Are you a good fund raiser? Some people have the knack and some don't. Netwest is planning another anthology with work by mountain writers who live in the Netwest area. Before we ask for submissions, we must raise money for the printing of the book.
All Reps have been asked to raise $300 in their counties. Haywood County reached their minimum last week. Cherokee County has a commitment for the amount needed. Clay has the designated amount ready for deposit. If you can help with this effort, and your County Rep has not contacted you, please call or email her/him.
If you are not a member of Netwest, but can make a donation or help with this project, contact us. writerlady21@yahoo.com
In 2003, the anthology, Lights in the Mountains, was published through the efforts of volunteers, Shirley Uphouse, Nancy Simpson, Paul Donovan, and many others. Because of these NCWN West members, poems, stories, and essays from 52 mountain writers and poets graced the pages of this lovely book. Mary Ricketson who is now treasurer for Netwest took the photograph for the cover.
Netwest sold out of 1500 copies of Lights in the Mountains. Fred Chappell wrote the introduction, Kathryn Byer shared a poem in the book and wrote a blurb. Ruth Moose helped choose fiction and Steve Harvey chose the essays for the anthology. All of us who were fortunate enough to be included in the book, take great pride in it. Every member of Netwest benefited from the publication and sales of Lights in the Mountain. Those sales have sustained Netwest for seven years. We are sure the next Netwest anthology will do even better. If you are a member of NCWN West, I hope you will help with fund raising in whatever way you can to bring the second book to fruition.
Representatives for Netwest are:
Nancy Purcell in Transylvania County
Lana Hendershott in Henderson County
Betty Cloer Wallace in Macon County]
Gary Carden in Jackson County
Kay Byer in Jackson County
Al Manning and John Malone in Haywood County
Mary Ricketson and Jerry Hobbs in Cherokee County
Our Georgia Reps are Carole Thompson and Robert Kimsey
Our S. C. rep is Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Contact writerlady21@yahoo.com for more information.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Steal This Poem by James Cox
In the daring drunken days of youth
I stole a woman’s virtue and lost mine
I stole time from the interested and made a salary of scorn
I stole sympathy from the concerned and remained broken
I stole the magic wordings of the gods and lost sanity
I stole from the poor and ate a dry crust of cynicism
I stole innocence from children by giving them the world –
The wild panorama of fanatics, destroyers, and lying thieves,
The ubiquitous greed
I lost self-respect
I stole pleasures and borrowed fitful shame and sleeplessness
But when I stole into the labyrinth and found the whirling core
I turned against the world
With a reversing wind
I stole my soul back and became real again
Now, in these older days of slippery stone,
Descending slopes watery with sunlight
I steal wisdom from wise men and become bearded
I steal love from those who still love and still love
I steal the hatred of the worldly and become holy
I steal the heart of my experience to feed poems,
To steal beauty is no crime
I steal loneliness from those hidden away
I steal happiness from the rain of losses
I steal freedom and leave those who would chain to rage
I steal visions from the atmosphere
So, steal this poem, if you please
Put it where you will:
In your heart
In a friendly place
On a printed page
On a wall
In the soul of the world
I dream your satisfaction
But remember, make sure of your direction:
When you steal, think what thieving means;
When you steal from another’s soul you lose
Safety and good luck, self-confidence,
The ease of the spirit in the world.
I stole a woman’s virtue and lost mine
I stole time from the interested and made a salary of scorn
I stole sympathy from the concerned and remained broken
I stole the magic wordings of the gods and lost sanity
I stole from the poor and ate a dry crust of cynicism
I stole innocence from children by giving them the world –
The wild panorama of fanatics, destroyers, and lying thieves,
The ubiquitous greed
I lost self-respect
I stole pleasures and borrowed fitful shame and sleeplessness
But when I stole into the labyrinth and found the whirling core
I turned against the world
With a reversing wind
I stole my soul back and became real again
Now, in these older days of slippery stone,
Descending slopes watery with sunlight
I steal wisdom from wise men and become bearded
I steal love from those who still love and still love
I steal the hatred of the worldly and become holy
I steal the heart of my experience to feed poems,
To steal beauty is no crime
I steal loneliness from those hidden away
I steal happiness from the rain of losses
I steal freedom and leave those who would chain to rage
I steal visions from the atmosphere
So, steal this poem, if you please
Put it where you will:
In your heart
In a friendly place
On a printed page
On a wall
In the soul of the world
I dream your satisfaction
But remember, make sure of your direction:
When you steal, think what thieving means;
When you steal from another’s soul you lose
Safety and good luck, self-confidence,
The ease of the spirit in the world.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Brenda Kay Ledford publishes with Finishing Line Press
LEDFORD PUBLISHES POETRY CHAPBOOK
Brenda Kay Ledford’s poetry chapbook, SACRED FIRE, will be released by Finishing Line Press this September.
