Mari Collier's Blog, page 7
January 28, 2014
Tornadoes in Iowa
I've seen but one tornado even though I lived in an area that had its share. I was about eleven and living on the parental farm. The morning started out sultry and hot. It became so hot and humid that by mid-morning the air seemed to turn a grayish-green color and the cows in the lower pasture kept mooing as though distressed by something. About three p.m. Papa came running into the back porch where Mama and I were working at the kerosene stove (too hot too work in the kitchen) yelling, "Get to the cave now."
Mother's face started to redden, but she quickly turned off the burner without arguing (arguing was something she would do automatically with Papa) and we rushed outside to see a tornado churning towards us. The cave was but a few feet from the back porch door and we made it record time. My youngest brother was already there and we joined him at the bottom. Papa had grabbed the cave door and was pulling it down when he said, "It's all right, the tornado is going up again."
We came back up the steps and watched the tornado lift up and over just to the northwest of where we stood. For some reason the rain or wind died down until the tornado was in the northwest. We never understood why the wind and rain had stilled. We watched the tornado tack to a more westerly direction and disappear. Later we learned it did touch down in a field about three miles west of us and had taken out a shed and cattle enclosure.
Mama always loved telling about how tornadoes roar through and then nothing would be left but most of the people. It can happen. You've seen what’s left of beautiful little towns shown on television. There’s a stone front of a building, and another one on the next block. The homes are flattened. Sticks are embedded in trees. Twisted metal that was once a car or a truck are mixed with bicycle parts. Stunned inhabitants stare at the wreckage and answer reporters questions with words like these.
“How can we rebuild?”
“It was such a nice community; really nice.”
“How can we come back?”
“We've always stuck together. Now we have to come together again.”
“We can’t rebuild. There’s nothing left.”
“We’re refugees.”
“I’m staying no matter what.”
“We can build again. That was just stuff. We’re alive.”
These are the comments the news casts feed us.
Someone will claim a corner of his lost world. One with piles of jumbled lumber stacked in jumbled weaves of danger for anyone trying to navigate the hidden pathways or move the lumber to a less precarious position. Planks are reduced to sticks poking at strange angles and yet that person adamantly insists they will be stronger than ever.
The church where my paternal grandparents worshiped was hit by a tornado in 1913. At the time, it was one of the largest tornado outbreaks to hit the United States. There were two days of tornadoes from March 21 through March 23, 1913. The first one started in Mississippi and then other states to the north of Mississippi. The tornadoes were ranked F4 and F3 with F4 being the highest.
On March 23, 1913, they started in western Nebraska and roared on through to Iowa. It wasn't just one massive tornado, but a series of F4 tornadoes that would kill one hundred and sixty-eight people. There were more, but I’ll focus on the one that I know destroyed the church, the parsonage, and my parental grandparent’s apple orchard. The latter was irreplaceable for my grandfather. It had been grown from seedlings that he had brought from his home in Germany. I still remember my father telling about the wonderful apples from that orchard; how they tasted, what they looked like, and how well they had kept through the winter months of Iowa.
The tornado so frightened my one uncle (he was about eleven or twelve) that for the rest of his life, when a storm of any kind hit, he would descend to the cave or the basement taking his family with him. By the time I was a teenager, it was a bit of a family joke, but I’m sure it wasn't to my Uncle.
According to my father, his parents donated thousands of dollars to rebuild the church, school building, and parsonage. Yes, there was a school. Der Pastor taught the children through the eighth grade. My oldest aunt and uncle, father, and his younger siblings all attended. The lessons were in German. Papa later taught himself to read English by reading the Hearst newspaper out of Chicago. My two older brothers started school there and then transferred to Lincoln No. 7, a one room country schoolhouse.
If you go to David Kusel’s Website and click on Trinity Lutheran Church of the left side of his home page, you will have options to choose from. Select Trinity Families, and then on the next page, select Anna Stoer, 1913 Tornado. There are no pictures of the destroyed church, but there is a picture of the new church on its dedication day. The school is in the foreground. That is the church where I was baptized and confirmed.
Oh, yes, the elderly woman pictured there, would have been one of my father’s cousins. The part about the church is an article from by-gone times, but I read that one of my Uncles was one of the Elders.
Now I live in a state known for Earthquakes instead of deadly tornadoes. It would be as futile to worry about that as it is to worry about tornadoes. There is one consolation. Tornadoes occur with far more frequency than an Earthquake. I think I’ll stick with that gamble.
Mother's face started to redden, but she quickly turned off the burner without arguing (arguing was something she would do automatically with Papa) and we rushed outside to see a tornado churning towards us. The cave was but a few feet from the back porch door and we made it record time. My youngest brother was already there and we joined him at the bottom. Papa had grabbed the cave door and was pulling it down when he said, "It's all right, the tornado is going up again."
We came back up the steps and watched the tornado lift up and over just to the northwest of where we stood. For some reason the rain or wind died down until the tornado was in the northwest. We never understood why the wind and rain had stilled. We watched the tornado tack to a more westerly direction and disappear. Later we learned it did touch down in a field about three miles west of us and had taken out a shed and cattle enclosure.
Mama always loved telling about how tornadoes roar through and then nothing would be left but most of the people. It can happen. You've seen what’s left of beautiful little towns shown on television. There’s a stone front of a building, and another one on the next block. The homes are flattened. Sticks are embedded in trees. Twisted metal that was once a car or a truck are mixed with bicycle parts. Stunned inhabitants stare at the wreckage and answer reporters questions with words like these.
“How can we rebuild?”
“It was such a nice community; really nice.”
“How can we come back?”
“We've always stuck together. Now we have to come together again.”
“We can’t rebuild. There’s nothing left.”
“We’re refugees.”
“I’m staying no matter what.”
“We can build again. That was just stuff. We’re alive.”
These are the comments the news casts feed us.
Someone will claim a corner of his lost world. One with piles of jumbled lumber stacked in jumbled weaves of danger for anyone trying to navigate the hidden pathways or move the lumber to a less precarious position. Planks are reduced to sticks poking at strange angles and yet that person adamantly insists they will be stronger than ever.
The church where my paternal grandparents worshiped was hit by a tornado in 1913. At the time, it was one of the largest tornado outbreaks to hit the United States. There were two days of tornadoes from March 21 through March 23, 1913. The first one started in Mississippi and then other states to the north of Mississippi. The tornadoes were ranked F4 and F3 with F4 being the highest.
On March 23, 1913, they started in western Nebraska and roared on through to Iowa. It wasn't just one massive tornado, but a series of F4 tornadoes that would kill one hundred and sixty-eight people. There were more, but I’ll focus on the one that I know destroyed the church, the parsonage, and my parental grandparent’s apple orchard. The latter was irreplaceable for my grandfather. It had been grown from seedlings that he had brought from his home in Germany. I still remember my father telling about the wonderful apples from that orchard; how they tasted, what they looked like, and how well they had kept through the winter months of Iowa.
The tornado so frightened my one uncle (he was about eleven or twelve) that for the rest of his life, when a storm of any kind hit, he would descend to the cave or the basement taking his family with him. By the time I was a teenager, it was a bit of a family joke, but I’m sure it wasn't to my Uncle.
According to my father, his parents donated thousands of dollars to rebuild the church, school building, and parsonage. Yes, there was a school. Der Pastor taught the children through the eighth grade. My oldest aunt and uncle, father, and his younger siblings all attended. The lessons were in German. Papa later taught himself to read English by reading the Hearst newspaper out of Chicago. My two older brothers started school there and then transferred to Lincoln No. 7, a one room country schoolhouse.
If you go to David Kusel’s Website and click on Trinity Lutheran Church of the left side of his home page, you will have options to choose from. Select Trinity Families, and then on the next page, select Anna Stoer, 1913 Tornado. There are no pictures of the destroyed church, but there is a picture of the new church on its dedication day. The school is in the foreground. That is the church where I was baptized and confirmed.
Oh, yes, the elderly woman pictured there, would have been one of my father’s cousins. The part about the church is an article from by-gone times, but I read that one of my Uncles was one of the Elders.
Now I live in a state known for Earthquakes instead of deadly tornadoes. It would be as futile to worry about that as it is to worry about tornadoes. There is one consolation. Tornadoes occur with far more frequency than an Earthquake. I think I’ll stick with that gamble.
January 12, 2014
May I Introduce
This week I’d like you to meet my friend, Eve Gaal. She’s a fine writer and she has lots to say so I’ll let her tell us about her fabulous novel, Penniless Hearts. It’s a wonderful read about what happens when a person fantasizes too much and ignores reality. Unexpected disasters seem to hit everyone once they are in Hawaii. It’s a must for anyone that likes Romance novels.
Eve had a fascinating career in the high paced world of marketing, but she now lives a bit more quietly with the love of her life and a wee four legged creature that seems to own the house. We’ll start with a few questions. How long have you been writing?
Thanks for that nice introduction, Mari, and thanks for letting me share my story with your friends. That four-legged creature helps me burn calories though, so I guess there’s a reason for everything!
I began writing poetry as a teenager and found that both reading it and writing poetry is very soothing. My first published pieces were in my high school yearbook and in our high school magazine. In college, I also published poetry in The Titan, our campus newspaper and in my employee newsletter. My teachers always enjoyed my short stories and as my life progressed, I took jobs where I could write creative ad copy or restaurant reviews.
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Of course the biggest challenge in modern publishing is getting my book distributed to stores where readers shop. There are very few bookstores out there any more and most folks prefer buying their books at Costco or Target. Every day is a learning curve and I’m absolutely amazed and delighted with all of my options. Recently I also put Penniless Hearts into Smashwords which distributes to Kobo, Nook and Apple.
Tell us about Penniless Hearts, what new story you are working on, where your novels can be found, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
There I was turning one of those metal book stands looking for something fun to read when it occurred to me that I could change that darkness-- those foreboding gloomy stories-- those blood lusting fangs and create something unique, creative and happy. The escapist journey you find in The Alchemist or The Life of Pi are examples of the type of books I love. Tell me a tale, place me in a window seat and I’m off. Perhaps Penny can take readers to Hawaii and make them forget about the very reason there are problems in her life--the breakdown of communication!
My twitter account is Thedesertrocks and I have a page on Facebook called Penniless Hearts. Please stop by and ‘Like” me at https://www.facebook.com/PennilessHearts
Do you have plans for a new novel?
