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.

There Once Was A Little Old Man...

There once was a little old man,
Who was driven around by a little old woman,
In a little old car,
With a handicapped sticker on their tag.

They drove on my curvy back road,
Where the speed limit is 35 m.p.h.
And they drove
Twelve m.p.h.
Not eleven, not thirteen.

All the way to the main road -
Where the speed limit is 45 m.p.h.,
And then they drove
22 m.p.h.
Not 21, not 23.

And I was, and I am, always behind them.

The end

Goo-goo-googly Google

I just googled my name.

I figured since I told thirty people yesterday to do that to get to my blog and books, it wouldn't hurt me to do the same.

Well. It says there are pages and pages, but really after three pages(!), it becomes all sorts of things. Poor Hill Harper gets in my stuff, which I figure means my stuff shows up in his stuff. He's pretty famous as an actor and author too. Who knows? Maybe somebody will buy a book of mine and decide they like it anyway.

I was amazed that you could "rent" one of my books. Is that, like, the library?

There were some reviews on goodreads.com.

I found out you can still buy "Falling" from Barnes and Noble on line.

I read my bio, and I found a site that will do"book signings and speaking engagements for me". They ain't never asked me about it...

But yesterday was fun. Sold a few books and they gave me a lovely pot full of Shasta Daisies.

Sweet.

Good-bye, Old Friend

The year was 1972. I was eighteen years old. I was about to be married, so I was given a household shower.

Good thing, too. An eighteen year old ain't got much to speak of in the way of household items; unless one begs, borrows or steals from their family of origin.

And frankly, my family didn't have much to take.

Anyway, I got lots of nice things, sometimes the same thing two or three times.

I did get lots of pretty sheets and towels.

Today, When I got the towels out of the dryer, I retired the very last of those towels to the ragbag.

Yep. Forty-four years ago. That's a lot of drying off people.

When Husband called it a rag the other day, I figured it was time to say good-bye. (To the towel, not Husband)

I noticed how much smaller it was than our bath towels purchased in more recent years. It had also become very thin and had a hole beginning in the middle of it.

Am I embarrassed that I let a towel get in that kind of shape and still use it?

Nah. I get emotionally attached to the oddest things. I reckon I was a little attached to the last of the young bride's gifts.

Sorta brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?

One Of Those "I Can't Believe It" Days

Yesterday was a long, hard day. Taking Mother to the doctor should have been a deal over by ten a.m.; instead it was over at a little after two p.m. 

My legs and feet did not appreciate all the sitting, and in fact, they are punishing me as we speak. 

That's why I'm typing so fast!

However; a few things of note must be reported.

1. One the way home in NORTH GEORGIA, I saw a dead armadillo on the side of the road. 

I posted the fact on facebook, and several people responded that, they too, had seen dead armadillos. That makes the suspicion arise, as one reader said, "That there must be live ones out there."

2. It came a pretty intense thunderstorm at our house last evening. The brownouts were numerous; in fact, I expected electricity to be gone any  moment. It never happened. What did happen was that after one powerful thunderclap followed by hearing lightning strike, our car horn begin to blow. It blew for over a minute.

I called The Brother of Many Surgeries and asked him if that meant what I thought it meant...that our car had been struck by lightning.

He confirmed my suspicions and opined it could have done nothing to the car or could have melted and destroyed all the electrical work.

He instructed Husband to go out and see if the car would start (well, he said crank, all of us still say crank, even though I doubt any of us have ever had a car that you still had to crank). If it did indeed crank, then proceed to check all the lights, radio, horn, etc. Oh, and before he got in the car to make sure there wasn't melted wires and stuff hanging out from under the dash. 

Husband flatly refused to go. "Why would I do that in the middle of the storm when it may  have melted a car? I don't want to be melted."

So we had to wait out the storm before Husband would check out the car.

 Girly man.

I would have done it myself if I hadn't had more sense.

The good news is our little Cruiser was just fine. I guess she just got sort of a shock and was bleating out her misery.

That's all the news that is the news for now.