Living in a small town

This newspaper clipping was found among my mother-in-law's belongings, and I recently came across it while going through boxes of Beall information.

It reminds me of how small towns are very different from big cities. Obituaries in small-town newspapers are written so the reader knows who has died and who he was related to in the town. Because all the residents of Rockmart GA knew who Mrs. Beall was, it was appropriate to say the woman who died was Mrs. Beall's mother.

Mrs. Beall's Mother Dies Suddenly Sat. It looks like a news item, which I am sure it was. The Mrs. Beall in the headline was my mother-in-law, Helen Alexander Beall, who was co-owner of a popular dress shop. Her mother was Mrs. Roy P. Alexander, and the Alexanders were a well-known family in Roopville, south of Rockmart. 

Now that I no longer live in the small town of Hayesville, NC, I subscribe to their online version of the Clay County Progress, the weekly newspaper.

The obituaries are usually written by a family member, and some laud the interests of the deceased as well as listing the family members. Many of the elderly people are living into their 80s and 90s, and most of them were born in a distant city up north. The obituary informs us of where they worked and the titles or rank held if the deceased had been in the military. 

I am led to believe their happiest days were after they retired in the beautiful Appalachian Mountains. "He loved to fish and hike," or "she volunteered at Granny's Attic," and always lists the church activities, deacon, elder, Sunday School teacher, or sang in the choir. 

We know the subject of an obit was a native of the area because he was born in Clay County, or born in one of the Georgia counties bordering North Carolina. We learn where he went to school, what he did after graduating from High School, and if he had always lived there. 

If it is an obituary of an elderly woman native to the area, she is lauded for being a great mother and grandmother. She loved quilting or baking or helping at her church. Hardly ever is a job mentioned for this woman. We learn that she was loving and giving and happy in her garden or putting up vegetables from the garden. 

When I first moved to Hayesville, I often found that an obituary of a native would mention that she had worked in one of the mills that flourished there before they were all closed and relocated overseas. That move affected families, especially single mothers, in a negative way as their opportunity to earn a living had ended. There were no other jobs similar to the ones that had been lost. 

There is a big difference between an obituary written by a loving family member and the impersonal ones written by a member of the newspaper staff or the funeral home. I feel a bit sad when I read those not written by someone familiar to the deceased. 

I have written or helped write obituaries for my parents and siblings. It is a heavy undertaking, and I have written my own for my family to have when I am gone. 

Today has been a long day, and I am tired. I began home physical therapy today and went to my chiropractor who helps me so very much. She is the most unusual doctor. She says she is a functional chiropractor, which means she does other kinds of healing even if she has to get down on the floor and work on my poor legs as I sit. 

The world is filled with people who help others in diverse ways. I am grateful for those people who don't necessarily follow the norm, who find more than one tried and true way to make me feel better. 

In a world filled with war, murder, death, and torture, it is often hard to face another day with hope. But I know that hearing about the horrible things going on in our country and around the world will not help me because I can't do anything about those atrocities. But I will concentrate on where I can still be of use to others. I will spend tomorrow working on my new writing class, which begins on June 30. My six students will make me happy, and they will enjoy writing their memories. 

Thanks for stopping by and reading my thoughts tonight. I appreciate you and your comments. 

COVID keeps coming

I am pretty sure I have Long COVID and my pulmonologist thinks so, too.

I have had four cases of COVID since 2020, even though I had my shots.

My breathing problems are probably due to inflammation of the airways caused by the virus. It surely makes a difference in who you choose for your doctor. The previous one said I didn't have Asthma and my lungs were clear. She offered no reason I had shortness of breath. 

The new doctor said I do have Asthma and is looking for the reason for my problems. I am scheduled for more tests and I am using a steroid med in my nebulizer. I will have in home physical therapy beginning next week. My entire body has suffered because of the virus. I cannot walk much at all. Fatigue overcomes me almost instantly. That is one of the symptoms of Long Covid. 