A native of Clay County, North Carolina, Ledford earned her Master of Arts in Education from Western Carolina University. She studied Journalism at the University of Tennessee and was creative writing editor of Tri-County Communciator.
She received the Paul Green Multimedia Award for her poetry books, Patchwork Memories and Shew Bird Mountain. Her work has appeared in Our State, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Pembroke Magazine, Old Mountain Press, Appalachian Heritage, Main Street Rag, Asheville Poetry Review, and upcoming in The Reach of Song.
Ledford is a member of North Carolina Storytelling Guild, North Carolina Writer’s Network West, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, Georgia Poetry Society, Appalachian Writer’s Association, and listed with the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.
According to Maureen Ryan Griffin, an award-winning poet and commentator for Charlotte, North Carolina’s NPR station, “A lovely offering indeed is Brenda Kay Ledford’s SACRED FIRE. It pays homage to her Cherokee, Scots-Irish ancestors, and the Appalachian Mountains she calls home. Despite the pain and desolation present in this patchwork of Appalachian moments, SACRED FIRE is in the end an uplifting book, filled with beautiful images lovingly rendered.”
The cover of Ledford’s book is a beautiful image of Hayesville’s historic courthouse framed by flaming maples. Ledford took the picture that received an award in the Georgia Mountain Fair Photography Show last year.
To order Ledford’s book, send $14.00 to: Finishing Line Press; PO Box 1626; Georgetown, KY 40324.
You may also order online at: http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ and click on “New Releases.”
Brenda Kay Ledford’s poetry chapbook, SACRED FIRE, will be released by Finishing Line Press this September.
A native of Clay County, North Carolina, Ledford earned her Master of Arts in Education from Western Carolina University. She studied Journalism at the University of Tennessee and was creative writing editor of Tri-County Communciator.
She received the Paul Green Multimedia Award for her poetry books, Patchwork Memories and Shew Bird Mountain. Her work has appeared in Our State, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Pembroke Magazine, Old Mountain Press, Appalachian Heritage, Main Street Rag, Asheville Poetry Review, and upcoming in The Reach of Song.
Ledford is a member of North Carolina Storytelling Guild, North Carolina Writer’s Network West, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, Georgia Poetry Society, Appalachian Writer’s Association, and listed with the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.
According to Maureen Ryan Griffin, an award-winning poet and commentator for Charlotte, North Carolina’s NPR station, “A lovely offering indeed is Brenda Kay Ledford’s SACRED FIRE. It pays homage to her Cherokee, Scots-Irish ancestors, and the Appalachian Mountains she calls home. Despite the pain and desolation present in this patchwork of Appalachian moments, SACRED FIRE is in the end an uplifting book, filled with beautiful images lovingly rendered.”
The cover of Ledford’s book is a beautiful image of Hayesville’s historic courthouse framed by flaming maples. Ledford took the picture that received an award in the Georgia Mountain Fair Photography Show last year.
To order Ledford’s book, send $14.00 to: Finishing Line Press; PO Box 1626; Georgetown, KY 40324.
You may also order online at: http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ and click on “New Releases.”
Tad, Jessica, Kathryn, Rebecca, Lynne, Lois, Paul and Pat at JCCFS
Tad,+Jessica,+Katherine,+Rebecca,+Lynne.jpg)
Lois Bertram to the right in photo.Left: back row: Tad, Jessica, Kathryn, Rebecca, Lynne,
Front: Glenda, Lois, Paul and Pat
In March of 2008, eight students ranging in age from 25 to 66 plus, met each other for the first time in the new writing lab at JCCFS. I had expected older people to come to my class on writing your life stories, but to my surprise three of the students were young women 25 to 35 years old. I called them the young ones. Lois Bertram refers to them as The Girls in her essay below. To my surprise this class quickly bonded, and the older women and "The Girls" melded into a tight group with deep respect for each other. Paul and Tad, both men retired from successful careers, seemed to feel the same affection for the young women. Tad plans to write about "The Guys". All have kept in touch and shared writing by email for the past four months. Lois sent her essay for critique and I asked if I might share it with readers of this blog.
The Girls
Sixty-six years just flew by. How did I get to be so old – so fast? That reflection and question brought me to the realization that “this” was it: there would be no more “as soon as”. It was both a depressing thought and a liberating one. If “this” was it, what did I have to lose now? What had I not done because of so many foolish rules about failing or looking foolish or doing something non-productive – God forbid? What had I missed by following those rules? My creative soul had not been fed, I reasoned, that’s what I needed – to feed my creative soul.
