Assimilation
By Jim Cox
From the west side of crooked creek
You can see long stretches of meadowland
Past the narrow waterway, abruptly ending
At the steep ascent of hills covered in white pine
Along the banks mole tunnels make the soft
Soil lumpy, turtles rest beneath the tangled
Vines and foliage of dozens of plant species,
Some so rare they make you laugh
Early mornings when I walk the gravel road
Cut in for the campground near the creek
A great blue heron rises from her nest
Flying to the topmost branches of a hickory
She watches me go by and then returns
To the thicket grown dense on a shallow bend
Such is the joy of the morning: What grave
Trials can alter the peace of this land?
On the east side of the creek the chainsaws
Topple trees; the big machines’ backward beeps
Signal the change – fairways eight and nine
Will line that side right up to water’s edge
The new golf course by the Eastern Band of Cherokees
Will bring the fat rich tourists to the mountains
Empty their pockets as empty as their eyes
A right recompense given the tribe’s history
Now the Indians can truly say, “I know the cold
Hand that hides the anguish in your heart;
Because of that my eyes have lost their glimmer,
Their stars dying, my vision grows dimmer.
I have been these four hundred years and more
Taking in the white man’s way, I know the tongue,
The fear and arrogance that has gone beyond
The awareness of respect or redemption.”
Still, the moles are driven from their homes,
Two wounded ones that crawled out to cross
To safety lie dead at my feet, the turtle’s cracked back
Suffers the sun, the great blue heron gone.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Brenda Kay Ledford's latest poetry chapbook, SACRED FIRE, will be printed by Finishing Line Press in September. You may go to http://www.finishinglinepress.com/, click on "New Releases" to pre-order the book.
Brenda Kay's first two chapbooks won awards from the Paul Green Foundation.
Reading at JCCFS is FOURTH Thursday this month
POETS AND WRITERS READING POEMS AND STORIES AT JOHN C. CAMPBELL FOLK SCHOOL, BRASSTOWN, NORTH CAROLINAGlenda Barrett of Hiawassee, Georgia and Robert Kimsey of Mc Caysville, Georgia will be reading original works in the Keith House, June 26 at 7:00 P.M. The event is sponsored by Netwest and the community is invited for an hour of original poetry and prose.
Glenda Barrett is not only an artist of brush and paint, but a literary artist
as well. Glenda sold the first essay she ever submitted, and her work has appeared in Woman's World, rural Heritage, Kaleidoscope, Farm and Ranch Living, Muscadine Lines and numerous other magazines and journals.
FAMILY PICTURES
I see them standing side by side,
There are no concrete stories,
Now only time knows.
Her chapbook “When the Sap Rises," published by Finishing Line Press became available this past April. Glenda is a “home grown girl,” born and raised in Hiawassee. Her writings are humorous, heartfelt, nostalgic and pure magic.
Robert Kimsey’s writing provokes deep feelings and is often colored by the past of Eastern Kentucky where he was born. He is the winner of the Lee Pennington Award, the R. J. Lutske Memorial Award and placed second in 2005 in the President’s Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society’s contest. He is author of chapbooks, “Paths From the Shawnee Spring” and a limited edition “Readings”. Robert spends much of his time volunteering and teaching writing to children in the Fannin County schools. The following was published in Southern Ocean Review.
Robert Kimsey’s writing provokes deep feelings and is often colored by the past of Eastern Kentucky where he was born. He is the winner of the Lee Pennington Award, the R. J. Lutske Memorial Award and placed second in 2005 in the President’s Prize of the Kentucky State Poetry Society’s contest. He is author of chapbooks, “Paths From the Shawnee Spring” and a limited edition “Readings”. Robert spends much of his time volunteering and teaching writing to children in the Fannin County schools. The following was published in Southern Ocean Review.
FAMILY PICTURES
I see them standing side by side,
the walls separating them invisible
yet as strong as an oak door.
Not touching and never a kiss or
smile between them, only
outward to the camera -to the world.
Those who would speak have long
Those who would speak have long
since passed.
There are no concrete stories,
only ghosts that linger on the paper
Pictures do not tell it all,
just smiles and pressed suits.
None of hands soiled with earth
or blood of Sunday chickens.
None of sideways glances,
full of mistrust and hurt.
Now only time knows.
The paper holds the shadows
until the light burns them away.
This evening will be a delight for anyone who enjoys poetry and good writing. Both Netwest members are also excellent readers who will hold your interest so tightly you will be surprised and sorry when the hour has ended. Take their books home with you and you will be able to continue to enjoy their words long after this night is over.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Comments on Writers Talking All Day About Writing
"Great workshop. Fun, and I learned some good tips. Carol (Crawford)puts on a good workshop." Shirley Uphouse, former Program Coordinator for Netwest
"A lot of my confusion over how to go about putting a chapbook together was cleared up in our group, and I did my best to take copious notes before and after lunch. All of us really got a lot out of it, and got to know each other better. It's been a long time since I've written any new poetry, but I'm inspired to try to find a time and place that's conducive to writing". Carole Thompson
"Great Workshop, Glenda! I enjoyed every minute of it (Nancy is great!) and I met some interesting new writers! What a wonderful event! Hey, we don’t have to import good teachers." Janice Moore
I met wonderful people who write fabulous poetry. Nancy Simpson is passionate about helping poets get published, and she willingly shares her wisdom. I left the workshop inspired, with my head full of ideas for improving my poems and writing new ones!" Karen Holmes from Atlanta
This workshop was wonderful. Carol Crawford presented a well-balanced and structured class. The writing exercises were not only fun but an excellent learning tool. At the breaks, we commented on the excitement of learning and being offer something new at each event. The day flew by. The greatest benefit is the stimulation you feel at the end of the class. All you want to do is get home and start writing. Truly it was a wonderful day. My only regret was that I had to select one class with the offer of two great teachers. Thats life. Carol McAfee, winner in the Cherokee County Silver Arts competition, 2008
----- Original Message -----
"A lot of my confusion over how to go about putting a chapbook together was cleared up in our group, and I did my best to take copious notes before and after lunch. All of us really got a lot out of it, and got to know each other better. It's been a long time since I've written any new poetry, but I'm inspired to try to find a time and place that's conducive to writing". Carole Thompson
"Great Workshop, Glenda! I enjoyed every minute of it (Nancy is great!) and I met some interesting new writers! What a wonderful event! Hey, we don’t have to import good teachers." Janice Moore
I met wonderful people who write fabulous poetry. Nancy Simpson is passionate about helping poets get published, and she willingly shares her wisdom. I left the workshop inspired, with my head full of ideas for improving my poems and writing new ones!" Karen Holmes from Atlanta
This workshop was wonderful. Carol Crawford presented a well-balanced and structured class. The writing exercises were not only fun but an excellent learning tool. At the breaks, we commented on the excitement of learning and being offer something new at each event. The day flew by. The greatest benefit is the stimulation you feel at the end of the class. All you want to do is get home and start writing. Truly it was a wonderful day. My only regret was that I had to select one class with the offer of two great teachers. Thats life. Carol McAfee, winner in the Cherokee County Silver Arts competition, 2008
----- Original Message -----
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Netwest member, Robert Greenwald has new book
Robert Greenwald''s book, Conflict Without Chaos...A Look Back at Conflict Intervention Initiatives During the Nation's Early Civil Rights Era, was released in April, 2008. See information below. Congratulations, Robert.
