A fantastic southern humorist helped me get through 2020.

Writing Life Stories is the name of this blog. That is because I enjoy writing true stories about events in my life and about people in my life, present and those who have gone on. 

This past week, a wonderful southern humorist, Jeanne Robertson, died just two months after her husband passed away. She was in her seventies but still going on speaking tours. In fact, she had a full schedule planned for the coming months. One of them was in my hometown Albany, GA. I don't live there now and would not have seen her in person, but I feel I know this woman who was Miss North Carolina. She was six feet two inches tall, the tallest person to ever enter the Miss America Contest. She was nineteen when she was voted Miss Congeniality in 1963. 

During the past year, like millions of others, I discovered Jeanne on YouTube, and thanks to her I have laughed more than I have in years. She is southern and talks with a southern accent, an accent I have heard all my life from educated people. She went to school at Auburn University in Alabama, but she and her husband Jerry were supporters of Elon University in North Carolina. 

I have grieved over the loss of this delightful woman who packed auditoriums with her clean humor. She never used profanity or filthy language. To me, that shows her talent. I once heard Chris Rock say that when he felt his audience not responding to his comedy, all he had to do was curse and everyone laughed. I don't enjoy most of the comics today because they rely on gimmicks and mean-spirited jokes to get laughs. Jeanne Robertson did not do that.

I grew up in a family of storytellers. My father was great and Uncle Jimmy was outstanding. Like Bill Cosby and others of his era, Jeanne used facial expressions, body language, and pure energy to connect with her wide audience. She didn't throw out four-letter words or shock people with her behavior. She took simple actions or words from people she met and people in her family to form stories that I relate to and see in my mind. I laugh out loud. I have found that I can go to bed at night and put on her YouTube videos and watch one after the other, even those I have seen already, and forget the troubles of the day.

Jeanne said her goal was to find humor in everyday things and she encouraged those of us who watched her to look for the funny stories or funny things that happened in our own lives. She said she was not a comic, but a humourist. She was a speaker. She didn't perform in Comedy Clubs. She was paid to speak at conventions and large meetings all over this country. She was an attractive woman even as she aged and her health began to fail. In 2020, she had to stop touring because of COVID and began a show from her back porch. In those shows, her fans interacted and some of the characters in her stories were guests. 

Gay and Stu and I are huge fans of Jeanne Robertson and I am so happy that her stories will continue to be with us online. I plan to purchase one of her CDs or an audiobook. 

You can find her here and on YouTube. I know you will like her and laugh at her funny stories.

I can't save the world. I can only do so much.

Sisters, June in front, Gay on the right and me, Glenda in red

This past weekend, I finished watching the 2000 TV series Parenthood. Although I watched this show when it was first on television, I watched it with new eyes. Was it being older that made me see this story of a family in a fresh view? Is it because I have lost so many of my family, that I understood the members of the Braverman family so much better now?

The characters make the story for me. I fall in love with them and embrace their flaws as well as celebrate the good in them. This show is filled with interesting characters, as are most families.

One Reviewer said: As a 50 something with grown children this show is so right on. The episode when they found out Max had a real problem was exactly how it went for my wife and I when we got similar news, and the reaction of the grandfather was also spot on. This show is happy, sad, and everything in-between, just like real life.

No one is perfect on this earth, and no one is perfect in the Braverman family. Sometimes conflict comes when one wants to help a brother or sister or spouse. Sometimes the conflict is brought on by an accident or illness. 

For me, this series which ran 8 seasons, was the perfect escape from all the bad news, the horrible sights of suffering and death we see every day if we turn on the television or social media and I was not created to handle all of the world's problems. I can't help the suffering people all over the world and in our own country. With my aging issues, health problems, and financial woes, I can only deal with what is near me, in my community, or in my own family. 

One of the major causes of depression and other mental health diagnoses is feeling responsible or worrying about things that we have no control over. I can do nothing about what is happening in Afghanistan. I am just so happy that someone is strong enough to bring this twenty-year-old war to an end. War is always Hell. This one has gone on much too long and is ending with bloodshed and sorrow for many people. But we will be better for giving that country back to the people who live there. It is not possible to change the culture of a country, thousands of years old, but that seems to be what we were trying to do there.

For my own health, I need to concentrate on good and positive thoughts and put into play what will best get me through this COVID crisis so I can live a productive life. News junkies sometimes thrive on what they see and hear each day, the same stories over and over with the hateful media reporters stirring up the ire of all in their listening audience. 

