Winging Toward Destiny

In our house there is a window, wherein a large, leaded glass pane rests on the window sill. Today, I noticed a tiny winged creature had died, its dark body lying on its side, stark against the white of the window sill, its tear shaped wings spread graciously, as though it had died in flight. The feathery etched glass lent an ethereal outline to the small corpse and I felt a thrill as I looked on where the line of life and death had met.

I surmised, “Its time had come”, for it looked as though nothing actually caused its death, no swat or poison or err in judgment. Was it flying around and suddenly fell ill, or did it stop to rest a moment and instead rested eternally?

Now, usually, I don’t pay much mind to bugs dying. I sweep ‘em up and throw ‘em out, and admittedly, I am the cause of death many times.

So, why did this particular little fella bring so much attention upon himself, making me take note and even touching my emotions?

Was it the beauty of the scene? For it was beautiful. The light coming in through the leaded glass, the contrast of dark and light, the perfectly shaped wings in full spread, the body in quiet repose.

I don’t know.

But it made me wonder: when I come to that line where my life meets death, where I begin my second chapter and truly begin to live: will my remains give others pause? Will they wonder if I took wing on the other side as they gaze at my countenance?

I hope when that time comes, my life will have spoken for itself, and there will be no doubts that I am indeed flying, trying out my new wings, basking in The Light, never fearing death ever again.

And I will be beautiful. Because all winged creatures are beautiful, even on this earth. Even in death. Even the tiniest and most insignificant.

Even me.

They Act Like Us, Sometimes

I've seen animals do interesting things...things are are 'human like'.

I watched my cat, Angel do a very sweet thing. She got canned food every  morning, and our Bull Mastiff, Belle, looked longingly at her, from a respectful distance, while she ate. when Angel finished, Belle licked the plate.

One morning, I noticed Angel kept glancing over at  Belle. And when she finished eating, she left a bite. For Belle.

How do I know this wasn't just a coincidence? Because every morning after that, as long as Belle lived, Angel left her a bite. When Belle died, Angel went back to eating the whole plate full.

One morning I was sitting on my back porch, watching a squirrel in the road. He was eating something. Suddenly a big crow came out of the sky and ran him off and began eating whatever it was. The squirrel ran down the hill. But then I saw the squirrel coming back. He was behind the crow, sort of creeping along the edge of the hill. Suddenly, he jumped out, right at the crow and scared the heck out of that bird! The crow jumped and  squawked. The squirrel took another dive down the hill. But he got revenge.

Then there was the time I was cleaning up the kitchen and had some nasty water I didn't want to pour down the kitchen sink. So, I took it out the back door and threw it off the banister (The ground is two stories down). I heard a furious chatter when the water landed on the ground, so I peered over the edge. There was this tiny chipmunk, looking up, drenched. I swear he was shaking a fist at me and cussin' for all  he was worth!

A few months ago, we decided to load up three cats and take them all to the vet for the various upkeep things one must do for the darlings. Molly, our American Bulldog watched us do cat round up and put them in their separate carriers. They commenced choir practice in the foyer while David went out and opened car doors.

Now, Molly considers these cats hers. She hates other dogs, goes into kill mode if one comes near. But kitties? Well, she's smitten. She saw us begin hauling cat out the door, and at the last minute she almost knocked my daughter down getting out the door herself. Molly has NEVER done anything like this before. She ran to the car and got in! She refused to get out, even after David leashed her and pulled.

We weren't taking her cats away. Not without her. So, in a rather crowded P.T. Cruiser, we all went to the vet.

We had a Cockateil  for years. He was deep yellow, except for his two rosy cheeks. When out of the cage, he liked to watch my daughter color. She'd lay out the crayons, which  he like to pick up and carry around. And what color, do you suppose, he picked EVERY TIME? Yellow. Never failed. And yellow candy. Every time.

