Sad Times in Many Lives

Much to our relief, the gnats are no longer a huge problem at our house although a few can still be seen.  The orange and yellow leaves have mostly fallen, and the remaining leaves are mostly dull and brown.  But infrequently a bright red maple will still show up in someone’s yard.  There are two in Ken and Barbara Davis’ yard over on Sarahville Road, and I look forward to seeing these beautiful trees on the way to church in the morning.  Beauty is so necessary right now with so much sadness in our land.

Katherine seems somewhat stronger now and is gradually getting a fine fall staff in place.  I have spent more time there at her house during the transition from the college girls who cared for her last summer followed by her hospitalization. I will still be on call for subbing even though I cannot really do the needed work lifting her. One thing I have learned is that I am a very poor nurse.

In the third and fourth grade (when we were not fighting), my best friend Bobbie Jo and I used to talk about wanting to be a doctor.  I loved the play doctor’s kit I received for Christmas. Bobbie Jo and I were not sure women were doctors, so we said we wanted to do a doctor’s work but be called a nurse like her mother. Later after she moved away, I learned women could be doctors, and that was my ambition through grade school. My father was very encouraging, and I do not remember anyone being discouraging. 

By high school, however, I changed my mind because I was not sure I could be a doctor and also have the family I wanted. (I was always captivated by dolls and played with them way past my girl friends’ tolerance.)  Today I do not doubt that women can be very good doctors and good mothers at the same time.

Yet now I also recognize that I would not have been able to survive the difficult science and math curriculum that medicine would have required.  So I think it all worked out well that I became a homemaker and a sometime teacher and writer.  Yet I still hold those with medical knowledge in great respect—actually in awe--that they could know so much about the human body and the multitude of illnesses and problems that can damage it. 

Now I have also learned to admire and respect those nurses and caregivers who are able to empathize and understand patients on a even more personal level than the patients’ doctors can in the brief time most get to see a patient.  I know of some instances where nurses risked their jobs to step in and help a patient (sometimes behind the doctor’s back) when the nurse knew the doctor was making a mistake. 

I especially appreciate the caregivers that lift and care for our daughter, who can no longer walk. An excellent new aide had to miss one day this week when her cousin, 36, unexpectedly died following a routine surgery. The cousin left behind four children, ages 7 through 21. And she was the one everyone else in their extended family received help and support from.   Without insurance, her family is having a benefit tomorrow, so Katherine’s aide will again be needed by her family in her hometown.

In the meantime, Gerald and I have just returned from a benefit for a young couple who grew up in our community.  The benefit was planned before this outstanding man, who was in our youngest daughter’s class, passed away after months of battling bladder cancer—during which time he lost his mother also to cancer.

Just as the family thought things were going better after surgeries and treatment, he had a seizure, and it was discovered there was yet another inoperable tumor on or near his skull.   They had insurance, but months and months of travel and treatment are beyond most families’ ability to endure financially. This man and his young wife, who cared for him through this ordeal, were also the kind of community-minded people that many depended upon. Their work with scouts and servicemen and in their church at Woodlawn will never be forgotten.   Their cousins, neighbors, and classmates here in Crab Orchard worked hard preparing the barbecue meal, auction, cake walks, and raffles to exhibit their love and concern for Ron and Beth and their two children.

When I turn on the television, I see the horror that nature has done to millions in the Northeast.  One announcer started his report the other day by saying to us viewers across the nation:  If you have electricity, you are lucky.  He was so right. When I see the destroyed homes and realize the hunger and cold that many families there are suffering, I wish I were both rich and young and strong, so that I could go help. 

We will write a check to the Red Cross as so many others already have, and I will feel enormous gratefulness for the ones who go in to clean up and help just as people did and still do at New Orleans, Joplin, and Harrisburg.  Somehow someway all these devastated people throughout our land will survive despite their great grief for the loved ones they have lost and the homes they mistakenly thought their hard work had provided for their future.  When I turn on the lights, I will be grateful and say a prayer for those not so fortunate. And I’ll  put that check in the mail to add to the others that have already donated.  I will be especially grateful in the morning for those two bright red maple trees for the beauty they provide during these sad times in America. 

Glad to be Back Online

With no young grandchildren of our own in the community anymore and living far back on a lane, we have not have trick-or-treaters visit us for a few years now.  So last Wednesday in the late afternoon when I took my broken computer over to Megabytes, I really enjoyed seeing Herrin’s main street sidewalks filled with parents and children all dressed for the holiday and strolling together with buckets in hand. 

Then stopping at Katherine’s, I shared seeing  the costumed little ones coming to their house for candy.  I even enjoyed the two awkward non-costumed very young teenagers, who were obviously somewhat embarrassed at their own audacity at begging for candy—they only took one tiny piece from the bowl and one for a friend outside who evidently was less nervy.  (I could just imagine them cooking this up and daring one another to knock on the door. I smile just thinking about it.  I bet they had fun on this early evening outing—perhaps the first time without their parents along.)

As I drove back to the farm, I passed crowded church yards and parking lots, which seemed united in offering treats from car trunks as well as other activities and good times for the youngsters and their parents.  We’ve come a long way from the days of putting buggies on barn roofs, pushing over outhouses, or throwing corn on front porches.

I had taken my computer to the shop because I had sleepily clicked on something one late night and realized immediately I did not want to do that.  I thought I had cancelled the download, but a day or two later, trouble began.  The computer worked slower and slower.  I clicked on some sort of help site and saw in red the listing of the silly “who unfriended you” that evidently did download, but it seemed to disappear when I deleted it.

Nevertheless, the computer stayed slow and then would not let me open emails or do much of anything.  Thinking I had a virus or spy-ware, I took it to the shop.  They cleaned it up in a day although there was no virus, and I went over Friday and retrieved it. That night I had time to plug it back in, and excitedly I tried to open my emails. Nothing happened.  Oh dear.  Tried it again the next morning to be sure, but same results.  The shop was closed over the weekend, but I got a return call immediately early yesterday morning.  

Miraculously, the technician took over my machine and fixed it from his computer. The trouble was with the browser and not my computer after all.  So it is nice to be able to open emails and blog again. (And I like thinking my machine is all cleaned up.)