I have so many stories in my head that the characters are all crisscrossing from one book and story to another. It’s like wandering into Times Square the day after Christmas. You want to return three things but you also want to find some shoes for New Years. Meanwhile, you’re distracted by some incredible markdowns and your stomach is growling. Do you have lunch at that cute cafe or keep going? The sun isn’t out but daylight is fading. Hold your pee. This is too much excitement and the signs and lights are creating information overload. What is that delightful smell? Just keep going. FOCUS! Don’t stop and never, ever give up!
In other words, things in my personal life have to calm way down before I’m ready to proceed with a new novel. I have written five chapters about Penny and John on an anniversary trip to Vegas which will be called Penniless Souls. My husband said it was some of the most exciting stuff I’ve ever written but of course, he’s totally biased. Honestly, I’d rather write humor than romance.
Do you intend to branch into another genre?
I’m still writing and publishing non-fiction stories for books like Not Your Mother’s Book on Travel and poetry for various anthologies. Writing, illustrating and actually completing children’s book sounds like a dream but I’m still researching my options regarding my manuscript. I wrote a story titled; The Cactus and The Sunflower geared for middle grade readers with illustrations for younger siblings and hope to publish it soon.
Sounds exciting. Thanks for visiting Eve, and thanks so much for filling in today. Please come back when your next novel appears.
Thank you, Mari, for everything. You are such a nice lady and a great writer. My review of your book is still the number one post on my blog. http://thedesertrocks.blogspot.com
The name of my blog might change soon but I’ll be the writer formerly known as The Desert Rocks.
Eve had a fascinating career in the high paced world of marketing, but she now lives a bit more quietly with the love of her life and a wee four legged creature that seems to own the house. We’ll start with a few questions. How long have you been writing?
Thanks for that nice introduction, Mari, and thanks for letting me share my story with your friends. That four-legged creature helps me burn calories though, so I guess there’s a reason for everything!
I began writing poetry as a teenager and found that both reading it and writing poetry is very soothing. My first published pieces were in my high school yearbook and in our high school magazine. In college, I also published poetry in The Titan, our campus newspaper and in my employee newsletter. My teachers always enjoyed my short stories and as my life progressed, I took jobs where I could write creative ad copy or restaurant reviews.
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Of course the biggest challenge in modern publishing is getting my book distributed to stores where readers shop. There are very few bookstores out there any more and most folks prefer buying their books at Costco or Target. Every day is a learning curve and I’m absolutely amazed and delighted with all of my options. Recently I also put Penniless Hearts into Smashwords which distributes to Kobo, Nook and Apple.
Tell us about Penniless Hearts, what new story you are working on, where your novels can be found, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
There I was turning one of those metal book stands looking for something fun to read when it occurred to me that I could change that darkness-- those foreboding gloomy stories-- those blood lusting fangs and create something unique, creative and happy. The escapist journey you find in The Alchemist or The Life of Pi are examples of the type of books I love. Tell me a tale, place me in a window seat and I’m off. Perhaps Penny can take readers to Hawaii and make them forget about the very reason there are problems in her life--the breakdown of communication!
My twitter account is Thedesertrocks and I have a page on Facebook called Penniless Hearts. Please stop by and ‘Like” me at https://www.facebook.com/PennilessHearts
Do you have plans for a new novel?
I have so many stories in my head that the characters are all crisscrossing from one book and story to another. It’s like wandering into Times Square the day after Christmas. You want to return three things but you also want to find some shoes for New Years. Meanwhile, you’re distracted by some incredible markdowns and your stomach is growling. Do you have lunch at that cute cafe or keep going? The sun isn’t out but daylight is fading. Hold your pee. This is too much excitement and the signs and lights are creating information overload. What is that delightful smell? Just keep going. FOCUS! Don’t stop and never, ever give up!
In other words, things in my personal life have to calm way down before I’m ready to proceed with a new novel. I have written five chapters about Penny and John on an anniversary trip to Vegas which will be called Penniless Souls. My husband said it was some of the most exciting stuff I’ve ever written but of course, he’s totally biased. Honestly, I’d rather write humor than romance.
Do you intend to branch into another genre?
I’m still writing and publishing non-fiction stories for books like Not Your Mother’s Book on Travel and poetry for various anthologies. Writing, illustrating and actually completing children’s book sounds like a dream but I’m still researching my options regarding my manuscript. I wrote a story titled; The Cactus and The Sunflower geared for middle grade readers with illustrations for younger siblings and hope to publish it soon.
Sounds exciting. Thanks for visiting Eve, and thanks so much for filling in today. Please come back when your next novel appears.
Thank you, Mari, for everything. You are such a nice lady and a great writer. My review of your book is still the number one post on my blog. http://thedesertrocks.blogspot.com
The name of my blog might change soon but I’ll be the writer formerly known as The Desert Rocks.
January 5, 2014
Memories
The memories of Trinity Lutheran Church are bound by the Word of God, family, and friends. It’s where I was baptized, went to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, learned Luther’s Small Catechism (under the excellent tutelage of Pastor Kaning), and was confirmed. Grandmother’s farm was but a short distance to the East. If Papa stayed at church for some reason, we could walk down to her house for Sunday dinner or catch a ride with one of our Uncle’s if they had attended.
Who can forget those wonderful church bells ringing on a clear, frosty morning? The sound would float for miles. As a child I marveled at the stained glass windows and the beautiful altar with the soaring spires. The balcony held special mysteries, reserved for the younger people who had been confirmed and released from their parental control.
I could not have been more than three when I remember sitting besides my mother, my younger brother was kept firmly between her and father. I would try to read the hymnal and the liturgy. I was so proud when I recognized the word Amen and excitedly pointed it out. This induced a, “shhh,” and a nudge from Mother.
The Childhood’s Golden Dawn, a Christmas gift from my Sunday School teacher given in 1944, Luther’s Small Catechism (well-worn), and The March of Faith (a little tattered, but serviceable), given to me by Pastor Kaning during our catechism lessons are still in my library.
We usually attended at least twice a month and once a month father would enter the sacristy to sign for him and mother to take communion. By the late nineteen-forties Mother would express her discontent that women couldn't sign for themselves.
Pastor Kaning’s sermons were tremendous. The man could make you see the dust rise off the roads of the desert landscape; hear the crowds as they shouted on Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem on a donkey. To underline a point he would burst into reciting a hymn in German (I couldn't understand many words, but loved the sound of it), or pound the lectern to make a point.
Christmas Eve always meant the Children’s Program. Oh, how I loved it. The church would blaze with light and our congregation would sing the Christmas carols with joy and volume unmatched anywhere. My father and his friend, Cy or Sy (I’m unsure of the nickname spelling), had powerful tenor voices and they blended well. They were boyhood friends and often managed to seat our families near each other.
I remember how grateful my Great-uncle Albert was that Pastor Kaning would preach a special German sermon for the older members. There were undoubtedly many more that appreciated the extra work and concern he showed.
The best years were the catechism classes. Pastor Kaning not only covered everything in Luther’s Small Catechism, but he taught the church history and the history surrounding it. His descriptions of Luther’s time still ring in my ears. Because of the interest he aroused, I've suffered a live-long love of history and still buy history books to fill my shelves. I can’t say that Pastor taught me about Christ as my parents did that all of their lives. He gave the background to understand the trials of the apostles and later the people of the Reformation, and he always, always underlined the fact that the words of others or the “wisdom” of the wise be tested against God’s Word.
The basement was a wonderful addition and I remember the meals that would be served there. The women of the congregation would watch to see if their dish was chosen. Often they would flush with pleasure when it was or glare at the member who dared pass it by. It didn't really matter for farming families ate heartily.
Trinity Lutheran Church’s congregation dwindled in numbers and the church was to be closed. A dedicated group started to raise funds to move it to Manning, Iowa to be placed alongside a Hausbarn from Germany and a German restaurant. Somehow the funds were raised. You can go to David Kusel’s website and find a video of the church and the move. I thank God that the church did not fall to the wrecking ball, but will continue to be viewed as part of their historic park and used for special occasions and weddings.
Who can forget those wonderful church bells ringing on a clear, frosty morning? The sound would float for miles. As a child I marveled at the stained glass windows and the beautiful altar with the soaring spires. The balcony held special mysteries, reserved for the younger people who had been confirmed and released from their parental control.
I could not have been more than three when I remember sitting besides my mother, my younger brother was kept firmly between her and father. I would try to read the hymnal and the liturgy. I was so proud when I recognized the word Amen and excitedly pointed it out. This induced a, “shhh,” and a nudge from Mother.
The Childhood’s Golden Dawn, a Christmas gift from my Sunday School teacher given in 1944, Luther’s Small Catechism (well-worn), and The March of Faith (a little tattered, but serviceable), given to me by Pastor Kaning during our catechism lessons are still in my library.
We usually attended at least twice a month and once a month father would enter the sacristy to sign for him and mother to take communion. By the late nineteen-forties Mother would express her discontent that women couldn't sign for themselves.
Pastor Kaning’s sermons were tremendous. The man could make you see the dust rise off the roads of the desert landscape; hear the crowds as they shouted on Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem on a donkey. To underline a point he would burst into reciting a hymn in German (I couldn't understand many words, but loved the sound of it), or pound the lectern to make a point.
Christmas Eve always meant the Children’s Program. Oh, how I loved it. The church would blaze with light and our congregation would sing the Christmas carols with joy and volume unmatched anywhere. My father and his friend, Cy or Sy (I’m unsure of the nickname spelling), had powerful tenor voices and they blended well. They were boyhood friends and often managed to seat our families near each other.
I remember how grateful my Great-uncle Albert was that Pastor Kaning would preach a special German sermon for the older members. There were undoubtedly many more that appreciated the extra work and concern he showed.
The best years were the catechism classes. Pastor Kaning not only covered everything in Luther’s Small Catechism, but he taught the church history and the history surrounding it. His descriptions of Luther’s time still ring in my ears. Because of the interest he aroused, I've suffered a live-long love of history and still buy history books to fill my shelves. I can’t say that Pastor taught me about Christ as my parents did that all of their lives. He gave the background to understand the trials of the apostles and later the people of the Reformation, and he always, always underlined the fact that the words of others or the “wisdom” of the wise be tested against God’s Word.
The basement was a wonderful addition and I remember the meals that would be served there. The women of the congregation would watch to see if their dish was chosen. Often they would flush with pleasure when it was or glare at the member who dared pass it by. It didn't really matter for farming families ate heartily.
