Tag Archives: Writing

NURSES

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NURSES

by Sharon Stevens

 

“You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you,

but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach,

because you do not live in a world, but a world lives in you.”

Frederick Buechner

On the same day the birth of the future King was celebrated I came across a People magazine dated December 12, 2012 announcing Kate’s pregnancy. Who knew that nine months later a child would be born to the couple, not to the Royal union, but to two young kids, blessed with joy, surrounded by family and friends. This fact of life doesn’t change just because “one” was born with a silver spoon in “ones” mouth. (Upper crust slant there)

Kate was hospitalized for severe nausea and vomiting in December. Quite a scare for the world to witness. Her pregnancy was marred at this time by the death of Jacintha Saldanha, the nurse who took a crank call by a radio station posing as the Queen. Can you imagine what kind of wonderful nurse Jacintha must have been? I wonder who the nurses were that attended Kate and William during the delivery. What an honor to be chosen to be there at such a special time in someone’s life.

I was a nurse for so many years in so many capacities on so many floors. I began my nursing career at age sixteen working in a nursing home as an aide caring for pioneers that were still living, listening to their wisdom, sharing their stories. For several years after that I was on the eye, ear, nose, throat and plastic surgery floor doing pre-op and post-op teaching, attending to tonsils, cataracts, burns, and ten days old cleft palate babies. The day surgery kids and cataract patients came in the night before, had their surgery, stayed that night and went home the next day. Now, as soon as their eyes open they are out the door.

And then there was the years I spent on the OB floor and the newborn nursery witnessing births and struggles, elation and tragedy, many times all in the same shift. What a gift those families gave me to let me be a part of the circle of their life. I also can’t tell you what it meant all the years I worked for an old-fashioned OB/Gyn doctor. Being a nurse for at least three generations of women was not only heart warming but touching in so many ways. And my years as an instructor with the Prepared Childbirth Education League (Lamaze teacher) gave me such insight in couples interaction and the dynamics

I wished I had an idea of how many thousands of seminars, workshops, classes etc. that I have attended with almost 50 years of nursing. My mother was a nurse and graduate of Northwest Texas Hospital School of Nursing, her first job at the Neblett Hospital hired by Dr. Neblett himself. My great aunt was a nurse in Galveston and died during the flu epidemic of 1918 after she had attended a family with the flu. They said when she came home that day, put her head down on the table and died. What a tragic legacy to remember. My grandmother didn’t want mother to go into nursing for just that reason. Over the years in my nursing career there have been so many wonderful mentors that have given me terrific guidance. At Palo Duro Hospital I learned such skills and care by those who share their passion and love through their dedication in a small town, rural hospital. Living or legacy I gain inspiration from them all. Florence Nightingale, a “social entrepreneur” is just one of the nurses-the ladies with the lamp-who led the way.

As a writer and nurse I know there are billions of opportunities to write in this field. Not to expose any secrets, but to share of life. There are so many nursing magazines that welcome stories for their pages. Blogs about empathy and caring abound throughout the world. Even if you aren’t a nurse, at one time in your life you were probably a patient. Focus on a memory concerning your experience and celebrate something connected. Think about sending a note to the hospital even though it may have been years. Nurses always appreciate sweet thoughts to sustain them through dark days. Even if that particular person is long gone. The sentiment will always remain the same.  I still treasure the notes I received so many years ago.

That reminds me, I have about a thousand stories I need to write, and about a gazillion letters to send. I better get busy. Prince George will be grown before you know it.