It is hard to believe that before I had the first COVID virus, I lived alone in my house in the mountains. Drove my car anywhere I wanted to go, and, except for a painful knee, I was doing OK.

I thought the isolation from the Pandemic was going to be my worst complaint, but no. While the isolation was harmful to my mental health, the virus which lives inside me has inflamed my entire body, I believe. It does damage to all of the body, not just the lungs or respiratory area.

I am hopeful now that the new program I will be on will help me with all of the symptoms of Long COVID. Soon after my first COVID illness and my shortness of breath became troublesome, I was sent to a cardiologist. I had several tests and they diagnosed me with a faulty valve in my heart. I have been monitored for that, too, but there has been no change since the first ECHO-cardiogram.

When people scoff at COVID as a serious illness, I would like to tell them it is very serious. It changed my entire life. I no longer live alone in my house. I almost always need someone to drive me if I must park a distance from the door of my doctor's office. At times, my sister takes a wheelchair in the car in case I must walk a long way to my destination. 

But my mind is still good and for that I am grateful. I will be teaching again soon on Zoom. My students seem to enjoy the classes and come back for more. 

I have worked for several days scheduling volunteers to work in our NCWN-West booth at Festival on the Square in Hayesville. We have a good number of authors with books on the market now so they are happy to meet the public. 

About 3,000 people attend the festival each year, and some of our writers sell lots of books.

            Rosemary Royston

I will miss being there, but plan to be in Hiawassee in July when Rosemary Royston, excellent writer and well-published poet, will teach a poetry workshop. 

She has published several books and teaches often at the John C. Campbell Folk School in their writing department.  I will enjoy being with my writing buddies again. 

Hope you are having a wonderful summer. Don't get COVID while you are out having fun.

FOR MORE INFO ON LONG COVID:

My Life Now

                                                                             

My life now is quite different from the life I led in Hayesville, NC, for the past thirty years. There I was out and about almost every day. If I wanted to go somewhere, I simply got into my car and drove to one of the small towns nearby, where I shopped, visited with a friend or simply stopped in a restaurant and ate alone. As a writer, I like to listen to those around me. I often get a line or an idea from some conversation. 

As a member of the NC Writers' Network - West, I had many friends among the locals. We often got together for a late lunch and had a good time talking and laughing for an hour or two. Some of us had no one at home to hurry back to, and we stayed even longer. 

I don't know anyone here in Roswell except my sister and my niece. The three of us often meet for a long lunch. I enjoy both of them. But I haven't made friends here. I joined the Georgia Writers Association, but their meetings are not near where I live, and they meet at night. With my physical difficulties in walking very far, I usually feel more confident when with someone than alone. But I haven't found a writing buddy who would accompany me. 

I don't drive at night in the city. I often get lost, and that is a frightening experience. All those years I lived in a rural town in the mountains, I had no fear of driving at night alone from my home to the surrounding towns. I knew all the curvy roads, all the landmarks, and when others would not drive at night, I had no problems. I don't see quite as well at night as I used to, but that was not a big problem then. 

So, I have found more things I can do alone at home. This spring, I am enjoying growing vegetables as well as flowers in my deck garden. 

My first tomato grown on my deck

Squash plant beside my little tomato

  My crookneck squash has been fun to watch. It has had large yellow blossoms, and now, I think it is going to make squash.

I live in a shady area surrounded by trees, which I love, but I only get the midday sun. One end of my deck is not covered. That is where my veggies grow. I have another tomato plant, a green pepper plant, a dill plant, and basil that are doing pretty well.

    

Basil is a member of the mint family and is known for its aromatic leaves and delicate flavor. Basil plants typically grow to be between 1 and 5 feet tall, depending on the variety, and I hope mine won't be too tall.

I am learning about growing basil.

Basil thrives in sunny locations with 6 to 8 hours of sunlight per day. My deck is not likely to get that many hours of sun.

Basil can also be grown in containers or raised beds, ensuring adequate drainage.