Trinity Lutheran Church’s congregation dwindled in numbers and the church was to be closed. A dedicated group started to raise funds to move it to Manning, Iowa to be placed alongside a Hausbarn from Germany and a German restaurant. Somehow the funds were raised. You can go to David Kusel’s website and find a video of the church and the move. I thank God that the church did not fall to the wrecking ball, but will continue to be viewed as part of their historic park and used for special occasions and weddings.
December 22, 2013
Depression Christmas
I was twenty-four when I learned that giving at Christmas time can be one of the loneliest acts that anyone can perform. Strangest of all, society would have called my teacher an ignorant, redneck drunk.
It was 1935 and Roosevelt was in office. Most Americans thought the worst of the depression was over. We were unaware of the total devastation the dustbowl was creating. My father had fared better than most. My sister and I were able to attend college where I met and married Tom Reynolds.
Tom was short, stocky, and confident of the future. His blue eyes gleamed when he told of new techniques to bolster farm production. The subject didn’t enrapt urban me, but I loved him.
The day after graduation, a letter from the U. S. Department of Agriculture arrived appointing Tom the County Agent for Lawrence County, Ohio. Tom was like a madman. We poured over maps to locate our destination in Southeast Ohio.
“Come on,” he urged me. “We have to shop and pack.” We ignored the cold spring rain.
We stopped long enough to gurgle sodas before returning to my parents’ house to finish packing.
My neighbor was horrified when she discovered where we were going. “That’s hillbilly country. You’ll be absolutely buried away from society.”
I had a cold, and protested through my sniffles and coughing. “It can’t be that bad. I’m sure they have radio and a library.”
My cold turned nasty and our plans for departure were delayed as pneumonia set in. Tom waited until after the crisis before leaving. Recuperation was a lengthy process. How I hated the mirror! I had lost twenty pounds, my dark eyes were dull smudges, and my face had sunken, white hollows were where cheeks should have been rosy. Doctor Jacoby finally gave his permission to join Tom. Christmas was but five days away. My bags had been packed for weeks and I left the next day.
The train ride from New York City to Columbus, Ohio was exhausting, but when I struggled off the train, there he was: My Tom! He was rumpled, unshaven, and smiling. We hugged and kissed the long months away oblivious to the scandal we created.
“You’re so thin,” Tom cried. “You could pass for the Ghost of Christmas.”
“And you, why haven’t you shaved?”
He laughed. “I was afraid I might miss you so I came yesterday afternoon. Then I overslept. Come on, I‘ll buy you a cup of coffee before we claim your luggage.”
He kept up the barrage of words as he pulled me through the crowds. “Have you had breakfast? I’ve missed that throaty voice of yours. Wait until you see where we live.”
Within the hour we were ensconced in our Plymouth coupe and rolling over the smooth pavement leading southward. Gradually, the terrain changed from hilly farmland to woodlands of ancient age. There were still farms, but less prosperous. The pavement changed to gravel and by afternoon we were fighting deep, grooved ruts in impossible mountain dirt roads. Many of the trees had dark, leafless arms shrouded by the half-light filtering through the firs. Tom had his shoulders hunched. He used one hand to grip the steering wheel and the other to manipulate the gearshift. He was devoting his whole being to driving while we jolted from rut to rut.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be home before supper.”
I shivered and pulled my fur collar tighter. Supper? Where had he picked up that word? For months I had planned our Christmas Eve dinner. Afterward we would be beside some cozy fireplace, laughing and exchanging gifts. Now that prospect looked as cold and bleak as the snow covered hillocks and trees. Tom’s cheerfulness faded as I drew my coat around me and refused to talk as we pulled into town.
This town was better than some we had driven through, but it gave off an aura of dirt and hopelessness. There was an unpainted mill beside a railroad station, a grocery, three taverns, two gas stations, a garage combined with a blacksmith shop, a fire station that was once red, a county courthouse complete with jail, the proverbial small, white church with a steeple, a produce and feed store that was almost as dingy as the mill, a U. S. Post Office, People’s Bank, a Woolworth’s, two cafes, and a library. Except for the newly painted taverns and the bank, Woolworth’s, and courthouse built of brick, it was a dreadful, dreary place. Not Appalachia, but a close second. What few people I saw were gaunt and hollow of eye. Only one hand raised in greeting. The rest seemed hostile or simply preoccupied in staying warm in clothing ill suited to keep out the winter air. I was bewildered and a bit frightened. How could Tom expect me to live in this half-civilized corner of the world?
Tom was unconcerned. “We’re here,” was his cheery announcement. “These people have lived here for generations. It’ll be all right.” His reassurance did little to quell my fears.
The residential sections fanned off into the hills. The houses ranged from two Victorian gingerbreads to shacks long washed of any paint that might have been applied.
Our home, considering the town, was adequate. It was a whitewashed, two story house with a basement and a sagging front porch. The plumbing, I was to discover, was a hold over from the previous century. There was a chimney and I was certain there would be a fireplace, but, no, it was for the wood cook stove and red potbelly coal monstrosity set up in the living room.
We entered directly into the kitchen. A large, black hand grasped Tom’s.
“Welcome home. You done brought yore purty Missus.”
“Right, Molly.
“Honey, this is Mrs. Mills, only she insists that I call her Molly. This place wouldn’t be decent today without her.”
Bone tired, I murmured some type of greeting and collapsed on the chair. Something was bubbling on the stove and a pan of cornbread was on the table.
Mrs. Mills pocketed her money and slipped on her coat. Tom was spooning something from the bubbling pot into another.
“Here, take this with you. What about some apples for your children?” He placed the apples in a small pail that was sitting beside the stove. “Merry Christmas, Molly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, and Merry Christmas.” She seemed to be crying as she left.
I was appalled. “What is the matter with her?”
Tom stared at me for a moment before answering. “Without those beans, she and her six children might not have had supper tonight. She saved everything for the Christmas dinner tomorrow. I’ve had to take turns hiring someone otherwise it causes friction in town.”
I straightened in the chair. I had not imagined living day to day with such poverty.
“You don’t realize how bad it is here.” His voice was bitter. “The Department wants me to tell the farmers how only one hundred and fifty dollars for an indoor toilet will help keep everybody healthy. Diana, these people don’t even have two dollars, let alone...” He took a deep breath and turned.
“Hey, what am I doing? This is Christmas. Here, look what I have.”
He rummaged in the pantry and held aloft a bottle of champagne.
“Tom! Where? How?”
“I badgered your father out of it before I left.” He smiled. “Now set the table, woman whilst your man carries in the bags. We’ll dine in splendor on cornbread and beans, ham, and champagne. Don’t forget to throw more wood in the stove.”
It wasn’t what I had planned, but we were together. While we ate, we held hands across the oilcloth covering the table, and I told him about the plays, the latest films at the Paradise, and the newest books. Exhaustion and Tom’s blue eyes kept me from running to the car and drive back to New York. There was time enough tomorrow to tell him what a coward I am, but I cannot live here.
After we cleared the table, Tom brought out our coats with a cheery, “Well it’s time to go.”
“Go? Go where? I’m exhausted and it’s snowing.” How could he be so oblivious to my feelings?
Laughter brushed my protests aside. “To church. Where else does one go on Christmas Eve? It’s not far, but we’ll take the car.”
The snow drifted downward in huge, soft crystals that sweetened the air and gave an ethereal quality to the dark pines that filled the low mountains. Anyone else would have felt at peace. I, however, was desolate and my happiness during dinner dissipated.
The church was like none I had ever attended. It was white and had a steeple, but there any resemblance ended. A plain wooden cross was nailed to the front door. Tom opened the door to a room filled with hand-hewed maple pews. The windows were plain glass, frosted and decorated by winter snow. There was no altar area, but a Christmas tree was in one far corner and decorated with paper chains, stringed popcorn, and a few bulbs. There were even bird feathers on it. A lanky adolescent clad in a plaid shirt and jeans sat beside the tree on a wooden stool. He was strumming a hymn on a guitar. The other corner held a potbelly stove that glowed a dull red. A church member would try filling it quietly during the service.
As late comers, we slipped into the last bench near the door. A few people nodded. Others whispered, “Howdy,” or “Glad she’s here.”
They were all poorly dressed by New York standards. From somewhere came the stench of bad whiskey. The air smelled of burning wood, wet clothes, mothballs, and people. The children were seated at the front and their giggles and shuffling feet could be heard. I was amazed at their number. How could such ill-fed people be so fecund? A hush fell over the crowd as the pastor strode out to the center.
“Brothers, sisters, and children,” he paused to smile at them. “Welcome in the name of the Baby Jesus. That’s why we’re here tonight, to welcome Him. He came just for sinners, yes, for you and for me.” Someone in the front row interjected an, “Amen.”
The pastor’s high voice, a bit nasal and almost singsong continued. “And tonight we’re going to let our children tell us about that wondrous gift, ‘cause that’s the kind of faith we all need: Just like the little children. Let us pray.”
As one the congregation bent their heads while the pastor’s words exhorted them toward supreme faith and sacrifice. I noticed a drawling, slurring quality. Not really a Southern accent, but just enough to give it a lilt, and to my ears a quaint, picturesque sound.
After the prayer, the children trooped up to sing Joy To The World. Then the play started. It was intended to show how Jesus, the Babe of Bethlehem, was for the whole world past and present. They took turns being shepherds, crusaders, and early immigrants. Too many of the children had pinched faces and wore clothes that didn’t fit. Their shoes flopped and showed holes. What I wondered, have they to be thankful for?
They, however, were like children everywhere. Some recited their lines perfectly while others hiccupped or waited for the prompter to fill in every other word. Periodically they burst into song. Things were progressing mercifully to a close when a girl of about ten walked up. Her plumpness and rosy cheeks marked her as different from the others. New oxfords gleamed under the costume of deliberate rags, and her tow hair glistened in a stylish bob.
“I’m a poor,” she began.
The man in front of us lurched to his feet. “Thash my daughter! What’s she doin’ in thush rags?”
The source of the whiskey odor was obvious. His wife tugged at his coat sleeve with one bird-like hand while she balanced the baby with the other.
“Hush, Will, hush. Sit down.”
“I’ll not hush. She’s got better clothes. Ain’t no daughter of mine gonna stand up thar like that.” He lunged down the aisle, reeling from side to side.
“Anna Belle, you come home with me. You too, Bill.” He hung for a moment on a man’s shoulder, straightened, and led the reluctant children from the church. He kept muttering about how his family didn’t have to dress in rags. His wife carefully wrapped the baby and fled with them, tears streaming down her red cheeks.
