Offline Next Week for Allegheny Echoes

I will be offline most of this week, because I'll be up in the high hills at Allegheny Echoes Workshops, taking a class in vocal instruction. I'm not sure what the internet access is up there, but I expect it to be nonexistent. I'll check in if the opportunity presents itself, but if I don't get to post anything, I will definitely have a lot to share in a week or so.

Stay tuned....

Sparklers, Sunrise and Street Fair

Sparklers! Just as much fun today as they were when I was young. Haley wasn't going to eat hers although I'm not sure just what she was doing when I took the picture. At 5:30am, the sky was washed with color, while fog hung in the valleys.

One of many dressed-up catfish, and a belly-dancer in the street! Today was Street Fair at the library where I work. The Fair is part of a city-wide arts festival. I worked part of the day and then "touristed" with my granddaughter Hannah (in balloon hat).

Storytelling for "Get a Clue"

Telling Turtle of Koka with a volunteer named Derek, just like my son

Today it was storytelling performances at Ripley and Ravenswood libraries in my home county. Usually when I perform, it means at least a 2-hour drive one-way, but today I was right at home.

The libraries were using the national "Get a Clue" theme, so I focused on riddle and trickster stories. In the picture above, we're telling Uwungalema, which is more in the riddle category. I loved my drummer, who used my tongue drum very well from the comfort of his chair.

Still telling Uwungalema, granddaughter Hannah (back to camera) advises the turtle of the name of the tree. As usual, I prepared four times as many stories as I needed, but the flow depends on the audience in front of me, and having a wide variety of stories prepared to tell allows me a lot of latitude to change track as needed. One of the new stories I prepared (and a new favorite for me) is Hic! Hic! Hic! --a story from Turkey that closely parallels the Appalachian story Soap! Soap! Soap! It intrigues me that stories with such similar plots should be found in places and cultures so far apart.

It was a full house at Ripley, and the same at Ravenswood. What a day!

An Hour Outside with My Camera

Starting at the old cellar door...

and onto the porch, the snakeskin found by Haley and Hannah in the chicken house...

to the grape arbors and the bluebird who has a nest in the hole in one post..

to the second snakeskin, also in the chicken house (and the probable reason for the sudden decline in eggs)...

and how odd to see where the eyes and mouth of the snake were...

to the deck, where a wasp has found an easy waterhole...

out to garden where a bumblebee feasts on coneflower...

joined by a Black Swallowtail...

and on the peach tree, an Eastern Fence Lizard who posed for many photos...

as you can see...

It was a lovely hour, and I was never more than 100 feet from my front door.

Haley's Poem

Off You Go

I saw you walk to the plane.

I wait while the plane fires up.

I feel tears fill my eyes.

I watch the plane take off.

And I remember you are in it.

I look at the people around me.

And all I see is people crying.

What a Birthday!

Since the year I turned 50, each birthday has occurred during a time of crisis of one sort or another. At 50, I was recuperating from a bad accident. At 51, my mother was recovering from a coma; 52, Derek was in Iraq. At 53, I was battling asthma, allergies and bronchitis. On my 54th birthday, my husband was dealing with major health issues. At 55, my mother had recently passed away and my father was in failing health. We lost him a few months later.

This year, after seemingly months of sorrow, life is getting back on track. Two sons are still in the military, and more worry lies ahead in the coming year. But right now, today, was about as nice as I could wish for.

What did I do? Very little! I fixed a country breakfast for Larry and granddaughters Haley and Hannah. Then I worked on stories for tomorrow's performances at two libraries and spent an hour in the yard with my camera, getting some good pictures I'll post in the coming days. I took Haley and Hannah to visit my friend Andrea and her little daughter, and we enjoyed the scones, whipped cream and tea Andrea made, and we sat out in her lovely yard and talked.

Home to find Larry had made a birthday cake, so we sang happy birthday and had cake for dinner. Then I went to writers group to find that Cheryl had brought a cake! They all sang happy birthday to me on the courthouse lawn. It was so neat.

