Candy Maier Scholarship Fund for Women Writers
Frequently Asked Questions
What is the Candy Maier Scholarship Fund for Women Writers?
“The Candy Fund” is a non-profit organization, a project of the Western Carolina Coalition for Social Concerns (WCCSC). It provides scholarships to women twenty-one and older who are applying to attend conferences, classes, workshops, retreats, and other programs offering shared writing experiences. Women must be residents of Western North Carolina or Upstate South Carolina and must be applying for a program offered by a WNC-based agency or one held in WNC.
How large a scholarship does The Candy Fund provide?
The Candy Fund will pay up to $250 or 50% of a program’s cost, whichever is less. Recipients can apply for multiple scholarships but cannot receive more than a total of $500 from The Candy Fund.
How can I donate to The Candy Fund?
Your contribution is 100% tax-deductible. Make checks payable to WCCSC, with “The Candy Fund” written on the “For” line. Send donations to:Candy Maier Scholarship Fund for Women Writers27 Maple DriveAsheville NC 28805
How do I get more information about The Candy Fund?
Email thecandyfund@yahoo.com.
This group has provided scholarships to women for Netwest workshops, for NCWN Conferences, and other writing events in Western North Carolina. Think of them when you need financial help to attend an event, and especially when you want to donate to a worthy organization where you know your money goes to someone who puts it to good use. An excellent article in WNC Magazine quotes some of us who had the benefit of a Candy Fund Scholarship. Mary Jo Dyre, writer, of Murphy, NC will be a fine addition to the working Board of the Candy Fund.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Broca's Aphasia, a personal essay by John Malone
Why was Rosie the dog scratching at the closed bedroom door? Or, rather, why was the white, furry thing with the licking tongue and anxious, pawing feet trying to get into our dark bedroom? Because I did not really think of the word “dog.” Somehow I knew I had to open the door to stop the commotion outside. But why did getting up and opening the door require so much effort? I felt so heavy and weak, unsteady on my bare feet on the cold hardwood floor. I groped in the dark for the door handle for what seemed like a long time, fumbling first on the wrong edge of the door, the one attached to the hinges. Finally, my fingers closed around the cool, smooth metal, or were they my fingers? Was it a “handle?” The door opened, and Rosie came bounding into the room, jumping into our bed. She was frightened, I knew, but why? I climbed back into bed beside my sleeping wife, with Rosie in the middle between us. She began licking my face and exploring my body with her paws, as if trying to find something wrong.
Finally she calmed down, and we all went to sleep again. But I could not really sleep. Something was wrong with me, I knew. I couldn’t think straight. Every movement took a lot of concentration and effort, as if I were moving my body by remote control from a long way off. I began to panic. I got up again and went to the bathroom, only to discover that I had soiled myself. Take off clothes. Get in little glass room with water coming down. Clean myself. Back in bed. Try to sleep.
We were awake, and Christa was worried, I could tell. Or was she “Christa?” And who was I? Where were we? What day was it? I had no idea. Christa asked me if she should call 911. I couldn’t reply but simply nodded, tears forming in my eyes. I was scared. She helped me to dress and we went out to the front porch to await the EMS ambulance. Feeling unsteady on my feet, about to tip over, I practiced walking up and down and up and down the long porch while we waited, being very careful not to fall over the edge. Finally they arrived, a man and a woman, both large, strong, gentle people. He was “Michael,” he said, and he gave me an aspirin with his latex-encased fingers. He kept trying to get me to talk, but I couldn’t remember any words. The woman drove the ambulance while Michael wired me up to his computer and began talking on the radio to the new ER at Haywood Regional Medical Center. I guess Christa followed us there in her car, because there she was when we arrived there. I began to feel relieved.
But there was no neurologist at HRMC that day and none on call. I later learned that the hospital had an MRI machine, but no neurologist would be on duty until Friday, two days later, to read the images. The nurse started an IV and put me on oxygen. We waited for what seemed like hours while different people came in and either checked me or ignored me. Finally, a nice ER doctor in a white coat with “Dr. Kelley” embroidered on it in dark blue, showed up. Christa was talking to the doctor and calling people on her cell phone. I knew who they were, but I couldn’t think of their names. Someone asked me what my mother’s name was. I couldn’t say. I felt ashamed. Christa was crying. She asked me what color her eyes were. It was a memory test, but I cheated. I looked into her red-rimmed eyes and said, “They’re sort of pink!” She and I both laughed for the first time. She sat beside me and fed me pieces of my lunch from a white Styrofoam take-out box. A pork cutlet, mashed potatoes, gravy and corn with a soft roll. I chewed some gingerly, afraid at first to swallow. As we shared the lunch, I felt the nourishment and her love enter me, warming and strengthening me, easing my fear. Doctor Kelley returned. Good news. Another ambulance was coming soon to take me to Mission Hospital in Asheville.
As the ambulance bounced along I-40 East, the EMT, this time a woman, kept up a steady conversation, trying to engage me. I did the best I could to reply, but kept hitting blank spots. Did I know what day it was, what year? No. But a few names were slowly coming back to me, emerging from the fog in my brain. The children, my sisters. Lying on my back, I watched beautiful fall leaves, clouds and sunshine rolling by the ambulance windows while the woman kept talking and checking my vital signs. It was a strange, blowing, blue and white sort of a day out there, promising some rain at last.
I arrived in room A-625 at the Stroke Unit on the sixth floor of Mission Hospital at 2:30 pm on Wednesday afternoon, November 14, 2007. I only know this now because it was printed on the ID bracelet attached to my wrist for two days. Christa came a little later, as did Dr. Alex Schneider, Director of Mission’s neurological services. Yes, I could have an MRI, and Dr. Schneider would read it, but the busy machine would not be available until late that night or the small hours of Thursday morning. No, I could not have a glass of water or anything else by mouth until the busy speech therapist could come and watch me swallow, maybe later in the evening. The doctor began a full neurological workup. Penlight shining into my pupils, switching up and down, side to side. More questions with no answers. Squeezing the doctor’s fingers. Pushing against his hands. Touching the end of my nose with my eyes closed. Another IV. A wireless heart monitor stuffed into the breast pocket of my hospital gown. Blood pressure 145 over 96, too high. Risk of another stroke. While all this was going on, I was still struggling to speak, to remember, anything. Did I know where I was? Painfully, I made another effort to speak. Mission Hospital? Yes! Christa smiled at the doctor. He smiled back and patted me on the shoulder.
Evening descended, and Christa, satisfied that I was finally in good hands and receiving the attention and care I needed, went back to Waynesville to feed the cats and walk the dog. The orange street lights of Asheville winked on outside the big window, which spread across the entire outside wall of my room. Strange, big sausage-shaped clouds scudded across the sky, hanging dark and low above Haywood Street on the horizon. I couldn’t have said in what direction I was looking, but the eeriness of the fast-moving storm clouds and the twinkling lights framing Asheville’s skyline mesmerized me. A nurse entered the room to take my vital signs again and offered to close the drapes. But I wanted them open, not really knowing where I was but fascinated by the tableau created by the winking lights and their reflection in the low-hanging clouds. As I lay there attached to the IV drip, it was like looking at a version of El Greco’s “Storm over Toledo” with bright orange street lights added. Finally, I slept.
The night nurse switched on the light. Time to go down for my MRI. But what time? Where? How to get there? Christa had taken my watch, along with my keys and wallet, but there was a large clock on the wall, showing that it was almost five o’clock in the morning. I had only slept an hour or two. A husky young man pushed a Gurney into the room as the nurse disconnected my IV. Then I awkwardly slid myself onto the Gurney for the ride down to the first floor. Two different elevators were required to make the transfer, first from six to three, then from three to one. Finally we arrived in the MRI suite, a chilly, humming place two floors below ground level with heavy metal doors, its walls plastered with high voltage warning signs. A cheerful young woman gleefully informed me that I was about to hear noises like I never heard before. She helped me move from the Gurney to a long metal tray a bit like the ones they use to load the big shells into the eighteen inch guns of a battleship. She strapped me down tight, put plugs in both my ears and encased my head firmly in some kind of helmet that reminded me of the thing they use to execute murderers down in Florida, whatever it’s called. Then she gave me a little rubber squeeze bulb on the end of a wire.. “If you have any problems, just squeeze this bulb, and I’ll stop the scan.”