Maybe it is because I have such empathy for others the horror on the screens is just more than I can take in every day. Maybe that is why a TV series like Parenthood helps keep me sane. It is real. Real people have problems like I have dealt with all my life. I relate and I hurt when they hurt, I celebrate when they are happy. I am fortunate to hear from my writer friends when they are published and I can do something. I can post their success. I can cheer them on and praise them. I can invite them to be guests for our Zoom meetings and invite them to take writing classes.

The daily news depresses me and makes me feel guilty. I feel guilty because I can't make it better. I can't stop the fires in the west. I can't bring back the homes destroyed. I can't stop Hurricane Ida from flooding homes and destroying lives in Louisiana tonight. Even if I had millions of dollars I could not fix all the problems that slam us every single day. 

So I will donate to local charities. I will try to help my church help others. I will lift up my students and encourage them to not be afraid to tell their truth, to leave their legacy for future generations so their grandchildren will know the sacrifices made to keep this country moving in the right direction. We can tell the truth of what happened because we were there and if the history books in the public schools do not tell the whole truth, we can tell it in our stories and in our books. 

Well, I have gone on and on tonight, but Gay is visiting me and we have had two wonderful days together. We did not turn on the television or watch any news channels. All we have wanted to know is how much rain and bad weather we will get from this huge hurricane hitting the gulf coast. Although we are in the NC mountains, we will be affected by this storm. These are my thoughts as we begin another week. 

I hope you all are safe from the flooding, the fires, the devastation of this virus, and that your families are as well. Be safe this week and let me hear from you.

 

Writing conference pushed me to begin a new writing project.

I attended an online writing conference this past week.

Read about my experience and what I learned here.

I was motivated and inspired by the smart women I heard speak. I have begun to tell my mother's story. She was the glue that held our family together. We took her for granted and even I, who was so close to her, have found it hard to write about her. I want her descendants to know her story. 

What is joy? What is happiness?

I received an email recently with an article by Dr. Angela Williams Gorrell . The following is an excerpt from that article.

I want to be clear: Joy is not the same as happiness. Happiness tends to be the pleasurable feeling we get from having the sense that life is going well.

Joy, on the other hand, has a mysterious capacity to be felt alongside sorrow and even ― sometimes, most especially ― in the midst of suffering. This is because joy is what we feel deep in our bones when we realize and feel connected to others ― and to what is genuinely good, beautiful and meaningful ― which is possible even in pain. Whereas happiness is generally the effect of evaluating our circumstances and being satisfied with our lives, joy does not depend on good circumstances.

Happiness - a state of well-being and contentment

In the last year of Barry's life when he was dealing with cancer, he asked me.

"Have you been happy? Didn't we have a happy marriage?"

"Yes," I said, and I meant it. No matter how many times we disagreed, no matter how many times I complained that he didn't help me enough around the house, my life was generally happy most of the time. To live together for 45 years and not have upsets, arguments and feel anger toward each other at times is unbelievable to me. But, because we loved each other and knew we were in it for the long haul, we didn't let those times define our marriage, our lives. 

Barry and I knew we wanted only to be with each other, and we accepted the good and the bad, always trying to work out our differences to preserve our lives together. 

My wedding day. Our mothers, Helen Beall and Lois Council on my left. To Barry's right are Gay Council and Richard Beall. 

A Harvard study on happiness followed a large group of people until they were 80 years old. The study proved that large financial success was not what made people happy. The study group said their happiness came from being in a good relationship and knowing there was always someone they could turn to, they could depend on to be there for them. The men who were in good relationships in their fifties were healthier in their eighties.

Knowing I was there for him and he was there for me was the basis for our long relationship. Trusting each other and knowing we never planned to leave grounded us and made us happy.

Joy is another thing, I think. 

Watching my little dog doing something especially cute, funny or loving brings me joy. Looking at my phone and seeing my sister is calling brings me joy. 

I used to find great joy in receiving notice that a poem had been accepted for publication, or a short story was going to be published. I hope to find that joy again soon.

Before the pandemic, I experienced joy visiting and  lunching with my dearest friends.

I remember feeling extremely joyful after attending choir practice on Sunday afternoons at the First Presbyterian Church in Albany, GA. The choir director, the members of the group and singing lifted me to a higher level of joy on those days. 