The Girls
Sixty-six years just flew by. How did I get to be so old – so fast? That reflection and question brought me to the realization that “this” was it: there would be no more “as soon as”. It was both a depressing thought and a liberating one. If “this” was it, what did I have to lose now? What had I not done because of so many foolish rules about failing or looking foolish or doing something non-productive – God forbid? What had I missed by following those rules? My creative soul had not been fed, I reasoned, that’s what I needed – to feed my creative soul.
I dabbled in various endeavors drawing, painting, photography but they were just appetizers. I wanted more. Then in North Carolina I found my entrée…writing. Your Life - Your Stories to be precise. Perhaps it was the timing - I needed to be sixty-six to understand my life in perspective and if I didn’t do it now - there was no “as soon as” any longer. For whatever reason or for all of them, here I was in a class of 8, a knowledgeable teacher and a beautiful environment.
As we met one another that first morning, I’m sure we all made assumptions and wondered if we would work well together. Our guard was up. Of the 8, two were men and I thought it great - to get a man’s perspective – life having already taught me that a man’s point of view would be different. But I questioned the three girls. If I thought anything in particular about their presence it was that they were so young to be writing about their lives. After all, you had to live it to write it…right?
Settling into our writing lab, our instructor Glenda, gave us our first assignment to write about some memento that we had brought with us. With little talk and heads down we began. Writing about the snapshot that I had brought was cathartic as I set down my deepest emotions on paper. It opened old wounds. It felt good, I thought, in re-reading what I had written but that was quickly changed as Glenda asked us to read them aloud to all the class. I had not anticipated this and I struggled to say aloud to strangers my painful private thoughts. The character of my classmates became instantly known as they created a safe haven for me with their patience and gentle attitude.
The girls impressed me as they each read their stories. All well educated, they wrote well, but it was the subjects and how they handled them – Kat’s sense of humor, Rebecca’s family memories and Jessica’s story of her father, which hinted at more. Perhaps these girls had lived more life than I would have thought or at least they recognized their lives in a way I hadn’t at that age. I seemed to have surged through my life. They appeared to have noticed theirs.
Days passed, and as we were given more prompts, read aloud, critiqued each other I found myself explaining to them my words and the past. It became obvious to me that one of life’s mysteries was being solved as I listened: How was the world going to survive with today’s young people in charge? Youth seemed to be so into themselves, didn’t take their jobs seriously, breaking rules, couldn’t count change! If they took over, the world would implode! For whatever reason, perhaps the setting and being so tuned in to really listening to the words and what was behind them, I began to see that it was no longer my world but theirs…it had already happened. I was free to enjoy what was left of my life; it was now their watch.
We had listed in class, world changing events in our lives, and they were missing wars, depression/recessions, Civil Rights, Watergate, Wounded Knee – even the atomic bomb! I worried, would they be able to lead without those lessons? The answer was yes, but in their own way and hopefully better. They seem to roll with life easier than we did. Rules are challenged, and their priorities seem different. And honestly, looking back at our world events list, it occurs to me that we didn’t do so well after all.
Free-spirited Rebecca who sees the world so unencumbered with “old people’s rules” anticipates the possibility, not the fear for what is to come, is in charge. Jessica, who was assigned to a prison for her first position, overcame her fear, discovered her strength and now leads others to a better life. And Kat, the young pastor who recognizes that old rules aren’t necessarily good rules, that goodness is better than righteousness, leads youth to a true understanding of “love one another”.
Today, I’m writing with the knowledge that I don’t have to please anyone and living an enlightened life with the knowledge that “the girls” and all like them are in charge. I wish them well.
Lois Bertram
29 June 2008
Glenda Barrett Publishes Poetry Chapbook
By Brenda Kay Ledford
Like peeling an apple and slicing it, Glenda Barrett gets to the core in her poetry chapbook, WHEN THE SAP RISES. Finishing Line Press in Georgetown, KY published the book.
Barrett describes with her Southern voice hardships, heartaches, health issues, family, farming and fishing. She writes the way she lives—unpretentious. There’s a reverence for the land and her ancestors. She says in her poem, “Echoes”:
…I can follow in the footsteps
of my ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge Mountains.
“I was born here, and I’ll die here!”
Her ancestors worked hard on the farm to feed their family. They hoed the fields in the hot sun, but loved the land. In the poem, “Southern Soil,” they proudly said, “I own this land all the way to the top of the mountain. I’ll not sell one piece of this land the longest day that I live.”
A native of Hiawassee, Georgia, Barrett recalls hoeing the cornfield as a teenager. In her imagination, she can still hear the sharp click of her hoe hitting the hard, stony ground.
Her father was a farmer. He plowed gardens for neighbors, didn’t charge a dime. When Barrett sees corn ripening and bales of hay scattered across a pasture, she thinks of him.