Publisher: Hampton Press, Cresskill, NJISBN Paperbound: 978-1-57273-765-5; Price: $27.95ISBN Hardbound: 978=1=57273- 764-8; Price: $67.50
Genres: Nonfiction (conflict resolution, civil rights, historical, memoir)
Mediation, alternative dispute resolution, and civil rights protest have become familiar terms in the lexicon of contemporary human behavior.
This book carries the reader back to some of the early applications of those processes. It is a first-hand account of the turbulent late nineteen sixties, and through the seventies, when minority dissent threatened to widen the racial divide, rendering many communities subject to violent protest and instability. It was a time when new national legislation to bring about more equal sharing of opportunity led to substantial pressures on the legal system. The federal courts were overburdened with petitions for redress of grievances claiming denial of citizen rights guarantees. They were open to considering ways to relieve their dockets of unprecedented congestion.
The idea of ordering "voluntary" mediation as an alternative to litigation began to assert its appeal to the judiciary. The process became particularly prevalent in connection with law suits filed to overcome school desegregation, alleged abusive police practices, complaints of inhumane or unconstitutional conditions of incarceration by prison inmates, and a variety of other issues being tested under the Civil Rights Act of 1964. No longer was mediation largely limited to the settlement of labor-management disputes. A new professional genus was born--the neutral third-party intervenor trained to bring community and institutional conflict parties to the negotiation table.
The author spent a total of 22 years in federal service, much of it as regional mediator with the Community Relations Service, an arm of the U.S. Department of Justice. Prior experience included three years of military service during World War II, some dozen earlier career years in chamber of commerce management positions in Texas and Oklahoma, and later as a senior administrator for a social service agency in Dallas, Texas.
Born in Jamaica, New York, he is a graduate of the George Washington University with a degree in government.For further information, readers are invited to visit the author's web site: http://www.Conflictwithoutchaos.com Expedited purchase from the publisher can be made by calling toll-free at 800-894-8955. Other availability, sometimes limited, from www.Amazon.com by special order from your favorite local bookseller..
Publisher: Hampton Press, Cresskill, NJISBN Paperbound: 978-1-57273-765-5; Price: $27.95ISBN Hardbound: 978=1=57273- 764-8; Price: $67.50
Genres: Nonfiction (conflict resolution, civil rights, historical, memoir)
Mediation, alternative dispute resolution, and civil rights protest have become familiar terms in the lexicon of contemporary human behavior.
This book carries the reader back to some of the early applications of those processes. It is a first-hand account of the turbulent late nineteen sixties, and through the seventies, when minority dissent threatened to widen the racial divide, rendering many communities subject to violent protest and instability. It was a time when new national legislation to bring about more equal sharing of opportunity led to substantial pressures on the legal system. The federal courts were overburdened with petitions for redress of grievances claiming denial of citizen rights guarantees. They were open to considering ways to relieve their dockets of unprecedented congestion.
The idea of ordering "voluntary" mediation as an alternative to litigation began to assert its appeal to the judiciary. The process became particularly prevalent in connection with law suits filed to overcome school desegregation, alleged abusive police practices, complaints of inhumane or unconstitutional conditions of incarceration by prison inmates, and a variety of other issues being tested under the Civil Rights Act of 1964. No longer was mediation largely limited to the settlement of labor-management disputes. A new professional genus was born--the neutral third-party intervenor trained to bring community and institutional conflict parties to the negotiation table.
The author spent a total of 22 years in federal service, much of it as regional mediator with the Community Relations Service, an arm of the U.S. Department of Justice. Prior experience included three years of military service during World War II, some dozen earlier career years in chamber of commerce management positions in Texas and Oklahoma, and later as a senior administrator for a social service agency in Dallas, Texas.
Born in Jamaica, New York, he is a graduate of the George Washington University with a degree in government.For further information, readers are invited to visit the author's web site: http://www.Conflictwithoutchaos.com Expedited purchase from the publisher can be made by calling toll-free at 800-894-8955. Other availability, sometimes limited, from www.Amazon.com by special order from your favorite local bookseller..
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Stephen King Quote
We had a terrific workshop in Blairsville, GA today with some very talented people. Thanks to Carol Crawford and Nancy Simpson for their instruction and to Carole Thompson and all those who helped with cleanup.
I think Stephen King says it best, Writers.
"Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work."
Stephen King
I think Stephen King says it best, Writers.
"Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work."
Stephen King
Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, S.C. member
Those of you close to Greenville, SC, are invited to come meet Jayne Jaudon Ferrer on Saturday, June 21st, at 8 PM, at Greenville's newest bookstore, As the Page Turns, a longtime dream-come-true for Lisa Nichols. Kay Day will be there, along with several other terrific Southern female poets. It will be a "midsummer night's dream," for sure!
Check our archives for an early post by Jayne with her view of poets and poetry today.