Most parents experience joy when a child is born and when their children have special moments in their lives. On a daughter's wedding day, her mother finds joy in the event even if she is also feeling sad.

I remember my own marriage that way. Although I wept when my mother, sisters and brothers hugged me at my reception, my day was filled with joy. 

"joy is what we feel deep in our bones when we realize and feel connected to others ― and to what is genuinely good, beautiful and meaningful." 

Do you remember special moments of joy? 

What brings you joy?

Writing is our lifeline when tragedy befalls us

I have certain blogs I visit on a regular basis. One of them is https://writingthroughcancer.com/

Writing Through Cancer.  One might think this would be depressing and would not want to read the posts, but the writer, Sharon A. Bray, teaches writing to cancer patients. The patients, like all of us who write, find it helps them deal with what is happening to them or happened to them. The blogger writes very well and she uses quotes from writers and poets in her posts. 

I recommend this blog for anyone who has known someone with cancer or anyone who is a survivor of cancer. I have had two members of my family diagnosed with cancer, and I know what it does to the patient and those who love him. 

Without writing, I don't know how I would have survived Barry's tortuous lymphoma ordeal. Tonight I came across a rough draft of a poem I wrote when he was sick. The caregiver, in an effort to protect the patient, becomes ill as well, emotionally and physically at times. In spite of my  pain, you can see I have hope for both of us.


Bowed and broken, he forgets
that I suffer, too.
I suffer his losses and my own.

He forgets I have needs, someone to share
my fears with, my anger, my grief.

Beside the lake, water brings calm
to my spirit that has been torn, crushed and shoved
under his illness that becomes mine.

Somewhere the sun shines behind the clouds.
I see a small glow over western peaks,
a promise that we'll reach a joyous place
again one day. 

Two Buttermilks for Pamela

We all need connections with other people. Listening to Pope Francis talking to children who live in difficult situations, some homeless, some who have lost parents, I was struck with his emphasis on staying connected with others.

I thought about the many elderly or ill people who are home-bound or have no family near. Often their sons or daughters are busy with their own lives, their children, and don't seem to have time to visit. Popping a head in the door to say, "Are you all right?" is not a visit. 

After my mother, age 70, recovered from an aneurysm that left her unable to drive and with no short-term memory, she still enjoyed her children's visits. Some found it hard to spend time with her because of her loss of memory. I was fortunate that she and I could talk and we loved being together. My sister, Gay, and I often took Mother to the Dairy Queen where she ordered a banana split. She could not eat it all, but it was her favorite and, even though we reminded her that she could not eat all of it, she insisted the banana split was what she wanted. 

My mother in blue and her sister. They had the same birthday, two years apart

The last ten years of my mother's life had a large gap where something was missing. Her brain swelled from the hemorrhage that took place in her artery. She almost died. 

When she lived, to the surprise of her doctors, we took her home and began to program her brain with pictures and tales that eventually brought her back to a place where she knew our names and recognized her home. We had to tell her that her parents and many of her siblings were dead. It broke my heart when she cried. She lived those losses all over again because she didn't remember their passing. 

Her memory of her childhood and even early marriage was vivid, so we talked about what she could tell me. Because I am curious and ask questions, I heard all of her stories. She told me about the dance parties in the community each Saturday night when she was young. 

"They rolled up the rug and pushed the chairs back against the wall," Mother said. I could see the joy in her eyes when she remembered those happy times. She smiled as she talked. "Coy would walk me to the dance, but he wouldn't dance with me. It was fine with me. I had plenty of boys who asked and I danced until the party ended. Then, Coy walked me to my house. If we stayed on the front porch too long, Mama let us know."

Coy was my father so I knew, even though he didn't dance, they fell in love. He asked her to marry him when she was eighteen. 

Mother knew the history of my father's family as well as she knew her own.  I learned about my aunts and uncles on both sides. She told me about her little brother who died, and how her mother became very protective of her next son, my uncle Rudolph. The entire family adored Rudy and I understood why. When Mother was in Intensive Care and didn't know anyone, he came to the hospital and visited her often. I can still see him, tall and thin, a slight smile on his face, standing beside her bed feeding her like she was a baby. She didn't know his name, but she knew she loved him and he loved her. I could tell by the trusting way she looked up at him as he spooned soup into her mouth. 