Brian and Mary Ellen were down over the weekend for him to do more harvesting and her to work on all the projects she has going in decorating their recently bought home over on Route 13.  We were spur-of-the-moment invited to stop in for a pulled pork sandwich with them for Sunday lunch, and I loved seeing all the latest improvements she has made as well as hearing about Brianna and Trent’s  Halloween party with an original  murder mystery they wrote for the guests to solve. 

As I pondered what to share in this blog, I realized you haven’t missed much as things have  been pretty slow at Woodsong.  In fact, sadly the most exciting event in our lives right now-- and I am embarrassed to admit this-- is our fight against the gnat invasion we have suffered.  The first couple of weeks, I just shrugged and assumed it was a seasonal thing, and this too would pass. We were having to be careful to keep fruit in the fridge and get banana peels out of the house as soon as possible. It only helped a little bit.
I have had gnats before, but they did not stay this long past their welcome.  Finally I googled and found they are actually flies, but nothing was said about a season for them. We were growing more and more agitated at those tiny ugly things. Gerald sprayed carefully once, but I am nervous about any kind of spray in a kitchen. 

When he called the other day from a hardware store in town to see if I needed anything from there, I suggested they might have some sort of gnat traps or something.  Sure enough, he brought home a box of the old-fashioned fly hangey-down things that are so distasteful to look at.  The first one was unsuccessful until he positioned a banana peel near it to attract the creatures. Now  we have added a second one with another banana peel in that part of the kitchen.  We have scores of dead gnats to look at on those sticky traps, and I am sorry to be responsible for their deaths.  But I sure am glad that maybe we are getting the little varmints out of our lives. 

Visiting Yoknapatwpha County

Contrary to my usual reading habits, I have been reading quite a few novels lately—old ones so far. I have wanted to read William Faulkner ever since we visited his home in Oxford, Mississippi, last spring. The only thing by him I had  read other than perhaps a short story or two was A Light in August.  It is on our book shelves, and I cannot remember where I got it—probably from a yard sale on thrift shop.  Nor can I remember anything about it. That was a bad indicator because I often use remembrance to evaluate.  I still mean to read it again, however, while I am thinking of Yoknapatawpha County.

The only book our village library had by Faulkner was a large tome containing The Sound and the Fury (1929), As I Lay Dying (1930), Sanctuary (1931), and Intruder in the Dust (1948).   I liked it that there were no comment on them—760 pages was enough.

I found Faulkner’s use of stream-of-consciousness writing fascinating, irritating, confusing, and sometimes able to communicate despite its rambling style.  Here is an example of a sentence actually introduced from the previous paragraph with a colon.  Hold your hats. Here goes:

“’Now we’re going hone and put you to bed before your mother has a doctor in to give us both a squirt with a needle:’ then finding the handle and out of the car, stumbling a little but only once, then his heels although he was not running at all pounding too hard on the concrete, his leg-muscles cramped from the car or perhaps even charley-horsed from thrashing up and down branch bottoms not to mention a night spending digging and undigging graves but at least the jarring was clearing his head somewhat or maybe it was the wind of motion doing it; anyway if he was going to have delusions at least he would have a clear brain to look at them with: up the walkway between the undertaker’s and the building next to it though already too late of course, the Face in one last rush and surge long since by now already across the Square and the pavement, in one last crash against then right on through the plate glass window trampling to flinders the little bronze-and-ebony membership plaque in the national funeraleers association and the single shabby stunted palm in its maroon earthenware pot and exploding to tatters the unfaded purple curtain which was the last frail barrier shielding what was left of Jake Montgomery had of what was left of his share of human dignity.”

Oddly I felt I could usually figure out what Faulkner was saying when each novel was over, but I did not like having to read paragraphs (sentences) like the one above more than once to try to continue with understanding the story line.  I did love going back in time to horses and wagons and social customs, which were still widely used after my birth in 1933.  I assumed Faulkner was giving a somewhat accurate account of life in Mississippi at the time he was writing about.   (I  know that in any village or city, there are many versions of life going on.  Often one group of people has no idea what the other group is enjoying or disdaining.  But Faulkner probably wrote realistically about life there as he had observed and experienced it.  I liked that.)  We have all heard about people foolishly trying to ban Tom Sawyer or even worse change Mark Twain’s wording.  I had never heard complaints about Faulkner’s use of the common vernacular of his day.  In today’s world, that was jarring—but still informative, and I would not change what he wrote because then it would be less accurate and not his account.

Having grown up in one of Illinois’ many Sundown Towns, I did not know a single black person until I attended college.  So I had never heard that races have different smells.  But my first quarter at Southern Illinois University Carbondale, my speech professor was Dr. Paul Hunsinger, who was also a minister if I remember rightly.  He had worked in inner city, in Chicago I think, and he enlightened me, at least, that many white people believe Negroes (not yet called black at that time) smell bad, so that was the excuse white folks used to not want black folks sitting beside them on city buses or in theaters. He told of an experiment of two vials of air—one labeled black and one labeled white—and white people were asked to smell both and describe what they smelled. He said they would attribute unpleasant odor to the one labeled black even though the vials were identical. 

I remembered Dr. Hunsaker’s story when Faulkner talked about the smell in Lucas’s home.  It is common sense that poor folks without running water or little soap for much laundry or many baths would not likely smell as nice as someone who could afford such pleasantries.  (Gerald loves telling about little Erin sniffing him appreciatively when he came all freshened up in clean clothes after a shower one hot day.  So he asked her what he smelled like, and she said, “Soap!”)  I digress, but not every one even today has soap and water, and many more homes in Faulkner’s time lacked a generous supply.  I also am well aware that many poor people work very hard to be cleaner than many of us. (Again I digress:  a story comes to mind that I heard many decades ago about a very prominent wealthy white family being especially dirty at a ski resort.) Anyhow, I found Faulkner’s long discussion of this subject unpleasant but quite telling about the attitudes of his time and place.

I read all four novels, and the book  is overdue.  So tomorrow, I must return it in the outside slot and go in later to pay my fine.

 

Fall Beauty

Fearing the winds would soon whip away the spectacular display of leaves, Gerald wanted to take a road trip Saturday through our beautiful country side.  Sometimes we traveled down roads bordered on both sides with trees sporting crowns of waving yellow and red leaves. Other times, we were separated from the multicolored forests massed on the hillsides beyond the fields. Either way was often breathtaking.

We left before lunch and drove down rural roads towards Tunnel Hill, where so many bicyclists--including our Jeannie--ride down the trail built on the old railroad bed. We didn’t want to spend time that day walking through the tunnel, but I still hope to do that someday.