And of course I have stories about my dogs disliking some people for no obvious reason, but making me feel like I better be on guard around that person. And cats who don't like anyone much suddenly take a stuck like glue shine to someone because they are either: a. allergic to cats or b. hate cats.

My life is richer for sharing it with these critters. Makes me feel sorry for those who chose not to do so.

There's a New Cat in Town

2/15/09

My mother showed me a picture in the paper last week of a cat at the local shelter in need of a home. Now, I had no intention of getting a cat until our cat, Angel, passed away. She’s fourteen years old, has a heart murmur, deaf for the last two of those years. She’s had seizures for the past five years, and has been in kidney failure for four years. In fact, after the kidney failure diagnosis, the vet told us she wouldn’t make it past a year, six months, really, if we were lucky. But we don’t believe in luck, we believe in love, and she’s still with us. Obviously, she takes a lot of care, and a new cat might well traumatize her. So it never entered my mind.

Until I saw the picture.

I decided that when I got my turn at the paper (usually a week later, when my mother is done with it), I’d call. If the cat was still available, we’d visit. He was. We did. The rest is history.

Angel was in no way upset over the new arrival. The new cat jumped up on the bed and they wiggled noses at each other. Angel mostly shrugged. He bowed up, eyes widened in terror, and fled. Such a drama king.

Frost is two years old, she’s fourteen. He’s a sturdy eleven pounds, she, a dainty six. He is an agile, jumping, soaring, crouching, hunting cougar. She is a hobbling, arthritic elder who had rather sleep than anything. He is long, slinky and limber. She is short, cobby and stiff. He leaps at every sound. Her world is silent. He has round eyes that begin as dark green and end in pale yellow. Her eyes are almond shaped and golden. His hair is short and sleek, hers, long and silky. Yet, if you catch sight of one of them out of the corner of your eye, you might not know which cat you see. They are both blindingly, solid white. Pink eared, pink nosed, with pink pads on the bottom of their feet.

After two days, they both sleep in our bed, Angel at my shoulder blade, Frost at my thigh. She is curled into a ball, paw over face. He is stretched as far as he is able, feet in the air, belly exposed, head back.

Molly, the dog, is very entertained by the new pet. She is eager to be friends, and though Frost feigns fear, he tears after Molly if she stops paying attention. Molly watches him with cocked head and wagging rear when he is chasing imaginary things or playing with string. Molly has no animosity, only curiosity.

So, it looks like all our worry over adjustment is for naught. It’s taken less than two days for Frost to settle in and make himself at home.

I’m happy for the most part. It’s made me well up with tears to realize how little Angel does anymore. I’d forgotten, in her geriatric state, how she used to be, and Frost reminds me of her past life. Angel is slowly disappearing into herself and soon she’ll be gone. I dread her passing. I love her so much! But fourteen and ill doesn’t bode well for a long future. The vet is amazed she’s still alive, that she can still jump on the bed (although if a person is available she meows and we lift her up). Love has triumphed.

And love will help us say good-bye.

But for now, we’re a family with two cats. And I’ll be satisfied for that state to remain for a while.

Frost: Icy, beautiful, majestic.

Angel: Sent from God when we needed her most.

Family: All of us, for now.

Angel passed away two months after this writing.

Reflections

I believe what we are attracted to in others is the reflection of ourselves we see.

So it is of utmost importance that we see ourselves clearly, who we really are.

For if we see ourselves dimly or deluded, the mate we choose may often surprise and dismay us.

They are what we thought we were (or weren’t) which is painful for us to observe.

We generally dislike some things in ourselves, and if we opt not to change or even recognize those things,

We may see them all too clearly displayed distastefully in our mate, our children, and on a lesser scale, our friends.

Thereby making these behaviors their problems instead of owning them ourselves.

And as you know, we can never fix other people’s problems.

So, how do we see ourselves clearly? How can we know who we really are?

First, we must see ourselves through the eyes of God Almighty, filthy rags that we are.

Then realize that He has made a way to purify our very souls,

Done through the blood of the Lamb, The Son of the Living God, our brother Jesus Christ.