I was fortunate to come from a loving family and to know that being connected to others is healthy and important to living a long life. For several years Barry and I delivered Meals on Wheels to men and women living alone here in the mountains. Some of them could no longer cook for themselves and the hot meal they received every day gave them the nutrition they might not have received if left on their own. However, I think the most important part of delivering those meals was going inside, giving a hug, speaking with them, and letting them know someone cared. I think we had a few on our route who saw no one all day other than the people who delivered the meals. 

Just that connection brightened their days. All the television in the world cannot replace human touch and a human voice. Even telephone calls cannot replace the visit of someone who cares. 

I wrote a poem about one of the women we saw each month. She was ninety and still able to live alone. I often think about Pamela. You can find that poem here. 

If you have the time and are able, delivering Meals on Wheels in your community is a very worthwhile program.

Everybody Needs a Good Friend

Here it is Sunday again.
The weekend passed so quickly I hardly knew it. One of the best parts of this weekend was a visit with a former student of mine who is now one of my dearest friends. We both agreed we could have talked for many more hours if we had the time even though we don't see each other often.

Those are the friends we cling to in our lives and if we are lucky we never let them go. In my youth, I did not make the effort to hold on to friends, even those I thought about often, and I have some regrets about that. I can't change the past, but I do make a big effort to keep in touch with people I meet now, people who hit a note with me that resonates even when they are not near.

When we are bombarded with all the "bad news" of the world, and we might think that everyone is an enemy, if we are open to meeting others and listening to them, we see a different world. As my friend, Rebecca, and I discussed on Saturday, sometimes people are suspicious of generosity from others. They are skeptical of someone who is kind or giving. They wonder, "What does she want from me?"

I have experienced that reaction from writers when I reached out to them to help them promote their books or write an article about them. I've met some types who were so suspicious they refused my offer. As my personality type is one who doesn't get angry but feels pity for those people, I immediately wonder why they think that way. Could it be that their self-esteem is low and they can't imagine anyone wanting to do something for them without some payback?

Most writers I meet have many of the same issues with themselves as I do. We beat up on ourselves because we are not disciplined enough to write everyday. We don't submit our work. We never think it is ready to send out. We say we don't have time for our passion but will spend our time cleaning house, doing laundry and all the things we hate to do, while avoiding putting ourselves in a chair and picking up a pen or hitting the keyboard. 

We are not bad, lazy, or worthless people, and we need community with other writers to help us see that we all have similar problems. We have our needs that might not be exactly like those of others, but it helps to vent with fellow writers. 

So many of my good friends are students who took my classes in the past 8 years. In my classes we write about ourselves, share our stories and bond in a lasting way. Sometimes we cry or laugh out loud, but that is okay, too.  

Many of my friends are women I met when I took my first writing classes. For twenty years I have shared my sadness, my happiness, my successes and my failures with my fellow writers in my literary community. Some of my friends I've met through affiliation with North Carolina Writers' Network West. They don't live close to me, but we keep in touch. 

One of the highlights of this weekend was hearing the voice of a former student of mine, Staci Bell, as she called to tell me a poem and a flash fiction piece she has been wanting to place were both accepted for publication. One is for an anthology about wolves.

I am as happy for her as I would be if it were my writing that had been accepted. I know that feeling when a stranger reads your work and really likes it. When they like it well enough to publish it in a book or magazine to be read by many people, it feels like seeing your name up on a marquee on Broadway, especially when you have not had that before. 

Friends come in many ways and at any time. You never know how a person can influence your life, can help you through hard times, will need your help one day, and how much you can come to love them. Be generous to others, and they will surprise you with their own caring. 

My friends give to others in whatever way they can. 
My neighbor cooks once a week for a free noonday meal for those who need fellowship and nutrition for their bodies. Another friend, in her eighties, says cooking for others is her ministry. (To minister: to give service, care or aid; attend, as to wants or necessities.)

Maybe we can all ask ourselves what is our ministry to others? We don't have to go to church or have a calling from God to minister. 

I saw a little boy on Sunday Morning who lost his mother recently. He gives out tiny little toys to people on the street to see them smile. He just wants to make people smile and not be sad. We never know when the smallest thing can make a difference.(This story reminds me of the Little Drummer Boy)

My friends and other kind people give me hope that this world is much better than the TV news would have us believe. 
What do you think? Is human kind as bad as what is seen on television?  Do you think our parents thought the world was in deep trouble and feared for their children's future?