We drove around a bit there and onto Dixon Springs and Golconda, one of my favorite towns in the whole world—what little bit of the world I have had access to in my lifetime.  I love the many beautiful old homes there, the court house, the wonderful museum the Pope County Historical Society has created, Buel House, and perhaps best of all the lovely Ohio River flowing by.

Once again, I was saddened that the town is letting the mural on the concrete flood wall continue to deteriorate. Golconda served as an entrance to Illinois for the Cherokee on their forced march on the Trail of Tears through our region, and the mural depicts that.  I keep hoping some artist will make it their project to renew that mural.

But we were out to see the leaves that day, and so we didn’t linger in Golconda.  We drove on to Elizabethtown, where we were again on the river.  We ate lunch at one of our favorite area places—the floating E-Town River Restaurant, where we always choose the river fish over the pond raised fish just because it seems more appropriate—not because we really have a preference.  The servings are so generous that you don’t need the extra fish the waitresses keep offering, but they really do mean it when they claim to offer all you can eat.

It must have been quite a while since we had been to Elizabethtown because the restaurant now has a built-on outdoor patio that we did not know about.  I would like to go back next summer and eat there, but it was much too windy to choose to sit there that day. But out there you’d be one with the waves and the passing barges. 

Part of the charm of this small town eatery is the crowded situation with tables so close together that people just naturally talk to folks at nearby tables.  Waitresses crowd through and people bump into one another getting to and from their seats.  Jeans and T shirts are the appropriate attire.  Everyone seems to be laughing and smiling enjoying their families and friends. At a table for six nearest our corner, one young woman was sitting between her young son and her father. I guessed her husband was on the other side of the table.  She looked and listened to these men in her life and seemed so happy to be with the ones she loved.

We walked back over the swaying walk to the shore and drove up the hill and parked again to run into the Rose Hotel for a brief and cheerful visit with Sandy Vinyard, who manages that beautiful place built in 1812.  She had to turn down the couple who stopped in for a room as all her rooms were full, but she helped them get a room at the nearby San Damiano, the Catholic retreat open to the public. While that was happening, we were outside admiring the beautiful tandem bright red motorcycle they were riding.

We traveled on through Garden of the Gods, where we had never seen it so crowded with horse folk and back packers, campers, and just gawkers like us wanting to savor the glory of this season.

Going the new road around Harrisburg, we circled back home with time for rest before we ate the last two bowls of chili from earlier in the week.  I had a funeral visitation for a relative in Goreville that evening, so I hurriedly fixed a couple of angel food cakes (from mixes of course) and fixed a bean salad to go with the garden tomatoes I was going to contribute to our annual church fish fry at Center the next day. 

We thought it might be chilly on Sunday for an outdoor meal in the shelter on the church lawn.  However, the weather turned out absolutely perfect for those working so hard cooking to feed all of us after our Bible study and worship service. So for two days in a row we ate fish and hush puppies, which is  unusual for us, but it tasted as good the second day as the first. The tables were laden with every choice imaginable including. of all things, frog legs! This was my first time to have an opportunity to eat such, and after a mental talk to myself, I did. They are as good as people say.

Best of all, of course, was visiting with friends there—seeing the new baby, watching the children on the play equipment, admiring the pretty teens sitting on a tailgate by the shelter, and watching our pleased pastor eat his special prepared bowl of banana pudding that Peggy Troxell made just for him.  (I suspect this was to gain forgiveness for the way his bowl at the dinner the previous Sunday had a way of disappearing to another table every time he sat it down to talk to someone. So maybe he deserves to be forgiven for his brags about his special private bowl of pudding.)  After we returned to the farm, there was still plenty of time left in the afternoon for rest, and I had a wonderful long visiting phone call from Mary Ellen before I went in to spend the evening with Katherine.

 

 

 

Blessings in the Fall

 When you look out our living room windows now or stand on the deck and look beyond the country road and beyond the green meadows, the woods on the horizon present a colorful array of orange, green, yellow, and red leaves.  I came down to write about them yesterday afternoon; but before I started, I heard Mary Ellen enter the house on the first floor above me.  Instead of writing, I joined her and Gerald in the downstairs family room, and the first remark she made was on the beauty of the trees as she had looked out coming down the stairs.

It had been too long since we had visited with her, so it was a welcome alternative to writing.  She and Brian had taken their high school senior Brianna down to Murray State in Kentucky for a football weekend at the school Bri has chosen to become  her alma mater.  They were back at their house over on Route 13 and Mary Ellen came over to visit before she and Bri had to return to Waggoner for school and work today.

Although I never taught my kids to kick their shoes off when they entered our house, they all do. (When the whole crowd is here, the rows of shoes amuse me and I had Gerald photograph that sight as one of our holiday memories.)  Mary Ellen was already wearing sox with a Murray emblem on them as we relaxed with our feet on the coffee table in front of us.

Yesterday was a special day at our church because we were honoring Dr. Ed Handkins, who was just a college student when we joined the church in our village in the early 1960s. I remember his going to Alaska that summer as a student missionary and showing slides when he returned.

A close knit family now grown large and spread in many directions, the  Handkins clan who could came to celebrate Ed’s 50 years of ministry and sat in the front left pews where Ed’s parents, Lorene and Alva, sat for so many years even after Lorene spent the last decade of her life suffering multiple sclerosis.  Ed’s sister Joan has suffered decades of multiple sclerosis but still reared four children. She recently suffered two life-threatening infections in ICU and then weeks of rehab under the watchful eye of her daughter Kim.  She is now back at her apartment and was there in a wheel chair smiling and looking great with three of four children in attendance. Ed’s brother Darrell, who was a high school teen when we came to this community, was there, and his daughters Carol and Tanya from Peoria and Chicago area  joined us in the choir. Ed’s older brother Carl Ray died several years ago, but Carl Ray’s daughters Cindy and Carla were both there to represent him.   Other relatives and their many spouses were also there so some family members would not fit into the three front rows. 

         His cousin Alan Ozment sang and reminded us that God is good, and Ed’s remininces of good and difficult times during his ministry re-enforced that message of confidence in God’s watch care over us.  Ed had us laughing often because his mother Lorene’s sense of humor was obviously passed down to him. Still a college student, he said he filled the pulpit one day at Fairview Church, one of our nearby rural churches. He was amazed to get a letter a couple days later telling him he had been voted in as their new pastor—he had no idea they were considering that and he had no confidence that he knew how to be a pastor.  As fearful and unprepared as he felt, he accepted the pastoral call and continued there while in college. He expressed relief that the church survived.