Her Website: www.jaynejaudonferrer.com
Jayne's Blog: http://commagoddess.blogspot.com
Dana Wildsmith, poet
Dana Wildsmith is my new favorite poet. She grew up in the same hot, humid area of south Georgia where I lived. I like the following poem, Peopleing, which Dana gave me permisssion to post on our blog.
Peopling
Our border collie Max, I say, would be a bow-tie guy,
a grey slacks with cuffs kind of guy,
his solid-color long-sleeved shirts always lightly starched.
For casual, he’d keep pressed khakis on wooden hangers
and white golf shirts with left-sleeve monogram.
Fred the red hound would live in faded 501’s
and Carhartts, Dixie Outfitter shirts, and ball caps
promo-ing beer and football and backhoes.
We’re sure Max is a Whiskey-Palian,
20-year deacon, high church, early Mass.
Fred’s kin have been Baptists, by God,
since time began on Sunday, October 23rd, 4004 B.C.
Sndays after church, Fred eats Mama’s fried chicken
and watches the game. Max does the buffet at the Club,
drives his white Volvo home and now politely corrects us,
“You have me all wrong, you know.”
But he won’t say how.
Fred’s F-150’s spinning gravel out front
and he yells he’ll catch us later--
gotta get that squirrel before it makes it to a tree.
So we sit on the porch with Molly,
the damaged black Lab. She was a preacher’s kid,
never heard a cuss word till high school,
believed in the goodness of man
until one man beat that guilelessness out of her.
Now Molly slips around the edges of her days
not looking at the world so the world won’t exist.
But even Molly’s pleased when Barney, the old beagle,
comes bowlegging over to find out what’s new with us.
He’s got time to palaver, now he’s retired from the mill.
He hitches his overalls at the knees
and eases to a rocker, informing us that
whoo, lordy—it’s going to be a hot one today.
Later this evening he’ll have his coffee
at Waffle House with Roscoe and Willie,
and he’ll tell the other dogs how he talked to me earlier
and don’t they think I’d be an Irish Setter?
Not a prissy bred-for-show, mind you,
but one of those country Setters, always up for a walk….
Peopling
Our border collie Max, I say, would be a bow-tie guy,
a grey slacks with cuffs kind of guy,
his solid-color long-sleeved shirts always lightly starched.
For casual, he’d keep pressed khakis on wooden hangers
and white golf shirts with left-sleeve monogram.
Fred the red hound would live in faded 501’s
and Carhartts, Dixie Outfitter shirts, and ball caps
promo-ing beer and football and backhoes.
We’re sure Max is a Whiskey-Palian,
20-year deacon, high church, early Mass.
Fred’s kin have been Baptists, by God,
since time began on Sunday, October 23rd, 4004 B.C.
Sndays after church, Fred eats Mama’s fried chicken
and watches the game. Max does the buffet at the Club,
drives his white Volvo home and now politely corrects us,
“You have me all wrong, you know.”
But he won’t say how.
Fred’s F-150’s spinning gravel out front
and he yells he’ll catch us later--
gotta get that squirrel before it makes it to a tree.
So we sit on the porch with Molly,
the damaged black Lab. She was a preacher’s kid,
never heard a cuss word till high school,
believed in the goodness of man
until one man beat that guilelessness out of her.
Now Molly slips around the edges of her days
not looking at the world so the world won’t exist.
But even Molly’s pleased when Barney, the old beagle,
comes bowlegging over to find out what’s new with us.
He’s got time to palaver, now he’s retired from the mill.
He hitches his overalls at the knees
and eases to a rocker, informing us that
whoo, lordy—it’s going to be a hot one today.
Later this evening he’ll have his coffee
at Waffle House with Roscoe and Willie,
and he’ll tell the other dogs how he talked to me earlier
and don’t they think I’d be an Irish Setter?
Not a prissy bred-for-show, mind you,
but one of those country Setters, always up for a walk….
Friday, June 6, 2008
A PC must be strong, in more ways than one.
The job description for Program Coordinator should not include heavy lifting. Today Carole and Norm Thompson, my husband Barry(on right) and I set up the venue for our workshop tomorrow. By that, I mean we dragged and lifted heavy eight foot tables and unloaded chairs from a trailer. I won't say how old we four are, but I can tell you that an hour of this work wore us out.
I made the decision tonight that if this job requires that kind of physical labor in the future, I will definitely have to resign! I also made the decision not to depend on my caring helpful husband to always be there for Netwest. Some have declared him an honorary member of NCWN West. Barry, who is a good photographer, takes many photos of our members and at our events. He has gone far beyond his duties as a supportive husband to make sure my Netwest obligations are met. I can't thank him enough.
So, I will be calling on more of our members for help in the future. Hopefully some strong members who can lift and drag.
Thanks so much to Carole and Norm for all their help with Writers Talking All Day About Writing. Carole, our newest Netwest Rep got her feet wet in a hurry. We look forward to a delightful day in Blairsville tomorrow.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
New Georgia Rep for Netwest
My name is Carole Thompson. I am pleased to be a member of the North Carolina Writers Network. My husband, Norm, and I moved to Blairsville, GA 18 years ago. Prior to that, we lived on St. Simons Island for 10 years, moving there after he retired as a career pilot in the US Air Force.
Network West Coordinator, Glenda Beall, asked me about becoming one of her GA Representatives. Glenda devotes so much of her own time working hard promoting programs and literary opportunities for writers in our area. I have accepted this opportunity to be of some assistance to her and her other representatives, as we work toward the goals laid down for this Network West chapter.
. Glenda thought I might tell you something about myself. If you were to ask me, “Who are you?” my first answer would have to be:”I am a wife, a mother of four children, a grandmother of five and great-grandmother of two.” Norm and I are celebrating our 56th anniversary this month. We wanted to do something special, so we’re visiting friends in England and then we’re all taking that train that zips under the English Channel and pops up somewhere near Paris! This is going to be a great adventure. I’m happy pursuing many interests right around my home, too. Most of my adult life I have worked in oil painting, particularly portraits. I also love to read, quilt and do crossword puzzles. Norm and I sing in the Mountain Community Chorus, and in our own church choir.