Allowing Him to clear our vision, seeing ourselves as we were and can be.

And at the same time, filtering our vision so we see others as He sees them.

Because it is only then that the reflection we see will be the truth, whether looking inward or outward to others.

Then we will truly be set free to see. 

From Happiness to Despair

In the middle of cooking dinner today, my daughter had to take the dog out. She came back with a wondrous look upon her face. It seems that while she was standing still waiting for the dog to do  its business, a tiny bird landed on her hand, then hopped over to the other hand when she raised it even with the first. She spoke softly to the miniature creature, and it stayed until the dog made a sudden movement, then it flew away.

After telling me this, we rushed back outside to the same spot and waited, hoping for a recurrence. When that didn't happen, we came back in, frozen.

I fretted that it had to be a pet who had flown out accidentally and was looking for home. It's cold out, and I feared for it's tiny life.

I stepped into the dining room for a moment and heard a terrible WHAM! against the bay window. My daughter was standing there with her hands over her mouth. Something (a bird) tiny and dark  had slammed into the window, falling to the ground.

She rushed outside and started sifting through the leaves, her father joining her. But the search was futile.

Was it the same bird? Probably. Trying to fly  in, where it was used to living, safe and warm.

And just because we didn't find a tiny body doesn't mean it's not there, somewhere among the bushes and leaves. How something so small could survive such a hard, direct hit seems impossible.

Man, I hate unhappy endings.

The Cry of: Revenge! Saith the Turkeys, at Last!

Have you read that wild turkeys are taking over Boston? It seems to be true. They are attacking people left and right.

 Folks are having to cross the street to keep from crossing the turkeys.

A cop is assigned to a street crossing to ward off the testy turkeys and keep them from jumping the children trying to get to school.

Turkeys have been causing traffic jams during rush hour (what else is new?) by congregating in large numbers  in the middle of busy intersections.

Folks are afraid to go out into their backyards, because the turkeys are there, too.

Maybe they're tired of all the stupid turkey jokes.

Maybe they still resent people laughing at Ben Franklin when he wanted the turkey as the bird to represent America. (I mean, really?)

Maybe they're tired of their fellow turkeys being eaten by the millions on a certain holiday that just happened to have occurred yesterday...

And we thought elephants were the only animals with long memories.

Perhaps we should change the saying to "A turkey never forgets."

Food for thought.

Because of Seeds

  

Yay! Buffet!

The little birdies holler,

As they go to feast from squalor

Because of seeds.

The man has fed them well,

They stuff until they swell,

They flit from pile to pile,

And if birds could, they’d smile.

Because of seeds.

Soon the feast is over,

And the squirrels move in from cover.

Busy hands, bulging cheeks,

Climbing trees, they wish for beaks!

Because of seeds.

And then the tiny move in,

Trying hard to find what’s left, then,

They eat, and even they have met their needs.

Because of seeds.

Two days later, Man comes back again!

The woods alive with news becomes a din!

They fly in, twitter, chirp, and tweet,

The meal is just so very sweet!

Because of seeds.

Isn’t that our job on earth, my friend?

To go and plant The Seed until the end?

For we are God’s Seed planters,

And isn’t that all that matters?

That Heaven will be filled,

Because of seeds!

When People Brag on Your Baby

Of all the things I've written, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" has my heart, because it is about my people.

My heart's desire, of course, is for it to be loved and cherished by other people, as I do.

And people are  beginning to say the things about this book I have longed to hear. My favorite new word is 'hilarious'. I've had several people calling me, instant messaging me, e-mailing me.  They might text me, if I texted.

Don't get me wrong. Every time any book sold at the book signings, I was a happy camper. When people have been calling since and asking to meet me to buy  books, or where they can purchase  them if they're in town, no matter which book it is, I'm still happy. VERY happy.

The book signings went well, the one at the library exceptionally well. Lots of people, lots of sales, lots of laughter and stories shared. Good times, indeed.