Barrett has fond memories of her grandma. They fished together, had picnics of Vienna Sausage and soda crackers. She recalls walking barefoot as a girl over the dirt road to her grandmother’s house. It was a place filled with unconditional love.
It’s no wonder Barrett dedicated her poetry chapbook to her grandmother, Hattie Foster. She told Barrett wonderful stories and inspired her to become a writer.
The title of her book, WHEN THE SAP RISES, came from her grandmother’s sayings. She predicted the weather by observing nature. Barrett writes in her poem, “When the Sap Rises”:
... “See those thick corn shucks.
We can be on the lookout
for a rough winter.”
One day when I visited, she said,
“In the spring of the year, when the sap
rises is a hard time for sick folks,
another time is in the fall,
when the sap goes down.”
The sap seems to rise on the cover of Barrett’s poetry chapbook. She painted an old-time house including a rock chimney, tin roof, a giant tree in the yard, a front porch, and greens in the garden. A dirt road circles the farmhouse and merges with a lavender sunset over the misty mountains. It’s serene and flows with an undercurrent of faith.
Barrett took an oil painting class at Young Harris College and received an Associate of Arts Degree in 1969. She’s painted over thirty years and her art is displayed on the online art gallery, Yessy.com.
She also studied at North Georgia College and took creative writing under Nancy Simpson at Tri-County Community College. Barrett worked twenty years in the health care profession before she developed a neuromuscular disease.
The doctors echoed words like heredity and genetics before giving her the diagnosis. “At times, I am silent, stare into space, and retreat to a place no one else can go,” she says in her poem, “Family Ties”. It’s a place where she no longer wonders what her father thought.
Her poem, “Kindred Spirit,” describes a cardinal at the feeder. Barrett feels a deep connection with the bird because it is blind in one eye. She expresses her health issues in this verse:
…A feeling of knowing,
no matter what happens,
there will always be hope
and endless possibilities.
The moisture from my breath
leaves a circle on the windowpane,
and I watch from my scooter,
until the cardinal flies out of sight.
Barrett is recovering from a recent surgery on her foot. She’s in a scooter now, but hopes to walk soon. She finds comfort in her family and talking with friends on the telephone. She also enjoys reading and crafting poetry.
A member of North Carolina Writers’ Network-West, Barrett’s work has appeared in many magazines and five anthologies. Her poetry has been published in Kaleidoscope, Nostalgia, Wellspring, Hard Row to Hoe, Living with Loss Magazine, A Time of Singing, Mindprints Journal, Wordgathering Journal, Farming Magazine, Artists Against Domestic Violence, and Nantahala Review. She has poetry upcoming in Breath and Shadow.
According to Nancy Simpson, “Glenda Barrett gives us the most authentic Appalachian voice to rise out of the southern mountains in years. Whether she is eating an apple with a knife or if she is knee deep fishing in Owl Creek, here is a woman who is as immersed in her environment as in her daily existence. Barrett’s concerns for family and heritage go beyond what happened, for her poems celebrate life, transcend sorrow, and show the reader what was learned.”
Barrett’s books are available locally at Mary Ann’s Restaurant in Young Harris, Georgia. You may also order online at: http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ .
Like peeling an apple and slicing it, Glenda Barrett gets to the core in her poetry chapbook, WHEN THE SAP RISES. Finishing Line Press in Georgetown, KY published the book.
Barrett describes with her Southern voice hardships, heartaches, health issues, family, farming and fishing. She writes the way she lives—unpretentious. There’s a reverence for the land and her ancestors. She says in her poem, “Echoes”:
…I can follow in the footsteps
of my ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge Mountains.
“I was born here, and I’ll die here!”
Her ancestors worked hard on the farm to feed their family. They hoed the fields in the hot sun, but loved the land. In the poem, “Southern Soil,” they proudly said, “I own this land all the way to the top of the mountain. I’ll not sell one piece of this land the longest day that I live.”
A native of Hiawassee, Georgia, Barrett recalls hoeing the cornfield as a teenager. In her imagination, she can still hear the sharp click of her hoe hitting the hard, stony ground.
Her father was a farmer. He plowed gardens for neighbors, didn’t charge a dime. When Barrett sees corn ripening and bales of hay scattered across a pasture, she thinks of him.
Barrett has fond memories of her grandma. They fished together, had picnics of Vienna Sausage and soda crackers. She recalls walking barefoot as a girl over the dirt road to her grandmother’s house. It was a place filled with unconditional love.
It’s no wonder Barrett dedicated her poetry chapbook to her grandmother, Hattie Foster. She told Barrett wonderful stories and inspired her to become a writer.
The title of her book, WHEN THE SAP RISES, came from her grandmother’s sayings. She predicted the weather by observing nature. Barrett writes in her poem, “When the Sap Rises”:
... “See those thick corn shucks.