About 8 years ago, a friend invited me to take a writing class with her at Tri-County College in Murphy, N.C. I became a student in one of Nancy Simpson’s poetry classes. She totally liberated me by explaining the concept of free verse. I hung on her every word. In her next class, she pulled stories out of me like a painless dentist. The next year one of my poems was published in an anthology. After that, I submitted a short Christmas story to a well known Catholic magazine, and nearly had a heart attack when they bought it. Nancy Simpson was the first one I called. She continues to be my mentor and friend. Network West has so many wonderful, talented members!
Network West Coordinator, Glenda Beall, asked me about becoming one of her GA Representatives. Glenda devotes so much of her own time working hard promoting programs and literary opportunities for writers in our area. I have accepted this opportunity to be of some assistance to her and her other representatives, as we work toward the goals laid down for this Network West chapter.
. Glenda thought I might tell you something about myself. If you were to ask me, “Who are you?” my first answer would have to be:”I am a wife, a mother of four children, a grandmother of five and great-grandmother of two.” Norm and I are celebrating our 56th anniversary this month. We wanted to do something special, so we’re visiting friends in England and then we’re all taking that train that zips under the English Channel and pops up somewhere near Paris! This is going to be a great adventure. I’m happy pursuing many interests right around my home, too. Most of my adult life I have worked in oil painting, particularly portraits. I also love to read, quilt and do crossword puzzles. Norm and I sing in the Mountain Community Chorus, and in our own church choir.
About 8 years ago, a friend invited me to take a writing class with her at Tri-County College in Murphy, N.C. I became a student in one of Nancy Simpson’s poetry classes. She totally liberated me by explaining the concept of free verse. I hung on her every word. In her next class, she pulled stories out of me like a painless dentist. The next year one of my poems was published in an anthology. After that, I submitted a short Christmas story to a well known Catholic magazine, and nearly had a heart attack when they bought it. Nancy Simpson was the first one I called. She continues to be my mentor and friend. Network West has so many wonderful, talented members!
First Place Winner In Netwest Contest
The Three-Legged Horse
by Jerry Hobbs
“Missus McGorkal, that new boy is a rotten liar. He’s been telling everybody his grandfather gave him a three-legged horse.”
“Now Sally Ruth, you know it isn’t nice to call anyone a liar.”
“But he is, Missus McGorkal. He told Jimmy Beesinger out by the swings yesterday, and I heard him. I asked my daddy, and he says Mr. Lampsayer is a rancher and wouldn’t keep a horse around if it had only three legs.”
After cleaning the chalkboard, Meldeen began to copy math problems from a sheet of paper. She said, “What your father told you is true, Sally Ruth. Still, it isn’t right to call anyone names, even if they do sometimes tell stories. Remember when I explained to the class how Billy Ray’s parents were killed over in Oregon? He’s just trying too hard to make new friends since moving here to his grandparents’ ranch.”
The little girl stamped her pink sneaker on the floor. “I don’t care. Besides he said it again today, and that makes him a…”
Meldeen turned from the chalkboard. “Listen, I don’t want to tell you again. Maybe you should go back outside before recess ends.”
About that time the school bell interrupted their conversation.
“Never mind. You take your seat now and let me deal with Billy Ray’s…well, let’s just call it his overactive imagination.”
“Yes, Missus McGorkal, if you say so.”
As she drove out the following Saturday morning to the Lampsayers’ ranch where Billy Ray lived, Meldeen McGorkal wondered how anyone could help but fall in love with the beauty of Montana on a day like this. The never-ending blue sky stretched like a blank canvas as far as she could see. Turning off the main road, she passed through a wide gate and couldn’t help but notice how much time and effort was spent to keep the Double Bar-L ranch in good condition, especially considering the advanced age of the owners. She dreaded her mission here, but felt Billy Ray’s grandparents needed to know that he was getting off to a bad start with his new classmates, telling tall tales.
A cheerful, gray-haired woman answered the door. “Look here who came calling, Arnold. It’s Billy Ray’s teacher. What brings you all the way out from town on a Saturday, Missus McGorkal?” The elderly lady held open the door and invited Meldeen inside.
“Come in – come in. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lampsayer, Mr. Lampsayer. Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast.” Meldeen paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve come to discuss your grandson, and please, call me Meldeen.”
“All right, Meldeen. You’re here about Billy Ray? Such a sweet boy. We just love him to pieces. He came to live with us after Tilly and Jimbo…after they…they…” Her smiling face crumpled as she remembered the accident. She ran from the room, sobbing.
Arnold apologized, “I’m sorry, ma’am. My wife still hasn’t gotten over the tragic way our daughter and her husband died.” He took a red bandana from his pocket and wiped his eyes, then blew his nose. After clearing his throat a couple of times, he said, “What say we take a walk outside while Connie gets herself back together. I’m not much for talking, but I can show you around the place while we wait for her to rejoin us.”
The two of them strolled through the yard in relative silence, broken now and then by his brief, though glowing, explanations about the beautiful flowers and shrubs. He was quick to point out that their very existence and excellent condition were due entirely to the efforts of his wife.
They were nearing the barn when she suddenly noticed an old sawhorse leaning against a fence post. Her eyes widened as she realized it was missing a leg. It seemed strangely out of place when everything else was so neat and orderly. She started to go over for a closer look when Connie came out and joined them, wiping her eyes and apologizing for her behavior.
“Please, there’s no need to explain, Mrs. Lampsayer. Even though I’ve never married, and I’ve never lost a child, I do know what it feels like to experience the tragic death of a loved one.”
“Well now, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to watch me snivel. You mentioned earlier that you wanted to discuss Billy Ray? He’s such a bright boy, and I’m sure he’s had plenty of time to catch up with the other students in your class by now.”
“Yes he has, but that’s not the problem.”
“Problem?” asked the couple at the same time.
“Look, this is very difficult, but one of his classmates came to me yesterday with some disturbing news. It seems your grandson might be trying too hard to win acceptance and make new friends.”
Arnold spoke up. “No offense intended ma’am, but that’s just the boy’s nature. Why, our little Billy Ray’s got a heart big as all of Montana and twice as tall.”
“That’s right, Arnold. Surely that can’t be the problem she’s talking about. Meldeen, exactly what did he…?”