Alva and Lorene continued serving their children and grandchildren during holiday and summer vacation times for the next few decades, and the rest of us whenever they could as long as their health allowed. One of my early interactions with Alva was in a small group when we were studying vocations and the desirability of choosing a vocation one enjoyed. Most men in our church and community in those days worked in the coal mines.  I remember Alva saying that he really did not like being a miner, but that was what life allowed him to do to support his family, and he sounded content anyhow. One of the earliest events in our lives here was a wonderful man being killed and his body trapped by a mine collapse.  (Someone said his cashed pay check was in his pocket although I don’t know that.)  Alva and other men risked their lives over and over going down in hopes of bringing his body out to his family before they finally had to give us and allow the collapsed mine to be his burial site.

Some were surprised yesterday to learn Ed had been one of the original members of the Glorylanders Quartet that he and his cousin Dee Ozment started with Don Richey and Lyndell King. I remembered it because Lorene—she and Alva were always hospitable to newcomers—had me visiting their home and Lorene played a record of her son’s quartet.  After graduation and marriage, Ed taught science for three years at my high school at Anna-Jonesboro and was  pastor of a rural church there at the same time.  Then he and his family took off for seminary and eventually after pastoring in Cairo during troubling times, most of his career was in northern Illinois.  In retirement he and Donna are in North Carolina, where he continues writing and now is even pastor of a church again.

Down through the years, Ed and Donna have come back home to Center to visit loved ones, and he has occasionally preached for us, and he became one of my favorite preachers.  His compassion is as obvious as his humor, and I have never doubted that he believes everything he preaches.  His intellectualism is only revealed by the creativity and the simplicity of his messages.  I have stored some nuggets of spiritual wisdom that go directly back to his sermons.

Our church hosted an fantastic buffet of potluck foods for a dinner after Ed’s morning sermon, and we enjoyed the food and the fellowship.  There was another gathering afterwards back in the sanctuary to allow people to express appreciation for Ed and to let this extremely talented musical family sing.  Gerald was needing a nap by now, so we missed out on that in order to go to the opening four-night revival starting last night at Creal Springs Baptist Church,  hosted by our neighboring rural churches.  I was so glad we heard that sermon, and I felt both refreshed and strengthened as I drove into Katherine’s after the service to make sure she had her evening meds since one aide had left and there was a gap before the next would arrive hours later.  Thank you, Ed and Donna, for your many years of service.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frost and Election Season

The fog rises high off the lake and off the valley beyond the country road at the end of our driveway.  The green grass between our house and the lake glistens with frost this morning.  I run to Gerald and ask if this was a killer frost.  Would our son-in-law’s soybean crop be damaged just as the corn crop was hurt by the summer drought? 

The farmer’s success depends on the weather, and the price city dwellers will pay for food is also weather dependent. The fear of an early frost is a familiar fear to me. Yeteven more than our over fifty years of farming made me aware of the weather and food supply connection, Robert J. Hastings book A Nickel’s Worth of Skim Milk impressed me with this concern.  Hastings wrote about his eight years in grade school during the Depression when he wore the same coat all eight years.  Like most people in small towns and on farms, his unemployed father made an annual garden.  During those years, however, bad weather limited his production just as the job loss limited the family income. 

It is odd how sometimes life seems to be on a bad luck roll.  Just when someone thinks they can stand no more, another blow comes to knock them down yet again. Things get worse and worse, but usually eventually things turn around.  In the meantime, people have to be tough and use unbelievable human ingenuity to survive.

One of the ways that Hastings’ family survived was through thriftiness—the kind of thrift few of us could understand today despite our bad economy. His mother deliberately bought his school coat much much too big for him.  How many children have you seen today with clothes that are too big for them?  He grew into the coat and wore it until it was too little for him, but he continued wearing it anyway.  Finally the nation’s and his family’s economy improved, and he got a new coat for high school.

I do not know how families’ whose unemployment has run out are making it. I cannot imagine how a family can survive when their home and all their belongings are destroyed by fire, flood, or tornado.  Yet across our nation right now families with those troubles are making it. (Some are not, of course.  Some have turned to alcohol or drugs or suicide.)  I have wondered if the Greatest Generation veterans were as strong as they were because they were part of a family that kept hanging tough and fighting hard for survival during the Depression.

One of the most exciting articles I ever read was a news magazine account in the 1960s of the successful California lives of the Oakies that John Steinbeck told us about.  Someday someone will be writing about today’s trials and how their family made it anyway.  Michele Obama’s story of her dad going to work everyday to support their family despite multiple sclerosis brings tears to my eyes. Would he not have been shocked to know back then that his daughter and his widow would live in the White House someday? 

In the past, the business cycle has usually brought an end to recession.  I suspect it will again unless some fundamental difference has occurred to change that usual result.  So I am hopeful that regardless of who is elected President, we will see the economy improve and more jobs become available.  And, of course, whoever is elected will get credit for that turn around whether that person is responsible for the improvement or not.

One of my greatest concerns is the lack of health care for many of our citizens.  Despite our fine hospitals and many excellent doctors, international statistical comparisons show that our health care is inferior in its results.  Our loss of infants, for example, is much greater than many other nations despite the fact that we spend more than them for health care. 

The Affordable Health Care Act (Obamacare) will still not be universal, as I understand it, but it seems to be a step in the right direction.  Children with serious health problems can no longer be denied insurance nor can we adults be suddenly dropped if we become expensively ill or lose our jobs.

If we have the will to do it, we can make the changes we need to make and have care as good as other developed nations.  I would like to see the for-profit insurance industry out of the health care system altogether as Britain has done but some other nations use insurance to give universal care. Personally, I don’t want to be denied a needed procedure by an insurance company.  Governor Romney wants my state to take care of the health problems in Illinois as he did in Massachusetts, but I don’t think he understands how broke our state is. With our tendency to elect governors who end up in prison, I trust the federal government more than our state government.

Last night a neighbor phoned and asked me if she could bring me a Romney sign to put on our farm.  I had listened to his foreign policy address that morning, and I told her no.  If I knew he could achieve peace, I would certainly vote for him and put up a sign encouraging other people to do so.

