Mari Collier's Blog, page 6
May 18, 2014
The Day I Stopped Being a "Girlie" Girl
For most of the Kindergarten through third grades, I attended a consolidated school in a small town. That means the surrounding country schools created under the 1785 Northwest Ordinance that allotted one lot in a township for the maintenance of public schools had been “consolidated” into one school.
This one was elementary and a high school all in one building. The high school students were on the third floor. They were the ones who were allowed to slide down the curving, enclosed metal slide if there was a fire drill. How we younger ones envied them!
The playground seemed huge with its swings, seesaws, and other play equipment found in a park. There was a gym with hardwood floor and bleachers, but also a stage for assemblies, plays, or for the PTA to have the officer sit there during meetings. Then the person providing the entertainment for the evening could use the stage for monologues or musical presentations.
In the middle of winter, the gym would double as a playroom space during recess if the cold was too bitter or the snow too high. That didn't happen often, but when the temperature plunged below minus ten below zero, they did not let the younger grades outside.
Boys tended to rough house, play tag, pretend they were playing basketball or torment whoever they bullied. Little girls tended go into groups to play jacks, jump rope, or pretend to play house. Please don’t scream at the choices as this was before television.
I was with two other girls pretending to be doing something when one of the boys rushed at us as though attacking. Like the other two girls, I screamed and ran.
We ran up the bleachers and slid across. Big mistake. A huge splinter spiked into my upper thigh. There was not a school nurse at that time. There was no way to call my parents as we did not have a telephone.
Just how I returned home that day, I do not remember. It was probably a very uncomfortable ride home on the bus.
My parents took me to the doctor the next day (a Saturday) as Mama was unable to extract the sliver. The doctor cut it out and put on medication and a bandage. I’m sure he gave Mama instructions about the care, but then again, perhaps he did not as in later years, Mama was one of the “home” nurses he would use for patients. It wasn't called hospice then, but it was the 1940’s and 1950’s equivalent.
I also avoided a tetanus shot as I had had one the year before when I ran into the barbwire fence. I still have that scar on my knee. Barbwire will win every time.
It was back to school the next Monday and the weather must have set in with record cold as they still were not letting the lower grades outside at recess time. The same scenario arose and the boy (I shan't reveal his name as that isn't fair) rushed at us again. The other two girls shrieked and ran. I turned and slugged him. That set him right down on his backside. Fortunately, in those days, the teacher thought he received exactly what he had asked for by trying to frighten us. In today’s world of zero tolerance, they would probably kick a six-year-old girl out of school for using violence.
The incident, however, cured me of screaming and running. Neither action accomplished anything. I would stand and wonder why other girls never discovered this. I’m still in wonderment today as most little girls still scream and run.
My new attitude carried over into other activities. At that school, I had my first crush on a boy. He was two grades ahead of me and rode the same bus to and from school. Of course, like all boys that age he had no interest in girls. During one recess, I packed a snowball and hit him in the back of the head. He did notice, but all he did was make a snowball. The bell rang before too many snowballs were thrown. He died that spring in the polio epidemic that was sweeping through our area of the United States. I’d like to say he was the only one in our area, but he was not.
Rather than leave on a sad note, I’ll make mention of the fact that I realized my drawings for art class were technically “good” for someone in the lower three grades, they had no “life.” Later the same could be said for my sewing, embroidering, and crocheting. The only “feminine” art I did not despise was cooking and baking. That’s probably my German heritage. I love to eat.
This one was elementary and a high school all in one building. The high school students were on the third floor. They were the ones who were allowed to slide down the curving, enclosed metal slide if there was a fire drill. How we younger ones envied them!
The playground seemed huge with its swings, seesaws, and other play equipment found in a park. There was a gym with hardwood floor and bleachers, but also a stage for assemblies, plays, or for the PTA to have the officer sit there during meetings. Then the person providing the entertainment for the evening could use the stage for monologues or musical presentations.
In the middle of winter, the gym would double as a playroom space during recess if the cold was too bitter or the snow too high. That didn't happen often, but when the temperature plunged below minus ten below zero, they did not let the younger grades outside.
Boys tended to rough house, play tag, pretend they were playing basketball or torment whoever they bullied. Little girls tended go into groups to play jacks, jump rope, or pretend to play house. Please don’t scream at the choices as this was before television.
I was with two other girls pretending to be doing something when one of the boys rushed at us as though attacking. Like the other two girls, I screamed and ran.
We ran up the bleachers and slid across. Big mistake. A huge splinter spiked into my upper thigh. There was not a school nurse at that time. There was no way to call my parents as we did not have a telephone.
Just how I returned home that day, I do not remember. It was probably a very uncomfortable ride home on the bus.
My parents took me to the doctor the next day (a Saturday) as Mama was unable to extract the sliver. The doctor cut it out and put on medication and a bandage. I’m sure he gave Mama instructions about the care, but then again, perhaps he did not as in later years, Mama was one of the “home” nurses he would use for patients. It wasn't called hospice then, but it was the 1940’s and 1950’s equivalent.
I also avoided a tetanus shot as I had had one the year before when I ran into the barbwire fence. I still have that scar on my knee. Barbwire will win every time.
It was back to school the next Monday and the weather must have set in with record cold as they still were not letting the lower grades outside at recess time. The same scenario arose and the boy (I shan't reveal his name as that isn't fair) rushed at us again. The other two girls shrieked and ran. I turned and slugged him. That set him right down on his backside. Fortunately, in those days, the teacher thought he received exactly what he had asked for by trying to frighten us. In today’s world of zero tolerance, they would probably kick a six-year-old girl out of school for using violence.
The incident, however, cured me of screaming and running. Neither action accomplished anything. I would stand and wonder why other girls never discovered this. I’m still in wonderment today as most little girls still scream and run.
My new attitude carried over into other activities. At that school, I had my first crush on a boy. He was two grades ahead of me and rode the same bus to and from school. Of course, like all boys that age he had no interest in girls. During one recess, I packed a snowball and hit him in the back of the head. He did notice, but all he did was make a snowball. The bell rang before too many snowballs were thrown. He died that spring in the polio epidemic that was sweeping through our area of the United States. I’d like to say he was the only one in our area, but he was not.
Rather than leave on a sad note, I’ll make mention of the fact that I realized my drawings for art class were technically “good” for someone in the lower three grades, they had no “life.” Later the same could be said for my sewing, embroidering, and crocheting. The only “feminine” art I did not despise was cooking and baking. That’s probably my German heritage. I love to eat.
April 28, 2014
More About My Parents
Papa was born before 1900 and Mama was born in 1900. They were in communities two hundred miles apart, but both were in German communities. Papa more so than Mama as he was born on a farm.
Mama’s parents were in a small town near a larger “city.” Both went to der Pastor for the first three grades. Everything was taught in German, yet both my parents could read and write in English.
Papa came down with rheumatic fever during the summer after the third grade. There was one cure in those day: complete bed rest. He was almost twelve when the doctor pronounced him cured. Twelve meant he was old enough to work in the fields and didn’t need any more schooling as he could read (in German) and cipher. I’ve been told that Papa taught himself to read English from the Hearst Chicago Herald Sunday newspaper that was available. The previous week’s Sunday paper was sold at a store that carried newspapers and magazines. Where or how he acquired access to it, I do not know unless my grandfather purchased it.
When I was growing up, the paper was available in the Greyhound Bus Station, or rather the place where you purchased the tickets and be there in time for the bus. That store also carried comic books, candy, gum, and soft drinks.
Mama was sent to the public grade school in her town when she entered the third grade. The Deutsch/English Dictionary she used was kept for the next child. I still have that battered book. Mama continued in the public school system and went to high school in her town. Since she was tall for her generation, she was on the girls’ basketball team.
My maternal grandfather had been very successful as a master carpenter. He could draw his own blueprints and build a house from the ground up. His success enabled him to buy a farm. Owning land in Germany would not have been allowed for someone with his ancestry, but here people were equal. Unfortunately, my grandfather didn’t realize that farming was hard work. He thought he was entitled to live as a “gentlemen” or lower nobility in the fatherland. Grandpa went bankrupt, lost the farm, and had to return to being a carpenter.
