Letters from the Past

Many things have been going on in my life lately.

In the past few weeks, I have been in a whirlwind of getting my book ready to be sent to the printer's. No one, unless they have published a book, has any idea what goes on after the satisfying words, "The End". I will blog about this soon. It will change your mind that "everyone has a book in them just waiting to be published". Hogwash. More on that later.

My Texas cousins visited for a week, and brought with them a plethora of old photographs they had collected from their mother's collection.

The most emotional thing they brought with them, for me, was two letters written by our great-grandmother, Henrietta Drennon James. 

She was my paternal grandmother's mother. When I was a child, all the "old maid" aunts (that's what they were called, all you single girls, don't throw rocks at me!) said I looked much like Henrietta did as a child. 

Her nickname was Etta. Even her obituary calls her Etta. She was nineteen years old when she died of the Red Measles.

Which, by the way, I almost died of when I was nine years old.

My grandmother was a six month old baby. She had a two year old brother, Herbert.

Oddly enough, the letters are written to Etta's husband's sister, Arminda (or Aunt Mindy as we called her when I was a child. Yes, she lived for almost ever.) 

It is clear Etta is lonesome and pining for some company or an opportunity to visit the family. 

She is educated, writes well, and is articulate.

Here is her picture: 

And, yes, she is part Cherokee. 

Here are photo copies of her letters:

She was about six months pregnant with my grandmother when she penned this letter.

and here is the other one, written fourteen months before my grandmother was born:

page one

and :

Page two

I also have her hat, which you can see on the cover of my  novel, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree"

Daughter is the model for the cover photo, and she wore the hat with other clothing that has meaning for our family.

Sometimes history just feels like some dusty page you have to memorize in a poorly ventilated classroom in seventh grade after recess when you are hot and sleepy.

But this history is still alive - through me, all my cousins and our children, and their children...

Family.

I did it

I did it.

I shaved my face.

Boy, I sure do  miss my eyebrows.

Ha, ha. Just kidding. Even I ain't that stupid.

I did it because a young friend of mine does some modeling and she said all models shave the fuzz off their face before a photo shoot in order for the make up to go on smoother, for a richer look.

It didn't work.

I told Husband I was ready for my picture to be struck. I asked how my make up looked.

He got up real close and squinted at my face. "Can't tell any difference," he said with a shrug.

Sigh.

So, anyway, I had a billion pictures made. Then we decided to get Eli (my Maine Coon cat, in case you don't know) and see if there was a candid shot in there somewhere. It took him a few shots to get comfortable. He was about to lie down on the table next to  my old typewriter, so I reached back behind me to get the chair.

The idea was for me to slowly sit down at the typewriter with Eli lying there next to me.

What a great shot!

That wasn't meant to be. As I stepped backward with my eye on Eli, I stepped on Mimi, Daughter's cat, and she yowled like Big Foot had stepped on her (shut up). Of course, that put Eli on high alert and he jumped down to run after her. 

Sigh again.

I guess I ain't never gonna be a high paid model.

Plus, my grandmother kept showing up. Now, she died in 1987, and had plenty of her own photos made. Why she kept getting in front of my face is beyond me.

As you might guess, I've had trouble picking out which photo to use for my book. Actually, I gave up and sent four to my publisher. 

Let them deal with it.

After all, they  never knew my grandmother.

Excuses, excuses

Presenting excuses  valid reasons I've not blogged since August 18. (at least it's August of this year):

1. I had amnesia.
2. I had a severe case of apathy.
3. I broke both wrists while attempting a handstand.
4. I'm trying to get my latest novel finished so it can be published this year.

You probably guessed right: apathy.

No! Just kidding.

If you've never written a book, you probably think you write "the end" and set your pen down with a satisfied sigh.

Not even close.

If you are like me you want to be hands on for the entire process, so the next thing is the photo shoot for the cover of the book.

But also, while you are planning the shoot, you madly hand out first draft manuscripts to readers: Those wonderful folks who have a red pen in their hand and a wicked gleam in their eye. They go through the book with a fine tooth comb and mark everything that is misspelled, questionable, left out words, punctuation errors, words that should be other words, and big fat mistakes. When the manuscript is returned it looks like it's bleeding to death.

And thank God for these people. He knows I need all the help I can get.

The photo shoot for this book was last week and it was fun. A five year old, a six year old, and a creek. The children aren't old enough to be self conscious, so anything asked of them was done cheerfully as they chattered away to one another, becoming fast friends.

The only problem is finding the perfect photo - because at first glance all one million shots look perfect. 

After getting all the wounded, marked up manuscripts back, I have to read them, change or disagree and put all of it into the computer so I can print out another, freshly corrected copy to read myself. And after I mark it up, I do the dreaded thing: I give the last corrected copy to Eagle Eye Hill: Daughter. 

She is always the final reader to proof and edit my manuscript before it goes off to the publisher.

But the  most horrifying part, the part I can scarcely mention is this:
I have to have a picture taken. Of  me, myself.

Do you  have any idea how much I dread this? I don't take a good picture; you can "there, there" me all you want, and insist it "probably" isn't true, but it is. 

My features are too small, my cheeks are too high, the left side of my face doesn't match the right side. And then there's all those new friends we call wrinkles.

Couldn't we just put a picture of my cat up instead?

Well, my nose will be back to the grindstone tomorrow.

I'll blog when I can.

After it's all finished, I'll be pestering you to read my blog all the time again.

That's either a promise or a threat.

You decide.