James and Michaela called and sang happy birthday over my cell phone, and messages from my sons and other grandchildren waited when I returned from writers group. Sisters and brothers emailed, called or sent cards. I feel so loved!

I hope to have many more birthdays, but this one will stand out as one of the best I have ever had. Thank you to all who remembered me (my friend Tim in England, and Tracy--thank you!)

Happy Birthday to Me

Me, Joe, Tom, Bill, about 1955

A family fable:












Judy holding Stephen, Me, Joe, Tom, Bill. In front Theresa, Maggie, Mary about 1960


In 1951, on the Summer Solstice, there was born a beautiful maiden. She was the first daughter, following three sons, and her mother despaired of ever bearing a girl.


Back: me, Mary, Judy
middle: Cathy, John
Bottom: Lizzie, Julie, Theresa, Maggie
(By November of that year, I was married. Strange!)



Unprepared for the naming of a female offspring, the mother resorted in great distress to a tome of names. Each one was carefully read, all the way from A to Z. After hours of studying names and considering them with the child's father, the poor mother finally settled on a name that suited the little girl in the bassinet.



Mom and I, 1988












And so she named her--Susanna. Who in time grew up to have not daughters, but sons. And then grandchildren, who all call her Granny Sue.


Dad, Back row: Me, Theresa, Lizzie, Julie
fromt: Judy, Cathy, Maggie. The only sister missing is Mary, who had to work while we tried on hats.

Whippoorwill's song

Click above to hear the whippoorwill's song. I also added it to the post with the whippoorwill poem.

Happy Birthday, West Virginia!

Good Morning, West Virginia

Good morning, mountains
Good morning, old oak trees
Good morning, fog rising
Good morning, winding road

Good morning, green ridges
Good morning, golden sunrise
It’s good to be in West Virginia
To greet the day again
Good morning, mountain home

Where is Edmonton?

Bedtime for me, but where is Edmonton tonight? When I check the list of visitors, the faithful dot that tells me Edmonton has been here is missing.

I don't know who this reader is but I do know that they come regularly to read what I post. They feel like an old friend, someone who nods sagely as they read.

Edmonton, wherever you are, I missed you this evening.

Kenneth's House

This is the view that took my breath away the first time I came to Jackson County, West Virginia, in 1973. We stopped in the road (the same place from which I took this shot) and ate peanut butter sandwiches and listened to the silence. The only differences between then and now are that Kenneth Parrish has passed on, the vehicle in front is a car (his widow's) instead of his old green Chevy pickup, and the road is marginally better (but still dirt, and still rough as a cob).

Today you can still stop in the road, eat a sandwich and enjoy the silence without worrying too much about another car coming. There have been some changes here, but it's slow and manageable.

I miss Kenneth's radical liberalism, pointed jokes and staunch independence. He never worked a day anywhere but on his farm, and didn't marry until he was 70, when his mother died. He kept his farm cleared with a scythe, reluctantly taking up a gas weedeater when he was about 75. On a day when I thought it was too hot to work, I could be sure to find Kenneth out cutting weeds, bandana under his hat and a smile on his face.

His breed is dying out, and it's our loss. I will continue to remember him each evening as I bounce up the rough hill that bears his name, and crane my neck for a view of his place from the top. That was one good man.

Audio Review: Phyllis Marks

This is old old-time. Ballad singer Phyllis Marks was born in 1927and began singing as a child. Singing Child Ballads, folk songs, old carols and songs she sang to entertain her four children, her unassuming style is mesmerizing.

This recording (c1991) is currently only available on cassette from Augusta Heritage Recordings in Elkins, WV. Phyllis sings in the traditional unaccompanied style, interspersing her songs with commentary about where she learned it and the singers she learned from.

If you are looking for a classically trained singer, this isn't for you. But if you are seeking music from the heart of the mountains, this is it.

Folksongs & Ballads: Vol.2. Phyllis Marks. Augusta Heritage Recordings, 1991, Elkins WV 26241.

Available at www.augustaheritage.com/store.htm

Wet, Happy Gardens

Those aren't tears, that's rain on the Lady of the Garden sculpture.