This come down brought an abrupt halt to any extra money and Mama discovered that her parents could no longer afford the silken clothes worn by her classmates. Mama went to work. That meant that she was the cook, cleaning person, and laundress for a wealthy farm family. She did not go back to high school again.
Three years later she did, however, enter Nurses Training at a hospital farther south in Iowa. It was there that she met my father.
Papa had had his appendix burst when he was out at the barn and managed to crawl to the house. How he survived that in the days before penicillin is a miracle or a testament of the incredible immune system that people possessed if they survived past the ages of two or five. He did recover, but felt weak. My grandfather also developed some type of medical problem or fever (Mama was never very clear about that and I doubt if the doctors were either) and they both went to the hospital where Mama was in training.
Later that year, the Spanish flu hit their area. Papa’s oldest brother died, but no one else in the family contacted the disease. Mama was called back to her home to help her mother and nurse someone with small pox. Mama was immune to the disease. She and Papa were writing letters to each other at this time. I do have them. One of my nieces read them and giggled at the formality of the letters where they address each other by Miss then the surname or Mr. and then the surname. Yes, the letters are in English. Mama never finished her nurses training, but I still have her steamer trunk, her vanity case, and her student nurse’s cap.
After two years of courtship they were married. The marriage survived illness, the Depression, the dry years, and separation when I could no longer live in Iowa. I was so thankful that I could throw their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. Their marriage lasted for almost nine more years and ended with the death of my mother.
Mama’s parents were in a small town near a larger “city.” Both went to der Pastor for the first three grades. Everything was taught in German, yet both my parents could read and write in English.
Papa came down with rheumatic fever during the summer after the third grade. There was one cure in those day: complete bed rest. He was almost twelve when the doctor pronounced him cured. Twelve meant he was old enough to work in the fields and didn’t need any more schooling as he could read (in German) and cipher. I’ve been told that Papa taught himself to read English from the Hearst Chicago Herald Sunday newspaper that was available. The previous week’s Sunday paper was sold at a store that carried newspapers and magazines. Where or how he acquired access to it, I do not know unless my grandfather purchased it.
When I was growing up, the paper was available in the Greyhound Bus Station, or rather the place where you purchased the tickets and be there in time for the bus. That store also carried comic books, candy, gum, and soft drinks.
Mama was sent to the public grade school in her town when she entered the third grade. The Deutsch/English Dictionary she used was kept for the next child. I still have that battered book. Mama continued in the public school system and went to high school in her town. Since she was tall for her generation, she was on the girls’ basketball team.
My maternal grandfather had been very successful as a master carpenter. He could draw his own blueprints and build a house from the ground up. His success enabled him to buy a farm. Owning land in Germany would not have been allowed for someone with his ancestry, but here people were equal. Unfortunately, my grandfather didn’t realize that farming was hard work. He thought he was entitled to live as a “gentlemen” or lower nobility in the fatherland. Grandpa went bankrupt, lost the farm, and had to return to being a carpenter.
This come down brought an abrupt halt to any extra money and Mama discovered that her parents could no longer afford the silken clothes worn by her classmates. Mama went to work. That meant that she was the cook, cleaning person, and laundress for a wealthy farm family. She did not go back to high school again.
Three years later she did, however, enter Nurses Training at a hospital farther south in Iowa. It was there that she met my father.
Papa had had his appendix burst when he was out at the barn and managed to crawl to the house. How he survived that in the days before penicillin is a miracle or a testament of the incredible immune system that people possessed if they survived past the ages of two or five. He did recover, but felt weak. My grandfather also developed some type of medical problem or fever (Mama was never very clear about that and I doubt if the doctors were either) and they both went to the hospital where Mama was in training.
Later that year, the Spanish flu hit their area. Papa’s oldest brother died, but no one else in the family contacted the disease. Mama was called back to her home to help her mother and nurse someone with small pox. Mama was immune to the disease. She and Papa were writing letters to each other at this time. I do have them. One of my nieces read them and giggled at the formality of the letters where they address each other by Miss then the surname or Mr. and then the surname. Yes, the letters are in English. Mama never finished her nurses training, but I still have her steamer trunk, her vanity case, and her student nurse’s cap.
After two years of courtship they were married. The marriage survived illness, the Depression, the dry years, and separation when I could no longer live in Iowa. I was so thankful that I could throw their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. Their marriage lasted for almost nine more years and ended with the death of my mother.
April 13, 2014
Sunday Reflections
This is the week before Easter and today we celebrated Palm Sunday at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. The sermon was not about Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, but based on Philippians 2:5-11 and the young in the church as this church uses Palm Sunday as Confirmation Day. It did cause me start thinking about how different it was when I was part of a Confirmation group.
Confirmation is not a sacrament to us. It is the culmination of two years of study about the Word of God and why we believe as we do. Once the Confirmation is over, the young people are members of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. In other Lutheran churches, those being confirmed are members of that church, not of the Synod the individual church may have chosen to be associated with to be able to call a Pastor or ask for support. That part hasn't changed. What has changed is the manner in which the ceremony is conducted.
There were seven of us in my confirmation class, four girls and three boys. It was two of the most enjoyable years of study that I have ever experienced as our Pastor also taught the underlying history of the different centuries. His scholarship awakened a love of the Word of God and history that has remained.
On the Sunday that we were examined, we sat in a circle in front of the altar facing the congregation with Pastor Kaning in the middle. Today’s families are smaller and there were only three being confirmed. They stood facing Pastor Jennings and the altar.
We were not allowed our Catechisms while Pastor Kaning asked the questions that we had memorized the answers to during class. He had already appointed which ones were to recite the Apostle’s Creed, the Nicene Creed, the words to the Sacrament of the Altar, and the words from the Bible where Christ commissions the disciples to go forth and baptize all people. We were also asked ten questions which we were to answer in unison. Two of the people appointed to recite the longer portions went into stage shock. Pastor Kaning would then call on me and I would recite the words. He did assure the congregation that the other young people had been able to recite them when there wasn't a crowd. At that time the congregation was allowed to question the ones being confirmed, but fortunately none did. The prayer for us was said and we were welcomed into the congregation. When communion was served the new members and our parents went first. Pastor Kaning blessed the newly confirmed and then distributed the Sacrament.
Today, the young people had the hymnal with the questions and answers. As Pastor asked them they all read in unison. The prayer was said and they knelt for the blessing and then turned to congregation to return to their seat in the front pew. Now the people clap to welcome them into the fold. That would never have happened in 1951. The young people went first during the distribution of the Sacrament, but their parents did not accompany them.
Three things remained the same. All were dressed in their Sunday best clothes, afterwards pictures were taken, and there was a social gathering for the congregation to celebrate.
There was one more difference on my Confirmation Day. Our Pastor had also had a large adult class that were confirmed. They celebrated with us, but they did not have to recite or prove they had studied.
I thought all that have read this might like to take a peek back into 1951. http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr... When it takes you to that site, click on 1951 in the bar on the left side.
By the way, it’s a great site to explore to learn about rural America.
Confirmation is not a sacrament to us. It is the culmination of two years of study about the Word of God and why we believe as we do. Once the Confirmation is over, the young people are members of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. In other Lutheran churches, those being confirmed are members of that church, not of the Synod the individual church may have chosen to be associated with to be able to call a Pastor or ask for support. That part hasn't changed. What has changed is the manner in which the ceremony is conducted.
There were seven of us in my confirmation class, four girls and three boys. It was two of the most enjoyable years of study that I have ever experienced as our Pastor also taught the underlying history of the different centuries. His scholarship awakened a love of the Word of God and history that has remained.
On the Sunday that we were examined, we sat in a circle in front of the altar facing the congregation with Pastor Kaning in the middle. Today’s families are smaller and there were only three being confirmed. They stood facing Pastor Jennings and the altar.
We were not allowed our Catechisms while Pastor Kaning asked the questions that we had memorized the answers to during class. He had already appointed which ones were to recite the Apostle’s Creed, the Nicene Creed, the words to the Sacrament of the Altar, and the words from the Bible where Christ commissions the disciples to go forth and baptize all people. We were also asked ten questions which we were to answer in unison. Two of the people appointed to recite the longer portions went into stage shock. Pastor Kaning would then call on me and I would recite the words. He did assure the congregation that the other young people had been able to recite them when there wasn't a crowd. At that time the congregation was allowed to question the ones being confirmed, but fortunately none did. The prayer for us was said and we were welcomed into the congregation. When communion was served the new members and our parents went first. Pastor Kaning blessed the newly confirmed and then distributed the Sacrament.