“Excuse me,” the teacher said, “but do I hear someone singing in the barn? Isn’t that Billy Ray?” When the older couple smiled and nodded, Meldeen murmured, “How lovely.”
Connie said, “Isn’t it though? The boy sings like an angel, that’s for sure. We decided he gets…got that talent from his father.” She forced a laugh. “Our side of the family doesn’t have enough musical ability to stick in a prairie dog’s eye, I’m afraid.”
“But who’s he singing to? Is someone with him?”
“Just Spider,” Arnold said. “He goes out to the barn every day and sings to her – morning and evening on school days and more often on weekends. He’s done that ever since he came here. It seems to make him feel better.”
“Spider?” Meldeen shivered. “He sings to a spider?”
Connie laughed again, “Oh my, no – Spider’s a mare. Used to belong to Tilly before she got married and moved to Oregon. Sixteen years old now and blind as a bat. We should have put her down years ago but simply never had the heart.”
“Good thing, too,” added Arnold. Billy Ray wouldn’t be alive today if not for her.”
“Really? Gracious, what happened?”
“It was one morning, shortly after his parents were…after he came to live with us. The boy had gone into the barn to sing, just like he always did, but that day Spider was acting strangely. Billy Ray said afterwards it was probably the shadows in her stall that kept him from seeing it.”
“From seeing what?”
“The rattlesnake. Biggest diamondback I’ve ever seen. Anyway, the closer Billy Ray got to the stall, the more old Spider danced around. She was going strictly by sound, of course, since she couldn’t see. Stomped that snake plumb dead, she did.”
“Oh my. How lucky for Billy Ray.”
Connie spoke up, “But not so lucky for Spider, I’m afraid. Poor thing almost died. As it turned out, she was sick for weeks.”
“I’ll say,” Arnold added. “Doc Vitters said it bit her four times. The only thing that saved that horse was a freak blood clot from poor circulation. It helped keep the venom isolated.”
“She certainly sounds like a brave horse.”
“The bravest I’ve ever known, and you can take that to the bank. Why, we wouldn’t trade a dozen thoroughbreds for the old girl now. Connie and I still believe the only thing that keeps her alive is how much she looks forward to Billy Ray’s singing every day. That and the care he gives her, what with feeding, combing, cleaning out her stall and the like. We think it’s good for the boy to have that responsibility, too.”
“Yes, and it must be wonderful for him to have his very own horse to ride.”
Connie glanced at her husband, then back at Meldeen. “Ride? Oh, I’m afraid not. The poor thing is confined to that sling contraption that Doc Vitters rigged up after he had to amputate her leg. Now, what were you saying about our grandson’s problem at school, my dear?”
by Jerry Hobbs
“Missus McGorkal, that new boy is a rotten liar. He’s been telling everybody his grandfather gave him a three-legged horse.”
“Now Sally Ruth, you know it isn’t nice to call anyone a liar.”
“But he is, Missus McGorkal. He told Jimmy Beesinger out by the swings yesterday, and I heard him. I asked my daddy, and he says Mr. Lampsayer is a rancher and wouldn’t keep a horse around if it had only three legs.”
After cleaning the chalkboard, Meldeen began to copy math problems from a sheet of paper. She said, “What your father told you is true, Sally Ruth. Still, it isn’t right to call anyone names, even if they do sometimes tell stories. Remember when I explained to the class how Billy Ray’s parents were killed over in Oregon? He’s just trying too hard to make new friends since moving here to his grandparents’ ranch.”
The little girl stamped her pink sneaker on the floor. “I don’t care. Besides he said it again today, and that makes him a…”
Meldeen turned from the chalkboard. “Listen, I don’t want to tell you again. Maybe you should go back outside before recess ends.”
About that time the school bell interrupted their conversation.
“Never mind. You take your seat now and let me deal with Billy Ray’s…well, let’s just call it his overactive imagination.”
“Yes, Missus McGorkal, if you say so.”
As she drove out the following Saturday morning to the Lampsayers’ ranch where Billy Ray lived, Meldeen McGorkal wondered how anyone could help but fall in love with the beauty of Montana on a day like this. The never-ending blue sky stretched like a blank canvas as far as she could see. Turning off the main road, she passed through a wide gate and couldn’t help but notice how much time and effort was spent to keep the Double Bar-L ranch in good condition, especially considering the advanced age of the owners. She dreaded her mission here, but felt Billy Ray’s grandparents needed to know that he was getting off to a bad start with his new classmates, telling tall tales.
A cheerful, gray-haired woman answered the door. “Look here who came calling, Arnold. It’s Billy Ray’s teacher. What brings you all the way out from town on a Saturday, Missus McGorkal?” The elderly lady held open the door and invited Meldeen inside.
“Come in – come in. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lampsayer, Mr. Lampsayer. Thanks, but I’ve already had breakfast.” Meldeen paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve come to discuss your grandson, and please, call me Meldeen.”
“All right, Meldeen. You’re here about Billy Ray? Such a sweet boy. We just love him to pieces. He came to live with us after Tilly and Jimbo…after they…they…” Her smiling face crumpled as she remembered the accident. She ran from the room, sobbing.
Arnold apologized, “I’m sorry, ma’am. My wife still hasn’t gotten over the tragic way our daughter and her husband died.” He took a red bandana from his pocket and wiped his eyes, then blew his nose. After clearing his throat a couple of times, he said, “What say we take a walk outside while Connie gets herself back together. I’m not much for talking, but I can show you around the place while we wait for her to rejoin us.”
The two of them strolled through the yard in relative silence, broken now and then by his brief, though glowing, explanations about the beautiful flowers and shrubs. He was quick to point out that their very existence and excellent condition were due entirely to the efforts of his wife.
They were nearing the barn when she suddenly noticed an old sawhorse leaning against a fence post. Her eyes widened as she realized it was missing a leg. It seemed strangely out of place when everything else was so neat and orderly. She started to go over for a closer look when Connie came out and joined them, wiping her eyes and apologizing for her behavior.
“Please, there’s no need to explain, Mrs. Lampsayer. Even though I’ve never married, and I’ve never lost a child, I do know what it feels like to experience the tragic death of a loved one.”