The pastor tried vainly to regain momentum, but things limped to a close after that scene.
Just before the last song, the disrupter appeared in the doorway and handed a large box filled with brown sacks to the nearest man as he said, “Here, Jake. I made a mess of things. Pass these out to the kids.”
His voice was still slurred and rough. I shivered with revulsion.
We did not linger long; just enough to say hello to a few people. The children were busy exclaiming over the candies, nuts, and real oranges found in each sack.
Tom wrapped a blanket around me before starting the car. As the car pulled away, I exploded. “Well, that man certainly ruined everything!”
“Who?”
“That drunk.”
Tom started to laugh. “Diana, how many men do you know that can go home and in a few minutes make up just the right number of Christmas sacks while drunk? Plus he would be contending with one very angry wife and two disappointed children.”
I took some time to look at the snow’s soft landscape before answering. “None,” I admitted.
“Correct. He quit school to raise his brothers and sisters. Now he owns the general store. He’s carried most of these people on his books for years. He has contracts to sell supplies to the CCC camps, and to the construction crew at the dam our Department is building. He wanted to give those sacks as his Christmas donation, but the Elders wouldn’t let him. The people were too ashamed at not being able to pay for necessities. His shame had to equal theirs before they could accept.”
Snow was falling faster, hissing steam as it hit the hood. Like the snow, my discontent melted away. I snuggled closer to Tom. That rough, acting like a drunk man had given me a gift too. I no longer looked at the people here with horror, or feared being here with Tom. Not when such adversity could produce a person capable of humbling himself for a gift of love to children.
It was 1935 and Roosevelt was in office. Most Americans thought the worst of the depression was over. We were unaware of the total devastation the dustbowl was creating. My father had fared better than most. My sister and I were able to attend college where I met and married Tom Reynolds.
Tom was short, stocky, and confident of the future. His blue eyes gleamed when he told of new techniques to bolster farm production. The subject didn’t enrapt urban me, but I loved him.
The day after graduation, a letter from the U. S. Department of Agriculture arrived appointing Tom the County Agent for Lawrence County, Ohio. Tom was like a madman. We poured over maps to locate our destination in Southeast Ohio.
“Come on,” he urged me. “We have to shop and pack.” We ignored the cold spring rain.
We stopped long enough to gurgle sodas before returning to my parents’ house to finish packing.
My neighbor was horrified when she discovered where we were going. “That’s hillbilly country. You’ll be absolutely buried away from society.”
I had a cold, and protested through my sniffles and coughing. “It can’t be that bad. I’m sure they have radio and a library.”
My cold turned nasty and our plans for departure were delayed as pneumonia set in. Tom waited until after the crisis before leaving. Recuperation was a lengthy process. How I hated the mirror! I had lost twenty pounds, my dark eyes were dull smudges, and my face had sunken, white hollows were where cheeks should have been rosy. Doctor Jacoby finally gave his permission to join Tom. Christmas was but five days away. My bags had been packed for weeks and I left the next day.
The train ride from New York City to Columbus, Ohio was exhausting, but when I struggled off the train, there he was: My Tom! He was rumpled, unshaven, and smiling. We hugged and kissed the long months away oblivious to the scandal we created.
“You’re so thin,” Tom cried. “You could pass for the Ghost of Christmas.”
“And you, why haven’t you shaved?”
He laughed. “I was afraid I might miss you so I came yesterday afternoon. Then I overslept. Come on, I‘ll buy you a cup of coffee before we claim your luggage.”
He kept up the barrage of words as he pulled me through the crowds. “Have you had breakfast? I’ve missed that throaty voice of yours. Wait until you see where we live.”
Within the hour we were ensconced in our Plymouth coupe and rolling over the smooth pavement leading southward. Gradually, the terrain changed from hilly farmland to woodlands of ancient age. There were still farms, but less prosperous. The pavement changed to gravel and by afternoon we were fighting deep, grooved ruts in impossible mountain dirt roads. Many of the trees had dark, leafless arms shrouded by the half-light filtering through the firs. Tom had his shoulders hunched. He used one hand to grip the steering wheel and the other to manipulate the gearshift. He was devoting his whole being to driving while we jolted from rut to rut.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be home before supper.”
I shivered and pulled my fur collar tighter. Supper? Where had he picked up that word? For months I had planned our Christmas Eve dinner. Afterward we would be beside some cozy fireplace, laughing and exchanging gifts. Now that prospect looked as cold and bleak as the snow covered hillocks and trees. Tom’s cheerfulness faded as I drew my coat around me and refused to talk as we pulled into town.
This town was better than some we had driven through, but it gave off an aura of dirt and hopelessness. There was an unpainted mill beside a railroad station, a grocery, three taverns, two gas stations, a garage combined with a blacksmith shop, a fire station that was once red, a county courthouse complete with jail, the proverbial small, white church with a steeple, a produce and feed store that was almost as dingy as the mill, a U. S. Post Office, People’s Bank, a Woolworth’s, two cafes, and a library. Except for the newly painted taverns and the bank, Woolworth’s, and courthouse built of brick, it was a dreadful, dreary place. Not Appalachia, but a close second. What few people I saw were gaunt and hollow of eye. Only one hand raised in greeting. The rest seemed hostile or simply preoccupied in staying warm in clothing ill suited to keep out the winter air. I was bewildered and a bit frightened. How could Tom expect me to live in this half-civilized corner of the world?
Tom was unconcerned. “We’re here,” was his cheery announcement. “These people have lived here for generations. It’ll be all right.” His reassurance did little to quell my fears.
The residential sections fanned off into the hills. The houses ranged from two Victorian gingerbreads to shacks long washed of any paint that might have been applied.
Our home, considering the town, was adequate. It was a whitewashed, two story house with a basement and a sagging front porch. The plumbing, I was to discover, was a hold over from the previous century. There was a chimney and I was certain there would be a fireplace, but, no, it was for the wood cook stove and red potbelly coal monstrosity set up in the living room.
We entered directly into the kitchen. A large, black hand grasped Tom’s.
“Welcome home. You done brought yore purty Missus.”
“Right, Molly.
“Honey, this is Mrs. Mills, only she insists that I call her Molly. This place wouldn’t be decent today without her.”
Bone tired, I murmured some type of greeting and collapsed on the chair. Something was bubbling on the stove and a pan of cornbread was on the table.
Mrs. Mills pocketed her money and slipped on her coat. Tom was spooning something from the bubbling pot into another.
“Here, take this with you. What about some apples for your children?” He placed the apples in a small pail that was sitting beside the stove. “Merry Christmas, Molly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, and Merry Christmas.” She seemed to be crying as she left.
I was appalled. “What is the matter with her?”
Tom stared at me for a moment before answering. “Without those beans, she and her six children might not have had supper tonight. She saved everything for the Christmas dinner tomorrow. I’ve had to take turns hiring someone otherwise it causes friction in town.”
I straightened in the chair. I had not imagined living day to day with such poverty.
“You don’t realize how bad it is here.” His voice was bitter. “The Department wants me to tell the farmers how only one hundred and fifty dollars for an indoor toilet will help keep everybody healthy. Diana, these people don’t even have two dollars, let alone...” He took a deep breath and turned.
“Hey, what am I doing? This is Christmas. Here, look what I have.”
He rummaged in the pantry and held aloft a bottle of champagne.
“Tom! Where? How?”
“I badgered your father out of it before I left.” He smiled. “Now set the table, woman whilst your man carries in the bags. We’ll dine in splendor on cornbread and beans, ham, and champagne. Don’t forget to throw more wood in the stove.”
It wasn’t what I had planned, but we were together. While we ate, we held hands across the oilcloth covering the table, and I told him about the plays, the latest films at the Paradise, and the newest books. Exhaustion and Tom’s blue eyes kept me from running to the car and drive back to New York. There was time enough tomorrow to tell him what a coward I am, but I cannot live here.
After we cleared the table, Tom brought out our coats with a cheery, “Well it’s time to go.”
“Go? Go where? I’m exhausted and it’s snowing.” How could he be so oblivious to my feelings?
Laughter brushed my protests aside. “To church. Where else does one go on Christmas Eve? It’s not far, but we’ll take the car.”
The snow drifted downward in huge, soft crystals that sweetened the air and gave an ethereal quality to the dark pines that filled the low mountains. Anyone else would have felt at peace. I, however, was desolate and my happiness during dinner dissipated.
The church was like none I had ever attended. It was white and had a steeple, but there any resemblance ended. A plain wooden cross was nailed to the front door. Tom opened the door to a room filled with hand-hewed maple pews. The windows were plain glass, frosted and decorated by winter snow. There was no altar area, but a Christmas tree was in one far corner and decorated with paper chains, stringed popcorn, and a few bulbs. There were even bird feathers on it. A lanky adolescent clad in a plaid shirt and jeans sat beside the tree on a wooden stool. He was strumming a hymn on a guitar. The other corner held a potbelly stove that glowed a dull red. A church member would try filling it quietly during the service.
As late comers, we slipped into the last bench near the door. A few people nodded. Others whispered, “Howdy,” or “Glad she’s here.”
They were all poorly dressed by New York standards. From somewhere came the stench of bad whiskey. The air smelled of burning wood, wet clothes, mothballs, and people. The children were seated at the front and their giggles and shuffling feet could be heard. I was amazed at their number. How could such ill-fed people be so fecund? A hush fell over the crowd as the pastor strode out to the center.
“Brothers, sisters, and children,” he paused to smile at them. “Welcome in the name of the Baby Jesus. That’s why we’re here tonight, to welcome Him. He came just for sinners, yes, for you and for me.” Someone in the front row interjected an, “Amen.”
The pastor’s high voice, a bit nasal and almost singsong continued. “And tonight we’re going to let our children tell us about that wondrous gift, ‘cause that’s the kind of faith we all need: Just like the little children. Let us pray.”
As one the congregation bent their heads while the pastor’s words exhorted them toward supreme faith and sacrifice. I noticed a drawling, slurring quality. Not really a Southern accent, but just enough to give it a lilt, and to my ears a quaint, picturesque sound.
After the prayer, the children trooped up to sing Joy To The World. Then the play started. It was intended to show how Jesus, the Babe of Bethlehem, was for the whole world past and present. They took turns being shepherds, crusaders, and early immigrants. Too many of the children had pinched faces and wore clothes that didn’t fit. Their shoes flopped and showed holes. What I wondered, have they to be thankful for?