HOODIE

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HOODIE
by Sharon Stevens
Letter to the Editor
Today I was reading the letter to the editor in the Amarillo Globe News from Kathleen Hess about Paula Deen and repentence. Then I was reading on facebook the blog Shawn Smucker wrote that connected to the ugliness of the headline news of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, but with a wonderful twist reflecting Temarr Boggs and heroes.
From both spectrums I was reminded of so much.
I remembered a time several years ago at our family owned business, the Buffalo Bookstore. We sell Scantrons for taking tests at WTAMU. They are only a quarter apiece and sometimes the kids come in wanting to pay for their purchase with a credit card. It costs us more to swipe the card and we don’t want them to miss taking the test so we tell the kids to bring back the money another time.
One day I was working by myself at the store when a young black man came in the door. He had a dark hoodie pulled over his head with his hands deep in his pockets. Please understand that we are rarely frightened. We have every nationality, color, culture, size and religion come into our store. We see hair dye and body art of all shades of the rainbow, piercings we can see and others we are glad that are hidden from view.
What scared me about this particular young man is that he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He came in downcast with shoulders hunched and head bowed. So what happened next was unexpected. As he got closer he began to pull one hand out of his pocket. Not sure whether to run or collapse I stood rooted to the spot as he silently held out his hand, and opened his palm in which lay twenty five cents with two pennies for tax.
He was paying for a Scantron he owed for. His discomfort was because of his embarrassment in returning a debt he owed, not sure how he would be received or what he would have to explain.
Ever since that day I have wanted to write a letter…a letter to the editor, or maybe a letter to his mom, dad, teachers, pastors, grandparents,Sunday school teachers, scout leaders, or for anybody on his journey who would listen. To tell them they had raised a good man, that they should be proud of him, and that they taught him the lessons in life that would stay with him forever. This young soul has since graduated from college and I am sure he is now somewhere out in the world. I would have loved to have written a letter of recommendation to his future employer or the corporate executives. I think anyone and everyone should have known of this man and what he would mean to their company. He would be a good and loyal employee his entire working life.
So many years ago after the death of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa I wrote a letter to the editor reminding readers of the Canyon News about all of the people we celebrate that touch our lives. They are not celebrities, do not make grand speeches or hold office, but they mean so much just the same. I mentioned J.C. Newton and what he had meant to so many in our community even though he had been gone for several years. I received the nicest note from his wife Fern thanking me for remembering her husband. I then called her to thank her for sending me such a sweet letter and she told me how she became a teacher. I was so touched and will always remember such a wonderful gesture from the heart.
As writers we are so focused on our novels, or a story, a character, a completed work and even every chapter. We get so lost in our efforts. Many times we should step back and celebrate the simple things. What would it hurt to sit down and write a letter to the editor regarding something that piqued our interest? No one says they have to be sent or exposed or even revealed. We can bury them deep within our computers never to see the light of day. But then again they can be a reminder of what we are feeling at the time, what is in the headlines, and who is involved in our government. But even more important, this may bring up feelings of ugly hatred, sweet joy, intense pain or exciting elation. Who knows what we might feel when we look back over our letters. This might just be the catalyst that can break a writer’s block or something that can add richness to our efforts, a wonderful tool to aid us as we journey through this life.
Speaking of tools, did I mention that we give a free pencil every time we sell a Scantron? They can’t take the test otherwise.

Writing Endorsements

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Writing Endorsements

By Rory C. Keel

Ask for endorsements from readers that enjoyed your writing. Simply say something like, “Would you provide me with a positive comment I could use as a testimonial for my book?”

Use the positive comments as headlines for your writing on your website and other promotional materials such as bookmarks and brochures.

Take note of unsolicited positive comments and remarks about your writing in e-mails and personal conversations. If individuals say something positive about your writing, ask to quote them.

Collect testimonials in a notebook and you will have them readily available when promoting your writing, stories and books.

Realize that testimonials from your readers will generate excitement and create interest in your work and draw more readers for your material.

Raw Emotion

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 Raw Emotion

by Natalie Bright

In your mind, the characters of your fictionalized world are real. That means they experience emotion the same as real people would, and it’s that component that makes them come alive to your readers. Emotion is what elevates your characters above the problem of having flat, card-board type characters. If the story seems bland and the plot seems to drone on with no excitement, maybe you need to pump up the emotion in your characters; take them over the top.

For example, let’s think about loss. Whatever it is your character is experiencing as the plot develops, whether it is the absence of a thing, person, or familiar home, the emotion to apply is defined by social workers as “Stages of Grief”.  Everyone experiences these kinds of emotion when dealing with a devastating loss. Keep in mind that people may not experience every one of the states defined below, and it might not be in the order they’re listed.

The Stages of Grief

Denial – this isn’t happening to me.

Anger – why is this happening to me?

Bargaining – I promise I’ll be a better person if…

Depression – I don’t care anymore.

Acceptance – I’m ready for whatever comes (usually last).

As a real human being, you have probably experienced some of these as some point in your own life. I remember my mother going through every one of these emotions after my father died. We decided she might need a change. We moved her into a beautiful retirement village with many other widow ladies, thinking she was settled in and healing, and then after several months she found a picture of my dad in an unpacked box. The picture took center-stage on her dresser in her lovely new apartment and I recognized my mother going through the states of grief all over again.