It's cold-sensitive and should be planted outdoors after the last frost. Mine is certainly grown in a container. I can't even walk on rough ground, and certainly cannot plant anything that needs to be watered and cared for.

I look forward to snipping off fresh young leaves for seasoning my cooking. I still cook some, but not every day. I try to prepare a dish that I can enjoy for several meals. The only thing I cook every day is my breakfast. I like a big breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage or bacon and a combo of grits and oatmeal. That is probably the largest meal I eat each day, but the second largest is my midday meal. I eat light at night. 

At my home in the mountains, I always had hydrangea and red geraniums on my deck. I bought a small hydrangea (see in the photo below), but it is not blooming very well for me. And the red geraniums are not blooming at all. Stu hung a planter on the railing of the deck in the sun, so maybe that will help.
                                              

                                                                                                 

Hydrangea between two geraniums that just won't bloom

Sounds at night remind me of my childhood.

Tonight I hear the cicadas singing, and it reminds me of the nights when I was a child and we could hear this sound from the swamp across the road on our neighbor's farm. My brothers told me it was frogs making that noise. But I feel sure what I am hearing tonight are cicadas. They were expected to be in Georgia in May. I feel sure they are close by. They don't eat leaves, flowers, fruit or produce, so my deck garden is safe.

They are a valuable food source for birds, and they can aerate lawns and improve water filtration into the ground. They even add nutrients to the soil as they decompose. I just learned all this. I only knew they sang all night. One evening when my little great nephew, Luke, was staying with us at our house in the mountains, he fell asleep on the sofa as he waited for his grandmother to pick him up. When he awakened suddenly and sat up, I asked, "What's wrong, Luke? You can't sleep?" He said, "No. The bugs are too loud."

He would not be able to sleep here tonight because the bugs are really loud.

That's all, from my solitary world in the city. I am blessed to be surrounded by nature. The ducks on the lake and the turtles sunning themselves on a log out on the water give me pleasure. To grow old in this setting is very special to me. I am thankful. 

Until next time, when you meet others, smile and say hi. It will make their day and yours. 

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Summer's gifts

As a child, I always looked forward to June. School was out. I could sleep until I woke up late in the morning. No pressure, no deadlines, no homework, just freedom, peace, and time to read and play. 

Our family never took vacations. We had a farm, and that meant working every single day to care for livestock, milk cows, and ensure all animals stayed within their confines. My father and his four sons worked all day, every weekday, in the fields. Summer was the growing season for peanuts, cotton, and corn. 

I was infatuated with corn. From its earliest days, when two shoots came out and tentatively tested the air, corn amazed me. Those two green shoots became a stalk with long leaves. Next, tiny ears of corn appeared on the stalks that were taller than I. I liked walking in corn rows. I felt like I was in a tunnel as the leaves reached out across the space between rows. 

As the corn matured, the plants towered over me, and the ears of corn grew fat in their husks. Silky streamers protruded from the ends, sometimes white or pink before they turned reddish-brown. They became the hair of glamorous girls in my imagination. Sometimes I stopped and braided the silks the way Mother braided my long hair. I learned that each strand of corn silk is connected with a kernel of corn.

We often had boiled corn for our midday meal, which we called dinner. It was so good with Mother's homemade butter. I hated the job of silking the corn. We had to find the tiny strings embedded between the rows of kernels. 

When I was a child, corn was not as sweet as it is today. It was always good, however. A few years ago, I bought some corn at an outdoor produce stand. The corn had been enhanced to make it extremely sweet. It did not taste natural. What disappointment! We humans think we must enhance or improve all of nature's plants to suit our cravings, sugar being one of the worst.

Here in the city where I now abide, Publix has begun buying fresh corn. My sister, Gay, has brought me several ears and I am happy to say they tasted good, not overly sweet. 

My deck garden is doing well. My squash plant has been full of yellow blooms. I hope they become crookneck squash. One of my tomato plants has three green babies, and one is beginning to blush. I can't grow corn on my deck, but I have flowers and lots of Hosta.

