to 1-gallon boiling water and pour over cukes. Let stand 24 hours. Drain.

Syrup:

8 pints sugar

2 quarts vinegar

1 box pickling spices tied in cheesecloth. (I don’t usually use an entire box.)

Heat syrup and pour over sliced cukes every morning for 4 days. On the 4th day place cukes in hot jars. Heat syrup and pour over pickles in jars and seal with new lids. If one doesn’t seal, just re-heat the syrup. Makes 12 pints.

Enjoy, great pickles to use in potato salad.

Open-Air Worship

As Independence Day approaches I can’t help but think about how much freedom I have. I come and go as I please. I have a hearty garden full of vegetables to cook or I can choose to dine out. Sometimes I listen to the radio, other times I flip through a couple of hundred different channels on the television. I can travel in a car, by plane, and train, ride a bike, or walk. I have the freedom to bear arms if I so choose and speak my mind. Or, I can pen about anything I want to in this blog. We take so much for granted, such as having the freedom to attend church and worship God.

What is church anyway, a fine brick building, a huge circus style tent?  I go to church outside under a picnic shelter when I’m camping at New River. People are what make a church, not the structure it’s held in. Larry Atwood, a retired minister who is a regular camper at the campground leads our worship service at 9am every Sunday morning from Memorial Day until Labor Day. Sometimes as I sit under the picnic shelter and listen to Larry, I hear the noises of the campground. Children spinning and laughing at the playground, people breaking camp getting ready to go home, and the creek gurgling beside me. As I sit there I ponder on the reasons people don’t exert their God given right to attend church. What could be more important than accessing our freedom of religion?

Preacher Larry is a walking miracle. He almost died a few years back after suffering a heart attack. He lay hooked up to life support, in a coma for two weeks. The doctors told his family that he was brain dead and that they should make the decision to un-hook him. His wife would not allow it and days later Larry woke up. He is now on oxygen full time, but that is the only hindrance we notice as he stands before us and preaches the word of God boldly, yet humbly. He doesn’t let his health issues stand in the way of sharing the word of the Lord with a few weary campers.

Larry started his campground ministry four years ago. Every Saturday evening he goes down the road through the campground and hands out flyers inviting people to come to his outside church. Most Sunday’s you’ll find the regulars like us who camp all the time under the shelter. Occasionally a few campers from out of town mosey in. Sometimes there are fifteen people, other times close to fifty. Last Sunday we had a lady volunteer to play the piano because we didn’t have one for that day. Another Sunday, on a whim a man came up to the keyboard and played and sang beautifully. Yet another day a little girl about eight or nine came forward and took the microphone telling us the story of Lot, or Loot as she call him. We never know what will happen from one Sunday until the next in our open-air church, but we know if we show up there will be a blessing waiting for us.

Larry has special singers lined up each Sunday to sing God’s praises. One family in particular touches my heart every time they come to sing for us. The man sings alone sometimes, other times his wife joins him, then there are times when his daughter and two sons help. One son is severely handicapped and can’t walk or talk but that doesn’t stop him from making a joyful noise into the Lord. You may not be able to understand the words he’s saying, but you sure can feel the spirit.

I am so blessed to have such a wonderful church family at the river. As I sit writing this blog I’m gazing out over the calm waters on the New. Just a few hours ago a strong wind rolled through and the waters churned up white caps. The wind blew tree limbs out of trees and it was a real mess. Almost forty campers pulled together and loaded two pickups and one trailer full of brush and hauled it away. One man said how great it was that all of us had come together to help the campground owner. He said it made him think of old times when people pitched in and helped one another. I had to agree.

Even though the United States of America isn’t a perfect place, I believe it is still the best spot in the world to live. We take so much for granted. Such simple things to wake up on Sunday morning and walk down the road to our open-air church by the river. There are so many people in this world who have to worship in secret. What a shame that out of a couple of hundred campers on the weekend, barely five percent feel the need to join us in worship.

Our forefathers knew from whence their blessings flowed. Too bad most men today think they can do all things within themselves. What a shame we don’t give credit where credit is due, God. On this July 4th let us remember that not all can profess the Lord as their Savior out in the open without fear of punishment. Let us also not forget the men and women who fight to preserve these freedoms we have. And, most importantly, let us thank God for giving his only begotten Son so that we can eternally be free from the grave.