First time I ever got kicked out of a library.

(Okay, well, they were trying to close, but the above statement sounds so tuff.)

This blog is a thank you note for the people who support me. Through encouragement, through being there for me, for buying my books. Our family has showed up to every single thing, and my  husband does his best to help  me entertain customers. My daughter was my accountant and was a whiz at adding, collections, sales and chatting, all at the same time.

Some friends and I stood out in the parking lot for nearly an hour after closing and wrapped big warm quilts of memory around each other, listening, sharing, laughing and learning history of our childhoods from each other  that left my heart full and over flowing.

I'm telling you, people, there is nothing like having a life-long history with folks. You see a white headed man stand and talk about stealing milk off Miz So and So's porch and the other white headed man agreeing, sadly recalling how he was spanked hard for that. "Oh, me too, me too." the other one agrees, shaking his head just as sadly.

"Why in the world were ya'll stealing milk?" I asked, incredulously.

They both looked at me with disbelief that I didn't already know. "Meg," one of them explained about his sister, "Was giving us a tea party and we had to have milk."

Oh. They were around four or five years of age at the time.

For all fifty or so folks that came, thank you. For the love and joy you gave me, thank you.

Because for a few hours, I was transported back home, the home that was my childhood.

It just doesn't get any better than that.

The Tree

When I was a small child, a giant oak tree grew in my grandparent’s side yard.  It was an ancient thing, the circumference broad and strong.  The roots were gnarled and raised so high above ground that I used them as steps to come from the sidewalk to the yard.  Its trunk was a sloping mountain that I walked up, rather than climbed, to sit in the low hanging branches to look at books or view the world from a higher place.

In late spring wild day lilies spread themselves around its trunk in a glorious orange skirt that, to me, was an exotic and rare display of nature’s flamboyant side. 

But the most delightful thing about this tree was that sometime in its long history, lightening had struck it at its base and had opened the trunk, causing the bottom of the tree to hollow out and welcome a tiny person right into the heart of the old soul. 

I would crawl into that space, where the cool mossy darkness enveloped me, with only a trickle of summer’s heat and light allowed inside.  I would hold secret tea parties and dream big dreams inside the tree’s girth and thought that only I alone could enter.

But one day as I knelt and scooted in I was instantly attacked by a ferocious mother hen who had sequestered her brood inside.  I came out screaming across the yard, baby chicks being scattered asunder, the upper part of my four year old self completely hidden by, what to me, was an enormous winged monster.  My grandfather came running out of the house, down the porch steps, and knocked her off me.  I survived with no more than scratches from her claws and beak.  But I never looked at a chicken the same way again!

When I was eight I came down with Red Measles. I became critically ill as my temperature shot to over 106.  I hallucinated, I cried for my parents to help me.  The doctor came to my bedside because he feared I’d become chilled if taken outside.  A great-grandmother had died at age nineteen from this same illness and doctors speculated I had inherited a weakness, which made the measles more dangerous to me. 

Recovering from the point of death, I learned I was not the only creature who was suffering. 

My parents came into my darkened bedroom to talk to me.  I knew something was wrong by the way they glanced anxiously at each other. They gently explained that the tree was dying, which they had known for some time.  Its slow death probably began years before when the lightening strike had split the trunk.  But today, the electric company was arriving to cut my tree down, because the night before one of its massive limbs had separated from the body, crashing to the street below taking a power line with it. 

I began to cry and beg my daddy not to let them cut my tree down.  His hands were tied. Legally the power company had the right to take the tree down as it leaned over into the street and was now a danger in its advanced decaying state.  I struggled out of bed, hysterical and sobbing, as I heard power saws crank up.  Daddy picked me up and carried me to a window to watch the beginning of the end of my friend.  I couldn’t bear to see it, but I could not turn away. 

It was awful.  It was heartless.  And in my mind, it was murder.