The murder of Ambassador Christopher Stevens and three other American heroes was evidence of serious problems in that part of the world.  What I do not know is whether President Obama or Governor Romney would be more effective in healing those problems--or if anyone can. Would Romney’s tough talk, building more warships, and increasing our military budget and perhaps military presence work better than Obama’s measured thoughtfulness and emphasis on diplomacy? If there anything our nation can do to insure people in those countries will start getting along?

I like few advertisements on television, but I do like the new one showing a renown economist who is asked if something or other will take place in the future. (I don’t even know what is being advertised.)  His succinct answer to the question  if he can predict what will happen is, “No.”  That is how I feel as an ordinary citizen about knowing which candidate will more likely achieve peace or prevent our being in another war in the Middle East.  I do not want our citizens killed and I do not want innocent men, women, and children in other countries killed.  But I do not know how to vote to achieve that end.

Our phone caller warned me that our nation is in a mess and that my great grandchildren were going to suffer because of it.  This special neighbor friend has worked hard all her life, and most of the people I know do so.  Our children and grandchildren certainly do.  I am very proud of them for that. I have a great deal of confidence in our nation’s people and especially our young people.  I truly believe that they will be able to cope with whatever is thrown their way when they are in charge someday.  They will go through rough times just as every generation has.  Their rough times may be worse even than ours. But if they have the will, they will survive and our democracy will also.

I will be listening to the vice presidential debate Thursday night and to the two remaining debates between President Obama and Governor Romney.  I will try to follow the national and international news and understand it the best I can.  And then I will be deciding by election day which candidate I will vote for.  It will probably be too late to put up a sign though.

P.S.  I wrote most of this in the morning plus a report on Jeannie, Cecelie, Leslie, and Mike’s weekend visit.  Then I got a call from Katherine’s aide that she was sick and leaving. (Actually she came to work sick spreading her germs—GRRRR.) Suddenly I had to hurry to town.  Late tonight I got home, proof read my earlier effort, thought I was copying it to post, and the entire blog disappeared with only two words saved when I tried to paste.  I have re-written the first part the best I remembered it, and left off the weekend report.   Ah well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Katherine

Last Wednesday I looked out the living room window and realized I was seeing a tiny bit of yellow amid the leaves on the island and also the  beginnings of orange on a few trees on this side of the lake.  The next day I looked out the kitchen window at Jake’s little sycamore tree and realized it was completely and beautifully red wine. Then driving to town, as I do so often, I begin to see more and more yellows and reds and wines and oranges.  After the dry summer, I was thrilled when everything greened back up, but now the colors are bringing me joy.  I need every bit of beauty I can discover to comfort my heart as I watch the devastating effects of multiple sclerosis on my daughter.

I know that life is not meant to be fair and that suffering always has been and always will be present on this planet. Suffering is part of life. I know that, but that does not decrease its pain.  I understand the old saying about feeling sorry for yourself if you are without shoes until you realize some have no feet. But suffering is suffering and knowing that many others are in pain—even worst pain--does not ease but only increases the psychic pain. 

Weakened and wracked with yet another infection,  Katherine entered the hospital Friday to be treated successfully, and Gerald brought her home yesterday afternoon.   Gerald took her take-home prescriptions to a pharmacy, but the druggist realized a dangerous conflict between the two drugs—delaying last night’s treatment.  Phone calls were made to the appropriate doctors, and hopefully with her regular infectious disease doctor back in town today, everything has been cleared up and continued treatment resumed.  Nothing is simple in the life of a chronically ill person. 

When no one answered the phone at her house this morning, I drove to town to make sure her morning aide had shown up. She had, but Katherine was sleeping, which I know she did not do much in the hospital, and the aide evidently did not hear her phone ringing or was hesitant to answer it with Katherine asleep. In my hurry to reach her house, I didn’t put on my hearing aids.  With the aide whispering, I knew I could accomplish nothing by staying, so I drove right on back to the farm.

I had caught up on laundry and dishes at her house yesterday, since I was hanging around to be certain Sam had needed transportation as I had promised both Katherine and David.  David had to leave very early Saturday morning to drive with his parents to Chicago and serve as pall bearer at not one funeral but at two funerals for loved ones—an uncle and the mother of one of his best lifelong friends. 

Sam is so eager for that driver’s license, and I will be happy for him when he is old enough to get it in less than a year now.  Still I will miss driving him occasionally to his activities.  (Yet when I do, I ache for his mother who so wishes that she could still have that privilege. And I wish it for her. ) 

More and more of his friends are getting their licenses, and other friends’ parents are also glad to give him rides, but I wanted to be there at near-midnight when the three big yellow school buses pulled into the high school driveway bringing home the Marion Wildcat Marching Band from their competition at McKendree College. 

Sam tossed his ukulele in the back seat and climbed in front with a smile on his face.  Once again their band had placed third in their class and this time had missed second place by only one point.  The two higher winning bands were from larger communities, and Sam felt good about how their band is ranking this year. His fellow sophomore class musicians were always top in all kinds of competitions when they were junior high students, and last year’s experience of receiving participation ribbons rather than ranking had rankled their performing egos.  Sam went to bed exhausted but happy.  I’d decided to stay there rather than us to drive back to the farm that late at night.  

Yesterday morning, I was pleased when Sam came out with a smile and his Bible in hand ready for church at 9 a.m.  That gave me plenty of time to drop him off and then to go to the farm and pick up Gerald for Sunday School and worship at our village church. Afterward we picked up Sam to go to dinner with us. 

When Gerald left with the van since Katherine had called that they were releasing her, I stayed at Sam’s house because he had to meet up that afternoon with four of his buddies who have started a new band called Reformed. They played publicly for the first time last evening leading the worship at a youth meeting at Cornerstone Church.  Sam was making his initial appearance as a vocalist.  As it turned out, his friend Evan’s dad picked him up, so I did not take him, and I was right there when Gerald brought Katherine home. 

We sent Gerald on home, so I could stay until her evening shift aide came on duty.  In turning and trying to help her out of her hospital gown and into her own, I managed to let her slip into a very uncomfortable position on her wheelchair—making us both fearful she would slip out. We repositioned and tugged and pushed, and she at least didn’t fall.  In that miserable position, however, we were unable to enjoy a pleasant supper and watch television together as we had planned. I was so thankful when Jayson came on duty and quickly picked her up and re-sat her more comfortably.  (I only say more comfortably because wheelchairs are always uncomfortable after a few hours—especially when you are too near paralyzed to adjust yourself in any way.)