“Well now, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to watch me snivel. You mentioned earlier that you wanted to discuss Billy Ray? He’s such a bright boy, and I’m sure he’s had plenty of time to catch up with the other students in your class by now.”
“Yes he has, but that’s not the problem.”
“Problem?” asked the couple at the same time.
“Look, this is very difficult, but one of his classmates came to me yesterday with some disturbing news. It seems your grandson might be trying too hard to win acceptance and make new friends.”
Arnold spoke up. “No offense intended ma’am, but that’s just the boy’s nature. Why, our little Billy Ray’s got a heart big as all of Montana and twice as tall.”
“That’s right, Arnold. Surely that can’t be the problem she’s talking about. Meldeen, exactly what did he…?”
“Excuse me,” the teacher said, “but do I hear someone singing in the barn? Isn’t that Billy Ray?” When the older couple smiled and nodded, Meldeen murmured, “How lovely.”
Connie said, “Isn’t it though? The boy sings like an angel, that’s for sure. We decided he gets…got that talent from his father.” She forced a laugh. “Our side of the family doesn’t have enough musical ability to stick in a prairie dog’s eye, I’m afraid.”
“But who’s he singing to? Is someone with him?”
“Just Spider,” Arnold said. “He goes out to the barn every day and sings to her – morning and evening on school days and more often on weekends. He’s done that ever since he came here. It seems to make him feel better.”
“Spider?” Meldeen shivered. “He sings to a spider?”
Connie laughed again, “Oh my, no – Spider’s a mare. Used to belong to Tilly before she got married and moved to Oregon. Sixteen years old now and blind as a bat. We should have put her down years ago but simply never had the heart.”
“Good thing, too,” added Arnold. Billy Ray wouldn’t be alive today if not for her.”
“Really? Gracious, what happened?”
“It was one morning, shortly after his parents were…after he came to live with us. The boy had gone into the barn to sing, just like he always did, but that day Spider was acting strangely. Billy Ray said afterwards it was probably the shadows in her stall that kept him from seeing it.”
“From seeing what?”
“The rattlesnake. Biggest diamondback I’ve ever seen. Anyway, the closer Billy Ray got to the stall, the more old Spider danced around. She was going strictly by sound, of course, since she couldn’t see. Stomped that snake plumb dead, she did.”
“Oh my. How lucky for Billy Ray.”
Connie spoke up, “But not so lucky for Spider, I’m afraid. Poor thing almost died. As it turned out, she was sick for weeks.”
“I’ll say,” Arnold added. “Doc Vitters said it bit her four times. The only thing that saved that horse was a freak blood clot from poor circulation. It helped keep the venom isolated.”
“She certainly sounds like a brave horse.”
“The bravest I’ve ever known, and you can take that to the bank. Why, we wouldn’t trade a dozen thoroughbreds for the old girl now. Connie and I still believe the only thing that keeps her alive is how much she looks forward to Billy Ray’s singing every day. That and the care he gives her, what with feeding, combing, cleaning out her stall and the like. We think it’s good for the boy to have that responsibility, too.”
“Yes, and it must be wonderful for him to have his very own horse to ride.”
Connie glanced at her husband, then back at Meldeen. “Ride? Oh, I’m afraid not. The poor thing is confined to that sling contraption that Doc Vitters rigged up after he had to amputate her leg. Now, what were you saying about our grandson’s problem at school, my dear?”
Jerry Hobbs lives in Murphy NC and is Cherokee County Representative for Netwest. His books can be ordered from www.lulu.com . Search under his name.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Gary Carden Muses on Mountain Changes
FEW RANDOM EVENTS
Plagued by insomnia, I got up around 6:00 one morning last week and went out to sit on my deck so I could watch the fog rise in my garden. In the dim light, I saw two young foxes playing in the freshly plowed dirt.They reminded me of kittens as they tumbled, wrestled and rolled in mock combat. Then, a plank in my deck creaked under my foot and they froze. They stared at me for an instant and then vanished, melting into the fog and undergrowth.
For a moment, I felt very privileged … even honored, you could say. Last year, while I was visiting a friend on the ridge behind Wal-mart, I came on a flock of wild turkeys standing quietly in a large grassy field. As they moved slowly across the field finally vanishing into the woods, I noted that in the background I could see clouds of dust, and I dimly heard the grind and thunder of bulldozers that were altering the shape of land along#107, converting meadows and farmland into acres ofconcrete. I asked my friend about the turkeys.
“They have no place to go,” she said. “This ridge is completely surrounded by development.”
Recently, another friend of mine told me that he had been vainly searching for “the smoke hole” in the Tuckaseigee community. “It used to be a kind of tourist attraction forty years ago.” He wondered if perhaps it had been bulldozed out of existence and that troubled him.
“You know, it was sacred to the Cherokees who believed that the smoke rising from the hole had curative powers. They said that the smoke came from an underground townhouse belonging to the Nunnihi, the immortal ones who are “protective spirits” of the Cherokees.”
He went on to note that in the old Cherokee myths, hunters who stood near the smoke hole in winter when the warm air melted the snow for a distance of five feet around the hole – those hunters claimed they heard drum beats and distant laughter.
“So, to stand there was to stand on the boundary of two different worlds – the temporal and the immortal.” Finally, he said, “I don’t think you can destroy places like that without paying for it.”
Just across the road, my neighbor has erected a huge sign that announces the sale of 34 acres of land. Who will buy it? What will they do with it? How will it affect my life? Two years from now, will I recognize the ridgeline of the woods across the road, or will it be transformed into condos, summer homes and convenience stores? Will the smell of honeysuckle and the trill of birds be replaced with the aroma of charred meat and the din of traffic?
Sitting on my deck, watching the shift of light from night to day, I have the definite feeling that we are all – foxes, wild turkeys and my neighbors – standing on the boundary between two worlds…. And we are facing eviction. Where will we go?
Plagued by insomnia, I got up around 6:00 one morning last week and went out to sit on my deck so I could watch the fog rise in my garden. In the dim light, I saw two young foxes playing in the freshly plowed dirt.They reminded me of kittens as they tumbled, wrestled and rolled in mock combat. Then, a plank in my deck creaked under my foot and they froze. They stared at me for an instant and then vanished, melting into the fog and undergrowth.