They, however, were like children everywhere. Some recited their lines perfectly while others hiccupped or waited for the prompter to fill in every other word. Periodically they burst into song. Things were progressing mercifully to a close when a girl of about ten walked up. Her plumpness and rosy cheeks marked her as different from the others. New oxfords gleamed under the costume of deliberate rags, and her tow hair glistened in a stylish bob.
“I’m a poor,” she began.
The man in front of us lurched to his feet. “Thash my daughter! What’s she doin’ in thush rags?”
The source of the whiskey odor was obvious. His wife tugged at his coat sleeve with one bird-like hand while she balanced the baby with the other.
“Hush, Will, hush. Sit down.”
“I’ll not hush. She’s got better clothes. Ain’t no daughter of mine gonna stand up thar like that.” He lunged down the aisle, reeling from side to side.
“Anna Belle, you come home with me. You too, Bill.” He hung for a moment on a man’s shoulder, straightened, and led the reluctant children from the church. He kept muttering about how his family didn’t have to dress in rags. His wife carefully wrapped the baby and fled with them, tears streaming down her red cheeks.
The pastor tried vainly to regain momentum, but things limped to a close after that scene.
Just before the last song, the disrupter appeared in the doorway and handed a large box filled with brown sacks to the nearest man as he said, “Here, Jake. I made a mess of things. Pass these out to the kids.”
His voice was still slurred and rough. I shivered with revulsion.
We did not linger long; just enough to say hello to a few people. The children were busy exclaiming over the candies, nuts, and real oranges found in each sack.
Tom wrapped a blanket around me before starting the car. As the car pulled away, I exploded. “Well, that man certainly ruined everything!”
“Who?”
“That drunk.”
Tom started to laugh. “Diana, how many men do you know that can go home and in a few minutes make up just the right number of Christmas sacks while drunk? Plus he would be contending with one very angry wife and two disappointed children.”
I took some time to look at the snow’s soft landscape before answering. “None,” I admitted.
“Correct. He quit school to raise his brothers and sisters. Now he owns the general store. He’s carried most of these people on his books for years. He has contracts to sell supplies to the CCC camps, and to the construction crew at the dam our Department is building. He wanted to give those sacks as his Christmas donation, but the Elders wouldn’t let him. The people were too ashamed at not being able to pay for necessities. His shame had to equal theirs before they could accept.”
Snow was falling faster, hissing steam as it hit the hood. Like the snow, my discontent melted away. I snuggled closer to Tom. That rough, acting like a drunk man had given me a gift too. I no longer looked at the people here with horror, or feared being here with Tom. Not when such adversity could produce a person capable of humbling himself for a gift of love to children.
December 15, 2013
Curiosity
Every fall and spring Mama would go into a frenzy of cleaning and decorating. In the fall the coal stoves for the dining room and living room would be moved back in and set up. That usually meant furniture had to be rearranged and “freshened.” That could be anything from painting to new doilies. Winter blankets and feather ticks would have to be “aired” after being stored all spring and summer. If necessary, Mama would make new pillows by using the feathers from the ducks we had. The sweeping, mopping, waxing, and dusting didn't count. That was done each week. Spring, however, would stir Mama’s sense of creativity.
Once the coal stoves were removed, the stovepipes down, the metal topped pads from beneath the stoves gone, and the metal picture set over the holes for the stove pipe, her efforts turned to cleaning the wallpaper. We used this dough like lump from a can to rub down the paper and remove the coal smoke. As the pad darkened, you’d fold it over and use a clean side. When the dough was grey-black, a fresh pad was used. Years later, I would buy my children Play Dough. It was in pretty colors, but it smelled the same and it felt the same.
"Cleaning” the wallpaper would work for a year or two, but then the wallpaper had to be stripped and new wallpaper put up. She managed to do the living room one year, the dining room and kitchen the next, and their bedroom on the third rotation. Since the upstairs bedrooms where my brother and I slept, didn’t get any heat, it wasn't necessary to redo them.
All this took place with the normal farm work of planting, harvesting, canning, and making larger meals than anyone thinks of doing today. Papa, of course, could out eat many people. I can’t imagine the hours Mama put in day after day making breakfast, dinner, and supper (yes, that is what the mealtimes were called). Nothing in the way of food was ever wasted. If there were left-over pie crusts, she’d sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon and make pie cookies. If there was left-over frosting, she would spread it on saltine crackers or graham crackers. There were never many of either and they would just be on a small plate on the table. If Papa happened to come into the house, it would disappear into his mouth.
If any of us were ill, she was the nurse. My youngest brother came down with something when I was about five and she had made up a soda paste for some reason and had taken what she needed into the bedroom where my brother was. I was in the dining room probably dusting, reading, or coloring. I heard my father come in and suddenly there was this choking, sputtering, and hacking coming from the kitchen. Mama appeared in the bedroom doorway and I ran into the kitchen. Papa had scooped up the soda paste thinking it was frosting.
“I thought it was frosting,” Papa finally said. That experience, however, did not stop Papa from tasting whatever was out on the table.
The next spring, Mama decided the dining room needed something new. As usual money was in short supply, but there was enough to buy some packets of dye. Inside the packets were cubes of dye. One used hot water and the number of cubes necessary to create the needed color shade. She decided that the side panels of the white lace curtains in the dining room should be brown. I’m not sure what that would have matched in her mind as it might have been a color in the wallpaper.
The curtains came out a beautiful, deep brown. Mama was in a rush that day and in between her other duties, ironed and re-hung the dining room curtains. The extra cube of brown dye remained on the kitchen table. Yes, as Papa came in bringing a basket of cobs for the wood cooking stove, he saw the cube and popped it into his mouth. Once again we heard the coughing, choking, sputtering noise from the kitchen.
After he had rinsed out his mouth he looked at Mama and said, “It looked like a piece of caramel.”
No, Papa never quit tasting whatever was on the table that might look like food. Mama was just very careful of what she left on the table.
Once the coal stoves were removed, the stovepipes down, the metal topped pads from beneath the stoves gone, and the metal picture set over the holes for the stove pipe, her efforts turned to cleaning the wallpaper. We used this dough like lump from a can to rub down the paper and remove the coal smoke. As the pad darkened, you’d fold it over and use a clean side. When the dough was grey-black, a fresh pad was used. Years later, I would buy my children Play Dough. It was in pretty colors, but it smelled the same and it felt the same.
"Cleaning” the wallpaper would work for a year or two, but then the wallpaper had to be stripped and new wallpaper put up. She managed to do the living room one year, the dining room and kitchen the next, and their bedroom on the third rotation. Since the upstairs bedrooms where my brother and I slept, didn’t get any heat, it wasn't necessary to redo them.
All this took place with the normal farm work of planting, harvesting, canning, and making larger meals than anyone thinks of doing today. Papa, of course, could out eat many people. I can’t imagine the hours Mama put in day after day making breakfast, dinner, and supper (yes, that is what the mealtimes were called). Nothing in the way of food was ever wasted. If there were left-over pie crusts, she’d sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon and make pie cookies. If there was left-over frosting, she would spread it on saltine crackers or graham crackers. There were never many of either and they would just be on a small plate on the table. If Papa happened to come into the house, it would disappear into his mouth.
If any of us were ill, she was the nurse. My youngest brother came down with something when I was about five and she had made up a soda paste for some reason and had taken what she needed into the bedroom where my brother was. I was in the dining room probably dusting, reading, or coloring. I heard my father come in and suddenly there was this choking, sputtering, and hacking coming from the kitchen. Mama appeared in the bedroom doorway and I ran into the kitchen. Papa had scooped up the soda paste thinking it was frosting.
“I thought it was frosting,” Papa finally said. That experience, however, did not stop Papa from tasting whatever was out on the table.
The next spring, Mama decided the dining room needed something new. As usual money was in short supply, but there was enough to buy some packets of dye. Inside the packets were cubes of dye. One used hot water and the number of cubes necessary to create the needed color shade. She decided that the side panels of the white lace curtains in the dining room should be brown. I’m not sure what that would have matched in her mind as it might have been a color in the wallpaper.
The curtains came out a beautiful, deep brown. Mama was in a rush that day and in between her other duties, ironed and re-hung the dining room curtains. The extra cube of brown dye remained on the kitchen table. Yes, as Papa came in bringing a basket of cobs for the wood cooking stove, he saw the cube and popped it into his mouth. Once again we heard the coughing, choking, sputtering noise from the kitchen.
After he had rinsed out his mouth he looked at Mama and said, “It looked like a piece of caramel.”
No, Papa never quit tasting whatever was on the table that might look like food. Mama was just very careful of what she left on the table.
December 1, 2013
An Elaborate Plan
The character of Anna in my science fiction series is in many ways based on my mother. They do not resemble each other physically as Mama had dark, straight hair, brown eyes that could turn almost black when she was angered, and a rather dark complexion for someone of German descent, but character wise they are almost the same.
Mama was passionate and loved deeply, particularly her husband and children. Anna like Mama had an explosive temper. Once it ran its course, she was over the anger and would ask God to forgive her. Anna like Mama is clairvoyant; either seeing the future in dreams or it would suddenly come to her in a waking state.
My second oldest brother, an English major college graduate, of course, did not believe Mama could do that. He insisted she just had lucky guesses. One summer, he set out to prove it.
I have mentioned that my allergies were so horrific in Iowa that I could not live there. Mama had taken me to Phoenix the first time during the winter months and we returned home in the summer. It took three months before I was back into the same state of health and we returned to Phoenix. The next summer, I went to San Francisco to stay with my brother who was taking California (as he called them) blackboard credits. His BA degree in English from the University of Iowa didn't include the teacher courses (on how to teach) that the State of California required.
I worked at Foster's Cafeteria that summer and saved my money. When I returned to Phoenix I rented a room and returned to high school. The next summer I went back to San Francisco.
My brother had completed the courses required by California and had a teacher’s job for that fall. He purchased a Buick sedan and planned on driving our cousin and me back to Iowa for a six week visit before he returned to his new post in California. I was to go back to Phoenix with Mama that year.
Rather than tell my parents we would be driving back, my brother wrote that we would be coming by Greyhound. He went so far as to go to the Greyhound terminal and verify when the bus would roll into Council Bluffs, Iowa. The station in our little town had been closed. He felt that way my oldest brother could verify the schedule and my parents would have no idea that we would be driving up some afternoon or night honking the horn.