Yesterday, Stu, my bil, put up holders for my bird feeders and hung a plant holder on my deck. He is handy with a drill and a screw driver. He is also kind and helpful.

June is the birth month of my beloved sister, June. The 25th is embedded in my memory. I often say a little prayer of gratitude for having such a generous and loving person in my life, one of the women who made me who I am today. 

My sister, June, sitting in the chair. I miss her

If you are a regular reader, thanks so much for stopping in today. 

If you are new, please come back again soon.

For Estelle

Today is the day of the funeral service for my dear friend, Estelle. I will share two poems she wrote in honor of her grandchild who died too young. They speak to me on this day of mourning. 

OPENING ACT

            For Tara

Floating painlessly above sand dunes,

she picks a star from the heavens,

places it in her hair.

She dances -- arabesques, pirouette, tour jetes.

Crabs click castanets.

Fish swish their tails like bows

on a thousand violins.

Shells clang cymbals,

and sea oats wave batons.

She sees her family sleeping,

throws a kiss across the waves,

understands that the ribbon of love

connecting her heart with theirs

will one day erase tears.

The moon lay down

a golden path on a velvet sea.

To choirs of angels,

applaud of saints,

she dances with joy into eternity.

MOURNING DOVE

            For Tara, 1964-2003

A Mourning Dove was my companion.

She strutted and cooed

outside my window.

I fed her crumbs from my morning toast.

She returned in the evening

and a gray mantle enveloped

the distant mountains.

I sustained her. In some ways

I cherished her.

Then I remembered

peacock colors covering the hills,

tinting the trees, the clouds.

I sang again. Thanked my companion

and let her fly away.

Quiet Times 

Poems by Estelle Darrow Rice

copyright 2004

I will continue with my hospital adventure.

On the second day at the hospital, I felt much better, able to sit up in a chair. However, the nurse came in and took more blood. 

Then they put in another IV for HEPERIN, a blood thinner. So I had two IVs in one arm plus oxygen going all the time. However, more people from the lab arrived and struggled to find veins for additional needles. My poor hands were like pincushions. 

I began talking about going home. When my oxygen levels were normal again and my breathing was much better, I wanted to get out of that place. I knew my care at home would be good, and if I didn't need those IVs or oxygen, I knew I would be better at home. 

Besides losing an IV that had been poorly taped on, and bleeding like I had been stabbed in the heart, my Sunday went as well as could be expected. My food was listed as a Cardiac diet, full of carbs, and no one gave me my diabetes meds. 

"We only give Metformin and Insulin," I was told. Well, I don't use either, so for three days, I don't know what my blood sugar was doing because no one checked it, and I took no meds. 

They gave me my nighttime drugs in the morning. By Sunday night, I was asking for my Ativan, which I only take when my anxiety is very high. I made an agreement with the doctors that I would stay over one night, but I was going home on Monday. The holdup seemed to be with the cardiologist, who wanted me to have an Echocardiogram and a stress test before dismissing me.

I knew I could have those tests done as an outpatient by my own doctor, so there was no reason to stay in the hospital. I called my primary care doctor and made an appointment, and contacted my cardiologist, who said she would see me when I was dismissed. Finally, in the early afternoon on Monday, the hospital cardiologist made her first visit to my room and said she was in favor of dismissing me. 

I have good insurance, and I know that the hospital and all four doctors will receive a good-sized payment. If they had added two more days and two more tests, it would have hit my insurance in a big way. But, I learned from my doctors I saw after being dismissed that the major concern the hospital doctors had was their fear of a malpractice claim. 

Our country is known for lawsuits, large and small, for deaths and injuries, and I assume all doctors are fearful of litigation, especially hospitals. Two members of my family died from medical mistakes, and the doctors were sued, but only one family won their case. My father died from too much sedation in the hospital, but we didn't file a suit. My brother died because the hospital to which he was transferred when he had a fluid buildup did nothing for him for 24 hours. His heart gave out while he waited. We did not file a lawsuit.