Solitude on Easter Sunday with only the Squirrels and Birds

True solitude is found in the wild places, where one is without human obligation.

One’s inner voices become audible. One feels the attraction of one’s most intimate sources.

In consequence, one responds more clearly to other lives. The more coherent one becomes within oneself as a creature, the more fully one enters into the communion of all creatures.

                                                                                                                    ---   Wendell  Berry

Wendell Berry (Photograph: Guy Mendes)

These words by Wendell Berry remind me of my father who said, “I’m closer to God when I walk on my land on Sundays than I have ever been in a church.”

Like Berry, my father loved the earth. He loved turning the rich dirt in spring and planting seeds that would one day produce plants that provided food for his family. My father enjoyed solitude. He could sit for hours, when he was older, in his chair out of the sun by the garage or in the shade of the 300 year-old oak tree beside our house.

I used to wonder what he was thinking about all that time he sat, smoking his cigarettes and gazing into space. He said once that at night when he had trouble falling asleep, he “made up” stories and that  helped him to drift off. He read western books by authors like Louis L'Amour and said those were the kinds of stories he created in his mind. I wonder if he might have become a writer if he had been afforded an education. 

Some people thought my father was not a believer because he did not attend church, but he once told me that he prayed every night that God would let him live until his children were all grown up and married. His father died when he was only ten years old. He was raised by a staunch Baptist mother.

My father also prayed to live as long as my mother needed him. He believed in prayer, and I like to think that when he walked over the pastures and through the woods on his farm, he communed with his God in a way that most of us could not understand. I feel sure he was thankful for his children and his wife whose love and support kept him persevering through hard times.

The minister at his funeral said it did not matter that he was not a member of a church. “Many good people don’t go to church. And I know your daddy was a good man.”

I  miss going to church, especially on Easter Sunday. I belong to a small Presbyterian church but have not attended in many years. A church on Sunday morning fills with more air pollution than any place in town. All the women and most of the men wear some kind of fragrance, perfume or cologne. The fumes from those chemicals used to make those scents saturate the air and I, having sensitivity to those chemicals, develop a serious breathing problem.

On Easter, many churches decorate with lilies across the altar. I would not last ten minutes in the sanctuary even if I am wearing my charcoal mask. In some states where the public is more conscious of the danger of these chemicals, churches have banned the wearing of  perfume. How nice it would be if the ladies and gentlemen in my little church, where Barry and I sang in the choir for many years, decided to become a forerunner in this effort to educate their members to the dangers of chemically scented products.

In the meantime, I will take time tomorrow, Easter, to sit on the sunlit porch high in the woods where birds and squirrels flit and scamper and, like my father, commune with nature and the wonder of this world I am so fortunate to inhabit. The air will be clean, crisp, and cool, and I will enjoy the solitude.

Happy Easter to all.

Who says 100 is old? Not in my family.

Today, January 2, 2015, is the 100th birthday of my cousin, Monteen Hayman, in Palmetto, Florida.
When I was compiling information on all my Council aunts and uncles for my book, Profiles and Pedigrees, The Descendants of Thomas Charles Council (1858-1911) Monteen wrote the history of her family. The details she supplied about her father's life, his early years in the south-central area of Florida that was emerging in 1906, created an  interesting insight to the history of the area as well as how her father and mother were respected leaders in their community. He was a carpenter and often built coffins for families when they lost a loved one. He worked in a shipyard during WWII, but returned to Palmetto and bought an acre of land near the Palm View region where he built a house. Later he bought more land to farm and the family moved there. My own father, as a young man, worked for Uncle Charlie on the farm.

Monteen described how the "truck-farming" was done. I found that an interesting part of the story, as well. When I was down in Palmetto last year, I saw where Monteen taught elementary school for many years and where her brothers attended school. She took me to the church where she met her future husband, Hollis, when they were kids, and to the cemetery where many of the family is buried.

I could visualize from the stories I've heard, my father, aunts and uncles back in the early 20th century, the parties on the beach, the dancing to the record player. Monteen wrote that only Uncle Charlie's home had a telephone. When neighbors needed to make a phone call, they were welcome to come to Charlie and Verter's house. Verter was nurse and midwife for the community. Several of my aunts lived with Uncle Charlie until they could get a place of their own.