For the next thirty minutes, in spite of the ear plugs, I was bombarded with bumps, grinds and various loud noises while my tray moved slowly in and out of a smooth white tunnel just large enough to hold my shivering body. I was afraid to squeeze the little bulb for fear that it would fire me out of the tunnel like the man fired from a cannon in the circus or eject me like the pilot of a jet fighter. I could just see the top of the woman’s head in a kind of rear-view mirror in my headgear. She was sitting inside a sound-proof control booth at a safe distance from the magnetic monster that held me in its clutches. Then, after the longest half hour of my long life, it was over, and I was gratefully on my way back to my room on the sixth floor.
My new day nurse, on whom I developed an instant crush, told me her name was Heather. She was tall and slender, graceful in her sneakers, micro-fiber slacks and sweater, with a ponytail and a little pair of granny glasses perched on her long, straight nose. Not really pretty, but very attractive. I noticed the little diamond solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. I was definitely returning to my normal girl-watching mode, a good sign of health.
In spite of the IV, I felt hungry for breakfast. Heather’s orders were “NPO” until the speech therapist could come and watch me successfully swallow a cup of water, and the speech therapist was seeing patients across Biltmore Avenue at St. Joseph’s – no telling when she would return to Mission. But a student physical therapist, a petite, child-like slip of a girl named Antoinette with a heart-shaped face and blond hair done up in a tight, businesslike bun, did arrive with her trainer. He was a tall, skinny, balding, dark-haired, fiftyish man with a Slavic accent, Russian maybe. He cracked a lot of jokes, hospital humor, I thought, to help little Antoinette relax. They invited me to go for a walk with them after first making sure I could stand on my own. No problem, I was way ahead of them. Of course, I was bent on impressing pretty little Antoinette with my manly strength and vigor. Antoinette insisted on putting a thick web belt around my middle so she could hold me upright and keep me from falling. I didn’t say anything, but, as I towered over the child, I mentally compared my two-hundred-plus pounds with her one-hundred-minus and resolved not to fall on top of her. We walked one lap around the sixth-floor corridor and then found an exit staircase for the grand finale, one flight of stairs unassisted, down and up. Then I was declared fit to navigate on my own, and my brief relationship with Antoinette and the Russian ended, just as Christa appeared outside my room, giving me a big hug and a kiss and recapturing my heart from the hospital sirens.
When the speech therapist finally showed up, a woman with shiny, perfect teeth (capped?) we went through the same rigmarole as the day before: Did I know where I was? Yes, I had that one taped. What was the date? Oops, the date had gone and changed on me since the last time. I failed that one. Open wide and say aah. The penlight shining in my eyes again. Then came tongue exercises, which I really got into, imagining myself grimacing like a Maori warrior while my eyes bulged and my tongue protruded, way out, down, up, left and right. And on and on. What finally emerged from her sounded like a sales pitch for me to come in to Mission Hospital all the way from Waynesville for speech therapy sessions after my discharge. No thanks, I’ll see how I do on my own. Somewhat grudgingly, I thought, she gave Heather permission to feed me before she left to find her next sales prospect.
The hours dragged by slowly after Christa left me that afternoon. I spent most of the time staring at the damned clock on the wall or looking out the window at the rain. Heather gave me a thick “Stroke Education Packet” and encouraged me to study it. Reading was tough at first but gradually got easier with practice. I learned a lot about what had happened to me. According to the doctor, it was probably a “TIA,” which stands for “transient ischemic attack,” a kind of mini-stroke. I already knew something about those. My father had gone through a whole series of them before he died at eighty-eight in a “memory unit” down in Florida, finally unable to recognize his wife. Bad news for me, but it could have been worse. My TIA had affected only the left hemisphere of my brain, including the speech and language center, “Broca’s brain.” A blood clot, formed along the lining of my left carotid artery, had broken off sometime while I was asleep on Tuesday night and traveled up to my brain, blocking the blood flow and causing the symptoms I had. Later the tiny clot had dissolved, blood had flowed again, and – thank God – my symptoms were slowly disappearing. As I rode home from the hospital with Christa on Friday, I was cautiously happy. The storm clouds had disappeared daring the night, and fall colors vibrated in the bright afternoon sunlight, the leaves holding tenaciously to the hardwood trees following the long drought. I felt as if we were floating a few feet above the highway, buoyed up by relief.
I still had a slight touch of “Broca’s Aphasia” – knowing what I wanted to say but unable to find the words, very frustrating for a writer – but after a few days, I fortunately returned to what I had been before the stroke, an average, absent-minded seventy-two-year-old, no better and no worse, just a little bit older and wiser. My MRI showed no permanent brain damage and my cardiology workup was normal. My blood pressure was on the high side and I needed medication for that: a coated adult aspirin and a five milligram ACE inhibitor each morning. I was now somewhat more at risk for having a full stroke. I should not drive a car until my primary care doctor approved it. But, otherwise, I was fine, thank you. Just fine. (And, best of all, I could still write!)
Finally she calmed down, and we all went to sleep again. But I could not really sleep. Something was wrong with me, I knew. I couldn’t think straight. Every movement took a lot of concentration and effort, as if I were moving my body by remote control from a long way off. I began to panic. I got up again and went to the bathroom, only to discover that I had soiled myself. Take off clothes. Get in little glass room with water coming down. Clean myself. Back in bed. Try to sleep.
We were awake, and Christa was worried, I could tell. Or was she “Christa?” And who was I? Where were we? What day was it? I had no idea. Christa asked me if she should call 911. I couldn’t reply but simply nodded, tears forming in my eyes. I was scared. She helped me to dress and we went out to the front porch to await the EMS ambulance. Feeling unsteady on my feet, about to tip over, I practiced walking up and down and up and down the long porch while we waited, being very careful not to fall over the edge. Finally they arrived, a man and a woman, both large, strong, gentle people. He was “Michael,” he said, and he gave me an aspirin with his latex-encased fingers. He kept trying to get me to talk, but I couldn’t remember any words. The woman drove the ambulance while Michael wired me up to his computer and began talking on the radio to the new ER at Haywood Regional Medical Center. I guess Christa followed us there in her car, because there she was when we arrived there. I began to feel relieved.
But there was no neurologist at HRMC that day and none on call. I later learned that the hospital had an MRI machine, but no neurologist would be on duty until Friday, two days later, to read the images. The nurse started an IV and put me on oxygen. We waited for what seemed like hours while different people came in and either checked me or ignored me. Finally, a nice ER doctor in a white coat with “Dr. Kelley” embroidered on it in dark blue, showed up. Christa was talking to the doctor and calling people on her cell phone. I knew who they were, but I couldn’t think of their names. Someone asked me what my mother’s name was. I couldn’t say. I felt ashamed. Christa was crying. She asked me what color her eyes were. It was a memory test, but I cheated. I looked into her red-rimmed eyes and said, “They’re sort of pink!” She and I both laughed for the first time. She sat beside me and fed me pieces of my lunch from a white Styrofoam take-out box. A pork cutlet, mashed potatoes, gravy and corn with a soft roll. I chewed some gingerly, afraid at first to swallow. As we shared the lunch, I felt the nourishment and her love enter me, warming and strengthening me, easing my fear. Doctor Kelley returned. Good news. Another ambulance was coming soon to take me to Mission Hospital in Asheville.
As the ambulance bounced along I-40 East, the EMT, this time a woman, kept up a steady conversation, trying to engage me. I did the best I could to reply, but kept hitting blank spots. Did I know what day it was, what year? No. But a few names were slowly coming back to me, emerging from the fog in my brain. The children, my sisters. Lying on my back, I watched beautiful fall leaves, clouds and sunshine rolling by the ambulance windows while the woman kept talking and checking my vital signs. It was a strange, blowing, blue and white sort of a day out there, promising some rain at last.
I arrived in room A-625 at the Stroke Unit on the sixth floor of Mission Hospital at 2:30 pm on Wednesday afternoon, November 14, 2007. I only know this now because it was printed on the ID bracelet attached to my wrist for two days. Christa came a little later, as did Dr. Alex Schneider, Director of Mission’s neurological services. Yes, I could have an MRI, and Dr. Schneider would read it, but the busy machine would not be available until late that night or the small hours of Thursday morning. No, I could not have a glass of water or anything else by mouth until the busy speech therapist could come and watch me swallow, maybe later in the evening. The doctor began a full neurological workup. Penlight shining into my pupils, switching up and down, side to side. More questions with no answers. Squeezing the doctor’s fingers. Pushing against his hands. Touching the end of my nose with my eyes closed. Another IV. A wireless heart monitor stuffed into the breast pocket of my hospital gown. Blood pressure 145 over 96, too high. Risk of another stroke. While all this was going on, I was still struggling to speak, to remember, anything. Did I know where I was? Painfully, I made another effort to speak. Mission Hospital? Yes! Christa smiled at the doctor. He smiled back and patted me on the shoulder.