I have a healthy fear of hospitals. Those in charge don't know me, what I need or what I can't have. Although my meds are written down over and over and should be on file, no one seems to glance at them. Without an excellent advocate by your side who will speak up when you can't, it is a wonder anyone gets good care. I felt I had to educate every nurse who came into my room about me, why I was there, what I was allergic to, what I needed, and what I could not have. I wanted an Alka-Seltzer, which I sometimes take at night, but no. We can get you something else for heartburn if that is your problem. 

I was finally dismissed late Monday afternoon, and my sister had come home, so she drove me back to my apartment. My stress level dropped rapidly, but I continue to fight the symptoms of COVID, with a cough and fatigue. Those symptoms seem to linger for a while. 

Hospitals are wonderful for emergency care or some surgeries, but even the doctors I talked with at the hospital said our medical system is broken. I had two surgeries in the past three years, a knee replacement and surgery for a broken shoulder. Both were outpatient. I had excellent care at home. The only problem was that the anesthesia made me deathly ill for two weeks after the shoulder surgery. I think they gave me something I am allergic to. You never know.

Estelle Rice, my longtime friend

One of my dearest friends died last weekend. She and I collaborated on a book, Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers, and Fins. I will miss her so much, even though she lived in North Carolina and I am now in Georgia, we stayed in touch. I am glad she was able to be at home in her bed when she passed away. 

The good news is I am going strong again now, and I hope to teach another writing class in June or July.

I am blessed with a caring and understanding family and wonderful friends, both online and in person. 

My sister, Gay, my friend, Mary Mike, and I at Estelle's 100th birthday party

Have a good Memorial Day weekend if you celebrate it. I will remember those I know who died in wars our country fought, all young men who never had the chance to grow old. 

After a weekend in a hospital

May 2025

I was taken to urgent care on Saturday morning early, when I awoke, laboring to breathe. I had been sick for several days, coughing and feeling exhausted, and had taken a COVID/FLU test to be sure I was not that sick. The home test registered Negative for both.

But when I awoke and found my oxygen was down in the 80s, and felt too weak to get dressed, I knew I needed to get medical help. My sister and brother-in-law had left for a week-long trip by car. I was alone in the house, in my little apartment, which they had built for me in the basement.

I called my niece, who was on call for me in their absence. She came over, made me some toast and a cup of coffee, helped me get dressed, and into her car. We took a walker since I was unsure how much walking I had to do.

I was taken into a room immediately and tested for COVID. This time the test was positive. I was hooked to oxygen, and an EKG was taken because I have a history of aortic stenosis, moderate, but there. Then I became upset when I was told I had an abnormal EKG test. Not bad, but enough that 911 had been called, and I was going to the nearest hospital by ambulance.

The EMT fellows were more than pleasant and helpful, but once in the truck, they did another EKG on me. They got the same reading, and I could hear my test results being given on the phone to a doctor at the hospital. Although I had no chest pain at all, no pressure, or nausea, it was obvious the men in the ambulance were afraid I was having a heart attack.

While one of them drove, another one inserted an IV in my right arm. Just in case, he told me. My blood pressure was soaring, and I am sure that was because I was stressed out. In a very short time, I was being removed on a stretcher at the Emergency Room. The nice young men were doing all they could to comfort me and let me know they were right there with me, and medical help was coming in to care for me.

I was feeling better with oxygen going into my lungs, but alarmed at all the concern about my heart. Finally, someone told the EMT guys that the doctor who read my EKG did not think I was having a heart attack. However, they would test my blood and see why my test had some abnormalities.

Soon, my niece came in to be with me. She was a great comfort, and I looked forward to their letting me go home soon. I knew she would be sure I had what I needed at my apartment.

But, a female doctor came in and told us that she felt I should be admitted to the hospital at least for a few days until they could check me out. My heart sank. I hate to even visit hospitals. I have spent far too much time in them when I cared for my mother for ten years and then spent awful times at Emory when my husband was admitted for cancer.