Today, the young people had the hymnal with the questions and answers. As Pastor asked them they all read in unison. The prayer was said and they knelt for the blessing and then turned to congregation to return to their seat in the front pew. Now the people clap to welcome them into the fold. That would never have happened in 1951. The young people went first during the distribution of the Sacrament, but their parents did not accompany them.
Three things remained the same. All were dressed in their Sunday best clothes, afterwards pictures were taken, and there was a social gathering for the congregation to celebrate.
There was one more difference on my Confirmation Day. Our Pastor had also had a large adult class that were confirmed. They celebrated with us, but they did not have to recite or prove they had studied.
I thought all that have read this might like to take a peek back into 1951. http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr... When it takes you to that site, click on 1951 in the bar on the left side.
By the way, it’s a great site to explore to learn about rural America.
April 4, 2014
My Writing Process Blog Tour
This is all Robynn Gabel’s fault. She invited me on this blog tour because she read one of my short stories. I’m not sure whether this is a compliment or punishment.
Take a look at what Robynn is doing. She has taking on the task of writing a historical novel based on the Vikings and the reality of those times. She has her blog at http://dupler.org/
Before I go to the question and answer period, I want to thank Robynn for inviting me and giving me this challenge.
What Am I Currently Working On?
At present I’m working on two different novels. Both are sequels to my current works. One is called Thalia Restored and the other is called The Return. Thalia Restored is the history of the Thalians restoring their planet after the disastrous losses to the Justines and the years of being guarded by the Krepyons and Sisterhood. Of course, there is still treachery and Lorenz and the Maca will fight to marry on this planet. The Return follows the ones that had gone to Thalia and return to Earth. It is to be a visit to the family member left behind and checking on the various enterprises. Everything they planned on doing will go wrong. Their Earth family has forgotten their origins and want to change the family corporation. I’m also trying to put together another anthology of Twisted Tales. This time all the stories are based in the Pacific Northwest.
How Does My Work Differ From Others of Its Genre?
Mine start with the premise of two different alien life-forms being stranded on Earth in the early 1800’s and being able to reproduce with the human species. One isn’t able to cope with the savagery and primitive living accommodations. The other learns to survive and live with Earth beings. He marries and starts his family and House on Earth. The storyline is embedded in the history of this planet and not an altered version. The people deal with flies, plagues, and Civil Wars. The short stories can be set in any time and/or place, but there is always a twist or twisted ending.
Why Do I Write What I Do?
That is difficult to answer. I love multiple generational stories. James Clavell did it with his stories. Even his first novel, King Rat, refers to the people in Noble House. Noble House wasn't produced until years and books later. Frank Herbert used that technique in his Dune series. Their stories captivated me over and over again. History I've always read, but I really don’t care for romance novels. Yes, there is love and marriage in my novels, but it is a natural thing that men and women do. The entire novel is not based on their attraction or aversion to each other. MacDonald’s Earth love doesn’t even appear until the twelfth chapter and there are a few more before they meet. As for the Twisted Tales, I assume that would be my skewed way of seeing the world and its inhabitants.
How Does My Writing Process Work?
I sit down every afternoon and write. The stories have been unfolding in my mind for years. I know how each of my characters act, think, and look. Those set in this country did require a huge amount of research. The year, the weather, the important people, the diseases, the clothes they wore, and the food they ate were all verified by my personal library or endless searching on the internet. The short stories with humor will pop up from every day events or from the things people will say. After the story or novel is written, I put it away for a few weeks or longer before I start to edit. If I do not, I will miss my errors for I know exactly what I said. I do not outline as it seems a waste of time when I know the words that need to be entered.
Now I’d like you to meet some writing friends of mine. One I knew when she was a delightful child interested in learning.
T. Tommia Wright has grown into an intelligent, articulate, young woman with a beautiful way of setting down poetry and writing. Here’s a bit about her in her own words.
A lifelong learner, writer, creator, believer and dreamer. Born and raised in the Cascade Foothills (minus a near-decade of daring in Denver), I've been surrounded by books, old and new, despite a book-buying ban. I am a member of SnoValley Writes! and one of the founding members of FreeValley Publishing. Fumbling through photography, I finally focused on going beyond the images in telling my stories in this latter stage of life. I love writing mysteries, short stories, literary fiction, poetry and fantasy. I have been blessed to be surrounded and supported by many artistic, creative friends and family.
Published works include: Leaves and Flowers, Volume 2, Fall Into Story (Nick, Knack, Knock), 3 is the Magic Number (Of Hills and Valleys).
Reflections on Water (Illiterate Illusions) http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Wat...
Other creative works here: http://www.tommiastablet.wordpress.com
Or follow on Twitter @ttwright07
I've met terrific writers online. One is Mark Hunter. You’ll find his Blog at:
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
In addition to being an emergency dispatcher, Mark R Hunter’s humor column is carried in three Indiana newspapers, and he’s a volunteer firefighter who does publicity writing for some local non-profits. He lives in Albion, Indiana, with his fiancée/wife Emily (long story), a giant dog, and a cowardly ball python named Lucius. Mark’s first novel and a follow up short story collection, Storm Chaser and Storm Chaser Shorts, were released by Whiskey Creek Press, which this October is also publishing The Notorious Ian Grant. He’s also published a history of his local fire department, and this spring will release a YA humorous adventure, The No-Campfire Girls.
Last, I want to introduce, Anna L. Walls. I've met her online also and enjoy what she writes. Her Blog is called Anna’s Obsession. http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/
Now in her own words:
I grew up a rancher's daughter hoping to inherit the ranch and run a riding school for city kids. However, my brother bought the ranch from our parents in order to avoid an inheritance tax and I ended up joining the army, marrying my fisherman husband and moving to the wilderness of Alaska where I raised two wonderful boys. One of them gave me an old laptop computer and now I'm a published author. Go figure.
Be sure to visit their Blogs and see what they are doing!
Take a look at what Robynn is doing. She has taking on the task of writing a historical novel based on the Vikings and the reality of those times. She has her blog at http://dupler.org/
Before I go to the question and answer period, I want to thank Robynn for inviting me and giving me this challenge.
What Am I Currently Working On?
At present I’m working on two different novels. Both are sequels to my current works. One is called Thalia Restored and the other is called The Return. Thalia Restored is the history of the Thalians restoring their planet after the disastrous losses to the Justines and the years of being guarded by the Krepyons and Sisterhood. Of course, there is still treachery and Lorenz and the Maca will fight to marry on this planet. The Return follows the ones that had gone to Thalia and return to Earth. It is to be a visit to the family member left behind and checking on the various enterprises. Everything they planned on doing will go wrong. Their Earth family has forgotten their origins and want to change the family corporation. I’m also trying to put together another anthology of Twisted Tales. This time all the stories are based in the Pacific Northwest.
How Does My Work Differ From Others of Its Genre?
Mine start with the premise of two different alien life-forms being stranded on Earth in the early 1800’s and being able to reproduce with the human species. One isn’t able to cope with the savagery and primitive living accommodations. The other learns to survive and live with Earth beings. He marries and starts his family and House on Earth. The storyline is embedded in the history of this planet and not an altered version. The people deal with flies, plagues, and Civil Wars. The short stories can be set in any time and/or place, but there is always a twist or twisted ending.
Why Do I Write What I Do?
That is difficult to answer. I love multiple generational stories. James Clavell did it with his stories. Even his first novel, King Rat, refers to the people in Noble House. Noble House wasn't produced until years and books later. Frank Herbert used that technique in his Dune series. Their stories captivated me over and over again. History I've always read, but I really don’t care for romance novels. Yes, there is love and marriage in my novels, but it is a natural thing that men and women do. The entire novel is not based on their attraction or aversion to each other. MacDonald’s Earth love doesn’t even appear until the twelfth chapter and there are a few more before they meet. As for the Twisted Tales, I assume that would be my skewed way of seeing the world and its inhabitants.
How Does My Writing Process Work?