That night I had a back set and became critically ill again.  The doctor was called in and he said it was caused by my distraught emotional state.  He was angry that the electric company had not waited until I was stronger to cut down the tree.  But what company would bother to consider the feelings of a sick child regarding something like this? 

After all, it was just a tree.

Most of the time when we think about our first experience with grieving, we remember losing a family member or even a pet.  But my first encounter with grief was when my giant friend was downed.  That tree was more than a tree to me, he was a friend.  He opened himself up to me and wrapped me around his very being.  He held me in his branches and let me see the world.  That tree was a place of comfort, a place of privacy, a place that was all mine. Well, mine and a mad mama hen.

When I think of home as a small child, I don’t think of my playroom, or my bed, or the kitchen table where I ate my meals.

I think of the tree.

Fear of Being Alone

If you've never had a recital or a speech to give or an award to win or a book signing, you may not know that fear of arriving and no one else arriving just for you.

I know, in reality, some of my friends and family are coming to the book signings. They called or messaged me to tell me so.

I'll never forget my first book signing. when I arrived,the book store owner told me not to feel badly if only four or five people showed up, that was the average for a book signing. I remember thinking, "What? Stay here two hours for four people? And sell one or two books? Why!??"

I wasn't being over confident or smug, I was being naive. Write and they will come...that's what I thought.

But I was also very blessed that day and had seventy something people show up, much to the delight of the bookstore folk.

Every book signing I've had has been wonderful. Whether 25 or 75 show up, it is such a joyful occasion. I get to see people I seldom see, and it's sorta like a party. Laughing, and talking and hugging and stuff. The only downside is my hand hurts very badly in the middle of the night.

The first book signing I had was very close to going to Heaven, I think. In the sense that there were buddies from first grade, work buddies I hadn't seen in fifteen years, people I went to church with way back when and then all the current people in my life. I was constantly saying, "Remember me talking about so and so?" And when they'd nod yes, I'd say, "Well, come meet them, they are right over here!"

What a delightful day!

I believe when we get to Heaven we'll see people from the dim past and recent past and be joyful in our reunions with them.

But back to my point: fear of being alone. If you can find it in your little ole hearts to come to one (or both, come to both!) of my book signings, I'd appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Buy one book, all three, some old ones or not even one if you just don't have the budget for it. Signing my guest book is free.

I'll even supply the pen!

When You Can't Swallow You Become Hard to Swallow

Sunday morning, around four, I woke up feeling...odd. Then I swallowed. Or rather, I attempted to swallow. Apparently, while I slept, a ninja had snuck in and sliced my throat from ear to ear.

Strange how there wasn't any blood.

I trudged on to Sunday School, but before the service could really get started, I had to leave. Feverish and probably contagious, I figured no one would love me if I  made them ill.

Last night was one of the worst nights I've had in years. I would go to sleep, only to awaken ten to twenty minutes later with a sound much like a startled hog snorting. (I apologize to those of you that until now thought of me as a sex symbol).

My throat would literally close up and I would choke. This went on all ding dang night.

My poor husband was up and down, trying to be helpful and listen to me whine. At least I wasn't loud, I could barely speak for the pain. But I know it  must already be growing old, he ain't Martha Stewart, cooking and cleaning...okay, leave off the cleaning.

Needless to say I went to the doctor post haste today and got medication and sympathy. Soft foods only, cold things, no spicy things...I mean, really? You think you had to tell me no hot n spicy when I already feel like I'm a failed fire eater?

I have taken more ibuprofin than is legal, and I am weaving in my seat as I type.

I guess that's my cue to go back to bed.

See you on the other side of pitifulness.

No Pain, No Life

I've had the privilege of reading to the Middle School - all fifth graders, my audience be. I start reading at 8:15 and finish up by 9:30.

I thought the worst thing would be getting up at 6:00 a.m. after usually lounging in bed until eightish. Or maybe the PTSD I suffer every time I go in that building (it is my old high school). I knew I was reading in the rooms where I had Algebra, Geometry and Biology. (Kathi shudders) Those are the subjects that were not English Lit, language arts, Chorus, writing for the Bobcat's Den (newspaper), playing basketball, and other, much more important things I wanted to be doing in my life.