Evening descended, and Christa, satisfied that I was finally in good hands and receiving the attention and care I needed, went back to Waynesville to feed the cats and walk the dog. The orange street lights of Asheville winked on outside the big window, which spread across the entire outside wall of my room. Strange, big sausage-shaped clouds scudded across the sky, hanging dark and low above Haywood Street on the horizon. I couldn’t have said in what direction I was looking, but the eeriness of the fast-moving storm clouds and the twinkling lights framing Asheville’s skyline mesmerized me. A nurse entered the room to take my vital signs again and offered to close the drapes. But I wanted them open, not really knowing where I was but fascinated by the tableau created by the winking lights and their reflection in the low-hanging clouds. As I lay there attached to the IV drip, it was like looking at a version of El Greco’s “Storm over Toledo” with bright orange street lights added. Finally, I slept.
The night nurse switched on the light. Time to go down for my MRI. But what time? Where? How to get there? Christa had taken my watch, along with my keys and wallet, but there was a large clock on the wall, showing that it was almost five o’clock in the morning. I had only slept an hour or two. A husky young man pushed a Gurney into the room as the nurse disconnected my IV. Then I awkwardly slid myself onto the Gurney for the ride down to the first floor. Two different elevators were required to make the transfer, first from six to three, then from three to one. Finally we arrived in the MRI suite, a chilly, humming place two floors below ground level with heavy metal doors, its walls plastered with high voltage warning signs. A cheerful young woman gleefully informed me that I was about to hear noises like I never heard before. She helped me move from the Gurney to a long metal tray a bit like the ones they use to load the big shells into the eighteen inch guns of a battleship. She strapped me down tight, put plugs in both my ears and encased my head firmly in some kind of helmet that reminded me of the thing they use to execute murderers down in Florida, whatever it’s called. Then she gave me a little rubber squeeze bulb on the end of a wire.. “If you have any problems, just squeeze this bulb, and I’ll stop the scan.”
For the next thirty minutes, in spite of the ear plugs, I was bombarded with bumps, grinds and various loud noises while my tray moved slowly in and out of a smooth white tunnel just large enough to hold my shivering body. I was afraid to squeeze the little bulb for fear that it would fire me out of the tunnel like the man fired from a cannon in the circus or eject me like the pilot of a jet fighter. I could just see the top of the woman’s head in a kind of rear-view mirror in my headgear. She was sitting inside a sound-proof control booth at a safe distance from the magnetic monster that held me in its clutches. Then, after the longest half hour of my long life, it was over, and I was gratefully on my way back to my room on the sixth floor.
My new day nurse, on whom I developed an instant crush, told me her name was Heather. She was tall and slender, graceful in her sneakers, micro-fiber slacks and sweater, with a ponytail and a little pair of granny glasses perched on her long, straight nose. Not really pretty, but very attractive. I noticed the little diamond solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. I was definitely returning to my normal girl-watching mode, a good sign of health.
In spite of the IV, I felt hungry for breakfast. Heather’s orders were “NPO” until the speech therapist could come and watch me successfully swallow a cup of water, and the speech therapist was seeing patients across Biltmore Avenue at St. Joseph’s – no telling when she would return to Mission. But a student physical therapist, a petite, child-like slip of a girl named Antoinette with a heart-shaped face and blond hair done up in a tight, businesslike bun, did arrive with her trainer. He was a tall, skinny, balding, dark-haired, fiftyish man with a Slavic accent, Russian maybe. He cracked a lot of jokes, hospital humor, I thought, to help little Antoinette relax. They invited me to go for a walk with them after first making sure I could stand on my own. No problem, I was way ahead of them. Of course, I was bent on impressing pretty little Antoinette with my manly strength and vigor. Antoinette insisted on putting a thick web belt around my middle so she could hold me upright and keep me from falling. I didn’t say anything, but, as I towered over the child, I mentally compared my two-hundred-plus pounds with her one-hundred-minus and resolved not to fall on top of her. We walked one lap around the sixth-floor corridor and then found an exit staircase for the grand finale, one flight of stairs unassisted, down and up. Then I was declared fit to navigate on my own, and my brief relationship with Antoinette and the Russian ended, just as Christa appeared outside my room, giving me a big hug and a kiss and recapturing my heart from the hospital sirens.
When the speech therapist finally showed up, a woman with shiny, perfect teeth (capped?) we went through the same rigmarole as the day before: Did I know where I was? Yes, I had that one taped. What was the date? Oops, the date had gone and changed on me since the last time. I failed that one. Open wide and say aah. The penlight shining in my eyes again. Then came tongue exercises, which I really got into, imagining myself grimacing like a Maori warrior while my eyes bulged and my tongue protruded, way out, down, up, left and right. And on and on. What finally emerged from her sounded like a sales pitch for me to come in to Mission Hospital all the way from Waynesville for speech therapy sessions after my discharge. No thanks, I’ll see how I do on my own. Somewhat grudgingly, I thought, she gave Heather permission to feed me before she left to find her next sales prospect.
The hours dragged by slowly after Christa left me that afternoon. I spent most of the time staring at the damned clock on the wall or looking out the window at the rain. Heather gave me a thick “Stroke Education Packet” and encouraged me to study it. Reading was tough at first but gradually got easier with practice. I learned a lot about what had happened to me. According to the doctor, it was probably a “TIA,” which stands for “transient ischemic attack,” a kind of mini-stroke. I already knew something about those. My father had gone through a whole series of them before he died at eighty-eight in a “memory unit” down in Florida, finally unable to recognize his wife. Bad news for me, but it could have been worse. My TIA had affected only the left hemisphere of my brain, including the speech and language center, “Broca’s brain.” A blood clot, formed along the lining of my left carotid artery, had broken off sometime while I was asleep on Tuesday night and traveled up to my brain, blocking the blood flow and causing the symptoms I had. Later the tiny clot had dissolved, blood had flowed again, and – thank God – my symptoms were slowly disappearing. As I rode home from the hospital with Christa on Friday, I was cautiously happy. The storm clouds had disappeared daring the night, and fall colors vibrated in the bright afternoon sunlight, the leaves holding tenaciously to the hardwood trees following the long drought. I felt as if we were floating a few feet above the highway, buoyed up by relief.
I still had a slight touch of “Broca’s Aphasia” – knowing what I wanted to say but unable to find the words, very frustrating for a writer – but after a few days, I fortunately returned to what I had been before the stroke, an average, absent-minded seventy-two-year-old, no better and no worse, just a little bit older and wiser. My MRI showed no permanent brain damage and my cardiology workup was normal. My blood pressure was on the high side and I needed medication for that: a coated adult aspirin and a five milligram ACE inhibitor each morning. I was now somewhat more at risk for having a full stroke. I should not drive a car until my primary care doctor approved it. But, otherwise, I was fine, thank you. Just fine. (And, best of all, I could still write!)
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Sam Hoffer is cooking
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Sam Hoffer sends this announcment of the column she will be writing for the Cherokee Scout.
The column for the Scout, "From My Carolina Kitchen," will emphasize casual yet elegant recipes focusing on seasonal cuisine, "how-to" tips, and entertaining ideas. I like healthy, simple to prepare recipes using locally available products. Occasionally I will include a cookbook review, especially if it is one available at our local library. I chose to do a monthly column instead of weekly one for now.
We lived in the "Out-Islands" of the northern Bahamas in Abaco on a tiny private cay named Lubbers Quarters for ten years when my husband first retired in 1995. I wrote a food column for four years for The Abaconian newspaper, which is in Marsh Harbour, the hub of the Abacos. The column,"From the Kitchen of Lazy Days," came from our house name, which was Lazy Days in the islands. I am currently in the process of writing a book about our retirement there, Living on Island Time, Retirement Spiced with Food, Friends & Rum. It will be part memoir, part food & travel adventure, and will include crazy friends and some recipes.
When I first met my husband I couldn't cook a thing and he came from a gourmet family in the northeast. His father had a three martini expense account and ate in all of the fancy restaurants in NYC. The best description I have for my food background growing up in a sleepy town down south is Alan Jackson's country song Where I Come From, It's Cornbread and Chicken, definitely not gourmet. My Mother was an excellent cook and made her own bread, mayonnaise, and jelly but never let me in the kitchen. When I met Meakin he told me the old adage "if you can read you can cook" and cook I have since then. It has become my passion and I have yet to meet a food I didn't like. We even take food vacations. Spent two months last year in the south of France shopping in local markets, getting to know the locals and cooking their fabulous food in our very own kitchen there.