Monteen is devout in her faith, and I believe her faith has kept her going through the rough times, the losses of her husband and other family members, as well as broken hip bones and such. Her eyes twinkle when she smiles and her sense of humor is very much intact. She is a pretty lady.

Monteen at age 99 and her brother who was 89 at the time of the photo.

Happy Birthday, Monteen. I wish I could be there to celebrate with all your family. I heard that this has been a wonderful day with calls, cards and flowers, and newspapers will be interviewing you and your daughter, Beverly. I hope the coming year will be healthy and happy for you and that next year at this time, we will be wishing you another happy birthday. .

Where is the Love?

I am not a fan of television evangelists usually  but tonight while I was working on something Joel Osteen came on  my screen. I have heard some church-going Christians scoff and call him "the feel-good preacher." The times I've listened to him, I enjoyed his inspirational sermons that left me feeling uplifted instead of down on myself, accusing myself of being a bad, sinful person as the preachers of my youth often made me feel.

Tonight his subject was love for those who are different from us. He asks that we not judge people by their appearances or the mistakes they have made. He says we should love everybody. He said that Jesus made it simple. "Don't judge and you won't be judged."

I perked up when I heard his talk tonight. He was speaking my mind, my thoughts, about how our culture today has become so judgmental. If you are on Facebook and read the comments there, you know how mean-spirited people are. If you don 't believe as they do, they post hate-filled comments. Some people I know have had death threats against them because they voiced their political beliefs.

It is easy to judge people but it is not so easy to love those who are different, the poor, the unfortunate and often sick people who are homeless, those who are not like us, have different ways to worship or who do not worship our God. I found it amazing that this preacher tonight said that his God loves every person no matter whether they are Christian or Muslim. 

It seems to me that the very people who should love the poor, help the poor, and want to do what is right, are often the ones who want Medicaid cut, are against the idea of equal insurance for all, don't want their tax money to go toward helping people who are down on their luck or who have lost jobs and can't keep a roof over the heads of their children. In our  local newspaper there is a  page devoted to churches. We probably have more different churches in our little county than any other in North Carolina. The  opinion of most who write on that page each week speak more of hatred and judgement than they do of love. 

I come from a family that worked hard on a farm in south Georgia. Empathy for those who struggled in this life was instilled in us by our parents. Mother gave food to hobos who got off the freight trains near the house my family lived in during the depression, yet my father had no job and their little store and filling station went broke. That was before I was born, but I grew up hearing those stories and I have never forgotten the lessons they taught me. No matter how little we have, we can always find something to share with others. 

I  like the quote, "Let your life be a lesson to others." That was how my mother lived. When my father had more vegetables in his garden than we could eat, she took them to her relatives and friends. When someone helped at our house, she went home with a couple of  bags of something she could use for her family as well as her cash payment. I have no idea of how much my mother sent to charities through the mail even though she never had money to spend on herself. My father was always fair with his workers, paying the most he could for their work. 

It was only after my family became more financially secure that I saw some members change their attitude. Isn't that strange? The poor want to help the poor, but the wealthy who have security and have enough money become stingy and hoard their wealth. I hear these affluent people expound on the laziness of those who are poor and declare they think the government should stop all aid to indigent people. "I don't want my tax money going to those deadbeats."

Sadly we have what  is called " the working poor" and many of them just can't get ahead no matter how hard they try. I know good  people who work hard and still barely get by. Some become ill and need assistance. One woman has fought cancer for a number of years with  surgery after surgery but she still works as much as she can. Her husband is disabled and she is the sole bread winner in that family. Without some government assistance they would be homeless. But there are people who would say, "just let them die." My friend told me today that a member of  her church said those words when they were out for dinner one day. Those are the Christians that Joel Osteen was speaking to tonight on his program; those who go to church every time the doors are open,  but have no love in their heart for anyone but themselves. 

Recently I was touched when  a single mother who makes minimum wage at best told me she tries to help some of the charities that send her requests. "I tell them I can't send but a couple of dollars, and I hope it helps." 

My other concern is that churches are constantly taking in donations to send overseas - mission work - but often their members don't want to help people in their own state or community. Maybe it is easier to send money than to look around and see those who are right in front of you.

"There but for the grace of God go I." Could it be that we don't want to think about  that? Is that why we write a check to a faceless entity to ease our conscious?