Emotional Behaviors

The writer’s rule of “show, don’t tell” can be demonstrated by physical traits or habits of your character.

Numbness – mechanical functioning

Disorganization – intense, painful feelings of loss

Recorganization – re-entry into a normal social life

Application to Work in Progress

My WIP western opens with the funeral of my main characters’ father. What types of emotion would a young boy experience? I’m thinking much the same as an adult would, except based on the experiences of a fourteen year old. Most definitely he’d be angry about being left alone.

I hope this helps you in developing your characters to their fullest potential. Keep writing!

www.nataliebright.com

SCUM

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SCUM

By Sharon Stevens

“Scum-the refuse, the recrement, that which is vile or worthless”

Webster’s 1890 Dictionary Definition

While getting cookies at the local discount store for our cookie jar at our family business I spied a package of Kool-aid someone had knocked to the floor. (Black Cherry if I remember right.) It took only a second to pick it up and put it back on the shelf. That’s all I did, nothing more and nothing less. There was no fanfare, no flags unfurled, no pageantry anywhere around me. All I remember is looking at the image for just a moment, remembered the brand, then placing the bright colored picture back where it belonged among the others. I then simply walked on down the aisle.

But I came away from that brief encounter with memories that flooded and overwhelmed me deep within my heart all the way down to my toes, so much so that I couldn’t shake it off.

My husband worked with a man who had been in Vietnam and had battled some of the fiercest fighting of the war. He was just nineteen years old and from a small town in Texas surrounded by every horror known to man. He told us that he would never forget a hometown gesture that really kept him sane. He said that friends and neighbors back home would send him packets of Kool-aid. When he came to a steaming creek or river, all he had to do was skim the scum off the top of water, fill his canteen, pull out a packet with the bright colored logo, empty it in, shake it up and voila. In the horrendous heat of the tropical jungle he had a drink that instantly reminded him of cool glasses of lemonade on the front porch, or back porch, at the lake, at the baseball field, at a family picnic, or after a hard days work. His thoughts could return to home even with the drones of every insect, the scavengers in the water, and the bombardment of the deafening fight that surrounded him.

I will always remember Mrs. Gordon-Cummings, our neighbor next door out in the country. She was one of the original pioneers of our area. Until her death she would ask her caretakers to go down into the canyons, to the artesian springs, and bring her back a glass jar filled with cool water. I have been down to those very springs and they are covered in a scum that transcends nasty. But to her, for some reason, this was the nectar of the Gods.

But then again, when I think about it, I have gone down to these ponds and noticed a sweet smell, something that I couldn’t put my finger on. Earth, flowers, water, grass, leaves…all the colors of the rainbow would fill my senses. Years later I could be walking next to a stream in Colorado and be surrounded with these same thoughts.

Scum is such a relative word. When you hear or see this image you can’t help but think evil, ugly, and dark. Or child molesters, wife beaters, drug dealers, the whole gamut of despair. You can’t separate anything out other than the deepest and the worst. Men come to mind more than women, old comes to mind more that youth.

As writers you have to write your characters as you see and feel them. It is so very hard for me to write of the darkness of the soul. I don’t always look for the silver lining in whatever story I am working on, but I usually find a memory that pulls the very dregs of humanity out back up into the light. Makes me weary though. I so want everyone to be happy all the time. My heart tells me that not every story has a happy ending, or a joyous middle, or a sweet beginning. Or maybe its my brain that is forcing me to see reality between the lines.

On the other hand. I never want to get so lost in the black that I can’t ever see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think this is what happened to Heath Ledger in “The Dark Knight”, as he became consumed with the darkness that turned inward.

So the next time you hear or think the word, “scum” take just a moment and place yourself away in a world where a homesick soldier is skimming aside the scum of the earth to get a quick drink of memory so many miles away from the world he grew up in. Imagine a woman that remembered while living in a dugout, raising her family, so far away from the nearest neighbor or friend that a cool glass jar filled with water from the creek could make all the difference in the world.

Maybe then, as a writer, you will see your world in a different light.

I want to take a moment and remember Elsie Batenhorst who passed away this week. PBS televised a special called, “Cathedral on the Plains” about St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Umbarger a few years ago. We had our book signing for Donald Mace Williams with his book, “Interlude in Umbarger” about the Italian Prisoner’s of War who painted this church and were featured in this documentary. Elsie came as well as Gerri Gerber and shared her memories and scrapbooks with those of us gathered. I will always remember her twinkling smile and impish laughter. She shared several stories about Mrs. Gordon-Cummings with me as well. I miss them both.