I have entered three recipe contests and was a winner in each:
-Won the state of Mississippi's Chicken Contest and received an all expense paid trip to participate in the 40th annual National Chicken Contest, one of the "big three" national competitions. It is the oldest contest of its kind and was the food highlight of my life.
-Winner for the Fall season in the National Catfish Institute's Four Season Recipe Contest
-Winner of The Pocono Record's Recipe Contest
My recipe for "Goat Cheese Stuffed Chicken Rolls" is in The Chicken Cookbook, 1993, a Dell publication.
We look forward to reading the delicious recipes and more in the Cherokee Scout newspaper in Murphy, NC. You can find them on the web.
The column for the Scout, "From My Carolina Kitchen," will emphasize casual yet elegant recipes focusing on seasonal cuisine, "how-to" tips, and entertaining ideas. I like healthy, simple to prepare recipes using locally available products. Occasionally I will include a cookbook review, especially if it is one available at our local library. I chose to do a monthly column instead of weekly one for now.
We lived in the "Out-Islands" of the northern Bahamas in Abaco on a tiny private cay named Lubbers Quarters for ten years when my husband first retired in 1995. I wrote a food column for four years for The Abaconian newspaper, which is in Marsh Harbour, the hub of the Abacos. The column,"From the Kitchen of Lazy Days," came from our house name, which was Lazy Days in the islands. I am currently in the process of writing a book about our retirement there, Living on Island Time, Retirement Spiced with Food, Friends & Rum. It will be part memoir, part food & travel adventure, and will include crazy friends and some recipes.
When I first met my husband I couldn't cook a thing and he came from a gourmet family in the northeast. His father had a three martini expense account and ate in all of the fancy restaurants in NYC. The best description I have for my food background growing up in a sleepy town down south is Alan Jackson's country song Where I Come From, It's Cornbread and Chicken, definitely not gourmet. My Mother was an excellent cook and made her own bread, mayonnaise, and jelly but never let me in the kitchen. When I met Meakin he told me the old adage "if you can read you can cook" and cook I have since then. It has become my passion and I have yet to meet a food I didn't like. We even take food vacations. Spent two months last year in the south of France shopping in local markets, getting to know the locals and cooking their fabulous food in our very own kitchen there.
I have entered three recipe contests and was a winner in each:
-Won the state of Mississippi's Chicken Contest and received an all expense paid trip to participate in the 40th annual National Chicken Contest, one of the "big three" national competitions. It is the oldest contest of its kind and was the food highlight of my life.
-Winner for the Fall season in the National Catfish Institute's Four Season Recipe Contest
-Winner of The Pocono Record's Recipe Contest
My recipe for "Goat Cheese Stuffed Chicken Rolls" is in The Chicken Cookbook, 1993, a Dell publication.
We look forward to reading the delicious recipes and more in the Cherokee Scout newspaper in Murphy, NC. You can find them on the web.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Intrigue in Cherokee by Gary Carden
Forests of the Night by James W. Hall.
St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2005. 341 pages.
In recent years an increasing number of writers have been drawn to the tragic history of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians as a kind of literary vehicle. Although the plight of other Native American tribes equals (and often exceeds) the shame and pathos associated with the Cherokee Removal, it is a kind of historic parable — a tale that reveals the hypocrisy beneath the Great American Dream.
James W. Hall, a successful writer of “crime fiction,” normally sets his suspenseful action tales on the Florida sun coast. Best known for his depiction of ruthless psychotics, Hall’s protagonists spend much of their time cruising bars and coastal inlets, alternately trolling for tarpons and ruthless drug dealers. Hall is at his best in familiar territory: sun, sand, sultry vixens, crisp dialogue and tequila in the Green Flash Bar. However, this time out, he opts for the foggy coves of the Great Smoky Mountains and a dark secret that originates with the death of T’sali, the Cherokee martyr.
Instead of Thorn, the aging beachboy, Hall’s protagonist is Charlotte Monroe, a dedicated Miami cop with a phenomenal gift for “reading faces” — the fleeting twitch or facial flicker that telegraphs a suspect’s intentions. Will he cower or attack? As a consequence, the FBI will resort to anything (including blackmail) to acquire Charlotte’s services in tracking down wanted criminals.
However, Charlotte’s life is complicated. She is married to Parker, a highly successful criminal lawyer (think Johnnie Cochran) who believes that everyone deserves a second chance, even if they are guilty. He is also a descendant of a noted Cherokee family. In addition, Parker and Charlotte have a schizophrenic teenage daughter, Gracey, who spends much of her time (when she is off her medication) discussing her future as an actress with Joan Crawford, Stephen Spielberg and Barbara Stanwyck.
Now, to this heady mix, Hall adds an explosive catalyst: a blond-headed Cherokee named Jacob Panther who is on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list for murder and terrorist activities (blowing up banks) — and who just happens to be Parker’s son, the consequences of a youthful fling at a mountain retreat called Camp T’sali near Cherokee. When Jacob arrives in Miami with a lethal blowgun and a stolen truck, it appears that he has come to kill his father.
Instead he has come to (a) seek his legal advice, and (b) to warn him that his name is “on a list.” The eavesdropping Gracey learns that she has a half-brother. When Charlotte calls the police, Gracey warns Jacob and when he flees back to Cherokee, Gracey follows him, Charlotte and Parker follow Gracey and the chase is on!
The ensuing action may strain the credibility of some readers. It certainly strained mine. A lurid, fantastic story unwinds involving revenge and retribution. When Parker’s mother (who is a Ghigau or “Beloved Woman”) is murdered with a stone hatchet stolen form the Museum of the Cherokees, and the grieving son discovers a cryptic clue written in the Cherokee language (Sequoyah’s syllabery, no less!) the Monroe family descends on Cherokee with a gaggle of FBI agents in hot pursuit.
The investigation does not go well. The hallucinating Gracey ends up in a trailer with Lucy Panther (Jacob’s mother and her father’s old flame), while Parker and Charlotte check into the Holiday Inn. Cherokee seems to be a dreary place, filled with sullen people, doomed elders and sleazy craftshops. However, regardless of how stressful the search for Jacob becomes, the Miami duo has time to occasionally lift their eyes to the fog-shrouded Smokies and marvel at their beauty.
There is a visit to “Unto These Hills,” which is a disappointment, although Charlotte manages to shed a tear at T’sali’s execution. (Apparently, the author saw the pageant before it was “revamped” and T’sali’s martyrdom was edited out.) There is also a visit to a tribal nursing home to interview a tribal elder named Standing Dog, and a bizarre visit to a fanciful institution called Asheville Woman’s College where a mysterious guardian of the tribal rolls keeps the fateful “list” — the names of T’sali’s descendants who are marked for execution.
I won’t give away the final revelation about the assassins; however, I can’t resist mentioning the “killer poodles.” Yes, that’s right. White Poodles. They are a bit over-sized, of course, and have been trained to kill at a signal from their owner who just happens to be the Cherokee Police Chief, a white man and a really sick puppy in his own right ... with an Elvis hairdo. Believe me, this is all just too good to miss.
Promise not to laugh, now.
St. Martin’s Minotaur, 2005. 341 pages.
In recent years an increasing number of writers have been drawn to the tragic history of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians as a kind of literary vehicle. Although the plight of other Native American tribes equals (and often exceeds) the shame and pathos associated with the Cherokee Removal, it is a kind of historic parable — a tale that reveals the hypocrisy beneath the Great American Dream.
James W. Hall, a successful writer of “crime fiction,” normally sets his suspenseful action tales on the Florida sun coast. Best known for his depiction of ruthless psychotics, Hall’s protagonists spend much of their time cruising bars and coastal inlets, alternately trolling for tarpons and ruthless drug dealers. Hall is at his best in familiar territory: sun, sand, sultry vixens, crisp dialogue and tequila in the Green Flash Bar. However, this time out, he opts for the foggy coves of the Great Smoky Mountains and a dark secret that originates with the death of T’sali, the Cherokee martyr.
Instead of Thorn, the aging beachboy, Hall’s protagonist is Charlotte Monroe, a dedicated Miami cop with a phenomenal gift for “reading faces” — the fleeting twitch or facial flicker that telegraphs a suspect’s intentions. Will he cower or attack? As a consequence, the FBI will resort to anything (including blackmail) to acquire Charlotte’s services in tracking down wanted criminals.