For a moment, I felt very privileged … even honored, you could say. Last year, while I was visiting a friend on the ridge behind Wal-mart, I came on a flock of wild turkeys standing quietly in a large grassy field. As they moved slowly across the field finally vanishing into the woods, I noted that in the background I could see clouds of dust, and I dimly heard the grind and thunder of bulldozers that were altering the shape of land along#107, converting meadows and farmland into acres ofconcrete. I asked my friend about the turkeys.
“They have no place to go,” she said. “This ridge is completely surrounded by development.”
Recently, another friend of mine told me that he had been vainly searching for “the smoke hole” in the Tuckaseigee community. “It used to be a kind of tourist attraction forty years ago.” He wondered if perhaps it had been bulldozed out of existence and that troubled him.
“You know, it was sacred to the Cherokees who believed that the smoke rising from the hole had curative powers. They said that the smoke came from an underground townhouse belonging to the Nunnihi, the immortal ones who are “protective spirits” of the Cherokees.”
He went on to note that in the old Cherokee myths, hunters who stood near the smoke hole in winter when the warm air melted the snow for a distance of five feet around the hole – those hunters claimed they heard drum beats and distant laughter.
“So, to stand there was to stand on the boundary of two different worlds – the temporal and the immortal.” Finally, he said, “I don’t think you can destroy places like that without paying for it.”
Just across the road, my neighbor has erected a huge sign that announces the sale of 34 acres of land. Who will buy it? What will they do with it? How will it affect my life? Two years from now, will I recognize the ridgeline of the woods across the road, or will it be transformed into condos, summer homes and convenience stores? Will the smell of honeysuckle and the trill of birds be replaced with the aroma of charred meat and the din of traffic?
Sitting on my deck, watching the shift of light from night to day, I have the definite feeling that we are all – foxes, wild turkeys and my neighbors – standing on the boundary between two worlds…. And we are facing eviction. Where will we go?
An Award and a Story by Peg Russell
The Award:
Great news from Oceanview!
We are pleased to announce that four Oceanview titles are among the winners of the 2008 National Indie Excellence Awards, a prestigious national awards program recognizing excellence in independent publishing.
Among this year’s winners are:
Stuff to Die For by Don Bruns – Winner, Mystery/Suspense/Thriller Category
Egrets to the Flames by Barbara Anton – Winner, General Fiction Category
The Castro Gene by Todd Buchholz – Award-winning Finalist, Mystery/ Suspense/Thriller Category
Ladykiller by Lawrence Light and Meredith Anthony –Award-winning Finalist, Mystery/Suspense/ Thriller Category
When we founded Oceanview in 2005, we endeavored to create a tradition of excellence in independent publishing and we are both humbled and proud to have four of our titles among the winners of the 2008 National Indie Excellence Awards.
Congratulations to all of this year’s winners! Oceanview Publishing Where great books are always on the horizon
And now the story:
Barbara Anton was one of my writing group, the Hotsies. She had written a novel, and sent it around, but it got nowhere. One reply said there was no market for a book about sugar cane growing in the Everglades. She put it in a drawer and left it there.
Barbara wrote many published articles, her plays were performed off, off Broadway, she, who had no college degree, was teaching writing at USF New College.
When we would mention her novel, she shrugged it off, declaring she wasn't going to work on it any more.
Another writer mentioned Barbara's novel to her publisher, who requested a copy and over a lunch, Barbara signed the contract.
Then our editor Hotsie told Barbara that she must see a doctor, she looked terrible. Pancreatic cancer took her within a month of the diagnosis. She died with two Hotsies holding her hand and stroking her hair.
Her memorial service was at Florida Studio Theatre, and included actors readings and Hotsie singing the song she wrote, Proud to be an American.
Barbara's novel was published after her death.
Great news from Oceanview!
We are pleased to announce that four Oceanview titles are among the winners of the 2008 National Indie Excellence Awards, a prestigious national awards program recognizing excellence in independent publishing.
Among this year’s winners are:
Stuff to Die For by Don Bruns – Winner, Mystery/Suspense/Thriller Category
Egrets to the Flames by Barbara Anton – Winner, General Fiction Category
The Castro Gene by Todd Buchholz – Award-winning Finalist, Mystery/ Suspense/Thriller Category
Ladykiller by Lawrence Light and Meredith Anthony –Award-winning Finalist, Mystery/Suspense/ Thriller Category
When we founded Oceanview in 2005, we endeavored to create a tradition of excellence in independent publishing and we are both humbled and proud to have four of our titles among the winners of the 2008 National Indie Excellence Awards.
Congratulations to all of this year’s winners! Oceanview Publishing Where great books are always on the horizon
And now the story:
Barbara Anton was one of my writing group, the Hotsies. She had written a novel, and sent it around, but it got nowhere. One reply said there was no market for a book about sugar cane growing in the Everglades. She put it in a drawer and left it there.
Barbara wrote many published articles, her plays were performed off, off Broadway, she, who had no college degree, was teaching writing at USF New College.
When we would mention her novel, she shrugged it off, declaring she wasn't going to work on it any more.
Another writer mentioned Barbara's novel to her publisher, who requested a copy and over a lunch, Barbara signed the contract.
Then our editor Hotsie told Barbara that she must see a doctor, she looked terrible. Pancreatic cancer took her within a month of the diagnosis. She died with two Hotsies holding her hand and stroking her hair.
Her memorial service was at Florida Studio Theatre, and included actors readings and Hotsie singing the song she wrote, Proud to be an American.
Barbara's novel was published after her death.
Peg Russell is a member of Netwest and lives in Murphy, NC. Before she came to the mountains she was an active member of the Sarasota Fiction Writers, the Hotsies writing group, Selby Poets, and led a Summer Light Verse Workshop every year.
She was commissioned to write a booklet for the Sarasota Historical Society, Dreamers of Our Past, and she co-authored a Beginning Genealogy booklet for Selby Public Library. Her poetry and light verse have been published in the Florida English Journal, Robert Wallace's Light Years, The Tampa Tribune, and the DogGone Good Times. Her features and interviews have been published in the The Sarasota Herald Tribune, Peppertree Literary Magazine, and the Cherokee Scout. Reminisce Magazine bought one of her articles. Her one act play, Kate Howe, had a public reading during the Fogarty Cafe Summer Festival, and her short play, Star Spangled Duo, was a winner in the Florida Studio Theatre Summer Shorts contest. Now a full time resident of Murphy, she is active in Richard Argo's Prose Critique Group and Friends of Murphy Library Writers Workshop.