And rain on happy lily petals...

and on the rockers and the deck...

and on the tomatoes, beans and peppers.

I stood out in it, just to remember how it feels to get wet in the rain.

(those white streaks? raindrops! How amazing that they photographed like that.)

Book Review:Nature's Ways: Lore, Legend, Fact and Fiction

I am fascinated by folklore of all kinds. I know to throw salt over my left shoulder if I spill it, I understand that if I drop a comb I must step on it, and I know that when the rain crow (mourning dove) cries it will surely rain in a few days. So anytime I come upon another collection of such information, I am first in line to read it.

Ruth Binney is an Englishwoman, but her collection is international in scope. A section on animal lore ranges from owls to wolves to snakes, beetles and cats. For example, did you know that for many people a snake represents eternity because it can coil into a circle and take its tail in its mouth? (p.50)

The section on plants is fascinating in its variety. Lilies supposedly sprang from Eve's tears; Elizabethans used rose petals to disguise odors; and a laurel leaf under a pillow is thought to inspire poets (I need one of those!).

Other chapters cover herbal cures, superstitions, and beliefs in spirits and monsters.

One of the nice things about this book is that it can be read in small bites. Even when time is limited, a reader can learn in a few minutes' time that whooping cough can be cured by hanging a frog in the chimney, or read a poem by Tennyson about a sea monster. Eclectic, intriguing, and a great source for writers and storytellers looking for that extra something to add to a story.

Nature's Ways: Lore, Legend, Fact and Fiction. By Ruth Binney. Great Britain, David and Charles Limited, 2006.

The Old Homeplace

Wow. It never looked like that when we lived there. 514 East Quarry Street became 8807 Quarry Road. EMPire 5941 became 368-5941. Mrs. Blakemore, the next door neighbor, used to be the operator who answered when we dialed 0. The house was worn and lived in from the play and busyness of 13 children who searched for dead bodies behind the plaster, tried to hibernate turtles in the basement, slid down the bannister, and climbed in and out of windows to cross the porch roof.

I'm sure we gave our elderly neighbors heart failure daily. We climbed in the redbud tree, had a treehouse in the silver maple, ran up and down the block on roller skates and bikes, shot wooden arrows from our bows made from branches and string. It was only quiet when we were all in bed. My wedding reception was held there, several of my sisters were married in the main hall. Memories, memories.

The house has certainly been restored, and it is beautiful to judge by the 360 tour. Someone has loved it dearly in a way we did not. We used it, abused it, lived in it to the fullest every day. Now it's in retirement, a lovely lady dressed for company. Both incarnations are good. I hope someone buys it who will love it. I hope their memories of that old house are as long-lasting as mine.

WV Writing Conference: Part 3

I left after my second session to go to a cookout at Derek's. It was comforting to be with him as he finished packing for Iraq, played with the kids and finalized all the details of his deployment. It was a good evening, lots of conversation, the kids happy and playing hard, a few neighbors stopping by. We left around 8pm so he could spend the rest of the evening with his children and his girlfriend, and returned to the conference.

I'd missed the awards banquet to go to Derek's, so it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted with congratulations on my winning entries. No one was sure exactly what I'd won, but that my name had been called several times. We listened to Pops Walker's blues and then moseyed over to the bonfire.

That's when the real fun started. As people gathered, conversations and music began to fill the night air. Andrea Parkins, Suzette Bradshaw and I began comparing the ballads we knew and how our versions differed. I've never had the opportunity to do that with other singers before, and it was exciting. We sang, talked, held Andrea's daughter til she slept, and sank into the world of ballads. What complete pleasure.

A man named Richard Walker had come to the conference all the way from California to learn more about Appalachian fiddle tradtions, stories and folklore. His questions led to some in-depth discussions of who we are, what we believe and how the mountains have shaped our lives. I wish I had a tape of that conversation. I think it was one of the most interesting I have ever witnessed. We take a lot of things for granted; the whys of who we are don't usually come up in everyday conversation.