I was happy to be there at 9:00 because I was able to see Sam come in aglow telling about the 60 kids worshipping together at Cornerstone.  I left with Sam in his mom’s room telling Katherine all about the joyous night.  That memory too was a bit of beauty comforting my aching heart when Gerald came after me and we drove home with a full moon overhead enlarged by a clouded sparkling halo all around it.

 

 

 

Georgia on Our Minds

Gerald and I have returned from a long wonderful weekend in Athens and Watkinsville, Georgia.  Gerald drove us south all day Friday crawling through the 6 p.m. Atlanta traffic and finally eastward arriving for the late evening with our son and wife, Gerry and Vickie, and the Archibalds.  I hadn’t been down to see their large rented house since Tara join the University of Georgia softball coaching staff, but I could quickly see the house was comfortably large enough for two families.

Bryan and Tara’s three little guys were already in their beds, but the older two, Aidan and Maddux, were not yet asleep. We were able to enter their bedrooms and give them good night kisses.  They were so sweet, and after hugs and grins, they seemed to go right on to slumber land when we left the room.  We did not try that with Payton since he had already fallen asleep. 

With the extraordinarily busy lifestyle the Archibalds-Glascos have and with an important visiting day for UGA softball recruits the next day, they were tired. And, of course, so were we.  We tried not to talk too late but to all go on to bed. I think Gerald was too tired from the trip down to sleep well; so as he is most mornings, he was up very early. Gerry wanted his dad to go on campus with him to observe the huge crowd already there at 7 a.m. ready to camp out tailgating all day for the 7:45 p.m. football game against Vanderbilt.

Tara and Bryan were busy early Saturday morning claiming the spot close to the stadium and setting up the canopy tent for the tailgate supper for  potential softball recruits and their parents and for the hosting freshmen players and parents. Gerry and Tara were working all day, so we had plenty of time to enjoy visiting with the little boys until the late afternoon tailgate time.  I had not seen them for much too long.  Payton, who turned 2 in early March, woke up smiling, and I loved getting re-acquainted with him.  Aidan, 6, and Maddux, 3, had school crafts they had made to show off and lots to tell about. Soon the kids and the adults were playing with Legos, and I spent some time watching Maddux write the alphabet letters of his name and then playing a paper game with Aidan.

After Vickie came back with lunches for all of us, the boys napped, and I even had a chance to review some family history material I had brought with me. Later we sat on lawn chairs in the garage with the door open watching the three boys play a variety of ball and bike activities, some take-offs of real sports and some made-up games. Bryan was there encouraging and playing right with them.  

When Aidan, who has just started first grade, asked me what we played when I was in school, I had to think hard.  I told him about Red Rover, which we played with the entire grade school lined up in two large opposing lines on either side of the huge side yard of our school building.  Obviously we did not have enough people to do that. 

Then I remembered how we sat on steps with crossed hands and tried to fool the kid playing the teacher as to which hand had a rock in it.  If the teacher did not guess correctly, the pupil promoted up a step to the next grade. Aidan soon had a piece of chalk for us to use, and he and Maddux and I moved over to the front steps and played school where two little bulldog statues greet guests at their entrance. Maddux liked getting promoted to fourth grade at the top of the three entry steps. Then I remembered the game about taking giant steps, baby steps, scissor steps according to a leader’s direction, and we played that for awhile. (Although I really could not remember the rules.)

Finally, it was time to don our red and black clothes and join the throngs heading to the tailgate area. Far from the stadium, cars and trucks were already lined up on all approaching streets, and lawns were full of lawn chairs and UGA fans and their friends grilling out.  Parking spots were available for $50 or $25, and scalpers had tickets flashing for the unprepared. Before Bryan put their van in the parking garage, he was kind enough to drop Gerald, Vickie, and me and the boys as near as possible for us to enter the village of red canopies set up on campus in the stadium roadway. Patient people behind us waited while we undid three car seats and grabbed boys and lawn chairs.  Actually Gerald and Vickie did that as it took me that long to get out of the high van. I got to grab Payton’s hand as we headed to the softball tent. 

I don’t know if Norma Holliday and her husband Mike were there all day or not, but I think they were--busily helping the caterers and getting every thing ready for the recruit party. They greeted us and guided us to lawn chairs when we arrived at 4:30 or so and helped keep the boys occupied since they are special friends of these little fellows. They had bean bag games set up and were letting other revelers use them until the softball gang arrived. (Coach Lu Harris-Champer and three little daughters, were up at Macomb at her alma mater Western Illinois University.  Her husband Jerry Champer, UGA associate head swimming coach, was being inducted into Western’s Hall of Fame for being the most winning coach in Western Illinois Swimming and Diving history.)

Although we had slept in our granddaughter Geri Ann’s room, we had not seen her until now since she lives with the other players on campus in the dorm. There was time to socialize with the players and parents and eat supper before the band started arriving and setting up next to us. I never in my life saw so many marimbas marching into play. The weather was very warm, and these brave band members had on heavy uniforms and gloves, but they were obviously enjoying themselves as we listened to drums giving us rhythms to add to the festivities.

Very early people started lining up three and four deep to be behind the band members who formed a large aisle for the traditional Dawg Walk.  Norma and Mike generously let softball players sit in the bed and even on top of their truck parked by our tent. Hundreds of spectators crowded at the wall atop the stadium and hundreds more filled balconies over the stadium staircases long before the band started playing for the Dawg Walk. 

The band was so large that it spread out over the area below those many spectators looking down on them but then they also stretched around the corner from our tent up the roadway.  I was fascinated by not the one director below but another up above looking down and at least two other student directors on very tall sturdy ladders that allowed them to see one another around the corner and, thus, all stay together. 

Because I am short, I had to enjoy just the music and the directors on ladders because all I could see with the rows of taller people in front of me were sometimes the tops on baton twirlers’ heads and then the large tubas as their owners marched by.  I am assuming that football players had marched in during all this pageantry, but I never did even ask.  The whole spectacle was quite exciting with everyone anticipating the lone trumpet player mixed with the top crowd who would sound a few notes on cue.  Then after the band finished playing, two members replaced the on-top director and led the crowd in cheers.