I was wrong. The worst is afterwards, when I have to lie abed, overcome with pain.

I hate my body. I have tried not to, but even the easiest, most simple things outside my routine of being extremely careful of how long I sit, stand, lie and walk, cause me to suffer. I never know how badly I will be punished, and try to assume it won't be too bad 'this time'.

The first day, after holding the book up to read aloud (it weighs a few ounces) for twenty minutes, then twenty minutes again, I was wracked with muscle spasms in my neck and shoulders so badly I was incapacitated the rest of the day. My back, legs, and feet were an inflamed mess.

The next time, I propped the book up, and avoided most the upper body pain.

So, why do I do it?

I'll tell you the same thing I tell my mother when she preaches I mustn't do so much - which, people, for the average you, is about 1/3 of a normal day:

Because I have to have a life. I really enjoyed reading to those kids. I am a social person, at least a lot of the time. I enjoy entertaining....reading, talking, singing to a group.

Okay, I admit it: I am a ham!

If I can't get out and "do a little", I miss out. A lot.

So, no pain, no life. I have pain all the time anyway, so, what the heck.

I read again Monday. And I'm looking forward to it.

Put Them All Together They Spell Mother

I've been thinking about all the names we have throughout our lives.

I was named Kathrine, which was wrong from the start. I was named after my grandmother KathErine, but my Daddy spelled it wrong on the birth certificate. (I figured I wouldn't suffer alone, so I spelled it wrong on my daughter's birth certificate, too.) Right from the get-go, they called me Kathi. Yes, that would be my Mother's fault for spelling it weird.

Since then, I've been called Kah-kee (rhymes with tacky), Kie-Kie, Sis, Tattoo (no, I don't), Harpo, Kat, Boss, Shirley Temple, and most importantly, Mama.

There is also a long list of what you can call that female parent: Mother, Mama, Ma, Mom, Mommy, Mum, Mummy, Mums and all the stuff you called her behind her back growing up.

I am Mama. Except, when my daughter got old enough to write, she told me in no uncertain terms  I was Momma. So whenever I sign a note or card to her, I sign it Momma.

But it's still Mama in my head.

In Middle School, my daughter decide she would start calling me Mom. I told her in no uncertain terms if she wanted me to answer her, I was Mama. (Mom is so, well, so Yankee). It took maybe three times and she saw I meant business, so back to Mama it was.

I call mine Mother. Why so formal you ask? Well, until I was eleven years old, my great-grandmother was still living. She was Mama Hill, usually shortened to Mama. I also had a Mama Harper. The other grand was Granny Kate.

The more observant of you may be saying, "Wait! I thought her married  name was Hill. And her grandmother before marriage was a Hill?  Hmmmmm...." Not to worry. My husband is from another county (there's a whole 'nuther one between us!). His father, JT Hill, (no name, just JT. He said they musta run outta names before he came along) and I had a long talk one evening. We decided that we were, indeed, related, probably about three generations back before he was born in 1915. So, you can stop worrying about our daughter's health.

She's adopted anyway.

I'd be interested in  hearing from some of you, sharing what strange and/or beautiful nick names you've been blessed with during your lifetime.

Signed,

Ma   Momma

The Christmas Closet

One morning, January of this year, my husband, David, and I were drinking our early morning cup of coffee. He had to get up and take out the dog, and while he was gone, this short story "fell into my head". It's really that simple - or that complicated - depending on which way you look at it, I guess.

In less than 2 minutes, there it was, and all I had to do was key it into the computer and tweak it a little.

I don't begin to understand how this kind of thing works, but many times I truly feel as though I am being used, the vessel, so to speak. If you are a writer, I'm sure that it happens that way for you, too. At least some of the time.