We can be on the lookout
for a rough winter.”
One day when I visited, she said,
“In the spring of the year, when the sap
rises is a hard time for sick folks,
another time is in the fall,
when the sap goes down.”
The sap seems to rise on the cover of Barrett’s poetry chapbook. She painted an old-time house including a rock chimney, tin roof, a giant tree in the yard, a front porch, and greens in the garden. A dirt road circles the farmhouse and merges with a lavender sunset over the misty mountains. It’s serene and flows with an undercurrent of faith.
Barrett took an oil painting class at Young Harris College and received an Associate of Arts Degree in 1969. She’s painted over thirty years and her art is displayed on the online art gallery, Yessy.com.
She also studied at North Georgia College and took creative writing under Nancy Simpson at Tri-County Community College. Barrett worked twenty years in the health care profession before she developed a neuromuscular disease.
The doctors echoed words like heredity and genetics before giving her the diagnosis. “At times, I am silent, stare into space, and retreat to a place no one else can go,” she says in her poem, “Family Ties”. It’s a place where she no longer wonders what her father thought.
Her poem, “Kindred Spirit,” describes a cardinal at the feeder. Barrett feels a deep connection with the bird because it is blind in one eye. She expresses her health issues in this verse:
…A feeling of knowing,
no matter what happens,
there will always be hope
and endless possibilities.
The moisture from my breath
leaves a circle on the windowpane,
and I watch from my scooter,
until the cardinal flies out of sight.
Barrett is recovering from a recent surgery on her foot. She’s in a scooter now, but hopes to walk soon. She finds comfort in her family and talking with friends on the telephone. She also enjoys reading and crafting poetry.
A member of North Carolina Writers’ Network-West, Barrett’s work has appeared in many magazines and five anthologies. Her poetry has been published in Kaleidoscope, Nostalgia, Wellspring, Hard Row to Hoe, Living with Loss Magazine, A Time of Singing, Mindprints Journal, Wordgathering Journal, Farming Magazine, Artists Against Domestic Violence, and Nantahala Review. She has poetry upcoming in Breath and Shadow.
According to Nancy Simpson, “Glenda Barrett gives us the most authentic Appalachian voice to rise out of the southern mountains in years. Whether she is eating an apple with a knife or if she is knee deep fishing in Owl Creek, here is a woman who is as immersed in her environment as in her daily existence. Barrett’s concerns for family and heritage go beyond what happened, for her poems celebrate life, transcend sorrow, and show the reader what was learned.”
Barrett’s books are available locally at Mary Ann’s Restaurant in Young Harris, Georgia. You may also order online at: http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ .
This article first appeared in the Smoky Mountain Sentinel newspaper.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
TRANSYLVANIA WRITERS ALLIANCE
Transylvania Writers Alliance,
Brevard, North Carolina
All meetings will be held on the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of each month 3:00PM-5:00PM
Brevard-Davidson River Presbyterian Church (Education Bldg-Parking in back)
300 E. Main Street, Brevard, NC 28712
Welcome poetry and prose materials for reading and critiques. Contact:
Wayne Drumheller
260 Frank's Coved Road
Brevard, NC 28712
Phone 704-287-9806 cell
Phone 828-877-5133 home office
Email mystory@citcom.net
Email wd2999@yahoo.com
Brevard, North Carolina
All meetings will be held on the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of each month 3:00PM-5:00PM
Brevard-Davidson River Presbyterian Church (Education Bldg-Parking in back)
300 E. Main Street, Brevard, NC 28712
Welcome poetry and prose materials for reading and critiques. Contact:
Wayne Drumheller
260 Frank's Coved Road
Brevard, NC 28712
Phone 704-287-9806 cell
Phone 828-877-5133 home office
Email mystory@citcom.net
Email wd2999@yahoo.com
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
An exerpt from my book, My Dogs, My Friends
Mandy
Some might say I stole her.
She was tied to a small tree that offered no shade from the blistering hot Florida sun. Day after day she was there in the small hole she had dug for herself in the sand. She may have had water, but I saw no dish. I called Animal Control. They said they’d stop by if they had time. One afternoon, after locking up our flower shop, she stood in the parking lot dragging a rope chewed through.
“Come on, honey, you’re going home with me,” I said as I whisked her to the van. She quickly jumped in. I hoped no one had seen me. On the way home I spoke quietly to her. She came forward and laid her head on my leg.
“Hey, girl, so you wanted to get out of there, right? Well you have and you won’t go back. That’s a promise.”
Some might say I stole her.