Gerald, who had attended a UGA football game, warned me about the multitude of steps inside the stadium without banisters for us oldsters, and I had instantly declined any plans to attend since I am not a football fan.  Gerald too was glad to go on back to the house and make up for the poor sleep the night before.  So we hugged Geri Ann goodbye as Gerry and Vickie and Tara went on to the game to sit with the recruits and parents and probably over 90,000 more folks who saw Georgia win over Vandy.  After some straightening up, Mike and Norma did yet another good deed and drove us and Bryan and the boys over (way over) to the parking garage. 

On Sunday before I even got up, once again Tara and Gerry were off to campus very early preparing for the first game of the year for the 2013 softball team that afternoon.  Fall games are considered just practice games, but coaches and players know they are very important preparation for the real season during the spring semester. 

I dressed casually for the day and the afternoon game before I came downstairs, where I was pleasantly greeted by little Payton who looked at me and said, “I like your shirt.” 

The Archibalds go to a different church than Gerry and Vickie, because the boys are satisfied in their classes there, so Tara and Bryan are less likely to be called out of the service. Payton will stay happily if the teenage helper named Miss Allie is there to befriend him.  So I decided I’d attend church with Bryan and the boys, and we were relieved that Miss Allie was present.  Started in 2005, the Athens Church was created to provide a place of worship for people who might not like traditional buildings or services. No one needs to dress up or feel pressure to conform.  Music is  loud and passionate, and the two wide screens high in the auditorium allowed an enjoyable view of the talented drummer and other  musicians.

The church’s stated mission is “to lead people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ,” and they have available staff to help seekers who want to learn more about Jesus.  The sermon too was a different format than I am used to, but it was given by an extremely talented communicator and the message was very helpful to me personally on the importance of our knowing how to draw a line with our own values in difficult situations and to avoid addictions.  I won’t read about Daniel and Nebuchadnezzar ever again in quite the same limited way as before thanks to the pastor’s excellent content.

As we drove away, I liked the way Bryan asked the boys for reports on what they had learned in their classes, and I was more than amazed when Maddux recited his Bible verse along with where it was found. With lunch boxes from a drive-in, we headed to the softball stadium to join the rest of the family already there.  Bryan let the boys decide if they wanted to go to the game and assured them they could leave when they wanted for nap time.  Only Aidan lasted through the double header. Always full of energy, he was happy to the end and as we waited for Geri Ann afterwards to go to dinner with us. 

We were there this particular weekend because we wanted to see Geri Ann’s first Division I college game, and we were not disappointed.  The softball Bulldogs won both games by a respectable score against Georgia State, a good team.  Geri Ann played at first base while junior Morgan Montemayor pitched an excellent game, and we were able to see Geri Ann’s and Tina Iosefa’s first homeruns of the season. Geri Ann pitched the second game, and Tina played first.  The night before, we had met Chelsea  Wilkinson’s mother, who had come from North Carolina to see Chelsea’s first college games. When Chelsea relieved both Mo and Geri Ann, we were able to see why she had such an outstanding high school record.  (She had set the North Carolina record for high school shutouts, perfect games, wins, and innings pitched as well as being an ESPN first team All American.)  Of course, we also liked meeting or at least seeing the other freshman  players—Sam Lazear, Cricket Blanco, Kaylee Puailoa, and Katie Brown—as well as the talented players we enjoyed watching last year.

When the games were over, players iced down, and goodbyes said after more socializing, Aidan and Geri Ann took me through the locker room and offices.  We left to meet up at a steak house with Brian, Maddux, and Payton, where Gerry and Vickie treated us to a celebratory dinner.  As reluctant as we were to end that good time, Vickie had to take Geri Ann back to campus for a tutoring session, and we took Gerry back to the office to do some lock up and tape watching before we gathered again to rehash the games until bedtime.   I was able to hear Aidan read Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed, and I started  packing up for our trip home.

We had a morning visit around the table drinking coffee and admiring Maddux, who loves to dress up.  He was in his fire fighting outfit because their preschool class was going to be concentrating on the letter “f” this week.  I had a hard time thinking of short nouns starting with that letter, but Tara with her elementary ed experience was good at it.  Too soon Tara was taking Aidan and Maddux off to school while Payton was looking forward to having Gma Vickie all to himself.  Bryan, who works for a Chicago-area firm, excused himself to go to work--in his office in their part of the house.  Gerry helped me carry all my bags downstairs and to the car before he left for campus, and Gerald and I were off to creep through the Monday morning Atlanta traffic and on up through Tennessee and Kentucky back to Southern Illinois.  Our conversation on the trip back and now here at Woodsong has mostly been remembering what we laughed at there with our great grandsons and how much we enjoyed watching Geri Ann’s first Georgia games.

 

 

 

White Lines in the Sky over Woodsong

 As Gerald and I lunched one day this week, we were looking out over the lake and observing two aircraft contrails cutting through the blue sky in opposite directions. This is not uncommon because we seem to be under the path to the Williamson County Airport.

It caused me to reminisce about the first time my sister Rosemary and I saw such a white line across the sky.  I was a college freshman at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Rosemary and her husband Phil were also there working and going to school. Then Phil joined the Air Force and started basic training.  Instead of staying in my dorm that second quarter, I lived with Rosemary in their apartment until she was able to join Phil.

She was greatly saddened being apart from Phil, and she liked visiting his parents on the weekend because they would enjoy talking with her about her absent husband.  Because she had told me about it, I wanted to see their interesting big home, a former small hospital building which had been moved to their farm and was heated by fireplaces. Also I had heard about Mrs. Parks’ good cooking—including making her own chocolate-covered cherries, which I thought was remarkable. So Rosie invited me to go with her.

As we drove from Carbondale to the rural Stonefort-Carrier Mills area for a weekend with the Parks, we suddenly noticed this unusual bright white line crossing the sky.  We watched it for miles and were filled with curiosity and even awe.  Having never seen such a sight before, we thought it looked like an opening in the sky with this white light shining through. 

As we puzzled on what we were seeing, we wondered with great wonder if it could be the end of the world with an opening crack into Heaven.  I can’t remember how we learned the cause of these clouds left behind from the planes’ exhaust and the resulting condensation. I suppose someone in the Parks’ household explained it to us.  Because of this first experience with the trails, I always rather enjoy seeing them.