I was with my father when he was dying in the hospital. I had no good feelings about hospital. I stood by my dear aunt when she died in a hospital begging for help which never came. I saw the sketchy care given my mother and my father and grew angry and sickened at the kind of care given to my poor husband as I sat with him day and night for weeks.

I dreaded the following hours I would spend with total strangers who knew nothing about me, my health issues, my medicines, my needs. Nurses came and drew many vials of blood from my arm. A nurse hung a bag of liquid that dripped into my veins. I was told it was to hydrate me. Kind men with breathing machines came in ever three or four hours and had me breathe in chemicals that helped me for a short time.

When my niece left me to go and bring back some of my things, I called and asked for someone to help me go to the bathroom. I was tied to those tubes providing me with oxygen and fluids so I could not get up and go. As I waited for help, my need grew more urgent. I called and pleaded with them to send someone to help me. When finally, Val, the nurse arrived, she said, “Oh, I will put you on a ????, so you don’t have to get up.”

 She began busying herself putting together some kind of apparatus. I sat up on the side of the bed and in tears, I cried, please help me now to the bathroom. I can’t wait. 

Then she came over and began pausing the lines as I stood up. But she was too late. By the time I got to the bathroom, my gown was wet.

“Ok,” she said, “let me go and get you a fresh gown.”

This entire situation had turned out just as I knew it would. My stress level was over the moon and that did not help my breathing. I was furious.

Back on the bed, I sat with the wet gown just over my shoulders while she got the new gown open. At that time a man appeared in the doorway. His voice boomed out in broken English.

“Hello, Glenda Beel?”  No one ever pronounced my last name correctly.

With no regard for my privacy, he continued to talk while Val helped me into the clean gown.

When the nurse left, he came into the room and sat down. He asked me a hundred questions which I answered.

Then he asked me if I had my end-of-life directive. My gosh, I thought, he is planning for me to die here.

I told him my sister knew my wishes and I had them written down at home. “So,” he said, “if we have to put you on a ventilator, she would be able to tell us how long you would want to stay on it or if you would want to be taken off at some point?”

I can’t begin to express how this made me feel. I went to Urgent Care to get medication that would help my breathing as I had done before. I often get bronchitis and usually am given a Z-Pac. Instead, I was admitted into a hospital and talked to about my end of life wishes.

When my niece returned, I was very emotional as I told her about this experience. She was also concerned and went to talk to the nurse. She felt terrible because she had not been there with me.

She stayed with me that night. 

I will continue this saga in my next post.

 

 

 

 

Invisible Illnesses unknown to the Medical World

In today's world of modern medicine, I find I often have to do my own research and diagnose myself, then tell my doctor what I need.

Years ago, when I began to react to chemicals by getting sick or developing bad headaches, I searched until I found the answer to my problem. I lived in a small town in the mountains of North Carolina and my primary care doctor had no answers for me. But I discovered my wonderful nurse practitioner was willing to listen to me and help me.

I knew that when I was exposed to harsh chemicals, which are called forever chemicals today, I had to get outside and breathe in fresh air, or I could have an asthma attack. I changed my way of living. No chemicals in my house for cleaning, no fragrance products on me or in my house.

I asked my NP if she could prescribe home oxygen for me so that when I had an emergency from breathing some unknown product that affected me, I could breathe oxygen into my lungs. 

"Your insurance won't pay for this, you know," she said to me.

"I will pay for it, but I need a prescription to get it."

That understanding and competent nurse did write the prescription, and for years, I rented an oxygen generator I kept by my bed. As time passed, I found I often needed oxygen at night to help me breathe. Still, I didn't have an oxygen reading low enough for my insurance, even Medicare, to pay for it. I was told my oxygen had to drop down to 85 before Medicare considered I needed it. Mine often dropped to 91 or 92, and when it did, having the oxygen handy helped me remain out of a hospital.

Moving on to 2020, when I had COVID-19. I was so, so sick and did not know how dangerous this virus was because it would be a month before it had a name. Still suffering from symptoms, weeks later, I saw my primary care doctor, who diagnosed me with COVID-19. 