She was commissioned to write a booklet for the Sarasota Historical Society, Dreamers of Our Past, and she co-authored a Beginning Genealogy booklet for Selby Public Library. Her poetry and light verse have been published in the Florida English Journal, Robert Wallace's Light Years, The Tampa Tribune, and the DogGone Good Times. Her features and interviews have been published in the The Sarasota Herald Tribune, Peppertree Literary Magazine, and the Cherokee Scout. Reminisce Magazine bought one of her articles. Her one act play, Kate Howe, had a public reading during the Fogarty Cafe Summer Festival, and her short play, Star Spangled Duo, was a winner in the Florida Studio Theatre Summer Shorts contest. Now a full time resident of Murphy, she is active in Richard Argo's Prose Critique Group and Friends of Murphy Library Writers Workshop.
The Price of Fame
Some writers just can't be pleased, it seems. The following from Poets and Writers, is one example.
Doris Lessing, winner of the 2007 Nobel Prize in Literature, has added to her collection of controversial sound bites, telling the BBC last month that receiving the award was "a bloody disaster" because it shifted her attention away from writing. "All I do is give interviews and spend time being photographed," she said.
Doris Lessing, winner of the 2007 Nobel Prize in Literature, has added to her collection of controversial sound bites, telling the BBC last month that receiving the award was "a bloody disaster" because it shifted her attention away from writing. "All I do is give interviews and spend time being photographed," she said.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Words for Beginning Writers by Glenda Beall
Persistence plus Patience equals Publication
Some of us send out poems on a regular basis, keeping something in the mail at all times. I know of more than one writer or poet who uses the rule of twelve. Keep twelve submissions out at all times. By doing this you are almost assured that one of them will be accepted.
When you receive a rejection, don’t assume that poem or story is no good. Choose carefully another market and submit your work immediately. Don’t let it spend the night at your house. Send it right away.Whether submitting online or via paper, be sure to include your full name, address, phone number and email address. Make it as easy as possible for the editor to contact you.
If you send a cover letter, make it brief. Most editors are not as impressed with where you have published, but want to be impressed with your writing. Scott Douglas of Main Street Rag doesn’t want any references as to where you have been published. He wants to judge your work, not your references.
Some of us send out poems on a regular basis, keeping something in the mail at all times. I know of more than one writer or poet who uses the rule of twelve. Keep twelve submissions out at all times. By doing this you are almost assured that one of them will be accepted.
When you receive a rejection, don’t assume that poem or story is no good. Choose carefully another market and submit your work immediately. Don’t let it spend the night at your house. Send it right away.Whether submitting online or via paper, be sure to include your full name, address, phone number and email address. Make it as easy as possible for the editor to contact you.
If you send a cover letter, make it brief. Most editors are not as impressed with where you have published, but want to be impressed with your writing. Scott Douglas of Main Street Rag doesn’t want any references as to where you have been published. He wants to judge your work, not your references.
Follow guidelines explicitly and know your market’s preferences. Check their website for the latest information such as the name of the present editor. If you don’t know the name of the editor, you aren’t very familiar with the magazine.
Editors cringe when they receive poetry written in elaborate fonts, on colored paper or decorated with butterflies and angels. Some editors are turned off before they read the poetry because the envelope has a return address label bearing photos of cute animals, flowers, and cherubs. Make your envelope and the work inside look professionally prepared. You are dealing with a business and they want to know you are a professional at what you do.
Don’t send anything until you have edited for spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Let another pair of trusted eyes read to check for errors. Send three to five poems because the editor wants to see the range of your work. I once sent a poem about a dog to a publication asking for poems about dogs. The problem was, I only had one poem about a dog so I only sent that poem. The editor wrote a nice note on my rejection slip. “I’m sure you must have more poems than this one. Send me more and I will consider your work.”
The hardest part of publishing for beginning writers is the waiting. We submit and two weeks later we expect to hear something. We want to know if it is accepted or if it is not. Just let us know so we can celebrate or send that batch of poems out again. But publishing doesn’t work that way. We must be patient. I found the best way is to continue writing or sending more submissions and forget that you have work out there. It can take months. Most publications will say in the guidelines the approximate time you can expect a reply. However, you can not be sure of that, either. If you wait what you think is a considerate amount of time and hear nothing, then by all means call or write and ask the status of your piece. Above all, be polite when you call. Editors are swamped with submissions these days and the manuscripts pile up. Your getting angry and being rude does nothing to help you and could hurt you in future endeavors not only with this editor but with other editors she knows. They talk.
Even after your work is accepted, it could be up to a year before the work is published. Until you see it on a printed page in a book or magazine, you still cannot be sure it will be published. One of my essays was accepted by a magazine and I worked with the editor to make changes, but my story did not come out in the next issue. Three month later it still had not been published. My essay was kept for a year and it was never published. I received a note with a check for half what I’d been promised telling me the magazine was going in another direction and could not use my work after all.
Anyone can become a published writer at anytime whether in a newsletter, newspaper, online on a blog, or in a self-published book. To be published all you have to do is make your work available to the public. But if your goal is to be published in successful magazines or journals, you must read to find your market. Researching markets is the least favorite thing for most writers. When you find, through the Writers’ Market or other directories, the type of publication that prints your kind of material, you should send only your best work and be sure to follow the guidelines which you can usually find on their website.
No matter how many rejections you receive, don’t give up. Persistence is the key. What one editor rejects, another might find to be the perfect poem or story for his next issue. But he won’t find it if it is lying buried in a drawer in your office. Keep submitting, and be patient. The more rejection slips you receive the closer you are to being accepted. And while you keep your work out there looking for a home, continue to write, write, write.
Glenda Beall is a writer and poet. Her poems and essays can be found in numerous journals and anthologies. Her articles in several newspapers. She also teaches writing and serves as the Program Coordinator for Netwest.
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