She was tied to a small tree that offered no shade from the blistering hot Florida sun. Day after day she was there in the small hole she had dug for herself in the sand. She may have had water, but I saw no dish. I called Animal Control. They said they’d stop by if they had time. One afternoon, after locking up our flower shop, she stood in the parking lot dragging a rope chewed through.
“Come on, honey, you’re going home with me,” I said as I whisked her to the van. She quickly jumped in. I hoped no one had seen me. On the way home I spoke quietly to her. She came forward and laid her head on my leg.
“Hey, girl, so you wanted to get out of there, right? Well you have and you won’t go back. That’s a promise.”
Jackson County Poetry
Greetings and salutations,
I am a long-standing member of the Haywood County Poetry Society though I live in Jackson County ...and recently attended a poetry reading down in Hayesville (Coffee with the poets). I have been interested in a local poetry group for some time. Glenda Beall of NetWest Writers suggested contacting local poets regarding a Jackson County Poetry group. A good idea!
One model for a group that is very successful is to have one meeting devoted to learning (presentation of famous poet, essay on poetry, workshop exercises) and alternate with a meeting in which original poetry can be read by members and feedback given. (plan or material for a meeting would be decided or passed out at the prior meeting). Simply reading is fun but reading in a learning environment is far better.
I hope all of you will be interested in forming a Jackson County poetry group. There are a number of good places to meet. I am happy to act as an organizer and welcome your ideas and suggestions regarding a poetry group.
Please let me know what you think.
James Cox email: the4winds@verizon.net
I am a long-standing member of the Haywood County Poetry Society though I live in Jackson County ...and recently attended a poetry reading down in Hayesville (Coffee with the poets). I have been interested in a local poetry group for some time. Glenda Beall of NetWest Writers suggested contacting local poets regarding a Jackson County Poetry group. A good idea!
One model for a group that is very successful is to have one meeting devoted to learning (presentation of famous poet, essay on poetry, workshop exercises) and alternate with a meeting in which original poetry can be read by members and feedback given. (plan or material for a meeting would be decided or passed out at the prior meeting). Simply reading is fun but reading in a learning environment is far better.
I hope all of you will be interested in forming a Jackson County poetry group. There are a number of good places to meet. I am happy to act as an organizer and welcome your ideas and suggestions regarding a poetry group.
Please let me know what you think.
James Cox email: the4winds@verizon.net
From China With Love
By JC Walkup
Photo: Polly McDowell and her adoped granddaughter, Mia
Lorraine and Steve Griffith of Asheville had an empty nest. Echos of their departed brood didn’t fill their hearts and they couldn’t put their arms around memories. The Lost Daughters of China, a book by Karin Evans, started them on a journey to end their emptiness. Girl babies in China are viewed as burdens not as blessings.
“For parents, having a son was simply the age-old Chinese version of a modern social security system.” –The Lost Daughters of China” by Karin Evans. This social attitude coupled with the government policy of limiting families to two children each implemented in 1980 resulted in baby girls available for adoption by the thousands. One of those, Tian Michelle-Meng, would fill the hole in the Griffith’s life.
It was eleven months from the time they made the first application until they were handed their beautiful baby girl in Kunming, China.
Polly McDowell of Waynesville says that her son, Patrick’s and daughter-in-law, Sherri’s adoption experience was similar to Steve and Loraine’s. Polly is the grandmother of a lovely, bright seven and a half year old Chinese girl named Mia Katherine McDowell. “Being a grandmother is a matter of the heart, not of biology,” says Polly. Sherri heard about the plight of China’s girls from her co-workers at Mission Hospital in Asheville who also went through the adoption process. Polly feels that there has been a tug all her life toward things Chinese. At six years old her mother took her to Asheville to a movie theatre where they had balcony seats. Because a cousin once told her that if you dig deep enough, you will reach China, she looked at all the people below the balcony and thought they must be in China. That thread of interest in things Chinese grew with her into adulthood. Her house holds many things Chinese that she has gathered throughout her life. When her son announced that they were adopting a girl from China, Polly’s first thought was, “I’ll be a Chinese grandmother!”
The hurdles to application, interviews, fees and final certifications were hurdles cleared one by tedious one. A snag for Steve and Loraine was his occupation as ‘writer’. His visa was red flagged and the Chinese government stopped the creeping progression toward adoption. Eventually, they were able to reach a compromise. After he agreed to sign an agreement not to write about his experiences in China, officialdom allowed the process to restart. Two weeks before their planned departure date, they were informed that in addition to the thousands in fees already paid, they would need an additional $3,000.00 in ‘gift’ and travel money! Steve sold his CD collection to friends as one of the ways they met this unexpected requirement.