It was a fabulous trip across the country. I was able to see the Sierra Mountains, the Salt Flats of Utah, and the immense farm communities that dotted the landscape at that time. My brother continued to chortle about how he was fooling our Mother. My cousin and I just shook our heads. We really didn't think he could do it.
True to his plan, we drove up one summer evening about eight o’clock with the horn blaring. Our oldest brother and family were there on the pretext of driving my parents down to pick us up within two days. Our father, our youngest brother, and oldest brother had been outside, and my sister-by-marriage came through the gate with their two children. As we disembarked from the auto, our mother came running out hands waving in the air as she shouted, “I told you they were driving and would be here tonight!”
It seems she had been canning one afternoon and walked out to the car where my youngest brother and his friend from a neighboring farm were discussing whatever teenage boys of the 1950’s discussed. She leaned into the car and said, “Norman has bought a car and they will be here Thursday night.” She later told our father the same thing.
I asked my youngest brother what he had said when Mama made her pronouncement. His response was partly a sputter. “Nothing. How can you answer something like that or explain it.
My second oldest brother kept insisting that it had just been a lucky guess on Mama’s part. It wasn't until he was older that he admitted that she had proven him wrong.
Mama was passionate and loved deeply, particularly her husband and children. Anna like Mama had an explosive temper. Once it ran its course, she was over the anger and would ask God to forgive her. Anna like Mama is clairvoyant; either seeing the future in dreams or it would suddenly come to her in a waking state.
My second oldest brother, an English major college graduate, of course, did not believe Mama could do that. He insisted she just had lucky guesses. One summer, he set out to prove it.
I have mentioned that my allergies were so horrific in Iowa that I could not live there. Mama had taken me to Phoenix the first time during the winter months and we returned home in the summer. It took three months before I was back into the same state of health and we returned to Phoenix. The next summer, I went to San Francisco to stay with my brother who was taking California (as he called them) blackboard credits. His BA degree in English from the University of Iowa didn't include the teacher courses (on how to teach) that the State of California required.
I worked at Foster's Cafeteria that summer and saved my money. When I returned to Phoenix I rented a room and returned to high school. The next summer I went back to San Francisco.
My brother had completed the courses required by California and had a teacher’s job for that fall. He purchased a Buick sedan and planned on driving our cousin and me back to Iowa for a six week visit before he returned to his new post in California. I was to go back to Phoenix with Mama that year.
Rather than tell my parents we would be driving back, my brother wrote that we would be coming by Greyhound. He went so far as to go to the Greyhound terminal and verify when the bus would roll into Council Bluffs, Iowa. The station in our little town had been closed. He felt that way my oldest brother could verify the schedule and my parents would have no idea that we would be driving up some afternoon or night honking the horn.
It was a fabulous trip across the country. I was able to see the Sierra Mountains, the Salt Flats of Utah, and the immense farm communities that dotted the landscape at that time. My brother continued to chortle about how he was fooling our Mother. My cousin and I just shook our heads. We really didn't think he could do it.
True to his plan, we drove up one summer evening about eight o’clock with the horn blaring. Our oldest brother and family were there on the pretext of driving my parents down to pick us up within two days. Our father, our youngest brother, and oldest brother had been outside, and my sister-by-marriage came through the gate with their two children. As we disembarked from the auto, our mother came running out hands waving in the air as she shouted, “I told you they were driving and would be here tonight!”
It seems she had been canning one afternoon and walked out to the car where my youngest brother and his friend from a neighboring farm were discussing whatever teenage boys of the 1950’s discussed. She leaned into the car and said, “Norman has bought a car and they will be here Thursday night.” She later told our father the same thing.
I asked my youngest brother what he had said when Mama made her pronouncement. His response was partly a sputter. “Nothing. How can you answer something like that or explain it.
My second oldest brother kept insisting that it had just been a lucky guess on Mama’s part. It wasn't until he was older that he admitted that she had proven him wrong.
November 17, 2013
In Remberance
Papa and Mama were but three months from celebrating their fifty-ninth year of marriage when Mama went home to the Lord. She had written down the Bible verses and songs that were to be used during her service. The paper was packed away in her cedar chest in their Iowa home. She died in Phoenix. We found them when my brother Rein, his lovely wife Edna, and I cleaned out their home when Papa passed away two and one-half years later.
Mama had been hit with a massive stroke while they were lunching at Garcia’s. An ambulance was there within minutes. Mama was still conscious and did not like strangers touching her. She was always the feisty one. She made an attempt to double her fist and looked at the attendant, “Get away from me, or I’ll hurt you like you've never been hurt.”
She was ignored, oxygen attached, and rushed to the hospital. She passed away three weeks later. I returned to Phoenix after her death to be with Papa.
Mama was clairvoyant. She had called me four weeks before the stroke and said, “If you want to see me, come now; not when I’m dead.”
I left immediately and spent almost two weeks with them. Why she didn't tell me about what she wanted at her funeral I’ll never know.
Papa had visited his Pastor before journeying to Council Bluffs for an operation. He selected the hymns and readings for his funeral. He thought everything was in order, except he forgot to tell the hospital administrators that he did not want resuscitated if his heart stopped. The heart stopped, but they brought him back. Papa became so angry that he refused to eat. There was nothing they could do to change his mind.
I was notified that he was failing, and flew to Iowa. I stayed with my cousin and her husband in Council Bluffs. She took me to the hospital each morning when she went to work and picked me up on her way home.
One evening she told me, “There’s nothing they can do if he’s determined to die. They can’t pump enough liquids and nourishment down him with tubes.” She was right.
During his last days, he really didn't know us as my brother Rein and wife, Edna, had arrived from Phoenix. My cousin, G. A. and his wife, Louise, came from Waterloo. We watched with amazement one day when the Lutheran Chaplain was there. He had prayed with all of us and then pronounced the Blessing heard at the end of a Lutheran service. Papa’s face cleared and he slept naturally for awhile.
The young Chaplain was shaken. “I've heard of the power of God’s Word all my life. This is the first time I've ever seen it.” He finally said.
Papa in his silent way was still teaching us all.
Mama had been hit with a massive stroke while they were lunching at Garcia’s. An ambulance was there within minutes. Mama was still conscious and did not like strangers touching her. She was always the feisty one. She made an attempt to double her fist and looked at the attendant, “Get away from me, or I’ll hurt you like you've never been hurt.”
She was ignored, oxygen attached, and rushed to the hospital. She passed away three weeks later. I returned to Phoenix after her death to be with Papa.
Mama was clairvoyant. She had called me four weeks before the stroke and said, “If you want to see me, come now; not when I’m dead.”
I left immediately and spent almost two weeks with them. Why she didn't tell me about what she wanted at her funeral I’ll never know.
Papa had visited his Pastor before journeying to Council Bluffs for an operation. He selected the hymns and readings for his funeral. He thought everything was in order, except he forgot to tell the hospital administrators that he did not want resuscitated if his heart stopped. The heart stopped, but they brought him back. Papa became so angry that he refused to eat. There was nothing they could do to change his mind.
I was notified that he was failing, and flew to Iowa. I stayed with my cousin and her husband in Council Bluffs. She took me to the hospital each morning when she went to work and picked me up on her way home.
One evening she told me, “There’s nothing they can do if he’s determined to die. They can’t pump enough liquids and nourishment down him with tubes.” She was right.
During his last days, he really didn't know us as my brother Rein and wife, Edna, had arrived from Phoenix. My cousin, G. A. and his wife, Louise, came from Waterloo. We watched with amazement one day when the Lutheran Chaplain was there. He had prayed with all of us and then pronounced the Blessing heard at the end of a Lutheran service. Papa’s face cleared and he slept naturally for awhile.
The young Chaplain was shaken. “I've heard of the power of God’s Word all my life. This is the first time I've ever seen it.” He finally said.
Papa in his silent way was still teaching us all.
November 10, 2013
Laundry Day
Many of you know that I am on the Board of Directors for Twentynine Palms Historical Society. You may not know that I write two columns for their Old Schoolhouse Journal. I love history and this is one of the Snapshots in Time that I wrote for them.
Have you ever really looked at the displays in the Twentynine Palms Old Schoolhouse Museum? They represent snapshots in time. The mundane household items show us the tools or items used, but can’t provide a moving history of the activity around them. The laundry exhibit is a case in point.
The tub and washboard bring up images of women with reddened hands scouring their clothes. The women are clad in longish dresses, either short sleeved or long sleeves rolled up. Left out is the scurried activity to find the wood to heat the water, the hours of bringing the water to the tub from a larger container, a creek, or hand pumping from a well. If the woman was able to do so, she would have bought bar soap that needs to be “shaved” so it will dissolve in the water or a soap powder in a box. If she wasn't as fortunate, she would spend long hours with ash, lye, lard, maybe some lavender for fragrance, and more wood or coal to heat the final mixture to a thick mass before pouring into molds or spreading it out to dry and cut into cakes. After washing in the soapy water, the clothes were rinsed in more water lugged from somewhere, wrung out by hand, and then hung. Lugging a basket full of wet, hand laundered clothes is far heavier than most people imagine.
Then by the 1920’s there was a remarkable improvement found in many homes. Yes, electrical machines existed, but the average person couldn't afford them or they did not have access to electricity. The washer looked much like the old Speed Queens, but there was no motor. You put hot water, soap, and the clothes into the washing tub, closed the lid and turned the crank on the side by hand, load after load, hour after hour. This chore was usually given to the oldest child or daughter. Then you could wring out the clothes by running it through the wringer (guiding by hand while someone turned the wringer crank) into the rinse water. If you were rich enough for two water tubs, you could wring the clothes into the next tub, still with someone turning the wringer crank. After all of this, the clothes were ready to hang on the clothes line.
You may wonder about the number of loads the woman washed. Sheets weren't washed as frequently as today and usually, it was just one sheet from the bottom. No matched sets for most people. Everyone wore one set of clothes all week and put on the clean, pressed clothes for Saturday or Sunday. If there were special clothes for Sunday, these were laundered as needed. The families tended to be large prior to 1950. This meant there were always whites, colored, and dark clothes every week.
None of these details are in the displays, but if you look at them long enough, maybe you’ll see the intense look on the woman’s face as she exams the clothing for any missed stain before it is placed in the rinse water. She might study the lines full of clothes once they are all hung, and then she thinks about the ironing to do tomorrow. That, however, is another snapshot.
Have you ever really looked at the displays in the Twentynine Palms Old Schoolhouse Museum? They represent snapshots in time. The mundane household items show us the tools or items used, but can’t provide a moving history of the activity around them. The laundry exhibit is a case in point.