The next day as Gerald and I again looked across our kitchen table and out the glass doors to the deck and to the blue water of the lake beyond, there were two white herons flying parallel to one another through the blue sky.  Fluffy white clouds made the blue and white color scheme complete.  I frequently see both blue herons and white ones standing on the edge of the water or walking near the shore.  I like this vision even better than the contrails.  Gerald says that he has heard that many try to get rid of the heron because they eat the fish, but to me, their beauty deserves a good fish meal the same as the rest of us.

Tonight beside our lane, there were two deer grazing in neighbor Scott’s harvested field. I hadn’t seen deer for a few weeks; and though they eat our crops, I was sort of missing them.  They certainly were not afraid of me and the car.  They stood perfectly still and stared at me. Then I saw Jake running and barking beside our driveway to chase those predators away.  By then I was past, so I did not see the end of his efforts, but I assume he was successful since he was quickly back to the garage asking for a handout.

With squirrel season in, Gerald and Jake got their first squirrel together. Of course, Gerald had to brag about it to our son Gerry.  As competitive as Gerry is, he was soon lamenting the 1-0 score with Gerald ahead of him and his grandson Aidan and their squirrel dog.

As we drove home from church Sunday, Gerald got a photo on his phone from Gerry with their squirrel dog and a squirrel.  Then Gerry’s text explained the photo.  When they got home from church, their dog on a chain in their backyard was with the squirrel that he had caught!  Gerry soon sent word that he and Aidan had unanimously voted that the score was now tied at 1-1. 

 

Jake and Other Late Summer Pleasures

Jake, the little black and white squirrel dog who lives at Woodsong, takes afternoon naps across the driveway beside the garden. I like looking out the kitchen window and seeing him at his special chosen spot underneath the shade of the sweet gum tree that Gerald planted a decade ago. This is where he quickly takes any proffered bone. He much prefers a table scrap to the dog food that Gerald provides in the bowl in the shop, and Jake carries morsels there to enjoy. I wondered this afternoon if he is dreaming of squirrel hunting.

Our great grandson Aidan woke up from the Georgia football game the other Saturday afternoon talking about coming up here to squirrel hunt. I wonder if that was what Aidan had dreamed about. Obviously we need for Jake and Aidan to get together. Gerald believes Jake is ready for his first season of squirrel hunting since throughout the summer he has treed a turtle, moles, and bugs and raised quite a ruckus doing so.

This evening before Gerald had even reached our lane with his tractor, I saw Jake alert and running briskly towards the road. He must have recognized the sound of the tractor long before he saw it. I don’t like it, but he chases and barks at cars and trucks of visitors despite our scolding. Yet he never barks at our car or Gerald’s pickup. He does come down the road to meet either of our vehicles and lets us know how glad he is to see us.

Now that we have finally had rains, the black and white moving spot he makes on the landscape bouncing through bright green green grass somehow makes me happy. His little tail is held high in a near perfect circle above his body. If I walk to the mailbox, he will be my companion as he is every morning to Gerald when he walks down the lane to get the paper. Jake soon tires of my slow walk and is off on jaunts through the fields on one side of the road or other. But he will come back periodically and check on my progress.

Not only has the grass revived its color, but today I saw three yellow day lily blooms beside the house and several buds promising more. Then I realized that their brown foliage that had looked so ugly this summer was again green. I have neglected all the outside flower beds because it has been much too hot to go out and work with them. With the cooler weather at hand, my excuse has gone away. I am sure I can find another.

Gerald greatly reduced his gardening this year, but the okra, tomatoes, and cantaloupe he planted are all on our meal table frequently now. Summer is ending with many pleasures.

Life's Ups and Downs with Lois Barrett

Yesterday it was my privilege to introduce a fellow Southern Illinois Writers Guild member, who was speaking at the Marion Woman’s Club. I had looked forward to hearing my friend Lois Barrett, and I was not disappointed. She kept our group laughing even though I think she has had one of the most challenging lives I’ve ever known with many heart-breaking events along the way.

Lois has never been held down long despite those challenges. When she returned to Southern Illinois from her foray and a failed marriage in Texas, she listened to a presentation at the Guild by Violet Toler on self publishing. Within 30 days Lois had set up Brick Hill Publishing and quickly had her first earthquake novel available to the public. (I heard Violet’s presentation those many years ago, and I still would not have the gumption to do this.)

Lois’ first book When the Earthquakes Spoke was one that she had thought about and outlined as an 18-year-old. She explained to us that at 18 she only dreamed of someday writing a novel, for she lacked the experience to understand people and how they talked. Only as a senior citizen needing a new start in life, did she get down that box of notes from the closet shelf and complete the novel set here on the Ohio River in Shawneetown at the time of the 1812 earthquake. As a reporter, she had researched and written about that earthquake.

I was amused to find out that in high school for a quarter, Lois would write love stories for fellow students changing the names of the main characters in order to hide the indenity of their current crush. Several club members besides Lois were members of the 1952 Marion High School graduating class, and I had to wonder if any of them had paid her a quarter (worth five cokes or ice cream cones in those days). No one confessed.

Prior to becoming a novelist, Lois had raised four children, worked at a variety of jobs, studied in several fields, and traveled broadly here and overseas. Although she did not dwell on her journalism career in her talk yesterday, she has fascinated me with accounts of investigating reporting that she did for our area newspapers—work that often put her life in danger by people who did not want to be investigated. Those years of nonfiction writing were to do her in good stead when she began writing poetry and fiction in the latter part of her life.

Health problems and personal tragedies have devastated her life but never have destroyed her. In a state of deep depression from the death of a daughter, her second husband, and three other family members within a few short months, she withdrew to Texas thinking she was old enough to die only to realize that as she told us, “Wrong. God was not through with me yet.”

With that third Texas marriage that repeated itself three times—if I understood that complicated story right--after the final divorce, she moved home to Illinois only to return to be at the death bed of this third husband. Since then in Harrisburg, she has lived through the tornado and continued health problems with eye floaters that are keeping her from night driving. Nevertheless, I will not be surprised to have the opportunity to buy her sixth novel. She may not be working on it yet. I don’t know, but I suspect God is not through with her yet. I know her family and many friends and her colleagues in the all the organizations she supports hope not.

Her novels can be bought at www.BrickHillPublishing.com as well as on Amazon. Her second earthquake novel was Preacher’s Son & Henry Brown. Then came There Oughta Be a Law, Gulf Coast Love Affair, and A Love Story: Shuugh God and Lulu.