MIRACLES

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MIRACLES

By Sharon Stevens

As I am writing this tomorrow will celebrate the 4th of July. Amazing that it comes around every year at the same time of the month, year after year. Each cycle falls on a different day, but the meaning is the same regardless whether it occurs during a week day or weekend. Red, white and blue are the same colors through centuries and generations. Uncle Sam never ages.

I read General Colin Powell’s Fourth of July wish, and was caught by something he wrote. “Wishing you all a safe and happy 4th of July as we once again celebrate the MIRACLE of our democracy, and the WISDOM of our founding fathers.

Miracle…Wisdom…Two words that you wouldn’t associate with fireworks and festivities. But then again these expressions are the perfect reminder of why we celebrate our American Flag and our Freedom. I was rereading the Bill of Rights and Constitution and Declaration of Independence, and by jove, these are miracles. When you think of what it took for a group of men to come together for the Common Good, and then to write the first draft, and the second, and the third until they got it right, you can appreciate what a miracle this truly is. These people left the comforts of their home and the love of their families to travel, and then to argue together to find the wisdom shared together. This must have been monumental even for them. I can’t imagine the fireworks of these spirited souls.

Tomorrow I will watch the parade from the vantage point of our local business, the Buffalo Bookstore, surrounded by friends, neighbors, family, tourists, visitors, WTAMU students, and everyone in the community. There is no doubt in my mind that I will cherish the MIRACLE that is my Freedom, and treasure the memory of the WISDOM of the founding fathers.

As a writer, AND as a citizen, they are NEVER just words to me.

I can’t leave this blog post without celebrating the life of Margaret and Ples Harper, and Margaret and William Moore, the founders of the musical drama TEXAS. Both of these families were veterans of World War II and professors at WTSU, now WTAMU. Margaret Harper read an article about Paul Green in the July 1960 edition of Reader’s Digest. She invited the Moore’s over for supper and they discussed if it would be possible to do an outdoor drama in Palo Duro Canyon. They decided to write to Green and ask him to come to see what he could do. The date of the original letter was July 3rd 1960. I can only imagine the pageantry that they were anticipating as Canyon prepared for the next day festivities. They must have agonized over their correspondence until the mail went out after the fourth. I wonder what date Paul Green received this simple note at his mailbox, and if he knew where Canyon Texas was?

Truly a MIRACLE any way you look at it!

Happy July 4th everyone. Celebrate family and community, please be safe!

Isn’t It Romantic?

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Outtakes 101

Isn’t It Romantic?

By Cait Collins

 

What is romance? What makes a story romantic? These questions were posed at a recent critique meeting. A number of responses were tossed out, but there was no concise definition. It’s one of those “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it” things.

Webster defines romance as 1: (a) a medieval tale in verse or prose based on legend, chivalric love and adventure, or the supernatural; (b): a prose narrative treating imaginary characters involved in events remote in time or place and usually heroic, adventurous or mysterious; (c): a love story or a class of literature; 2; something that lacks basis in fact. 3: an emotional attraction or aura belonging to an especially heroic era, adventure or calling; 4 a passionate love affair; 5: the Romance languages. The dictionary further defines romance as to exaggerate or invent detail or incident; to entertain romantic thoughts or ideas, or to carry on a love affair. I consider this a clear as mud.

Romance is more than “Once upon a time boy met girl; boy lost girl, boy and girl found each other again, and they lived happily ever after.” It’s more than a love story. True romance is a couple who are attracted to one another. As they spend time together, they begin to realize there is something special to the relationship. Friendship develops into a powerful attraction as the couple chooses to love one another. Yes, they choose to love. People don’t fall in love; they fall in lust. Lust dims, but committed love conquers all obstacles. True love does not die. In fact the relationship lasts beyond death. The original love does not prevent the survivor from finding a new partner and having a strong romantic relationship. Often the memories of first love provide the foundation for a new commitment.