The tub and washboard bring up images of women with reddened hands scouring their clothes. The women are clad in longish dresses, either short sleeved or long sleeves rolled up. Left out is the scurried activity to find the wood to heat the water, the hours of bringing the water to the tub from a larger container, a creek, or hand pumping from a well. If the woman was able to do so, she would have bought bar soap that needs to be “shaved” so it will dissolve in the water or a soap powder in a box. If she wasn't as fortunate, she would spend long hours with ash, lye, lard, maybe some lavender for fragrance, and more wood or coal to heat the final mixture to a thick mass before pouring into molds or spreading it out to dry and cut into cakes. After washing in the soapy water, the clothes were rinsed in more water lugged from somewhere, wrung out by hand, and then hung. Lugging a basket full of wet, hand laundered clothes is far heavier than most people imagine.
Then by the 1920’s there was a remarkable improvement found in many homes. Yes, electrical machines existed, but the average person couldn't afford them or they did not have access to electricity. The washer looked much like the old Speed Queens, but there was no motor. You put hot water, soap, and the clothes into the washing tub, closed the lid and turned the crank on the side by hand, load after load, hour after hour. This chore was usually given to the oldest child or daughter. Then you could wring out the clothes by running it through the wringer (guiding by hand while someone turned the wringer crank) into the rinse water. If you were rich enough for two water tubs, you could wring the clothes into the next tub, still with someone turning the wringer crank. After all of this, the clothes were ready to hang on the clothes line.
You may wonder about the number of loads the woman washed. Sheets weren't washed as frequently as today and usually, it was just one sheet from the bottom. No matched sets for most people. Everyone wore one set of clothes all week and put on the clean, pressed clothes for Saturday or Sunday. If there were special clothes for Sunday, these were laundered as needed. The families tended to be large prior to 1950. This meant there were always whites, colored, and dark clothes every week.
None of these details are in the displays, but if you look at them long enough, maybe you’ll see the intense look on the woman’s face as she exams the clothing for any missed stain before it is placed in the rinse water. She might study the lines full of clothes once they are all hung, and then she thinks about the ironing to do tomorrow. That, however, is another snapshot.
November 3, 2013
A Guest Today
I’m playing host this week. I’d like you to meet my friend, Susan Ricci. She’s here to tell us a little about herself and her newest novel.
Thanks, Mari, I’m delighted to be here!
Here’s a question that I’m always asked. When did you start writing?
I began writing when I was about 11 years old. I was the ‘publisher’ of a neighborhood newspaper, called The Hill Weekly. I used an old Underwood typewriter and carbon paper to make the copies; I sold my newspaper paper for only a dime and it was filled with neighborhood gossip. My mother made me send a copy of it to President Kennedy, and he sent me for-real autographed pictures of he and his family. These pictures remain safe in one of my high school yearbooks, and I’m sure they’d sell for a lot over on EBay!
Anyhow, little did I know one of our nation’s biggest cities would steal my ideas and spin them into one of the largest gossip rags in the country!
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Wow, Mari, there are so many, but let me tell you, I couldn’t have done it alone. The first time I published was when I uploaded a short story trilogy, called Heart Marks the Spot. Uploading this little trio of shorts was like a test run for me, as I prepared to upload my novel, Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems in September 2012. I had wonderful help with the formatting for both books, and I’d learned so much from the writer’s groups I belonged to via Facebook that it really wasn’t so painful.
Putting your work out there always gives me pause, though, and I’m sure other self- published authors will agree with me here. Although Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was well received, launching my newest novel, The Sugar Ticket, has given me room to debate with myself if this sequel will step up to the mark and sell. I guess only time will tell.
Tell us about your newest novel, where your novels can be found, any new projects on the burner, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
The sequel to Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems called, The Sugar Ticket, launched last weekend. I’ve combined 3 of my books to reflect a series, Cindy’s Crusades. Here’s the blurb for The Sugar Ticket:
Only a few months into their marriage and everything seems grand. Learning to survive her marriage to Jay, without the snarkiness Cindy has come to rely on, is daunting to say the least.
The Sugar Ticket chronicles the marital journey of two twice-divorced adults learning to embrace the sweetness of their present. When the inevitable complications arise, will the DeMatteo’s gently overcome their obstacles by alleviating the sour taste of the past? Will their third attempt at matrimony flourish? Or will they sweep their issues under the proverbial taboo-topic carpet?
Find out how these two mid-life adolescents meet their daily tribulations head on, as they conquer their fears, retirement woes, secrets revealed, and the most fundamental challenge of all: remaining in love forever.
The Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Ticket-Ci...
Please remember, though, The Sugar Ticket is a sequel. Anyone interested in reading this should pick up Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems first. Here’s the blurb:
Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was a semi-finalist in The Kindle Book Reviews 2013, Best Indie Book Awards.
Twice divorced, cynical Cindy Layton feels like a relic with prehistoric baggage, and doubts she can muster the courage to establish a new relationship, even if it's on her own terms.
Her journey out of the Stone Age hits freaky, hilarious turbulence when she joins an Internet dating service. The scammers and weirdoes she meets in cyberspace make Cindy want to crawl back into her cave, until she receives an accidental email from Jay DeMatteo.
Jay has the dating blues, too, but after meeting Cindy, reconsiders his options. Now it's up to him to convince her it's never too late to pursue a meaningful relationship, even when a couple is struggling with midlife adolescence.
The Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009BDJ5X0
If anyone is interested in reading a Writer’s Digest Third Place, award-winning short chronicle about the beauty of life versus the harshness of death, perhaps they might like reading Twilight and Chickadees.
The blurb and the link:
Twilight and Chickadees is a short chronicle based on a factual episode in the author’s life, and is intended to provide comfort to those who’ve suffered the loss of a loved one.
By maintaining a delicate balance between the beauty of life and the ugliness of death, she strives to endure the challenge of a lifetime.
The impending loss of a parent…
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Chicka...
Yikes! I almost forgot! I’m hosting a giveaway for the launch of The Sugar Ticket. Check out the link below for the details of what I’m awarding and how to get it, right here:
http://www.susanjeanricci.com/the-sug...
Please follow me on Facebook at the Susan Jean Ricci Author page:
http://www.facebook.com/DinosaursCher....
My website: http://www.susanjeanricci.com/
And please, join me on twitter @susanjeanricci. I love to chat!
Any new plans for another book or do you have an event planned? Will you be taking a break during the holiday season?
I’m penning a stand alone contemporary drama called Slick Trespass, which hopefully will be released in the fall 2014. In between the revisions on this one, you can be sure I’ll be concocting the third is the trilogy of Cindy’s Crusades, so please stay tuned for more of the mid-life adolescence antics of Cindy and Jay. I hope to have this out by late September 2014.
Sounds exciting. Thank you, Susan.
Thank you, Mari, for your thoughtfulness in hosting me today! I appreciate it very much!
Thanks, Mari, I’m delighted to be here!
Here’s a question that I’m always asked. When did you start writing?
I began writing when I was about 11 years old. I was the ‘publisher’ of a neighborhood newspaper, called The Hill Weekly. I used an old Underwood typewriter and carbon paper to make the copies; I sold my newspaper paper for only a dime and it was filled with neighborhood gossip. My mother made me send a copy of it to President Kennedy, and he sent me for-real autographed pictures of he and his family. These pictures remain safe in one of my high school yearbooks, and I’m sure they’d sell for a lot over on EBay!
Anyhow, little did I know one of our nation’s biggest cities would steal my ideas and spin them into one of the largest gossip rags in the country!
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Wow, Mari, there are so many, but let me tell you, I couldn’t have done it alone. The first time I published was when I uploaded a short story trilogy, called Heart Marks the Spot. Uploading this little trio of shorts was like a test run for me, as I prepared to upload my novel, Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems in September 2012. I had wonderful help with the formatting for both books, and I’d learned so much from the writer’s groups I belonged to via Facebook that it really wasn’t so painful.
Putting your work out there always gives me pause, though, and I’m sure other self- published authors will agree with me here. Although Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was well received, launching my newest novel, The Sugar Ticket, has given me room to debate with myself if this sequel will step up to the mark and sell. I guess only time will tell.
Tell us about your newest novel, where your novels can be found, any new projects on the burner, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
The sequel to Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems called, The Sugar Ticket, launched last weekend. I’ve combined 3 of my books to reflect a series, Cindy’s Crusades. Here’s the blurb for The Sugar Ticket:
Only a few months into their marriage and everything seems grand. Learning to survive her marriage to Jay, without the snarkiness Cindy has come to rely on, is daunting to say the least.
The Sugar Ticket chronicles the marital journey of two twice-divorced adults learning to embrace the sweetness of their present. When the inevitable complications arise, will the DeMatteo’s gently overcome their obstacles by alleviating the sour taste of the past? Will their third attempt at matrimony flourish? Or will they sweep their issues under the proverbial taboo-topic carpet?
Find out how these two mid-life adolescents meet their daily tribulations head on, as they conquer their fears, retirement woes, secrets revealed, and the most fundamental challenge of all: remaining in love forever.
The Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Ticket-Ci...
Please remember, though, The Sugar Ticket is a sequel. Anyone interested in reading this should pick up Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems first. Here’s the blurb:
Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was a semi-finalist in The Kindle Book Reviews 2013, Best Indie Book Awards.
Twice divorced, cynical Cindy Layton feels like a relic with prehistoric baggage, and doubts she can muster the courage to establish a new relationship, even if it's on her own terms.
Her journey out of the Stone Age hits freaky, hilarious turbulence when she joins an Internet dating service. The scammers and weirdoes she meets in cyberspace make Cindy want to crawl back into her cave, until she receives an accidental email from Jay DeMatteo.
Jay has the dating blues, too, but after meeting Cindy, reconsiders his options. Now it's up to him to convince her it's never too late to pursue a meaningful relationship, even when a couple is struggling with midlife adolescence.
The Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009BDJ5X0
If anyone is interested in reading a Writer’s Digest Third Place, award-winning short chronicle about the beauty of life versus the harshness of death, perhaps they might like reading Twilight and Chickadees.
The blurb and the link:
Twilight and Chickadees is a short chronicle based on a factual episode in the author’s life, and is intended to provide comfort to those who’ve suffered the loss of a loved one.
By maintaining a delicate balance between the beauty of life and the ugliness of death, she strives to endure the challenge of a lifetime.
The impending loss of a parent…
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Chicka...