I sit down every afternoon and write. The stories have been unfolding in my mind for years. I know how each of my characters act, think, and look. Those set in this country did require a huge amount of research. The year, the weather, the important people, the diseases, the clothes they wore, and the food they ate were all verified by my personal library or endless searching on the internet. The short stories with humor will pop up from every day events or from the things people will say. After the story or novel is written, I put it away for a few weeks or longer before I start to edit. If I do not, I will miss my errors for I know exactly what I said. I do not outline as it seems a waste of time when I know the words that need to be entered.
Now I’d like you to meet some writing friends of mine. One I knew when she was a delightful child interested in learning.
T. Tommia Wright has grown into an intelligent, articulate, young woman with a beautiful way of setting down poetry and writing. Here’s a bit about her in her own words.
A lifelong learner, writer, creator, believer and dreamer. Born and raised in the Cascade Foothills (minus a near-decade of daring in Denver), I've been surrounded by books, old and new, despite a book-buying ban. I am a member of SnoValley Writes! and one of the founding members of FreeValley Publishing. Fumbling through photography, I finally focused on going beyond the images in telling my stories in this latter stage of life. I love writing mysteries, short stories, literary fiction, poetry and fantasy. I have been blessed to be surrounded and supported by many artistic, creative friends and family.
Published works include: Leaves and Flowers, Volume 2, Fall Into Story (Nick, Knack, Knock), 3 is the Magic Number (Of Hills and Valleys).
Reflections on Water (Illiterate Illusions) http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Wat...
Other creative works here: http://www.tommiastablet.wordpress.com
Or follow on Twitter @ttwright07
I've met terrific writers online. One is Mark Hunter. You’ll find his Blog at:
http://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
In addition to being an emergency dispatcher, Mark R Hunter’s humor column is carried in three Indiana newspapers, and he’s a volunteer firefighter who does publicity writing for some local non-profits. He lives in Albion, Indiana, with his fiancée/wife Emily (long story), a giant dog, and a cowardly ball python named Lucius. Mark’s first novel and a follow up short story collection, Storm Chaser and Storm Chaser Shorts, were released by Whiskey Creek Press, which this October is also publishing The Notorious Ian Grant. He’s also published a history of his local fire department, and this spring will release a YA humorous adventure, The No-Campfire Girls.
Last, I want to introduce, Anna L. Walls. I've met her online also and enjoy what she writes. Her Blog is called Anna’s Obsession. http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/
Now in her own words:
I grew up a rancher's daughter hoping to inherit the ranch and run a riding school for city kids. However, my brother bought the ranch from our parents in order to avoid an inheritance tax and I ended up joining the army, marrying my fisherman husband and moving to the wilderness of Alaska where I raised two wonderful boys. One of them gave me an old laptop computer and now I'm a published author. Go figure.
Be sure to visit their Blogs and see what they are doing!
March 30, 2014
Teenagers
It seems parents embarrass their children even under the best of circumstances. We don’t even have to try.
I remember my daughter and I were at a grocery store when she was about twelve and the grocery cashier said, “You two look like sisters.” I thought it a lovely compliment as I was twenty-three years older than my daughter, and thanked the woman. Said daughter, however, was quite embarrassed. People had noticed us. Okay and that is bad why?
It is no secret that I love history. We can be anywhere and someone mention some obscure or prominent bit of history and I’ll start explaining all sorts of things. My angel daughter will turn on them and say, “Who set her off?”
Perhaps her worst moment came when she was sixteen. We had ridden along with one of my older brothers and my brother's wife to visit my parents at their retirement home in a small rural town near where I was born. My oldest brother and his wife from Phoenix would be there and would stay with her parents who had retired to the same town. My cousins from northern Iowa would also visit.
My daughter had a great time in that small, rural Iowa town. She discovered that the boys there like someone tall and healthy looking. Within two days she had a boyfriend. When my brother and wife from Phoenix arrived and then my cousins, we had a picnic feast in my parent’s house. My brother from California ran the tape recorder. My daughter tried vainly to have someone pass the salt, but no one heard her sweet, high voice among the bunch of loud mouths at the table. Being her father’s daughter she finally stood and shouted, “Ahem! Would someone please pass the salt?” She sat down red-faced, but at least received the salt.
My brother played back the recorder and asked for silence. Sure enough, there is my loud voice telling how I taught our big, guard dog to climb the ladder. My youngest brother had used that tactic to take the dog across the roof and into his bedroom. The discovery of dog hair on his sheets had brought the wrath of my mother down on him.
My father looked at me in astonishment. “You did that?” And he began to laugh overriding my mother looking at me in bewilderment and wailing, “But I punished your brother.”
After everyone was through laughing my oldest sister-by-marriage and I began talking about all the picnics we had enjoyed at the local park and how we had slid down the huge (to us as children” slide.
“Is it still there?” my sister-in-law asked.
My parents assured us it was. We decided it was the perfect way to walk off a heavy meal and walked to the park. My daughter’s boyfriend arrived and they walked behind us. When we arrived at the park, sure enough there was the slide: a lot worn and a bit rusty.
My Sis and I looked at each other. “Are you game?” she asked. Bear in mind, she is ten years older than I am which meant my daughter gasped at the thought. I was just barely nudging the end of my thirties.
“Let’s!” I replied and we both ran for the slide.
I did hear my daughter tell her friend, “We need to leave.” She had turned her back and was walking away. She refused to watch us relive our childhood days and possibly make idiots of ourselves. I will say the descent was for children and not adults, but neither of us were sorry that we had indulged.
Really, she should be thankful that I've never shared some of her early toddler years’ photographs.
I remember my daughter and I were at a grocery store when she was about twelve and the grocery cashier said, “You two look like sisters.” I thought it a lovely compliment as I was twenty-three years older than my daughter, and thanked the woman. Said daughter, however, was quite embarrassed. People had noticed us. Okay and that is bad why?
It is no secret that I love history. We can be anywhere and someone mention some obscure or prominent bit of history and I’ll start explaining all sorts of things. My angel daughter will turn on them and say, “Who set her off?”
Perhaps her worst moment came when she was sixteen. We had ridden along with one of my older brothers and my brother's wife to visit my parents at their retirement home in a small rural town near where I was born. My oldest brother and his wife from Phoenix would be there and would stay with her parents who had retired to the same town. My cousins from northern Iowa would also visit.
My daughter had a great time in that small, rural Iowa town. She discovered that the boys there like someone tall and healthy looking. Within two days she had a boyfriend. When my brother and wife from Phoenix arrived and then my cousins, we had a picnic feast in my parent’s house. My brother from California ran the tape recorder. My daughter tried vainly to have someone pass the salt, but no one heard her sweet, high voice among the bunch of loud mouths at the table. Being her father’s daughter she finally stood and shouted, “Ahem! Would someone please pass the salt?” She sat down red-faced, but at least received the salt.
My brother played back the recorder and asked for silence. Sure enough, there is my loud voice telling how I taught our big, guard dog to climb the ladder. My youngest brother had used that tactic to take the dog across the roof and into his bedroom. The discovery of dog hair on his sheets had brought the wrath of my mother down on him.
My father looked at me in astonishment. “You did that?” And he began to laugh overriding my mother looking at me in bewilderment and wailing, “But I punished your brother.”
After everyone was through laughing my oldest sister-by-marriage and I began talking about all the picnics we had enjoyed at the local park and how we had slid down the huge (to us as children” slide.
“Is it still there?” my sister-in-law asked.
My parents assured us it was. We decided it was the perfect way to walk off a heavy meal and walked to the park. My daughter’s boyfriend arrived and they walked behind us. When we arrived at the park, sure enough there was the slide: a lot worn and a bit rusty.
My Sis and I looked at each other. “Are you game?” she asked. Bear in mind, she is ten years older than I am which meant my daughter gasped at the thought. I was just barely nudging the end of my thirties.
“Let’s!” I replied and we both ran for the slide.
I did hear my daughter tell her friend, “We need to leave.” She had turned her back and was walking away. She refused to watch us relive our childhood days and possibly make idiots of ourselves. I will say the descent was for children and not adults, but neither of us were sorry that we had indulged.
Really, she should be thankful that I've never shared some of her early toddler years’ photographs.