However, Charlotte’s life is complicated. She is married to Parker, a highly successful criminal lawyer (think Johnnie Cochran) who believes that everyone deserves a second chance, even if they are guilty. He is also a descendant of a noted Cherokee family. In addition, Parker and Charlotte have a schizophrenic teenage daughter, Gracey, who spends much of her time (when she is off her medication) discussing her future as an actress with Joan Crawford, Stephen Spielberg and Barbara Stanwyck.
Now, to this heady mix, Hall adds an explosive catalyst: a blond-headed Cherokee named Jacob Panther who is on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” list for murder and terrorist activities (blowing up banks) — and who just happens to be Parker’s son, the consequences of a youthful fling at a mountain retreat called Camp T’sali near Cherokee. When Jacob arrives in Miami with a lethal blowgun and a stolen truck, it appears that he has come to kill his father.
Instead he has come to (a) seek his legal advice, and (b) to warn him that his name is “on a list.” The eavesdropping Gracey learns that she has a half-brother. When Charlotte calls the police, Gracey warns Jacob and when he flees back to Cherokee, Gracey follows him, Charlotte and Parker follow Gracey and the chase is on!
The ensuing action may strain the credibility of some readers. It certainly strained mine. A lurid, fantastic story unwinds involving revenge and retribution. When Parker’s mother (who is a Ghigau or “Beloved Woman”) is murdered with a stone hatchet stolen form the Museum of the Cherokees, and the grieving son discovers a cryptic clue written in the Cherokee language (Sequoyah’s syllabery, no less!) the Monroe family descends on Cherokee with a gaggle of FBI agents in hot pursuit.
The investigation does not go well. The hallucinating Gracey ends up in a trailer with Lucy Panther (Jacob’s mother and her father’s old flame), while Parker and Charlotte check into the Holiday Inn. Cherokee seems to be a dreary place, filled with sullen people, doomed elders and sleazy craftshops. However, regardless of how stressful the search for Jacob becomes, the Miami duo has time to occasionally lift their eyes to the fog-shrouded Smokies and marvel at their beauty.
There is a visit to “Unto These Hills,” which is a disappointment, although Charlotte manages to shed a tear at T’sali’s execution. (Apparently, the author saw the pageant before it was “revamped” and T’sali’s martyrdom was edited out.) There is also a visit to a tribal nursing home to interview a tribal elder named Standing Dog, and a bizarre visit to a fanciful institution called Asheville Woman’s College where a mysterious guardian of the tribal rolls keeps the fateful “list” — the names of T’sali’s descendants who are marked for execution.
I won’t give away the final revelation about the assassins; however, I can’t resist mentioning the “killer poodles.” Yes, that’s right. White Poodles. They are a bit over-sized, of course, and have been trained to kill at a signal from their owner who just happens to be the Cherokee Police Chief, a white man and a really sick puppy in his own right ... with an Elvis hairdo. Believe me, this is all just too good to miss.
Promise not to laugh, now.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Gary Carden review of novel by Dr. Ben Eller
Dr. Ben Eller, lives in Cullowhee, NC. He has a distinguished background as an Associate Professor of Psychology at East Tennessee State and Professor of Behavioral Studies at the University of Alabama. Not surprisingly, he has published in the areas of child abuse, autism and educational technology
The Children of Sherlock Holmes by Dr. Ben F. Eller
Raleigh: Pendium Publishing House$14.95 (softcover) – 243 pages
Reading Dr. Eller’s novel, “The Children of Sherlock Holmes" is like passing through a secret door and emerging on a cobbled street in 19th century London – a squalid world that swarms with pickpockets, doxies, beggars and orphans. Eller’s concern is with the latter – the multitudes of hapless children who are forced to labor in what the poet, William Blake called “the satanic mills.” Eller’s novel reflects the author’s penchant for exhaustive research; consequently, many of the passages that depict the underbelly of Victorian England seem to glow with an eerie luminescence.
Such scenes recall theworks of William Hogarth – a painter and social critic who captured the deplorable conditions of the London slums in a series of famous prints with names such as “The Four Stages of Cruelty” and “Industry and Idleness” and “Gin Lane.” Hogarth’s work served as an indictment of an agegiven over to excess. It is especially alarming to note that even though Hogarth depicted London in the 18th century, the same conditions that he deplored still existed a century later. In fact, it had grown steadily worse. Despite the efforts of some of England’s most notable writers and social critics the “child factories” continued to flourish.
As Dr. Eller reveals, the factories were often owned by the wealthy and privileged, many of which were members of Parliament. Frequently, passages in Dr. Eller’s novel become as vivid as a Hogarth print.
“The Children of Sherlock Holmes” takes you inside a “tannery” in which children are trained to kill livestock, process leather and make shoes. They are denied access to the outside world, sleep in filth and are fed in accordance to how hard they work. Not only do they live without sunlight, they are denied a childhood. In such conditions, many wither and die like blighted flowers, while others are sold into prostitution in foreign countries. Under such desperate conditions, these helpless victims need a champion – someone willing to reveal their plight to “the higher courts,” including Parliament, Queen Victoria and God.
Eller’s cast of characters are vividly drawn. Most appealing are Terrence and Murdo, two young boys who are “apprenticed” to an inhuman butcher. This early experience shapes two very different destinies: Terrence feels compelled to relieve suffering and becomes a doctor; Murdo develops a cruel streak and a need to dominate others and becomes the owner of a “child factory.” In addition, the enslaved children are not “faceless victims,” but distinct personalities that are in turn, frightened, devious, trusting and endowed with a will to survive.
Sherlock Holmes retains his traditional character: rational, disturbingly insightful and committed to a need to serve justice. Watson is good-humored, devoted and dependable. Both are flawed and are sometimes at the mercy of their shortcomings. Together, these two old friends venture into a dark, uncharted world filled with terrors and daunting odds.
In conclusion, a few details regarding the author’s background might be enlightening. Dr. Eller, who resides in Cullowhee, NC has a distinguished background that includes an Associate Professor of Psychology at East Tennessee State and Professor of Behavioral Studies at the University of Alabama. Not surprisingly, he has published in the areas of child abuse, autism and educational technology – a background that influenced “The Children of Sherlock Holmes.”
Reading Dr. Eller’s novel, “The Children of Sherlock Holmes" is like passing through a secret door and emerging on a cobbled street in 19th century London – a squalid world that swarms with pickpockets, doxies, beggars and orphans. Eller’s concern is with the latter – the multitudes of hapless children who are forced to labor in what the poet, William Blake called “the satanic mills.” Eller’s novel reflects the author’s penchant for exhaustive research; consequently, many of the passages that depict the underbelly of Victorian England seem to glow with an eerie luminescence.
Such scenes recall theworks of William Hogarth – a painter and social critic who captured the deplorable conditions of the London slums in a series of famous prints with names such as “The Four Stages of Cruelty” and “Industry and Idleness” and “Gin Lane.” Hogarth’s work served as an indictment of an agegiven over to excess. It is especially alarming to note that even though Hogarth depicted London in the 18th century, the same conditions that he deplored still existed a century later. In fact, it had grown steadily worse. Despite the efforts of some of England’s most notable writers and social critics the “child factories” continued to flourish.
As Dr. Eller reveals, the factories were often owned by the wealthy and privileged, many of which were members of Parliament. Frequently, passages in Dr. Eller’s novel become as vivid as a Hogarth print.
“The Children of Sherlock Holmes” takes you inside a “tannery” in which children are trained to kill livestock, process leather and make shoes. They are denied access to the outside world, sleep in filth and are fed in accordance to how hard they work. Not only do they live without sunlight, they are denied a childhood. In such conditions, many wither and die like blighted flowers, while others are sold into prostitution in foreign countries. Under such desperate conditions, these helpless victims need a champion – someone willing to reveal their plight to “the higher courts,” including Parliament, Queen Victoria and God.
Eller’s cast of characters are vividly drawn. Most appealing are Terrence and Murdo, two young boys who are “apprenticed” to an inhuman butcher. This early experience shapes two very different destinies: Terrence feels compelled to relieve suffering and becomes a doctor; Murdo develops a cruel streak and a need to dominate others and becomes the owner of a “child factory.” In addition, the enslaved children are not “faceless victims,” but distinct personalities that are in turn, frightened, devious, trusting and endowed with a will to survive.
Sherlock Holmes retains his traditional character: rational, disturbingly insightful and committed to a need to serve justice. Watson is good-humored, devoted and dependable. Both are flawed and are sometimes at the mercy of their shortcomings. Together, these two old friends venture into a dark, uncharted world filled with terrors and daunting odds.