Yikes! I almost forgot! I’m hosting a giveaway for the launch of The Sugar Ticket. Check out the link below for the details of what I’m awarding and how to get it, right here:
http://www.susanjeanricci.com/the-sug...
Please follow me on Facebook at the Susan Jean Ricci Author page:
http://www.facebook.com/DinosaursCher....
My website: http://www.susanjeanricci.com/
And please, join me on twitter @susanjeanricci. I love to chat!
Any new plans for another book or do you have an event planned? Will you be taking a break during the holiday season?
I’m penning a stand alone contemporary drama called Slick Trespass, which hopefully will be released in the fall 2014. In between the revisions on this one, you can be sure I’ll be concocting the third is the trilogy of Cindy’s Crusades, so please stay tuned for more of the mid-life adolescence antics of Cindy and Jay. I hope to have this out by late September 2014.
Sounds exciting. Thank you, Susan.
Thank you, Mari, for your thoughtfulness in hosting me today! I appreciate it very much!
A Guest Today
I’m playing host this week. I’d like you to meet my friend, Susan Ricci. She’s here to tell us a little about herself and her newest novel.
src="http://www.goodreads.com/image..."
width="40" height="100" alt"description"/>
Thanks, Mari, I’m delighted to be here!
Here’s a question that I’m always asked. When did you start writing?
I began writing when I was about 11 years old. I was the ‘publisher’ of a neighborhood newspaper, called The Hill Weekly. I used an old Underwood typewriter and carbon paper to make the copies; I sold my newspaper paper for only a dime and it was filled with neighborhood gossip. My mother made me send a copy of it to President Kennedy, and he sent me for-real autographed pictures of he and his family. These pictures remain safe in one of my high school yearbooks, and I’m sure they’d sell for a lot over on EBay!
Anyhow, little did I know one of our nation’s biggest cities would steal my ideas and spin them into one of the largest gossip rags in the country!
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Wow, Mari, there are so many, but let me tell you, I couldn’t have done it alone. The first time I published was when I uploaded a short story trilogy, called Heart Marks the Spot. Uploading this little trio of shorts was like a test run for me, as I prepared to upload my novel, Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems in September 2012. I had wonderful help with the formatting for both books, and I’d learned so much from the writer’s groups I belonged to via Facebook that it really wasn’t so painful.
Putting your work out there always gives me pause, though, and I’m sure other self- published authors will agree with me here. Although Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was well received, launching my newest novel, The Sugar Ticket, has given me room to debate with myself if this sequel will step up to the mark and sell. I guess only time will tell.
Tell us about your newest novel, where your novels can be found, any new projects on the burner, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
The sequel to Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems called, The Sugar Ticket, launched last weekend. I’ve combined 3 of my books to reflect a series, Cindy’s Crusades. Here’s the blurb for The Sugar Ticket:
Only a few months into their marriage and everything seems grand. Learning to survive her marriage to Jay, without the snarkiness Cindy has come to rely on, is daunting to say the least.
The Sugar Ticket chronicles the marital journey of two twice-divorced adults learning to embrace the sweetness of their present. When the inevitable complications arise, will the DeMatteo’s gently overcome their obstacles by alleviating the sour taste of the past? Will their third attempt at matrimony flourish? Or will they sweep their issues under the proverbial taboo-topic carpet?
Find out how these two mid-life adolescents meet their daily tribulations head on, as they conquer their fears, retirement woes, secrets revealed, and the most fundamental challenge of all: remaining in love forever.
The Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Ticket-Ci...
Please remember, though, The Sugar Ticket is a sequel. Anyone interested in reading this should pick up Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems first. Here’s the blurb:
Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was a semi-finalist in The Kindle Book Reviews 2013, Best Indie Book Awards.
Twice divorced, cynical Cindy Layton feels like a relic with prehistoric baggage, and doubts she can muster the courage to establish a new relationship, even if it's on her own terms.
Her journey out of the Stone Age hits freaky, hilarious turbulence when she joins an Internet dating service. The scammers and weirdoes she meets in cyberspace make Cindy want to crawl back into her cave, until she receives an accidental email from Jay DeMatteo.
Jay has the dating blues, too, but after meeting Cindy, reconsiders his options. Now it's up to him to convince her it's never too late to pursue a meaningful relationship, even when a couple is struggling with midlife adolescence.
The Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009BDJ5X0
If anyone is interested in reading a Writer’s Digest Third Place, award-winning short chronicle about the beauty of life versus the harshness of death, perhaps they might like reading Twilight and Chickadees.
The blurb and the link:
Twilight and Chickadees is a short chronicle based on a factual episode in the author’s life, and is intended to provide comfort to those who’ve suffered the loss of a loved one.
By maintaining a delicate balance between the beauty of life and the ugliness of death, she strives to endure the challenge of a lifetime.
The impending loss of a parent…
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Chicka...
Yikes! I almost forgot! I’m hosting a giveaway for the launch of The Sugar Ticket. Check out the link below for the details of what I’m awarding and how to get it, right here:
http://www.susanjeanricci.com/the-sug...
Please follow me on Facebook at the Susan Jean Ricci Author page:
http://www.facebook.com/DinosaursCher....
My website: http://www.susanjean ricci.com/
And please, join me on twitter @susanjeanricci. I love to chat!
Any new plans for another book or do you have an event planned? Will you be taking a break during the holiday season?
I’m penning a stand alone contemporary drama called Slick Trespass, which hopefully will be released in the fall 2014. In between the revisions on this one, you can be sure I’ll be concocting the third is the trilogy of Cindy’s Crusades, so please stay tuned for more of the mid-life adolescence antics of Cindy and Jay. I hope to have this out by late September 2014.
Sounds exciting. Thank you, Susan.
Thank you, Mari, for your thoughtfulness in hosting me today! I appreciate it very much!
src="http://www.goodreads.com/image..."
width="40" height="100" alt"description"/>
Thanks, Mari, I’m delighted to be here!
Here’s a question that I’m always asked. When did you start writing?
I began writing when I was about 11 years old. I was the ‘publisher’ of a neighborhood newspaper, called The Hill Weekly. I used an old Underwood typewriter and carbon paper to make the copies; I sold my newspaper paper for only a dime and it was filled with neighborhood gossip. My mother made me send a copy of it to President Kennedy, and he sent me for-real autographed pictures of he and his family. These pictures remain safe in one of my high school yearbooks, and I’m sure they’d sell for a lot over on EBay!
Anyhow, little did I know one of our nation’s biggest cities would steal my ideas and spin them into one of the largest gossip rags in the country!
What is your biggest challenge in publishing?
Wow, Mari, there are so many, but let me tell you, I couldn’t have done it alone. The first time I published was when I uploaded a short story trilogy, called Heart Marks the Spot. Uploading this little trio of shorts was like a test run for me, as I prepared to upload my novel, Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems in September 2012. I had wonderful help with the formatting for both books, and I’d learned so much from the writer’s groups I belonged to via Facebook that it really wasn’t so painful.
Putting your work out there always gives me pause, though, and I’m sure other self- published authors will agree with me here. Although Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was well received, launching my newest novel, The Sugar Ticket, has given me room to debate with myself if this sequel will step up to the mark and sell. I guess only time will tell.
Tell us about your newest novel, where your novels can be found, any new projects on the burner, and links to your site, Facebook Page, and/or Twitter.
The sequel to Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems called, The Sugar Ticket, launched last weekend. I’ve combined 3 of my books to reflect a series, Cindy’s Crusades. Here’s the blurb for The Sugar Ticket:
Only a few months into their marriage and everything seems grand. Learning to survive her marriage to Jay, without the snarkiness Cindy has come to rely on, is daunting to say the least.
The Sugar Ticket chronicles the marital journey of two twice-divorced adults learning to embrace the sweetness of their present. When the inevitable complications arise, will the DeMatteo’s gently overcome their obstacles by alleviating the sour taste of the past? Will their third attempt at matrimony flourish? Or will they sweep their issues under the proverbial taboo-topic carpet?
Find out how these two mid-life adolescents meet their daily tribulations head on, as they conquer their fears, retirement woes, secrets revealed, and the most fundamental challenge of all: remaining in love forever.
The Amazon Link: http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-Ticket-Ci...
Please remember, though, The Sugar Ticket is a sequel. Anyone interested in reading this should pick up Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems first. Here’s the blurb:
Dinosaurs & Cherry Stems was a semi-finalist in The Kindle Book Reviews 2013, Best Indie Book Awards.
Twice divorced, cynical Cindy Layton feels like a relic with prehistoric baggage, and doubts she can muster the courage to establish a new relationship, even if it's on her own terms.
Her journey out of the Stone Age hits freaky, hilarious turbulence when she joins an Internet dating service. The scammers and weirdoes she meets in cyberspace make Cindy want to crawl back into her cave, until she receives an accidental email from Jay DeMatteo.
Jay has the dating blues, too, but after meeting Cindy, reconsiders his options. Now it's up to him to convince her it's never too late to pursue a meaningful relationship, even when a couple is struggling with midlife adolescence.
The Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009BDJ5X0
If anyone is interested in reading a Writer’s Digest Third Place, award-winning short chronicle about the beauty of life versus the harshness of death, perhaps they might like reading Twilight and Chickadees.
The blurb and the link:
Twilight and Chickadees is a short chronicle based on a factual episode in the author’s life, and is intended to provide comfort to those who’ve suffered the loss of a loved one.
By maintaining a delicate balance between the beauty of life and the ugliness of death, she strives to endure the challenge of a lifetime.
The impending loss of a parent…
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Chicka...
Yikes! I almost forgot! I’m hosting a giveaway for the launch of The Sugar Ticket. Check out the link below for the details of what I’m awarding and how to get it, right here:
http://www.susanjeanricci.com/the-sug...
Please follow me on Facebook at the Susan Jean Ricci Author page:
http://www.facebook.com/DinosaursCher....
My website: http://www.susanjean ricci.com/
And please, join me on twitter @susanjeanricci. I love to chat!
Any new plans for another book or do you have an event planned? Will you be taking a break during the holiday season?
I’m penning a stand alone contemporary drama called Slick Trespass, which hopefully will be released in the fall 2014. In between the revisions on this one, you can be sure I’ll be concocting the third is the trilogy of Cindy’s Crusades, so please stay tuned for more of the mid-life adolescence antics of Cindy and Jay. I hope to have this out by late September 2014.
Sounds exciting. Thank you, Susan.
Thank you, Mari, for your thoughtfulness in hosting me today! I appreciate it very much!