March 9, 2014
Allowances
I was to pickup my granddaughter and one of her friends from the local high school and take them to the church. My daughter was able to take them, but first she came over for the money she had given me to give them. It was the money to cover their eating expenses. The amount almost made me gulp, and then I realized it was for two teenagers and more than one meal. The experience did bring back memories.
My two older brothers thought our youngest brother and I were “spoiled” because of my parents’ leniency and the fact that we each received twenty-five cents a week for an allowance. My parents had been in their twenties when the older siblings were small, and they had lived through the depression and the dry years. There was no extra money then. World War II and the returned rains had allowed the farmers to make money again.
My parents had directed us as to how we could spend the money. Ten cents was for the matinee movie ticket, five cents for a treat from the popcorn or candy counter, five cents for the collection plate at church, and five cents must be saved for buying Christmas presents. If we didn't buy anything at the candy counter, the money was ours to spend or save as we wished. That system worked well until the movie tickets went up to fifteen cents. That meant we had to choose between the candy counter and presents for the family. It was a really hard choice for someone not yet a teenager.
We lived out on the farm and earning any extra money didn't seem possible. One Saturday night when I was ten, Papa stopped at the gas station before going home. For some reason my youngest brother and I had gone inside with Papa when he went in to pay the owner. I’m assuming it we were curious or Papa didn't want us alone in the automobile.
Inside, one man was using an iron bar to bash the insides of an iron barrel, his face was flushed and his eyes focused on something inside the barrel. The owner was taking Papa’s money when another car drove up to the gasoline tanks.
“You get that one, Calvin,” said the owner.
The man at the barrel said, “What about the mouse? He ain't dead yet.”
“I can do that,” I offered, “if you pay me a dime.”
“You’re a girl,” the man with bar protested.
Those words always managed to enrage me. I could climb higher, shoot straighter (Daisy Air Rifle), and spit farther than any boy my age.
“Just let me try while you are outside.”
The owner looked at Papa and he smiled and nodded his head. I took the bar, positioned myself and used the bar to stir the papers that had been tossed inside the barrel. The mouse skittered out of its hiding place.
I slammed that bar down as hard as I could and kept slamming until the mouse was dead. You may be horrified, but I detest rodents. The owner grinned and said, “Wouldn't you rather have a package of chewing gum?”
“No, sir, thank you, I’d rather have the dime I was promised.”
He handed me the dime, a perplexed look on his face. Even at ten-years of age, I knew the package of gum only cost a nickel. Next week, I could splurge at the candy counter. I can’t tell you how proud I was to have “earned” money outside of the home.
When I was a teenager, there really wasn't an allowance anymore. My brother could do farm work for others, but I couldn't live in Iowa and Arizona had laws that said I couldn't work until I was sixteen. It wasn't until I was sixteen, going to school, and working that I had extra money again.
My husband and I thought we were being extremely generous with our children and their allowances. We started them at a dollar and then upped it to three dollars per week. My husband had grown up with even less money than I had had. It was years later that we discovered their friends were getting like fifteen to twenty dollars a week. That amount still horrifies me. I have no idea what children and teenagers receive today and I really don’t want to know.
My two older brothers thought our youngest brother and I were “spoiled” because of my parents’ leniency and the fact that we each received twenty-five cents a week for an allowance. My parents had been in their twenties when the older siblings were small, and they had lived through the depression and the dry years. There was no extra money then. World War II and the returned rains had allowed the farmers to make money again.
My parents had directed us as to how we could spend the money. Ten cents was for the matinee movie ticket, five cents for a treat from the popcorn or candy counter, five cents for the collection plate at church, and five cents must be saved for buying Christmas presents. If we didn't buy anything at the candy counter, the money was ours to spend or save as we wished. That system worked well until the movie tickets went up to fifteen cents. That meant we had to choose between the candy counter and presents for the family. It was a really hard choice for someone not yet a teenager.
We lived out on the farm and earning any extra money didn't seem possible. One Saturday night when I was ten, Papa stopped at the gas station before going home. For some reason my youngest brother and I had gone inside with Papa when he went in to pay the owner. I’m assuming it we were curious or Papa didn't want us alone in the automobile.
Inside, one man was using an iron bar to bash the insides of an iron barrel, his face was flushed and his eyes focused on something inside the barrel. The owner was taking Papa’s money when another car drove up to the gasoline tanks.
“You get that one, Calvin,” said the owner.
The man at the barrel said, “What about the mouse? He ain't dead yet.”
“I can do that,” I offered, “if you pay me a dime.”
“You’re a girl,” the man with bar protested.
Those words always managed to enrage me. I could climb higher, shoot straighter (Daisy Air Rifle), and spit farther than any boy my age.
“Just let me try while you are outside.”
The owner looked at Papa and he smiled and nodded his head. I took the bar, positioned myself and used the bar to stir the papers that had been tossed inside the barrel. The mouse skittered out of its hiding place.
I slammed that bar down as hard as I could and kept slamming until the mouse was dead. You may be horrified, but I detest rodents. The owner grinned and said, “Wouldn't you rather have a package of chewing gum?”
“No, sir, thank you, I’d rather have the dime I was promised.”
He handed me the dime, a perplexed look on his face. Even at ten-years of age, I knew the package of gum only cost a nickel. Next week, I could splurge at the candy counter. I can’t tell you how proud I was to have “earned” money outside of the home.
When I was a teenager, there really wasn't an allowance anymore. My brother could do farm work for others, but I couldn't live in Iowa and Arizona had laws that said I couldn't work until I was sixteen. It wasn't until I was sixteen, going to school, and working that I had extra money again.
My husband and I thought we were being extremely generous with our children and their allowances. We started them at a dollar and then upped it to three dollars per week. My husband had grown up with even less money than I had had. It was years later that we discovered their friends were getting like fifteen to twenty dollars a week. That amount still horrifies me. I have no idea what children and teenagers receive today and I really don’t want to know.
March 2, 2014
Decisions
When things go wrong human beings tend to react in a certain way. Some have any written these reactions down into laws. Here are a few of my favorites. Please feel free to add any that you have found to be true.
Murphy’s Law: If anything can go wrong it will. This is truly a classic.
Benford’s Law of Controversy: Passion in any argument is inversely proportional to the amount real information advanced. This can be said of our political arguments now going on. The next one also applies to our political arguments.
Godwin’s Law: The longer the argument the more likely someone will stoop to the Nazi, Hitler, Hun, etc. analogy. Also in favor right now are troglodyte, Rightwing Christian Conservative, Liberal Socialist (the last two always capitalized).
Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: Actually the observation effect. Observation inevitably alters the thing being observed.
Hegel’s Paradox: Man learns from history that man learns nothing from History. I loved that one.
Clark’s First Law: When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible he is almost certainly right. When he states something is impossible he is almost certainly wrong.
19th Century cleric: It is almost impossible to exaggerate the complete unimportance of almost everything.
Theodore Sturgeon’s Revelation: 90% of everything is crud. Another of my favorites.
And last, but certainly not the least of these brilliant observations:
Dilbert Principle: The most ineffective workers are systematically moved to the place where they do the least harm: management.
You may be wondering why I have done this instead of another family history. It isn’t that things have gone wrong, but I am in a flux with the direction of my writing. Two people who have purchased the latest release of my Science-Fiction family history called Return of the Maca want the next installment. Most writers would be delighted with that request, but I don’t have the next one written. I've just started it, and I have a good start on the one after that.
The one I have finished is seventh or eighth one. When my husband went home to the Lord, I was one of those that became extremely angry. I knew that this one would be the most violent of the tales that wanted to be told. Writing down the violent fighting and killings worked and I could return to Gather the Children, the one my husband wanted to finish reading. Of course, writing all this down has ended the puzzle in my mind. You’ll just have to wait for the next one to see which is published first.
If you are curious about those two books, here are the Links: Return of the Maca http://www.amazon.com/Return-Maca-Vol...
Gather the Children http://www.amazon.com/Gather-Children...
Murphy’s Law: If anything can go wrong it will. This is truly a classic.
Benford’s Law of Controversy: Passion in any argument is inversely proportional to the amount real information advanced. This can be said of our political arguments now going on. The next one also applies to our political arguments.