In conclusion, a few details regarding the author’s background might be enlightening. Dr. Eller, who resides in Cullowhee, NC has a distinguished background that includes an Associate Professor of Psychology at East Tennessee State and Professor of Behavioral Studies at the University of Alabama. Not surprisingly, he has published in the areas of child abuse, autism and educational technology – a background that influenced “The Children of Sherlock Holmes.”
Ben has been an active member of Gary Carden's writers' group for two years. He has two unpublished novels and a screenplay. In addition to his novel which is on Amazon, there is also a scholarly work there that deals with learning disabilities in children. He loves Kurt Vonnegut, breakfast at Ryans and horses.
Ben Eller will be signing his book at City Lights Book Store in Sylva
July 18th. at 7:00.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
First book by Shirley Uphouse, dog show judge and trainer
My Dogs, My Friends written by Shirley Uphouse and published by Lulu Publishing, is now available. She has included in her book, 21 pictures of the many dogs she has lived with from the time she was a baby. Stories include several well-loved mixed breeds both owned and rescued by Shirley. She bred, trained and exhibited her dogs for forty-five years. For the last twenty years she has judged AKC dog shows from the east to the west coast and in Canada. She has judged more than thirty years for the Australian Shepherd Club of America.
Shirley shares some excerpts from the book which include this from the chapter about Molly, One Small Puppy…The air-cargo warehouse at the Atlanta airport was huge and noisy…iron-wheeled carts and the roar of a large machine was heard from somewhere out of sight. I hugged her once more holding her warm body close. With my face buried in her baby fur, I felt her soft tongue on my cheek.
Speaking to the attendant. “She’s just a baby” I said “can’t you put her someplace a little quieter until she goes out to the airplane?”
From Yogi, My Cinderella Dog…How could I let this gallant dog die for the lack of a good grooming? He had lived ten months in a box stable in a barn with no grooming. With mats six to eight inches deep, no one wanted to take him home.
From Tommy…The neighbor told Jim, at the shelter, that Tommy had been beaten with a hoe when he barked. He was the Keeshond that never knew a kind word or a gentle hand, that cringed leaving a wet spot should anyone walk within five feet from him. Tommy’s time at the shelter was up.
From the story when we wanted to check the herding instincts of our young Australian Shepherds…One glorious autumn afternoon we loaded the pups in the van and drove into the mountains in pursuit of the woolies…Suppose they showed no interest in the sheep? Suppose they ran from the flock? Suppose Jack sneered at these worthless show pets? There was no turning back.
Shirley has included several stories of dogs she and her husband rescued and have placed in good homes. Currently she lives with two Australian Shepherds. Books can be ordered from Shirley Uphouse, 316 Ridge Cliff Road, Marble NC 28905, shirl@dnet.net, 828-837-6007. $14.95 includes shipping.
Shirley shares some excerpts from the book which include this from the chapter about Molly, One Small Puppy…The air-cargo warehouse at the Atlanta airport was huge and noisy…iron-wheeled carts and the roar of a large machine was heard from somewhere out of sight. I hugged her once more holding her warm body close. With my face buried in her baby fur, I felt her soft tongue on my cheek.
Speaking to the attendant. “She’s just a baby” I said “can’t you put her someplace a little quieter until she goes out to the airplane?”
From Yogi, My Cinderella Dog…How could I let this gallant dog die for the lack of a good grooming? He had lived ten months in a box stable in a barn with no grooming. With mats six to eight inches deep, no one wanted to take him home.
From Tommy…The neighbor told Jim, at the shelter, that Tommy had been beaten with a hoe when he barked. He was the Keeshond that never knew a kind word or a gentle hand, that cringed leaving a wet spot should anyone walk within five feet from him. Tommy’s time at the shelter was up.
From the story when we wanted to check the herding instincts of our young Australian Shepherds…One glorious autumn afternoon we loaded the pups in the van and drove into the mountains in pursuit of the woolies…Suppose they showed no interest in the sheep? Suppose they ran from the flock? Suppose Jack sneered at these worthless show pets? There was no turning back.
Shirley has included several stories of dogs she and her husband rescued and have placed in good homes. Currently she lives with two Australian Shepherds. Books can be ordered from Shirley Uphouse, 316 Ridge Cliff Road, Marble NC 28905, shirl@dnet.net, 828-837-6007. $14.95 includes shipping.
Hendersonville Writers met with Ed Southern
At lunch, Ed and Glenda Beall met with Lana Hendershott, Susan Snowden, Nancy Purcell and Bob Greenwald to discuss writing in Henderson
County.
Ed Southern, Executive Director for NCWN, gave the Network a face for writers in Henderson, Transylvania, and Haywood Counties at a meeting at the Henderson County Library on June 16.
Everyone appreciated his answering the many questions members and non-members asked about NCWN and his vision for the future.
Some quotes from those attending are " This was a good meeting. Maybe we can have another, maybe quarterly."
It was an excellent way for local writers to meet each other and make plans to form groups, readings and other events in the area.
Nancy Purcell who has been a Netwest Rep in Transylvania country for a couple of years, was delighted to meet possible leaders for Netwest in Henderson County. Her hope is to hold a couple of big writing workshops each year in Brevard and in Hendersonville.
What do you folks in those towns think about that idea?
Just click on comments at the bottom of this post and let us know.
Photos by Barry Beall
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Betty Cloer Wallace's Tuckaseegee Chronicles
After a failed uprising against England in 1745, Scots Highlander exiles
emigrate to America where they operate a trading post and packhorse enterprise among Cherokee Indians. As Mairy MacNeill comes of age, she learns that the Cherokee are not unlike Scottish clans both culturally and spiritually, that war between the Cherokee and English is inevitable, that friendship and loyalty can cross cultural boundaries, and that loving a man, either trader's son Joe Buck Cheatham or Cherokee warrior Otter, can be elusive.
Mairy's Cherokee friends Redwing and Standing Wolf find each other, but
realize that unscrupulous traders and settlers coming into their homeland bring conflict that will forever change their lives and the future of the Cherokee Nation.
Set in the heart of America's first frontier during the early years of the
French and Indian War, TUCKASEEGEE is carefully researched for historical and cultural accuracy.
Betty Cloer Wallace is Macon County Representative for NCWN West.
CHRONICLES - Amazon book page and excerpt (free download of first three chapters) may be accessed at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0011G9Y5E ....... Author's Amazon profile and blog may be accessed at http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A3PTVWHUZKB8R3 ....... Author's e-mail: bettycloerwallace@runbox.com
emigrate to America where they operate a trading post and packhorse enterprise among Cherokee Indians. As Mairy MacNeill comes of age, she learns that the Cherokee are not unlike Scottish clans both culturally and spiritually, that war between the Cherokee and English is inevitable, that friendship and loyalty can cross cultural boundaries, and that loving a man, either trader's son Joe Buck Cheatham or Cherokee warrior Otter, can be elusive.
Mairy's Cherokee friends Redwing and Standing Wolf find each other, but
realize that unscrupulous traders and settlers coming into their homeland bring conflict that will forever change their lives and the future of the Cherokee Nation.
Set in the heart of America's first frontier during the early years of the
French and Indian War, TUCKASEEGEE is carefully researched for historical and cultural accuracy.
Betty Cloer Wallace is Macon County Representative for NCWN West.
CHRONICLES - Amazon book page and excerpt (free download of first three chapters) may be accessed at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0011G9Y5E ....... Author's Amazon profile and blog may be accessed at http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A3PTVWHUZKB8R3 ....... Author's e-mail: bettycloerwallace@runbox.com
Friday, June 20, 2008
Jack Prather's Crime Novel has been accepted
We received this item from Jack Prather of Henderson County, NC.
The Day of The Knights is an epic psychological crime novel of 82,000 words. Book 1 is set in the Northern Italian Alps where a physically savaged boy evolves into a religious fanatic homophobic serial killer who deludes himself into becoming "The Black Knight" with a mission to be "God's Avenger" (whew!), first in Italy and then in the Bronx. A savant with a photographic memory, he is able to seamlessly become an Epicopalian deacon in service to his hated priest brother.
Book 2 introduces a noble inner-city American who becomes a star athlete, then a policeman shot in the line of duty, then a volunteeer firefighter, and lastly an investigative journalist on the killer's trail. Books 1 and 2 delve deeply into the families of the anti-hero and hero to unveil the whys of their development.