One point was abundantly clear. We are of these mountains; they shape us, drive us, abide in us. One lady asked, "How do people live in places where they don't have this connection to the place they live?" I don't have any idea how they do it. I can't imagine living in a place I did not feel deeply connected to.

When we got in the car to return home, I was stunned to find it was 3am. Where had the time gone? We drove home through early morning fog, the moon setting in the west, and were asleep by 4am.

Sunday morning we were up and out by 9am, back to the conference to pick up my materials and my awards. (I learned that I'd won a second, a third and two honorable mentions). Then it was off to the airport to see my son off to Iraq, and drive home to a quiet house, filled with a mix of emotions I was too tired to sort out.

WV Writers Conference: Day 2

We got an early start, out of the house by 7am so we could get breakfast at the Downtowner. Now I can certainly cook breakfast, but we really enjoy the atmosphere of this tiny little diner, and the way they bring our coffee immediately and know what we're probably going to order. And the opportunities to hear all kinds of intriguing stories are endless in a place where lots of senior citizens gather!

Larry dropped me off and headed home, and I met up with my writing group friends to look over the day's sessions. I skipped the first classes and decided to go to the class on "A Woman's Voice" by Pam Cable. It was interesting but not much information I didn't already know. As with any workshop, though, there is value in reinforcement, reminders and repetition. The presenter was lively and engaging and the session went quickly. For someone who is still searching for their writing voice, the class would have been excellent. For me, it reaffirmed what I knew: be true to who I am and it will shine through in my written words.

After lunch I led my second session, this one on Appalachian Story Traditions. I covered five basic types of Appalachian stories: family, historical, ghost, tall tales and traditional folktales. I included ballads in the traditional folktales segment. The class was great fun, covering a lot of ground, allowing opportunities for me to tell a story from each category and still have time for questions and discussion. The handouts I prepared were right on target and I felt very satisfied with this session. It was satisfying to share some of what I knew with people who were so interested and who offered such good insights and ideas.

What I learned:
1) Many people don't know our traditional tales and lore. I wondered how you can write about our area without knowing its past and its stories.

2) Our traditional Appalachian folk heroes were strong, git-'er-done types who were not bowed down or victims. Most modern Appalachian stories seem to be sad endings, with characters victimized or done wrong. What happened to our Jacks and Mutsmegs? Where are they today? When did we become victims instead of tricksters?

3) Again, the Stith Thompson index is a tool that writers should be familiar with as a starting place for stories on a theme, or even for creative writing prompts.

4) I need to develop a workshop on traditional Appalachian folk heroes, so that today's writers have that archetype to build on. We need more Jacks in our stories!

West Virginia Writers Conference: Part 1

I realized this evening that I had not written yet about the writers conference. This is part one of what will probably be a three part series.

The weekend began Friday afternoon. I set up my items for sale in the book sale area and registered for the conference, immediately running into friends I had not seen in months, some not since the last conference. It brought to mind the first time I attended--I knew no one. Now four (or is it 5?) years later, there are many familiar faces.

I went home to rest a little, pick up my husband, and go back to do my first workshop. I felt off-balance, although it was a workshop I'd done many times. I think it was because I really wanted to be with my son, but I'd committed to do two workshops and had to honor that.

The title of the workshop was Storytelling 101, and the goal was to teach attendees to tell a story orally. I also wanted to explore the differences between the written and the told story and talk a little about folktales and how to develop a story for telling.

It became clear pretty quickly that I had started in the wrong place. I needed to start not with how to tell a story, but rather what oral storytelling is, what kinds of stories are told, who tells them and why, and where the stories can be found. I learned that from the first few questions that were asked, so we regrouped and started again. The discussion actually flowed from the questions of the participants and their observations. It was invigorating to revisit the foundations of storytelling, and from the evaluations I think the sessions went very well.

What I learned from it:
1) Writers would benefit from learning about the Stith Thompson index as a tool for story sources and ideas.

2) My level of knowledge surprised me. I've learned a lot over the past 11 years, but hadn't realized just how much until I began addressing the questions asked. I usually do this workshop for storytellers or people who attend storytellign conferences, so they start with a basic knowledge that was lacking with the writers in my session.