The Christmas Closet is a favorite of mine. I think it's a good story, and it brings back memories of my 1960's childhood. At least it's holding the attention of all the fifth graders at the middle school (after I tell them who Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were, of course).

THEY DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem.

So, that story plus three others and a handful of poems make up, what I hope to be, a great little gift book for this Christmas. "The Christmas Closet and Other Works". You can find it here in Ellijay at Interiors, or The Christmas House, whichever you prefer to call it. And in Canton, at Yawn's Books and More, right on Main  Street.

It's also in my car being toted around.

Your kid got a teacher to give a gift? You drawing names in  your club/church group? Have a friend with whom you exchange 'cheap' gifts? (price, not quality, people!)

BOOK SIGNINGS: Friday, November 16 from 5:30 to 7:30 pm at Yawn's Books & More, Canton
AND Saturday, November 17 from 3:00 to 5:00 pm at Gilmer County Library, Ellijay

Signs from God

I have been desperate for a sign from God more than once in my life. Once, when I was told I was getting exactly what I'd been hoping for, I became afraid and asked God for a sign so I could be sure this was His will.

I suppose He said, "Well, I thought you already knew, but here goes..." And what followed was a week of signs raining down on me until it became ridiculous.

Good old Gideon in the Bible was almost as foolish as I, so I didn't feel too awfully bad about it.

Now, I have a new book coming out entitled, 'Signs from God' because there is a scene that is pivotal where God does indeed show the character a sign.

Oswald Chambers said only immature Christians need signs. That as we mature in our relationship with Christ, we trust more and more and eventually just allow Him to live in us and through us without our conscious effort. And it's true, lots of times I'm able to do that. But all the time? No. Not yet.

The book is a love story, sort of. Their relationship is more of the back story. I guess the real story is how things happen to us, one after another, until we're not sure we know what to do with our life at all.

If (and I hope when!) you read 'Signs from God' you will enjoy it for what it is - a simple book, an easy read, yet with a message that we all need to hear.

BOOK SIGNINGS: Friday, November 16 from 5:30 to 7:30 pm at Yawn's Books and More in Canton, Georgia                    Saturday, November 17 from 3 to 5 pm at Gilmer County Library in  Ellijay, Georgia

Hope to see you there!

Out on a Limb of the Family Tree

That's the title of a new book I have coming out.

I started writing this book in 1997. I thought it was just another short story (at that time, I'd never written a book). That 'short story' is the prologue to the book.

I love humor, almost all kinds, which maybe makes me a real sicko, I don't know.

But when I started writing this story, it had a humorous tone. Then, a few years ago, I got the bright idea of asking people for 'blonde moment' stories about themselves. You would NOT believe the stuff some people told me! I mean, really! But there were some I could actually, you know, write down without dying of embarrassment, and those I used.

That worked pretty well, so I began to ask people for stories from their families that touch them in some way. Humorous, poignant, haunting, profound. And I got a dozen or so really, really good ones. They gave me permission to 'wrap them up in fiction' and use them. Some are just a line or two, some a complete story. What a blessing!

I've been collecting old fashioned names for over ten years and that has been really fun. It's unbelievable what folks name their children. And I don't mean Dweezle and Apple and all the 'new fangle' foolishness. I mean the Victorian weirdness that was - well - weird.

And, of course, names come and go, too. So I used some out of fashion names that we don't hear much anymore.

I've already had one strange experience with a name that I 'made up' and a person saw it on the back of the book and told me that was his great-great-grandmother's name. And I don't even know this guy!

Fact, is indeed, stranger than fiction.

So, I hope you find it in your heart and pockets to purchase this book. Missouri Pickett is the matriarch of this Appalachian family from Sweeetapple, Georgia. Join her and her crazy family for stories that I hope will make you laugh yourselves silly.

BOOK SIGNINGS: November 16, Yawn's Books and More, Canton, Georgia from 5:30 to 7:30 pm AND November 17, Gilmer County Library, Ellijay, Georgia from 3:00 to 5:00 pm