Loraine, Steve’s wife, kept a ‘blog’ – an online diary of their experiences to share with friends. Through pictures and words she showed the beauty of China and the build up of excitement toward the moment they had Tian in their arms through the journey home and of their adjustments to each other. The Griffiths traveled for 24 hours with three other couples to the city of Kunming to complete the adoption process. They were delivered to their hotel and told they had an hour to recover from their jet lag and freshen up before the arrival of their baby. Dream- about-to-be-reality charged them with adrenalin. In just over an hour eleven month old Tian was in their arms. There she became Steve and Loraine’s daughter but she was not yet an American citizen. For that they flew to Guangzhou for a swearing in ceremony in the American Consulate that made her an American citizen.
The process has changed significantly in the past five years. When Karin Evans wrote her book about the adoptions of thousands of China’s daughters, the prospective parents did not always receive even pictures of the child. Vital statistics were often sketchy. The time from application to receiving the daughter chosen by the Chinese adoption agency was about two years, now it is one year or less. Unchanged are the costs, the extensive interviews and careful scrutiny used to match children to parents. The identity and background of birth parents is still not available.
Severe overpopulation drove the government to enforce a law passed in 1980 against more than two children per household. Heavy fines are imposed on parents who break the law. Because children traditionally support their elders, the desire is for a son who can provide better care for his mother and father in their old age. This attitude is not as pervasive in the cities now, but in the countryside it is still prevalent. Ironically, there are legal penalties as well as social censures for abandoning unwanted baby girls. Loraine Griffith prefers the term ‘exposure’ to abandonment since it connotes knowledge in the mother that the baby will be found and cared. Commonly, the babies are left close to busy intersections. An ad in the newspaper is run for three months before the baby is officially available for adoption. Steve and Loraine actually saw the ad place for Tian. They explained to their facilitator that they wanted to locate the spot where Tian was exposed. It was a busy area. Lorrraine says of it, “Our daughter was found at the gate of a poor, impoverished neighborhood….It was such a busy place. She wasn’t hidden; she was left to be found…It was this visit to the finding place that made the whole life story of Tian real to me. She didn’t begin at the civil affairs office on ‘gotcha day’. Tian’s story began on February 15 (2004) when she was born and then left to be found…I am so thankful that God knew where she was that February day and that He knew where we were in the adoption process and then He finished the work on our Forever Family day, January 26th, 2005.”
In the same book Mrs. Evans points out that the suicide rate among Chinese women is the highest in the world. Their position in society is still not on a par with Western women but it is improving. Someday the Chinese may come to regret their liberal foreign adoption policies. On the other hand, there are many beloved daughters there but few receive the education and opportunities that boys are offered. Susan Lantis from Alabama accepted a position as an English instructor at the university level in China. She said in a phone interview that her classes were comprised of mostly males, but that the few girls who were there were bright and worked at high levels.
How do the Chinese people feel about American adoptions of their daughters? Lorraine noticed that people stared and talked about them wherever they went so asked that question of their Chinese facilitator, Xiu Lan, who answered, “…There is great shame in abandoning your child and most people cannot understand why people would do it. This is our shame, but the children are so beautiful the people can’t stop looking. And the people are extremely happy that the exposed babies will have a good life.”
In a country where women were not permitted to own property until 1950 and many thousands can still remember the Cultural Revolution that dislocated many families and produced a generation that never saw the inside of a classroom, there will be progress for those exposed to foreign lands and different attitudes. Only time will tell what the influence these adopted children will have on their home country.
JC Walkup is an active published writer who lives in Canton, NC. Her articles and short stories have appeared in numerous newspapers and magazines. She is a member of Mountain Writers in Waynesville, NC
Lorraine and Steve Griffith of Asheville had an empty nest. Echos of their departed brood didn’t fill their hearts and they couldn’t put their arms around memories. The Lost Daughters of China, a book by Karin Evans, started them on a journey to end their emptiness. Girl babies in China are viewed as burdens not as blessings.
“For parents, having a son was simply the age-old Chinese version of a modern social security system.” –The Lost Daughters of China” by Karin Evans. This social attitude coupled with the government policy of limiting families to two children each implemented in 1980 resulted in baby girls available for adoption by the thousands. One of those, Tian Michelle-Meng, would fill the hole in the Griffith’s life.
It was eleven months from the time they made the first application until they were handed their beautiful baby girl in Kunming, China.
Polly McDowell of Waynesville says that her son, Patrick’s and daughter-in-law, Sherri’s adoption experience was similar to Steve and Loraine’s. Polly is the grandmother of a lovely, bright seven and a half year old Chinese girl named Mia Katherine McDowell. “Being a grandmother is a matter of the heart, not of biology,” says Polly. Sherri heard about the plight of China’s girls from her co-workers at Mission Hospital in Asheville who also went through the adoption process. Polly feels that there has been a tug all her life toward things Chinese. At six years old her mother took her to Asheville to a movie theatre where they had balcony seats. Because a cousin once told her that if you dig deep enough, you will reach China, she looked at all the people below the balcony and thought they must be in China. That thread of interest in things Chinese grew with her into adulthood. Her house holds many things Chinese that she has gathered throughout her life. When her son announced that they were adopting a girl from China, Polly’s first thought was, “I’ll be a Chinese grandmother!”