3) There's a strong interest in storytelling in our state, but people aren't sure how to go about becoming a storyteller, or where to learn how more about it.

4) While I think I had an excellent handout for the session I thought I would teach, I could have used one that gave information about how to find further instruction/mentoring for beginning tellers. Our guild needs to put that together.

5) There's a role for the guild in finding and developing tellers. We need to address it.

I left immediately after the session to visit with Derek for a little while, then returned home to sleep. We'd be starting early Saturday morning for another full day.

Blackbirds and Thrushes: Celtic Music from West Virginia

Band members: step dancer Hanna Thurman, Odie and Andrea Parkins, Wendell and Linda Dobbs, and Mike Newman

I'm enjoying a new listening pleasure: the Celtic music of Blackbirds and Thrushes, a West Virginia group based in Huntington. Traditional Irish music joined with the lilting voices of Andrea Parkins and Linda Dobbs, the two CDs (New Heights and Calamity Nights) are immediately joining my list of favorites.

I first heard Andrea sing at a concert in Ripley at the Alpine Theatre. I'd met her as a member of the writing group, but her singing was a surprise to me. I was enthralled by the beauty, range and intensity of her voice, accompanied by the skilled playing of her husband Odie on the guitar and fiddle. The CDs capture that soaring voice along with fine accompaniment and instrumentals by band members Odie Parkins, Wendell Dobbs and Mike Newman, and the excellent vocals and accordion music of Linda Dobbs.

It's surprising that this group is not better known, but perhaps that's their choice. Sometimes a thing is enjoyed most when it's not "work." I don't think any of these folks are working when they perform on these CDs--their pleasure and joy in the music is apparent on every track.

No distributor is listed on the CDs, but for more information and bookings, contacts are listed as wendobbs@aol.com (304-529-7361) and newman1@zoomnet .

Getting By, One Day at a Time

The troops left one week ago today.

We take it one day at a time. Life continues with the day-to-day of work and family, but always in our minds are the soldiers on their way to the mid-East. The best support for them is the knowledge we are doing well, missing them but keeping home together and the children safe.

And so we go on, one day at a time.

Company, and news from Derek

All seven of us, several years ago. Me, Judy, Mary (a lot thinner these days), Theresa, Maggie, Lizzie, Cathy and Julie ( both also a lot thinner now). I think this was taken in 2002, so we're all a little grayer, and I hope a little wiser.

Theresa is here!

One of my seven sisters is visiting this weekend, so I won't have much time to write. What a rare pleasure this is, to share my home with one of my twelve siblings. We'll do the Ripley thing tomorrow, the Downtowner for breakfast, Rachel's antique store, the farmer's market. Then see Derek's house and the grandchildren, and spend the evening just talking. There is nothing quite like talking to your sister, and I intend to enjoy every minute of this weekend.

Derek now has an address so we can communicate with him for a little while before they ship overseas. I feel less separated from him knowing I can write.

Flag Day

Fabric, striped and starred

I don't wave it or burn it

I own it, heart-deep

Screaming with the Cannibals and the Lost Lenore

My husband is reading Lee Maynard's book, Screaming with the Cannibals. He keeps trying to tell me about the funny parts, and I keep saying, "don't tell me! I want to read it when you're finished."


I read Maynard's first book, Crum, last summer after resisting it for years. Why? Because of its notorious reputation. But last July we found ourselves less than five miles from Crum, WV, the scene of the novel. I had recently attended a workshop by the author so I was intrigued. We made the detour to visit.

Here is what I wrote last July about that experience:

Yesterday's storytelling was an unexpected adventure. The gig was at one of the state forests, to tell stories to the Wayne County 4-H camp. The forest, named Cabwaylingo because it borders the counties of Cabell, Wayne, Lincoln and Mingo, is situated in a very remote area, deep in the coalfields region of southern West Virginia.

My husband picked me up at work at 3 pm and we took the route recommended by the park superintendent--west on the interstate to the Ohio/Kentucky/West Virginia line, then south on the Tolsia Highway. It was good road, but boring. Lots of coal trains on the tracks, coal trucks, coal tipples, and little else to see.