Godwin’s Law: The longer the argument the more likely someone will stoop to the Nazi, Hitler, Hun, etc. analogy. Also in favor right now are troglodyte, Rightwing Christian Conservative, Liberal Socialist (the last two always capitalized).
Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: Actually the observation effect. Observation inevitably alters the thing being observed.
Hegel’s Paradox: Man learns from history that man learns nothing from History. I loved that one.
Clark’s First Law: When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible he is almost certainly right. When he states something is impossible he is almost certainly wrong.
19th Century cleric: It is almost impossible to exaggerate the complete unimportance of almost everything.
Theodore Sturgeon’s Revelation: 90% of everything is crud. Another of my favorites.
And last, but certainly not the least of these brilliant observations:
Dilbert Principle: The most ineffective workers are systematically moved to the place where they do the least harm: management.
You may be wondering why I have done this instead of another family history. It isn’t that things have gone wrong, but I am in a flux with the direction of my writing. Two people who have purchased the latest release of my Science-Fiction family history called Return of the Maca want the next installment. Most writers would be delighted with that request, but I don’t have the next one written. I've just started it, and I have a good start on the one after that.
The one I have finished is seventh or eighth one. When my husband went home to the Lord, I was one of those that became extremely angry. I knew that this one would be the most violent of the tales that wanted to be told. Writing down the violent fighting and killings worked and I could return to Gather the Children, the one my husband wanted to finish reading. Of course, writing all this down has ended the puzzle in my mind. You’ll just have to wait for the next one to see which is published first.
If you are curious about those two books, here are the Links: Return of the Maca http://www.amazon.com/Return-Maca-Vol...
Gather the Children http://www.amazon.com/Gather-Children...
February 23, 2014
Lightning
The first American family that Grandmother worked for were cruel. They beat her for the slightest infraction. My grandfather stopped that, but Grandmother was soon hired out again. Somewhere in this time period, some records say that my Grandmother’s mother and sister also arrived, but the little girl remained at the home shared by my Grandfather and his parents.
The second home where she worked was out in the country on a large farm, but her work was confined to the house, cooking, and laundry. You do not want a long dissertation on the amount of work and drudgery in keeping a large farm house clean, cooking, and the washing and ironing for a large family without the use of modern machines. The making of soap for the washing, the canning, preserving, and huge meals served three times a day, plus there would be sandwiches, cookies, pastries, or pie in the afternoon. There was also the task of bringing in wood, coal, and/or dried cobs for heating and cooking.
One winter morning, Grandmother was dusting the living room furniture. While dusting a small table near the window, she looked outside. Her blonde, blue eyed, beautiful, three-year-old daughter was running toward the farmhouse across the snow dressed in nothing but her Sunday dress.
Grandmother collapsed. She knew the child could not know the way to this house. When she came too enough she managed to walk to the stairs before almost fainting again. She was sitting on the stairs when a knock came at the door. It was my grandfather with the sad news that the little girl was dead. Tuberculosis was the cause.
Grandpa insisted she pack her clothes and come home with him. They would be married after the funeral. My grandfather attended to everything, including arranging the burial in the family plot he and his father purchased in the town cemetery. They could not afford the large marble tombstone fashionable in that era, but Grandfather planted a tree at the head of the grave. Mother claimed he said, “That will mark her spot and our love forever. It is a far better monument.” (I’d love to believe it, but cannot. I think it is one of Mama’s embellishments.)
They were married shortly after in the year of 1887. They had ten children and eight lived. When they were in their seventies, they moved in with their youngest daughter and her husband as Grandfather’s hands were too crippled to even put the firewood or coal into their stove and Grandmother was losing her sight.
My grandfather died in August of 1938 and the local paper hailed him as a pioneer and home builder for those moving into town. My mother had taken me the two hundred miles to my Aunt’s place to help care for her father. That took courage as she was eight months pregnant with my youngest brother, but railroads were considered a safe way to travel for all.
Children, of course, were not allowed in the sick room. As death drew nearer, Grandfather insisted on seeing the baby. My Aunt and Uncle (by marriage) assumed he meant their daughter who was three years old.
“No, no, the baby,” my grandfather insisted. They then took in their eight-year-old son who had spent many hours with him.
Once again it was, “No, no the baby.”
That left me. I was almost one-year-old and so was deposited on the bed beside my grandfather. I do not remember the incident. Mama insisted he smiled and called me by his nickname for me: Little Fiddlesticks.
Did he somehow know that I was the one who would marry a carpenter? I've often wondered. Grandfather passed away that night and summer Iowa storm of rain and lightning swept through the area. One bolt took out the tree in the graveyard. The tree was not replanted. Years later their grandchildren would install a huge marble headstone honoring the two.
I hope all will permit a small digression or two. Grandmother hated the nationality of the couple that beat her and later passed some of that animosity down to her children and grandchildren. It must have been a shock when the Hitler regime wrote my maternal family asking where certain relatives were as it was suspected that they had “tainted” blood by virtue of their surname.
My Grandmother and Great-grandmother read tea leaves. They did not accept payment, but would read for family and friends. This led to certain members of the Lutheran congregation demanding an apology. Grandfather managed to apologize in such a manner that the pastor accepted the apology and pronounced his forgiveness. Certain members of the congregation remained upset. I used a paraphrasing of Grandfather’s apology in Before We Leave http://www.amazon.com/Before-We-Leave... when Lorenz and Martin have to apologize to the Pastor and congregation before they can be served communion again.
The second home where she worked was out in the country on a large farm, but her work was confined to the house, cooking, and laundry. You do not want a long dissertation on the amount of work and drudgery in keeping a large farm house clean, cooking, and the washing and ironing for a large family without the use of modern machines. The making of soap for the washing, the canning, preserving, and huge meals served three times a day, plus there would be sandwiches, cookies, pastries, or pie in the afternoon. There was also the task of bringing in wood, coal, and/or dried cobs for heating and cooking.
One winter morning, Grandmother was dusting the living room furniture. While dusting a small table near the window, she looked outside. Her blonde, blue eyed, beautiful, three-year-old daughter was running toward the farmhouse across the snow dressed in nothing but her Sunday dress.
Grandmother collapsed. She knew the child could not know the way to this house. When she came too enough she managed to walk to the stairs before almost fainting again. She was sitting on the stairs when a knock came at the door. It was my grandfather with the sad news that the little girl was dead. Tuberculosis was the cause.
Grandpa insisted she pack her clothes and come home with him. They would be married after the funeral. My grandfather attended to everything, including arranging the burial in the family plot he and his father purchased in the town cemetery. They could not afford the large marble tombstone fashionable in that era, but Grandfather planted a tree at the head of the grave. Mother claimed he said, “That will mark her spot and our love forever. It is a far better monument.” (I’d love to believe it, but cannot. I think it is one of Mama’s embellishments.)
They were married shortly after in the year of 1887. They had ten children and eight lived. When they were in their seventies, they moved in with their youngest daughter and her husband as Grandfather’s hands were too crippled to even put the firewood or coal into their stove and Grandmother was losing her sight.
My grandfather died in August of 1938 and the local paper hailed him as a pioneer and home builder for those moving into town. My mother had taken me the two hundred miles to my Aunt’s place to help care for her father. That took courage as she was eight months pregnant with my youngest brother, but railroads were considered a safe way to travel for all.
Children, of course, were not allowed in the sick room. As death drew nearer, Grandfather insisted on seeing the baby. My Aunt and Uncle (by marriage) assumed he meant their daughter who was three years old.
“No, no, the baby,” my grandfather insisted. They then took in their eight-year-old son who had spent many hours with him.
Once again it was, “No, no the baby.”
That left me. I was almost one-year-old and so was deposited on the bed beside my grandfather. I do not remember the incident. Mama insisted he smiled and called me by his nickname for me: Little Fiddlesticks.
Did he somehow know that I was the one who would marry a carpenter? I've often wondered. Grandfather passed away that night and summer Iowa storm of rain and lightning swept through the area. One bolt took out the tree in the graveyard. The tree was not replanted. Years later their grandchildren would install a huge marble headstone honoring the two.
I hope all will permit a small digression or two. Grandmother hated the nationality of the couple that beat her and later passed some of that animosity down to her children and grandchildren. It must have been a shock when the Hitler regime wrote my maternal family asking where certain relatives were as it was suspected that they had “tainted” blood by virtue of their surname.