I lost my sense of taste and smell, which has never returned, and I had the virus two more times. I believe I would have been hospitalized if I had not had oxygen at home. 

Little did I know that now, years later, I would have long COVID, which is scientifically known as post-acute sequelae of COVID-19 (PASC) and commonly referred to as “post-COVID-19.”

I have all the symptoms listed by doctors at the Austin Health Center in Austin, Texas. Cough, shortness of breath, extreme fatigue after the slightest exertion, aching joints, muscle pain, loss of taste and smell, and possible damage to my heart and lungs. There is no cure, but there are ways to treat the symptoms, which I am doing most of the time. Extreme fatigue is the hardest to deal with. When I feel good, I want to do more than I should, and then I hit the wall and crash. I must go to bed and sleep for two or three hours. Sometimes, just going to the grocery store is too much. 

This post was written two weeks ago, but was not posted. Much has happened since then. Read my next posts. 

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN JOURNEY PROUD?

Could I be "journey proud" tonight? That is an old saying I heard all my life meaning I am excited about my journey tomorrow. I am going back to the mountains where I lived the past thirty years. I will read my poetry tomorrow night at the fabulous John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC. That is in the far westernmost part of North Carolina. 

NCWN-West, our writing group in nine counties of western NC and adjoining counties in Georgia, hold a monthly meeting at the folk school where a writer and a poet share their original work with the community and with students at the folk school. Lorraine Bennett, a novelist and outstanding writer, will also read tomorrow night. 

I remember the first time I read my poetry at the folk school decades ago. I was scared to death. I had not ever enjoyed speaking before a group of adults. I had taught fourth grade children and kindergarten, and that was no problem for me. I loved teaching kids. But I, like many people, was terrified to speak to an audience of adults.

At my first reading, I wrote down every word I planned to say. Not just the poems I would read, but the patter between poems. I was please when later I was told no one knew I was reading every word I spoke that night. But the kind folks who were there made me feel welcome and seemed to enjoy what I said and my poems. It was a huge step for me.

Now all these years later, I have no problem talking to an audience and reading my stories and poems.

I don't know how I changed, but over the years as I read my writing at our monthly meetings for critique and as my poetry became published, I found I could stand before a group and talk easily. 

The book Estelle Rice and I wrote together, Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins, is in a third printing now. I will share some work from that book, and poems from Now Might as Well Be Then, published by Finishing Line Press in 2009. 

While there, I will see my dear friend, Estelle, now 100 years old, and other friends who are writers and poets. I am excited to go and I could not go if my sweet sister, Gay, could not go with me. It was difficult for her to find time out of her busy life to travel and spend three days away from home. She is practicing for a dance competition soon. She also sings in the choir at Alpharetta Presbyterian Church. She and her husband are loyal members and never miss rehearsal or Sunday service unless they are traveling. 

My sister, Gay

I am so fortunate to live in the same house with them, although I have my own apartment downstairs. Gay and I were almost like twins as we grew up together, sleeping in the same bedroom, going to college together and being roommates one year. We are best friends and share our joys, hurts, our sorrows, and our good times. We are the youngest of seven children, and all of our siblings are gone now. But we are blessed with caring nieces and nephews. 

We will enjoy spending the next three days together in the mountains even though we will be having a cool spell, even a frost one night, while there. 

I am not blogging as often as I did, but life gets busy and I take more naps now. I find a nap is healing and helps me get more done when I awake.

I look forward to being with friends, away from the chaos of the news, and happenings I can do nothing about. 

When I return home, I look forward to planting flowers, feeding the birds, writing stories, and teaching students what I know about memoir writing. I have an online class in April sponsored by the Institute of Continuing Learning in Young Harris, Georgia. I can teach from my home and my students can learn from their homes or wherever they use their computer. Life is good and I am grateful.

Take care my friends. Make your life an example for others and let me hear from you, OK?