The commitment of one person to another is not easy. Romance, or love, requires nurturing and communication. Little gestures enhance the emotions. Both my husband and I had high stress jobs. We were committed to our careers, but there were still clothes to wash, meals to cook, and a house to clean. How wonderful it was to walk in the door to vacuumed floors, dusted tables, and empty laundry baskets. I would fix dinner and we’d clean the kitchen together. Mundane perhaps, but sharing the home chores was romantic. I didn’t ask for his help, he did those things because he cared. Some men send flowers for no reason. What about the wife who purchases four tickets to a football game for her guy and his buddies? My aunt told me about an incident in her marriage to my mom’s youngest brother. A tornado warning was issued for Seymour, Texas. They sought shelter in their bathroom. He helped her get in the bathtub and covered her to protect her from debris. The shelter was not big enough for both of them so he sat on the edge of the tub and held her hand. Gestures freely given keep the romance alive in a relationship.

In all due respect to the Walt Disney Studios, fairy tales provide a skewed view of romance. I’m a sucker for a good animated love story. Sleeping Beauty, Beauty and the Beast; Lady and the Tramp, and Aladdin are among my favorite movies.. But the characters are not true. Who wants a perfect prince or princess? Characters are flawed. They make mistakes and have to deal with the consequences of their actions. Give me a guy who can admit he was wrong, A man who, with tears in his eyes, begs for forgiveness and promises to do better. Now that’s romantic.

Word Sculpting

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Word Sculpting

By Rory C. Keel

 

Have you ever seen a sculptor at work? The artist gathers the clay needed for his project and then he does something very interesting. He will take the blob and knead it. He pounds it with the heel of his fist and then mashes it with the weight of his body concentrated through his stiff arms into his palms. Breaking the clay into smaller pieces, he will roll them into long dough like strands before wadding them back together into a ball. He will then pat the sphere and admire it as if he has accomplished the world’s greatest feat.

Then the sculptor starts

Without hesitation, the prepared clay is placed on the work surface and the sculptor begins to poke and prod, carving out any undesirable portions and adding more clay in other places to transform the ball into the vision in his mind.

A writer is a word sculptor

As a writer, you work in a similar way. You gather the research materials for your specific subject and then you sculpt your story by tying the materials together or subtracting what is not needed.

Don’t be afraid to put words on the page and start your story. Like the sculptor, work to form your story until the finished product appears.

BARE BONES

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BARE BONES

by Sharon Stevens

 

I inherited so many cases of books this past week. A friend with a passion for history and heritage was moving and needed to unload instead of transporting to the new home. We packed them up into boxes and I took them to our Buffalo Bookstore until I could sort them out. The actual number of tomes doesn’t matter. My husband says there are too many, and I think there is never enough. But he didn’t see all the treasures I put in the box.

One of the books in the mix was Don Taylor & Jeanne Smalling Archer’s book, “Up Against The Wal-Marts.” This wonderful book was written by a man who was strong in the Canyon Economic Development Corporation in Canyon Texas, and works toward helping small businesses compete with the mega-giants by simple and basic means. I found an interesting quote in the chapter on survival strategies… “Remember that when you misspend one dollar you really wasted two-the dollar you misspent and the dollar you could have spent well.”

Another gem I found was the 75th Commemorative Edition Special Anniversary Issue of the July 1997 New Mexico magazine. One of the stories was written by Sheila Tryk with photography by Ralph Looney. “O’Keeffe’s World” celebrated thoughts of O’Keeffe with interviews and insight into her life. The story briefly mentioned when she taught in Amarillo, but didn’t mention her time at the college, which is now WTAMU or where she found her passion in Palo Duro Canyon. I found it interesting that later on after she married that she left her husband in New York for months at a time while she pursued her passion at Ghost Ranch.

Each year, when O’Keefe went back into her husband’s orbit, she took mementos of the West. Stones, weathered and worn smooth. Artificial flowers, (“They were popular then, and there were some very lovely ones being sold in the country stores here.”) And desert bleached bones. “To me they are as beautiful as anything I know,” she once wrote. “To me they are strangely more living than the animals walking around—-hair, eyes, and all, with their tails twitching. The bones seem to cut sharply to the center of something that is keenly alive on the the desert even tho’ it is vast and empty and untouchable—and knows no kindness with all its beauty….I took back a barrel of bones,” she says now, her eyes amused at the recollection. “I remember it cost me 16 dollars by freight.” One wonders at her husband’s reaction to this delivery.”

O’Keefe was able to find her passion within bleached bones. Anyone who has ever seen her paintings of skulls knows what she sees within. Just like my boxes of books, I can find treasures among the words. Whether its a quote, passage, or sentence…all pull me to a story or memory, a sweet reminder of what touches my heart day in and day out. I take nothing for granted, and never overlook a single moment.