When I looked at the map, I saw that if we passed our destination by a few miles, we would get to Crum, WV. Now for those of you not familiar with this state, Crum is the home of author Lee Maynard, who wrote his book "Crum" based on his hometown. It's not a flattering book, to put it nicely and has been a source of anger, admiration, embarrassment, glee and all sorts of other emotions since its publication. WVU Press re-released it a few years ago, reigniting the fire of controversy.

I had to see that place. I had not yet read the book, because its reputation as "gritty" kept me a little shy. But I had been to several workshops by Maynard and found him interesting, thought-provoking and owner of a wild sense of humor. I had to see the town that inspired his writing and so much controversy.

I saw it--and it's not much to see. A small, dying coal town almost choked out in the rampant growth of underbrush, abandoned buildings and junk cars. The new highway sort of bypasses it, with the railroad tracks creating a high barrier between the town and the highway. We wondered where people bought gas, because we'd seen only one station miles back near Huntington, and there was nothing in Crum, only a tiny grocery store and a pizza place.


We stopped in the pizza place--a nice little restaurant with games that is probably the hub of the town in the evenings. I did not have a camera with me, and I was so sorry for that. To visit this place was a like a trip back in time. I came away understanding very well why Mr. Maynard had to leave--it was not a place to inspire anything but a desire to get away. Isolated, dependent on the coal industry, troubled by low income and lack of opportunity, I would bet that most kids leave as soon as they find way.

The storytelling was a hoot. The 70 kids and counselors were great listeners. I found quickly that ghost stories were what they wanted, so that's what we did, along with a few ballads. The extension agent leading the camp, Carl Markham, is a born storyteller. I'd heard him tell several years back at an open mke session and he was a natural, but he doesn't pursue it. A shame, and a loss to storytelling. Think Jerry Clower and you have Carl.

We decided to take a different route home. The map showed the road through the park leading to a four-lane highway that was a pretty direct route for us. We figured the tiny line on the map probably indicated a twisty country road, but that was okay. It was 8:30, still light, and we would get to the 4-lane before full dark. Oh, how we can deceive ourselves!

Never before have I traveled a road like that, and I have done a lot of driving. Twisty it was and narrow, but traveled by huge coal trucks anyhow. They flew along that road, usually crossing the center line--and there were no shoulders, only steep dropoffs to the bordering creek. Lots of one-lane bridges, too, old, old bridges, some with loose metal plates laid over streel joists. One new bridge signaled that perhaps others would be replaced, but for now those bridges are something to experience.

But it was the tunnels that amazed us. The first was an arched, one-lane, and carved out of rock. You could look up and see the rock above; beautiful can't describe it. The second tunnel we reached just at dark. (We later learned that this tunnel is called The Dingess Tunnel). The trip seemed much longer than the map indicated, and we thought we must be near the four lane highway because of the road noise we could hear.

As we approached the tunnel, we found the source of the noise--two big coal trucks came roaring through the one lane opening. We looked up and saw a house built on top of the tunnel. Far, far, far away we could see other headlights, and thought that was someone waiting their turn at the other end of the tunnel. Since the trucks had come through from the opposite direction, we thought it must be out turn next. So we drove in---and drove and drove and drove.

This tunnel was a brick arch, with cubbyholes in the sides for walkers who might get trapped in there with cars coming, I suppose. Or perhaps it had been an old railroad tunnel. Water dripped on the car from the bricks above, and we realized that the roar we heard was a train passing right over our heads. The headlights at the other end seemed to be moving closer, an then it dawned on us--he had been in the tunnel when we entered it!

The tunnel was long--about a mile, we learned later. We realized, too late, that the local rule must be if you saw lights in the tunnel, you had to wait. We didn't know the other vehicle was in the tunnel because never in our wildest thoughts had we considered the tunnel being so long. We met the other car, and stopped. There was no room to pass, we were a long way in, and there was nowhere to go.

"Get out and tell him we're not from here," I told my husband. He looked at me. This was coal country, and folks can be a little touchy down there.