My Grandmother and Great-grandmother read tea leaves. They did not accept payment, but would read for family and friends. This led to certain members of the Lutheran congregation demanding an apology. Grandfather managed to apologize in such a manner that the pastor accepted the apology and pronounced his forgiveness. Certain members of the congregation remained upset. I used a paraphrasing of Grandfather’s apology in Before We Leave http://www.amazon.com/Before-We-Leave... when Lorenz and Martin have to apologize to the Pastor and congregation before they can be served communion again.
February 16, 2014
Lightning
My daughter asked me to record this bit of family history related to me by my mother. The tale is so long that I am going to make two posts out of it. If you are intrigued, you’ll need to return next week to find out the ending. It won’t be what you expect, but life can take some strange twists and turns.
My maternal grandparents were first cousins and rode in the same baby buggy in Germany. One great-grandfather was a master carpenter, which in Germany meant that his son, my grandfather, would be the same. My other great-grandfather was a sailor and often gone from the home for long, stretches of time.
When my grandmother was five-years-old she was put out to work at one of her aunts’ home. This aunt had married well. It was Grandmother’s job to clean the house, wash dishes, and stir the pot of food cooking over the fire. This particular aunt was known for her vicious temper.
Somehow, one day, the pot was tipped over. The aunt was furious and she ripped the golden circles of metal out of my grandmother’s ear lobes, instructed her to clean up the mess, and left for a visit. My grandmother was left screaming hysterically and blood running down from her ear lobes.
An older neighbor man heard the child’s screams and came over. He was shocked at the sight and led her outside. Then he pointed down the street and commanded, “Run home, little one, and do not stop.” Grandmother obeyed him.
When she ran into her parent’s home or apartment (Mama was never clear about that) her father was home. He was outraged that she had been placed to work at such a young age and forbid it to happen again until she was fifteen, an acceptable age.
My great-grandmother was a good frau and did not place Grandmother out to work again until Grandmother turned fifteen. Then she hired her out to a dairy farm as a milkmaid. Do not think that my grandmother was paid. The money was paid to my great-grandmother each month.
My grandmother was a beautiful, blue-eyed, blood mite of a woman standing four feet and eleven inches. One of the older milkmaids decided to protect her and insisted she must sleep next to the barn wall. All the milkmaids and dairy hands slept in the loft above where the cows were milked. Their pallets were made of straw and they brought their own blankets. The woman protecting my grandmother was an older, huge person of six feet who had never married, nor had children.
Mama was vague (which meant she didn't know) about how many days they might have off if any, but it seems they rotated Sundays so that they could attend church. Many of the young men would snicker at the females so employed as dairymaids. Later my father told me that was because so many of the milkmaids had been raped and bore children out of wedlock. There was no forgiveness for the female in the 1880’s.
Grandmother had learned to love organ music in church. Some of the Lutheran hymns were written by Bach. Recitals by prominent musicians were also given in the German churches. One Sunday, on her day off, Grandmother tried to attend the program given at church several miles away. Her walk took her through a forest and then along the road to the town. At the church, she found it was filled and the music swelling into the air. The usher would not permit her to go inside. He did permit her to sit on the bench in the vestibule. Grandmother was exhausted and fell asleep. The people leaving the church woke her in the late afternoon. She had to hurry to be back at the dairy farm in time for the morning milking. She sobbed all the way to the farm.
It was dark by the time she arrived. All were sleeping, and there was no way she could have made it to where she normally slept. Her legs hurt and her head hurt. She slept at the edge of portion designated for the milk maids.
She did not know how long she slept, but she awoke with a hand on her mouth and a heavy body on top of her, and someone invading her insides. Of course, she told no one.
When it became obvious that she was pregnant, the farm kicked her out as immoral. Her mother did the same. Grandma found refuge with one of her Aunts that was married to a baker. She and my grandfather had been corresponding and she told her childhood friend the truth. My grandfather and his parents had already immigrated to the United States. He forwarded money for her to join him and insisted they would be married when he had once again saved enough money.
Single women with a one-year-old child would not have been permitted on a ship carrying immigrants to the United States. Grandmother and her Aunt sewed and dyed her clothes to widow’s black and a black band was painted around a gold ring. This told the world that she was a respectable widow traveling to join relatives already in the United States. Remember there was no Ellis Island at this time. People of German descent had through their churches formed committees at ports of entry and would route the people to the correct part on the nation.
Grandmother was met at the railroad station by my grandfather and taken to his parents’ home. The child would remain with his mother while my Grandmother had been hired out as a maid to a rich couple in town. What they hadn't told my Grandmother was that my Grandfather’s mother had tuberculosis and was coughing blood.
My maternal grandparents were first cousins and rode in the same baby buggy in Germany. One great-grandfather was a master carpenter, which in Germany meant that his son, my grandfather, would be the same. My other great-grandfather was a sailor and often gone from the home for long, stretches of time.
When my grandmother was five-years-old she was put out to work at one of her aunts’ home. This aunt had married well. It was Grandmother’s job to clean the house, wash dishes, and stir the pot of food cooking over the fire. This particular aunt was known for her vicious temper.
Somehow, one day, the pot was tipped over. The aunt was furious and she ripped the golden circles of metal out of my grandmother’s ear lobes, instructed her to clean up the mess, and left for a visit. My grandmother was left screaming hysterically and blood running down from her ear lobes.
An older neighbor man heard the child’s screams and came over. He was shocked at the sight and led her outside. Then he pointed down the street and commanded, “Run home, little one, and do not stop.” Grandmother obeyed him.
When she ran into her parent’s home or apartment (Mama was never clear about that) her father was home. He was outraged that she had been placed to work at such a young age and forbid it to happen again until she was fifteen, an acceptable age.
My great-grandmother was a good frau and did not place Grandmother out to work again until Grandmother turned fifteen. Then she hired her out to a dairy farm as a milkmaid. Do not think that my grandmother was paid. The money was paid to my great-grandmother each month.
My grandmother was a beautiful, blue-eyed, blood mite of a woman standing four feet and eleven inches. One of the older milkmaids decided to protect her and insisted she must sleep next to the barn wall. All the milkmaids and dairy hands slept in the loft above where the cows were milked. Their pallets were made of straw and they brought their own blankets. The woman protecting my grandmother was an older, huge person of six feet who had never married, nor had children.
Mama was vague (which meant she didn't know) about how many days they might have off if any, but it seems they rotated Sundays so that they could attend church. Many of the young men would snicker at the females so employed as dairymaids. Later my father told me that was because so many of the milkmaids had been raped and bore children out of wedlock. There was no forgiveness for the female in the 1880’s.
Grandmother had learned to love organ music in church. Some of the Lutheran hymns were written by Bach. Recitals by prominent musicians were also given in the German churches. One Sunday, on her day off, Grandmother tried to attend the program given at church several miles away. Her walk took her through a forest and then along the road to the town. At the church, she found it was filled and the music swelling into the air. The usher would not permit her to go inside. He did permit her to sit on the bench in the vestibule. Grandmother was exhausted and fell asleep. The people leaving the church woke her in the late afternoon. She had to hurry to be back at the dairy farm in time for the morning milking. She sobbed all the way to the farm.
It was dark by the time she arrived. All were sleeping, and there was no way she could have made it to where she normally slept. Her legs hurt and her head hurt. She slept at the edge of portion designated for the milk maids.
She did not know how long she slept, but she awoke with a hand on her mouth and a heavy body on top of her, and someone invading her insides. Of course, she told no one.
When it became obvious that she was pregnant, the farm kicked her out as immoral. Her mother did the same. Grandma found refuge with one of her Aunts that was married to a baker. She and my grandfather had been corresponding and she told her childhood friend the truth. My grandfather and his parents had already immigrated to the United States. He forwarded money for her to join him and insisted they would be married when he had once again saved enough money.
Single women with a one-year-old child would not have been permitted on a ship carrying immigrants to the United States. Grandmother and her Aunt sewed and dyed her clothes to widow’s black and a black band was painted around a gold ring. This told the world that she was a respectable widow traveling to join relatives already in the United States. Remember there was no Ellis Island at this time. People of German descent had through their churches formed committees at ports of entry and would route the people to the correct part on the nation.