I truly believe that to me if I leave a stone unturned, that it represents a misspent dollar that I could have spent well. As a writer, just like O’Keefe as an artist, I can take an object and use my imagination and creativity to weave it into a story with tangible ties.

Even though O’Keefe used bare bones and stones to express her soul, I just happen to cherish anything I find in a box of books.

SCUM

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SCUM

By Sharon Stevens

“Scum-the refuse, the recrement, that which is vile or worthless”

Webster’s 1890 Dictionary Definition

While getting cookies at the local discount store for our cookie jar at our family business I spied a package of Kool-aid someone had knocked to the floor. (Black Cherry if I remember right.) It took only a second to pick it up and put it back on the shelf. That’s all I did, nothing more and nothing less. There was no fanfare, no flags unfurled, no pageantry anywhere around me. All I remember is looking at the image for just a moment, remembered the brand, then placing the bright colored picture back where it belonged among the others. I then simply walked on down the aisle.

But I came away from that brief encounter with memories that flooded and overwhelmed me deep within my heart all the way down to my toes, so much so that I couldn’t shake it off.

My husband worked with a man who had been in Vietnam and had battled some of the fiercest fighting of the war. He was just nineteen years old and from a small town in Texas surrounded by every horror known to man. He told us that he would never forget a hometown gesture that really kept him sane. He said that friends and neighbors back home would send him packets of Kool-aid. When he came to a steaming creek or river, all he had to do was skim the scum off the top of water, fill his canteen, pull out a packet with the bright colored logo, empty it in, shake it up and voila. In the horrendous heat of the tropical jungle he had a drink that instantly reminded him of cool glasses of lemonade on the front porch, or back porch, at the lake, at the baseball field, at a family picnic, or after a hard days work. His thoughts could return to home even with the drones of every insect, the scavengers in the water, and the bombardment of the deafening fight that surrounded him.

I will always remember Mrs. Gordon-Cummings, our neighbor next door out in the country. She was one of the original pioneers of our area. Until her death she would ask her caretakers to go down into the canyons, to the artesian springs, and bring her back a glass jar filled with cool water. I have been down to those very springs and they are covered in a scum that transcends nasty. But to her, for some reason, this was the nectar of the Gods.

But then again, when I think about it, I have gone down to these ponds and noticed a sweet smell, something that I couldn’t put my finger on. Earth, flowers, water, grass, leaves…all the colors of the rainbow would fill my senses. Years later I could be walking next to a stream in Colorado and be surrounded with these same thoughts.

Scum is such a relative word. When you hear or see this image you can’t help but think evil, ugly, and dark. Or child molesters, wife beaters, drug dealers, the whole gamut of despair. You can’t separate anything out other than the deepest and the worst. Men come to mind more than women, old comes to mind more that youth.

As writers you have to write your characters as you see and feel them. It is so very hard for me to write of the darkness of the soul. I don’t always look for the silver lining in whatever story I am working on, but I usually find a memory that pulls the very dregs of humanity out back up into the light. Makes me weary though. I so want everyone to be happy all the time. My heart tells me that not every story has a happy ending, or a joyous middle, or a sweet beginning. Or maybe its my brain that is forcing me to see reality between the lines.

On the other hand. I never want to get so lost in the black that I can’t ever see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think this is what happened to Heath Ledger in “The Dark Knight”, as he became consumed with the darkness that turned inward.

So the next time you hear or think the word, “scum” take just a moment and place yourself away in a world where a homesick soldier is skimming aside the scum of the earth to get a quick drink of memory so many miles away from the world he grew up in. Imagine a woman that remembered while living in a dugout, raising her family, so far away from the nearest neighbor or friend that a cool glass jar filled with water from the creek could make all the difference in the world.

Maybe then, as a writer, you will see your world in a different light.

I want to take a moment and remember Elsie Batenhorst who passed away this week. PBS televised a special called, “Cathedral on the Plains” about St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Umbarger a few years ago. We had our book signing for Donald Mace Williams with his book, “Interlude in Umbarger” about the Italian Prisoner’s of War who painted this church and were featured in this documentary. Elsie came as well as Gerri Gerber and shared her memories and scrapbooks with those of us gathered. I will always remember her twinkling smile and impish laughter. She shared several stories about Mrs. Gordon-Cummings with me as well. I miss them both.