In Book 3, the main characters converge in parallel events on 9/11 at Christ Church in the Chelsea Section of NYC, with the protagonist going on to display remarkable heroism at Ground Zero.
The book has been accepted by the publisher of my book, Speaking Up in Poetry & Prose which came out in 2007. It consists of 50 pieces on issues on societal, religious, political and life topics important to 21st-century Americans. It is available at the Carl Sandburg National Historic Site in Flat Rock where my poem, Sandburg Homage, is on display.
http://www.jackjosephprather.com/
828-697-9547
The Day of The Knights is an epic psychological crime novel of 82,000 words. Book 1 is set in the Northern Italian Alps where a physically savaged boy evolves into a religious fanatic homophobic serial killer who deludes himself into becoming "The Black Knight" with a mission to be "God's Avenger" (whew!), first in Italy and then in the Bronx. A savant with a photographic memory, he is able to seamlessly become an Epicopalian deacon in service to his hated priest brother.
Book 2 introduces a noble inner-city American who becomes a star athlete, then a policeman shot in the line of duty, then a volunteeer firefighter, and lastly an investigative journalist on the killer's trail. Books 1 and 2 delve deeply into the families of the anti-hero and hero to unveil the whys of their development.
In Book 3, the main characters converge in parallel events on 9/11 at Christ Church in the Chelsea Section of NYC, with the protagonist going on to display remarkable heroism at Ground Zero.
The book has been accepted by the publisher of my book, Speaking Up in Poetry & Prose which came out in 2007. It consists of 50 pieces on issues on societal, religious, political and life topics important to 21st-century Americans. It is available at the Carl Sandburg National Historic Site in Flat Rock where my poem, Sandburg Homage, is on display.
http://www.jackjosephprather.com/
828-697-9547
Workshop for Becoming a Published Writer
On Saturday, May 17, at the Tri-County Community College, in Murphy, NC, Shirley Uphouse held a one day workshop on steps to becoming a published writer. Twelve attentive and interactive writers attended. Much of what Shirley covered could be found by surfing the net; however she handed out information to make the search a little easier and to expand on that information. Attendees were introduced to the Writer’s Market and its broad variety of publications, presses, and places to submit their work.
“To become a published writer, first one needs be a good writer,” Shirley told the group. She urged the writers to proof-read their work several times and read their work aloud to find unwanted word repetition. She recommended that the students attend writing classes, as many as possible, and to read…a lot.
After lunch, the instructor stressed the importance of publication guidelines - reading and following them explicitly. Shirley discussed the proper form for query and cover letters and for manuscripts. It was noted that the internet is a treasure trove of markets for writers.
Shirley’s work has been published in Smoky Mountain Living, Main Street Rag, The Rambler, the Appalachian Heritage and other magazines and journals. An AKC dog show judge for 20 years, she has published articles in magazines of interest to dog show enthusiasts: Showsight, the Chronicle, and for the last four years, The Australian Shepherd Annual.
Shirley will hold another one day seminar at the Tri-County Community College on September 20, 9:00am – 4:00 pm with brown bag lunch break. $35.00 limited space. Call Continuing Education. 828-835-4313. The seminar: Nuts and Bolts of good writing to polish your work and catch an editor’s attention. Call Shirley Uphouse 828-837-6007 for more information.
“To become a published writer, first one needs be a good writer,” Shirley told the group. She urged the writers to proof-read their work several times and read their work aloud to find unwanted word repetition. She recommended that the students attend writing classes, as many as possible, and to read…a lot.
After lunch, the instructor stressed the importance of publication guidelines - reading and following them explicitly. Shirley discussed the proper form for query and cover letters and for manuscripts. It was noted that the internet is a treasure trove of markets for writers.
Shirley’s work has been published in Smoky Mountain Living, Main Street Rag, The Rambler, the Appalachian Heritage and other magazines and journals. An AKC dog show judge for 20 years, she has published articles in magazines of interest to dog show enthusiasts: Showsight, the Chronicle, and for the last four years, The Australian Shepherd Annual.
Shirley will hold another one day seminar at the Tri-County Community College on September 20, 9:00am – 4:00 pm with brown bag lunch break. $35.00 limited space. Call Continuing Education. 828-835-4313. The seminar: Nuts and Bolts of good writing to polish your work and catch an editor’s attention. Call Shirley Uphouse 828-837-6007 for more information.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The trials of Bodine include getting a bum rap
By Gary Carden
Several years ago, a merchant who operated a kind of novelty store in Bryson City offered to trade some of his unique merchandise for some of my storytelling tapes. Specifically, he offered me a multi-colored, stuffed German shepherd. I was charmed by the big dog, who sat in a corner staring benevolently at the world — he was life-size, chubby and had a quizzical expression that suggested that he had just seen something both puzzling and comical. We made the trade and I hauled my new pet (I had named him Bodine on sight) back to my car, where I finally managed (by turning him upside down) to cram him into the back seat.
Jack, my Jack Russell, who was asleep in the front seat, awoke to discover that the car had been invaded. Snarling and barking, he climbed into the back seat, and bit Bodine several times, tearing hunks of cotton stuffing from his hindquarters. I managed to haul Jack back to the front, but on the journey home he sat backwards, snarling and snapping at Bodine’s defenseless rear.
At home, I placed Bodine on my front porch where he has remained for the past three years. Jack remained suspicious for a while, but finally befriended “Bodie.”
From a distance, this fat shepherd appears to be a vigilant watchdog — a faithful servant devoted to protecting my humble abode. Visitors sometimes approach my front porch timidly, staring at the big mutt’s benign countenance a little nervously until they realize that “Bodie” is both harmless and lifeless. Eventually, Jack began sleeping between Bodie’s front legs, rising only to challenge the passing menace of cars, joggers, visitors and other dogs.
However, the years have not been kind to Bodie. The rains and snows of three winters have bleached his vivid coat: his black spots have become a kind of electric blue, his whites a dingy grey, and his browns are tinged with a pinkish yellow. Yet, he still stares doggedly (Forgive me, but I couldn’t resist that) out at Cherry Street. A few times, strong winds have swept him off the porch and left him under the nearby boxwood. I always retrieve him, brush down his matted coat, clean the spiders out of his ragged ears and return him to his post where he continues to regard Cherry Street with wry amusement.
Now, in view of Bodine’s character, you can imagine my surprise when I learned that he had been accused of murder and mayhem. According to recent reports, Bodine has been seen where he shouldn’t/couldn’t be. Eyewitnesses have given graphic accounts of a “killer dog” who resembles Bodie, and he is stalking the dark woods of Painter Knob ... a slathering beast with demonic eyes who preys on hapless victims: cats, chickens and other dogs.
According to one informed source that has seen the killer dog departing the scene of carnage, “It was a big German shepherd.” Several days later, this witness happened to drive down Cherry Street, and as she passed my house, she saw him. The killer! “There he sat on the porch of that old farm house — the very beast!” The eyewitness returned home and reported her discovery.
There was a general consensus that the concerned citizens needed to talk to the owner of this ravening beast. Me. Returning to Cherry Street, they drove slowly past. Yes, he was still there! They compared notes and discussed the best strategy.
Of course, someone finally mentioned that something wasn’t “quite right” about Bodie. One of the surveillance crew finally said, “Has anyone noticed that ... he never moves? He is always in the same spot and there is something ‘wrong’ with his face ...”
When I became aware of the details of this strange story, I decided that my neighbors’ suspicions were well-founded. I have been unwittingly harboring a killer.
Although some of Bodie’s accusers are beginning to have doubts, I can only say this: “Don’t let that innocent act fool you. I think you have got the killer, dead to rights.” Although the cars have stopped driving slowly by my house, I am eager to see justice done, but I’m not sure how to proceed. Should I take Bodine to the dog pound? Perhaps, we could do a lethal injection at one of the local vets? Whatever his victims decide, I would like to claim Bodine’s remains. I think it is only fitting that even though he is a convicted felon, I feel that his carcass can be rehabilitated. I would like to return him to his post on my porch. I would feel a lot safer knowing that he is watching the traffic out on Cherry Street.
Gary Carden is a storyteller, dramatist, playwright, writer and more who lives in Jackson County, NC.
Visit his blog: www.blogholler.blogspot.com
YOUR POETRY: LET'S HEAR IT
Nancy Simpson is teaching a special poetry writing class at John C. Campbell Folk School July 26 - August 1, 2008.
YOUR POETRY: LET'S HEAR IT.
The focus is how sound is made in free verse poetry. It will be especially helpful to you in the writing of narrative poems and mediative poems. Poetry must be pleasing to the ear, so no matter how free we believe Free Verse is, poetry cannot sound like prose. Learn specific sound related techniques.