After hurricane Katrina decimated an entire city and thousands of  people, I heard condemnation of those who lost their homes and everything they had. How on earth could those people be blamed for what happened? 

I have never been more proud than I was of my sister, Gay, who took one family under her wing and helped turn around their lives. The family of five took refuge in Atlanta and ended up at Gay's church which gave them some assistance. My loving, non-judgmental sister, spent weeks helping this family find an apartment, get furniture for it and did what she could to counsel the distraught mother of three children who were now homeless. 

My sister didn't think, "Oh well, I'm just one person.  I can't do much."
Read my interview with that Katrina survivor here.

Pamper Myself Month

August is  here.

The buzz of the insects in the woods and the shadows' change in slant are telling signs to me that fall will be here before we know it. The cool mornings draw me out to sit on my deck and "live in the moment" which I am trying very hard to do now.

The coming week will be busy for me. I have begun physical therapy twice a week and I hope it will help me regain strength and use of my leg and hip. I am doing much better now and can go up and down the stairs with little worry. I don't think I'm  "done" yet.

I am excited about my writing class at Tri-County Community College which begins Tuesday. We have some beginning writers who are champing at the bit to get their words on paper and have some constructive feedback. Who knows what will happen in their lives once they start to put their thoughts and ideas out there for others to read?

I advocate for some things that are very important to me. Writing is one of them. Writing is the best way I know to improve focus when we feel scattered. When I wake up and feel overwhelmed with all the tasks and chores that lie ahead of  me, I calm myself by writing it all down. Make a list and see what can be postponed until tomorrow. Often that is all  I really need to do. Prioritize my to do list.

When I find myself unable to sleep or concentrate because of some problem or matter, I find that if I write about it, both sides of the issue, a solution will come to me. If I am pondering a decision, I make two lists. One is the Pro list and  one is the Con list.

The solution might be to let go of this for awhile and revisit it later. My husband gave me good advice when he saw me fretting over something. "Just forget about it for now. It probably won't happen or if it does, it won't be as bad as you think it  will." He was usually right. 

I've read that good writers don't like to  think of writing as therapy. I believe that writing is great therapy. Recently, after a long tiring day, I came home and sat down to the computer. For months I've had to set a  timer and  be sure I didn't sit for more than fifteen or twenty minutes without getting up and walking around. This time I forgot to set the timer. I forgot everything, even my long hard day, and for almost three hours I wrote about a period of my life that I have not touched on in the past. When I finished I checked the word count of my document. It was over 4000 words. 

My feeling of satisfaction went deep but I was amazed that I could  sit there for that long pouring out all those words without the normally resulting pain in every muscle and joint.  An Aha Moment for  sure. Losing myself in writing affected my entire body. It took away my pain and lifted my spirits higher than any medicine could have done. As author, Maren Mitchell, says in her book,  Beat Chronic Pain, An Insider’s Guide,  distraction helps chronic pain,  but I think this therapy went even deeper. The subject matter transported me back to a very  happy time in my life and for those hours of writing I escaped from here and now. Writing was the time machine that transported me back to when I was nineteen and twenty years old, innocent of tragedies and losses of my present life.  

Just the right time

This happened at a most opportune time as I have just declared August to be Pamper Myself Month.

I gifted myself with a dozen roses, and interspersed with baby's breath, they sit on my table where I see them all day long. The roses are a reminder that I am worthy, I am viable and I love myself.  

Please leave your comments below or email me: gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com 

We have just the spot for you.

We had a terrific first class at Tri-County Community College last Tuesday. We missed those who didn't make it and are sorry to learn that one has been hurt in an accident and another has a very good excuse for dropping out.

But that means we have room for two more. No one will be penalized for missing the first class. Email me, nightwriter0302@yahoo.com and I'll give you all the info you need to start next Tuesday at 3:00 p.m.

Already I can tell we will be writing some good stories. Everyone is excited about sharing their work and getting answers to their questions. We write to learn about ourselves as well as tell about our lives and others.  

I hope, if you have thought about taking a class on writing true life stories (non-fiction) about yourself, your family, your experiences, your war stories, your college stories, your stories that you want to tell someone, maybe your family and friends, or just to write to get them out. This is the class to take.

Email: nightwriter0302@yahoo.com

or call Tri-County Community College in Murphy, NC and ask for Lisa in the Community Enrichment Program. 
Call Lisa at (828) 835-4313