The hurdles to application, interviews, fees and final certifications were hurdles cleared one by tedious one. A snag for Steve and Loraine was his occupation as ‘writer’. His visa was red flagged and the Chinese government stopped the creeping progression toward adoption. Eventually, they were able to reach a compromise. After he agreed to sign an agreement not to write about his experiences in China, officialdom allowed the process to restart. Two weeks before their planned departure date, they were informed that in addition to the thousands in fees already paid, they would need an additional $3,000.00 in ‘gift’ and travel money! Steve sold his CD collection to friends as one of the ways they met this unexpected requirement.
Loraine, Steve’s wife, kept a ‘blog’ – an online diary of their experiences to share with friends. Through pictures and words she showed the beauty of China and the build up of excitement toward the moment they had Tian in their arms through the journey home and of their adjustments to each other. The Griffiths traveled for 24 hours with three other couples to the city of Kunming to complete the adoption process. They were delivered to their hotel and told they had an hour to recover from their jet lag and freshen up before the arrival of their baby. Dream- about-to-be-reality charged them with adrenalin. In just over an hour eleven month old Tian was in their arms. There she became Steve and Loraine’s daughter but she was not yet an American citizen. For that they flew to Guangzhou for a swearing in ceremony in the American Consulate that made her an American citizen.
The process has changed significantly in the past five years. When Karin Evans wrote her book about the adoptions of thousands of China’s daughters, the prospective parents did not always receive even pictures of the child. Vital statistics were often sketchy. The time from application to receiving the daughter chosen by the Chinese adoption agency was about two years, now it is one year or less. Unchanged are the costs, the extensive interviews and careful scrutiny used to match children to parents. The identity and background of birth parents is still not available.
Severe overpopulation drove the government to enforce a law passed in 1980 against more than two children per household. Heavy fines are imposed on parents who break the law. Because children traditionally support their elders, the desire is for a son who can provide better care for his mother and father in their old age. This attitude is not as pervasive in the cities now, but in the countryside it is still prevalent. Ironically, there are legal penalties as well as social censures for abandoning unwanted baby girls. Loraine Griffith prefers the term ‘exposure’ to abandonment since it connotes knowledge in the mother that the baby will be found and cared. Commonly, the babies are left close to busy intersections. An ad in the newspaper is run for three months before the baby is officially available for adoption. Steve and Loraine actually saw the ad place for Tian. They explained to their facilitator that they wanted to locate the spot where Tian was exposed. It was a busy area. Lorrraine says of it, “Our daughter was found at the gate of a poor, impoverished neighborhood….It was such a busy place. She wasn’t hidden; she was left to be found…It was this visit to the finding place that made the whole life story of Tian real to me. She didn’t begin at the civil affairs office on ‘gotcha day’. Tian’s story began on February 15 (2004) when she was born and then left to be found…I am so thankful that God knew where she was that February day and that He knew where we were in the adoption process and then He finished the work on our Forever Family day, January 26th, 2005.”
In the same book Mrs. Evans points out that the suicide rate among Chinese women is the highest in the world. Their position in society is still not on a par with Western women but it is improving. Someday the Chinese may come to regret their liberal foreign adoption policies. On the other hand, there are many beloved daughters there but few receive the education and opportunities that boys are offered. Susan Lantis from Alabama accepted a position as an English instructor at the university level in China. She said in a phone interview that her classes were comprised of mostly males, but that the few girls who were there were bright and worked at high levels.
How do the Chinese people feel about American adoptions of their daughters? Lorraine noticed that people stared and talked about them wherever they went so asked that question of their Chinese facilitator, Xiu Lan, who answered, “…There is great shame in abandoning your child and most people cannot understand why people would do it. This is our shame, but the children are so beautiful the people can’t stop looking. And the people are extremely happy that the exposed babies will have a good life.”
In a country where women were not permitted to own property until 1950 and many thousands can still remember the Cultural Revolution that dislocated many families and produced a generation that never saw the inside of a classroom, there will be progress for those exposed to foreign lands and different attitudes. Only time will tell what the influence these adopted children will have on their home country.
JC Walkup is an active published writer who lives in Canton, NC. Her articles and short stories have appeared in numerous newspapers and magazines. She is a member of Mountain Writers in Waynesville, NC
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Netwest Member, Mary Jo Dyre, named to Board of Candy Maier Scholarship Fund
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.
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.
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
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