Grandmother was met at the railroad station by my grandfather and taken to his parents’ home. The child would remain with his mother while my Grandmother had been hired out as a maid to a rich couple in town. What they hadn't told my Grandmother was that my Grandfather’s mother had tuberculosis and was coughing blood.
February 9, 2014
Welcome to a Guest Blogger
It’s been a very busy five months for me. The last two were interrupted by an illness and the publishing of my latest novel, Return of the Maca. There really wasn't time to do a proper blog. Someone stepped in to help me out. Please welcome Nikolas Baron, but first I’d like to tell you a bit about him.
Nikolas discovered his love for the written word in Elementary School, where he started spending his afternoons sprawled across the living room floor devouring one Marc Brown children’s’ novel after the other and writing short stories about daring pirate adventures. After acquiring some experience in various marketing, business development, and hiring roles at internet start ups in a few different countries, he decided to re-unite his professional life with his childhood passions by joining Grammarly’s marketing team in San Francisco. He has the pleasure of being tasked with talking to writers, bloggers, teachers, and others about how they use Grammarly’s online proofreading application to improve their writing. His free time is spent biking, travelling, and reading. I’ll let him tell you more in his own words.
Writing is one of those professions where learning, adapting, and maturing are critical to success. I like to remind myself that in order to grow as a writer, I must always learn. Whether it’s from my own mistakes, the corrections from an editor, a fiction book I’m reading, or a book about how to write better, learning is what improves my writing. You can write every day for one hour or write 1,000 words, submit drafts, and incorporate edits but there is a lot more to be learned about writing techniques in addition to practice. There are millions of books on how to write better, faster, longer, but which ones actually help to improve your overall skill set? Which ones can help you perfect your grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure? Which ones can help you develop theme, motif, and foreshadowing? With all of the paper fluff in bookstores, what resources are really worth your buck? After sifting through the sands of writing books time, I’ve come up with a list of resources that help writers learn more about their craft while improving their skills.
1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King: Not only was this book funny and entertaining, it made me take a step back as a writer, think about the craft and how I was or wasn’t using it to my benefit. Although some professional writers look down on King for his style of writing, there are tons of gems hidden within the text of this story. I realized how I was using adverbs as a crutch, how to create a better sentence, and how to appreciate what writing gives back. This book is truly an invaluable resource in my library and will help writers young and old appreciate the craft while improving their skills.
2) Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wickedly Effective Prose by Constance Hale: If you want to spice up your writing and learn the secrets of breaking the grammar rules, this book is perfect for you. It emphasizes using traditional techniques in unconventional ways while also reminding you that similes, alliteration, onomatopoeia, and metaphors are critical to having fantastic writing.
3) Grammarly (www.grammarly.com): Grammarly is a comprehensive online tool that helps you learn more about writing while performing a grammar check, punctuation proof, plagiarism check, or while looking for other synonyms. Grammarly is exceptional at checking your work and finding errors that traditional programs miss. It also has a great community of writers to answer your questions accurately. When I found Grammarly, it was a huge time saver. I could proof my work in a matter of minutes and learn how to fix my most common errors. If you need to perform a grammar check, proofread, or want to learn more about writing, this tool is excellent.
4) Purdue OWL (https://owl.english.purdue.edu/): In college, my professors always sent us to the Purdue OWL (Online Writing Lab) for tricky grammar and sentence structure issues. Even as a full-time writer, I use this website all the time. It constantly teaches me about how grammar and punctuation are changing and how I can improve my writing. It has all the answers to your writing questions including citation information. The Purdue OWL is constantly updating its online resources and writers can feel confident visiting this site will lead them to the most up-to-date grammar, punctuation, citation, and style tidbits.
5) The Art of Fiction: notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner: John Gardner takes you back to the fundamentals in this instructive and useful book on writing. Want to relearn the basics and finally craft the perfect long sentence using several different types of punctuation? This book will lead you on the path to grammar enlightenment. This book revived my love for writing when I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep writing. It continues to serve as a reference tool for my constant writing learning.
As a writer, reading and learning how to write are just as important as continual writing. A good painter constantly improves their technique, visits art exhibits, and experiments with what they've learned from others. Writing is the exact same. Read a lot, write a lot, and learn more about your craft and success will come. Utilizing these resources will not only remind you why you love writing but how you can improve through learning.
Nikolas Baron
Thanks for joining me today, Nikolas.
Nikolas discovered his love for the written word in Elementary School, where he started spending his afternoons sprawled across the living room floor devouring one Marc Brown children’s’ novel after the other and writing short stories about daring pirate adventures. After acquiring some experience in various marketing, business development, and hiring roles at internet start ups in a few different countries, he decided to re-unite his professional life with his childhood passions by joining Grammarly’s marketing team in San Francisco. He has the pleasure of being tasked with talking to writers, bloggers, teachers, and others about how they use Grammarly’s online proofreading application to improve their writing. His free time is spent biking, travelling, and reading. I’ll let him tell you more in his own words.
Writing is one of those professions where learning, adapting, and maturing are critical to success. I like to remind myself that in order to grow as a writer, I must always learn. Whether it’s from my own mistakes, the corrections from an editor, a fiction book I’m reading, or a book about how to write better, learning is what improves my writing. You can write every day for one hour or write 1,000 words, submit drafts, and incorporate edits but there is a lot more to be learned about writing techniques in addition to practice. There are millions of books on how to write better, faster, longer, but which ones actually help to improve your overall skill set? Which ones can help you perfect your grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure? Which ones can help you develop theme, motif, and foreshadowing? With all of the paper fluff in bookstores, what resources are really worth your buck? After sifting through the sands of writing books time, I’ve come up with a list of resources that help writers learn more about their craft while improving their skills.
1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King: Not only was this book funny and entertaining, it made me take a step back as a writer, think about the craft and how I was or wasn’t using it to my benefit. Although some professional writers look down on King for his style of writing, there are tons of gems hidden within the text of this story. I realized how I was using adverbs as a crutch, how to create a better sentence, and how to appreciate what writing gives back. This book is truly an invaluable resource in my library and will help writers young and old appreciate the craft while improving their skills.
2) Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wickedly Effective Prose by Constance Hale: If you want to spice up your writing and learn the secrets of breaking the grammar rules, this book is perfect for you. It emphasizes using traditional techniques in unconventional ways while also reminding you that similes, alliteration, onomatopoeia, and metaphors are critical to having fantastic writing.
3) Grammarly (www.grammarly.com): Grammarly is a comprehensive online tool that helps you learn more about writing while performing a grammar check, punctuation proof, plagiarism check, or while looking for other synonyms. Grammarly is exceptional at checking your work and finding errors that traditional programs miss. It also has a great community of writers to answer your questions accurately. When I found Grammarly, it was a huge time saver. I could proof my work in a matter of minutes and learn how to fix my most common errors. If you need to perform a grammar check, proofread, or want to learn more about writing, this tool is excellent.
4) Purdue OWL (https://owl.english.purdue.edu/): In college, my professors always sent us to the Purdue OWL (Online Writing Lab) for tricky grammar and sentence structure issues. Even as a full-time writer, I use this website all the time. It constantly teaches me about how grammar and punctuation are changing and how I can improve my writing. It has all the answers to your writing questions including citation information. The Purdue OWL is constantly updating its online resources and writers can feel confident visiting this site will lead them to the most up-to-date grammar, punctuation, citation, and style tidbits.
5) The Art of Fiction: notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner: John Gardner takes you back to the fundamentals in this instructive and useful book on writing. Want to relearn the basics and finally craft the perfect long sentence using several different types of punctuation? This book will lead you on the path to grammar enlightenment. This book revived my love for writing when I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep writing. It continues to serve as a reference tool for my constant writing learning.
As a writer, reading and learning how to write are just as important as continual writing. A good painter constantly improves their technique, visits art exhibits, and experiments with what they've learned from others. Writing is the exact same. Read a lot, write a lot, and learn more about your craft and success will come. Utilizing these resources will not only remind you why you love writing but how you can improve through learning.
Nikolas Baron
Thanks for joining me today, Nikolas.