How and where to publish will be discussed. A list of markets will be given.
Bring you poetry project and get feedback from the instrctor.
YOUR POETRY : LET'S HEAR IT will be held in the new writing studio at Orchard House and Harvest Room. The new computer lab makes it possible to complete more work than before. Each student has his/her own writing space. Sorry, the class is limited to eight students. Pre register now if you are interested, to be sure to reserve a place. The fee of $430.00 can be cut in half to $215.00 if you live in the folk school area and if you get your name on the list in time. John C. Campbell Folk School,
Brasstown, N.C. 1 800 FOLK-SCH. http://www.folkschool.org/
YOUR POETRY: LET'S HEAR IT.
The focus is how sound is made in free verse poetry. It will be especially helpful to you in the writing of narrative poems and mediative poems. Poetry must be pleasing to the ear, so no matter how free we believe Free Verse is, poetry cannot sound like prose. Learn specific sound related techniques.
How and where to publish will be discussed. A list of markets will be given.
Bring you poetry project and get feedback from the instrctor.
YOUR POETRY : LET'S HEAR IT will be held in the new writing studio at Orchard House and Harvest Room. The new computer lab makes it possible to complete more work than before. Each student has his/her own writing space. Sorry, the class is limited to eight students. Pre register now if you are interested, to be sure to reserve a place. The fee of $430.00 can be cut in half to $215.00 if you live in the folk school area and if you get your name on the list in time. John C. Campbell Folk School,
Brasstown, N.C. 1 800 FOLK-SCH. http://www.folkschool.org/
Monday, June 16, 2008
Thank you, Hendersonville Writers. It was fun meeting many of the Netwest members I've been conversing with by email. Thanks also to Nancy Purcell from Brevard, JC Walkup and John Malone from Haywood county, Gary Carden from Jackson County and Bob Greenwald from Henderson county who shared with our guests.
Today was a good day, not only for me and for NCWN and Netwest, but I know the writers who came, connected with other local writers will find their lives enriched in the future.
As writers we all need community. We need to talk with other writers, share with other writers and bounce ideas off each other. I see the writers in Henderson county coming together in future writing events. Netwest will be there to help make this possible.
Today was a good day, not only for me and for NCWN and Netwest, but I know the writers who came, connected with other local writers will find their lives enriched in the future.
As writers we all need community. We need to talk with other writers, share with other writers and bounce ideas off each other. I see the writers in Henderson county coming together in future writing events. Netwest will be there to help make this possible.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
WRITING FREE VERSE; SOME QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
WRITING FREE VERSE POETRY: Some Questions and Answers
Nancy Simpson, Instructor
When talking with free verse poets, I tread lightly to see if we are on the same page. Many free verse poets believe there is no form in free verse poetry and that there are no rules. I do not agree with that. I believe writers of free verse must follow the essential rules of poetry. Free verse poets have a great amount of freedom, but it is a misconception to think we can write with abandon of rules.
Yes, we must break with traditional verse. We must shun rhyme, but after that, in my opinion, free verse poets must decide carefully which guidelines of poetry they will practice.
Some of the most asked questions from my students.
1) QUESTION: If there are free verse rules, what is number one?
ANSWER: Economy of Words is the first rule of poetry. The second is Use of Diction, choice of words, choosing the best word in regard to correctness. Poets of old followed these essential rules. Free verse poets must follow these rules.
2) QUESTION: Do I have to write in sentences?
ANSWER: Yes. According to the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetics, poetry is written in sentences and lines. Poets of old followed this guideline. Free verse poets must do so. Why? Syntax of Sentence. A sentence has syntax, and it is syntax that gives your words meaning. No meaning, no understanding for your reader.
3) QUESTION: Do I have to punctuate?
ANSWER: No. This is your choice. Once in a while, in the literary magazines, I read poems that has no punctuation. However, it is as if the poem were punctuated and then the poet lifted out the punctuation marks. There is no rule, but caution would say, help the reader all you can. If there were a rule regarding punctuation, it would be: Do not lose your reader.
4) QUESTION: What is the rule for line breaks?
ANSWER: There is no rule. Line breaks are completely your responsibility and your choice. Some free verse poets work in unrhymed meter, some count syllables, some spoon feed the reader one thought on one line and the next bite on the next line. There are no rules, but there are a few guidelines.
A.) End the line with a strong word, not a weak word such as a, and, or the.
B.) Be aware of your one word lines. That one word you want to use will draw attention to itself. It had better be great, for it will provoke questions, and it will slow your reader.
C.) If your line is too wide for a narrow page, it will wrap, and you will lose what ever it was you were trying to accomplish. Editors shun the wide line that wants to wrap.
D.) If there were one rule to line breaks, it would be, work your lines.
5) QUESTION: What if I have a sentence that ends in the middle of the next line? What is the rule?
ANSWER: There is no rule against ending a sentence in the middle of a line. What you have is a caesura, a pause, and you have a golden opportunity. Caesura in a line can be a dreadful mistake, or it can be one of the most brilliant, most sophisticated moves in your free verse poetry. The guideline would be, make that line with the caesura stand alone as a thought. It is comparable to giving your reader a spoonful of something delicious that was not on the menu. You have the first sentence and the second sentence, and in-between you have a line with a period somewhere in it. Words on each side of the period should add up to something in itself. Guard against caesura lines that make no sense.
Post any questions or comments to www.netwestwriters.blogspot.com
Nancy Simpson is the author of two collections of poetry.
She is Resident Writer at John C. Campbell Folk School.
Nancy Simpson, Instructor
When talking with free verse poets, I tread lightly to see if we are on the same page. Many free verse poets believe there is no form in free verse poetry and that there are no rules. I do not agree with that. I believe writers of free verse must follow the essential rules of poetry. Free verse poets have a great amount of freedom, but it is a misconception to think we can write with abandon of rules.
Yes, we must break with traditional verse. We must shun rhyme, but after that, in my opinion, free verse poets must decide carefully which guidelines of poetry they will practice.
Some of the most asked questions from my students.
1) QUESTION: If there are free verse rules, what is number one?
ANSWER: Economy of Words is the first rule of poetry. The second is Use of Diction, choice of words, choosing the best word in regard to correctness. Poets of old followed these essential rules. Free verse poets must follow these rules.
2) QUESTION: Do I have to write in sentences?
ANSWER: Yes. According to the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetics, poetry is written in sentences and lines. Poets of old followed this guideline. Free verse poets must do so. Why? Syntax of Sentence. A sentence has syntax, and it is syntax that gives your words meaning. No meaning, no understanding for your reader.
3) QUESTION: Do I have to punctuate?
ANSWER: No. This is your choice. Once in a while, in the literary magazines, I read poems that has no punctuation. However, it is as if the poem were punctuated and then the poet lifted out the punctuation marks. There is no rule, but caution would say, help the reader all you can. If there were a rule regarding punctuation, it would be: Do not lose your reader.
4) QUESTION: What is the rule for line breaks?
ANSWER: There is no rule. Line breaks are completely your responsibility and your choice. Some free verse poets work in unrhymed meter, some count syllables, some spoon feed the reader one thought on one line and the next bite on the next line. There are no rules, but there are a few guidelines.
A.) End the line with a strong word, not a weak word such as a, and, or the.
B.) Be aware of your one word lines. That one word you want to use will draw attention to itself. It had better be great, for it will provoke questions, and it will slow your reader.
C.) If your line is too wide for a narrow page, it will wrap, and you will lose what ever it was you were trying to accomplish. Editors shun the wide line that wants to wrap.
D.) If there were one rule to line breaks, it would be, work your lines.
5) QUESTION: What if I have a sentence that ends in the middle of the next line? What is the rule?
ANSWER: There is no rule against ending a sentence in the middle of a line. What you have is a caesura, a pause, and you have a golden opportunity. Caesura in a line can be a dreadful mistake, or it can be one of the most brilliant, most sophisticated moves in your free verse poetry. The guideline would be, make that line with the caesura stand alone as a thought. It is comparable to giving your reader a spoonful of something delicious that was not on the menu. You have the first sentence and the second sentence, and in-between you have a line with a period somewhere in it. Words on each side of the period should add up to something in itself. Guard against caesura lines that make no sense.
Post any questions or comments to www.netwestwriters.blogspot.com
Nancy Simpson is the author of two collections of poetry.
She is Resident Writer at John C. Campbell Folk School.
Friday, June 13, 2008
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.
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.
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