"Ask him to back up. I think we're further in than he is."

My husband--what a guy--got out and walked to the other car. The driver thought maybe we should back up, but finally agreed to do it. Well, I'm not sure who was further in--he backed a long, long way. At the other end were two other vehicles waiting to enter, and I was afraid to look at the drivers. Probably thought we were fools. We did have a second to thank the other driver and then got out of there.

At long last we came to a crossroads, and a little town proclaimed on the sign to be Lenore. Lenore? That wasn't on my map! We stopped at the only store in town, and asked how to get to the four-lane. We weren't far away, as it happened. Puzzled by this unexpected town, I looked at the map again. We'd missed a turn, and traveled at least 30 miles out of our way! No wonder the trip seemed so long.

As we reached the highway at last, my husband remarked, "Well, had we gone the right way, we'd never have seen those tunnels. I'd do it again." And so would I--but next time it will be in daylight, I'll have a camera, and we'll know the rules of the tunnel.

Zinnia Tales Being Considered for Appalachian Book of the Year

The Zinnia Tales, an anthology of stories about strong Appalachian women, is being considered for an Appalachian Book of the Year Award by the Appalachian Writers Association. I'm excited because two of my stories are included in the collection.

For more information about the book, go to Mountain Girl Press. To order a copy, email me!

Happy Birthday, Mom

She would have been 80 years old today.

Time passes but her memory is fresh.
Though I can't visit her grave,

I call her to mind,

and remember

her laugh, her love,

her joy in living.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Goodbye, Bill Casto

Jackson County will be the poorer for your passing. I've never seen so many people come to pay respects, a sign that your life touched many. Godspeed.

First Tomato!

The first tomato of the season! Okay, so it's not completely red, but we were afraid a turtle would get it before we did. The plant was blooming when I put it in the ground (taking a chance on frost) on the first of May. Still, I'm surprised to see one already turning red. It must be the unusual heat and dryness we've had this year.

With the tomato are our first squash this year. We've watered almost every day, one of the benefits of a 723-foot deep well (otherwise known to us as the $10,000 hole in the ground).

So Theresa, you might have the first crocus--but have you had a tomato yet? (insert wicked grin)

Where Will the Princess Sleep?

It appears that she will have a hard bed, since this truck is hauling away ALL her mattresses. I wonder if it was the princess' complaints about the pea that forced lodge management at Cedar Lakes Conference Center to remove all the mattresses during the writers conference?

I never heard from anyone if the mattresses were replaced. Although after the late night (early morning, really) party at the bonfire, I doubt anyone noticed whether or not they had a mattress when they rolled into bed. Since I didn't stay at the conference, I'll never know.

Hannah's Poem

Hannah watched me writing, and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing."

"Oh. What kind of writing?"

"A poem."

"Can I write a poem too?"

And so she wrote her first poem, below.

Hannah's Poem: Watching Dad Leave

Watching Dad Leave
By Hannah Ford

Last night


I watched Dad leave to go to Iraq


and it broke my heart to watch him leave.


I wish I could fly with him.


Haley and I cried until we couldn’t see the plane anymore.

Yellow Roses Accepted! and West Virginia Writers Conference Awards

Good news number 1: I received a letter from Mountain Girl Press today, notifying me that they are accepting my story, Yellow Roses, for their next anthology of short stories about strong Appalachian women.

Good news number 2: A third place win in the Appalachian category at the West Virginia Writers Conference annual writing contest for the same story, Yellow Roses. Honorable mention for the children's story, I Don't Want to Move!, honorable mention for the poem Gardening in a Time of War, and second place for the Writers Wall for a short version of Yellow Roses. (I think that story's a keeper.)

Pictures: Deployment of the 111th Engineers in WV

Granddaughter Hannah gettin' it done with Katelyn

Derek, me and Haley (playing the fool!)

waiting...

Support group (daughter Haley, girlfriend Tiffany), also waiting...

Finally on their way. That's Derek on the right, back turned...

and then they were gone. Safe journeys, soldiers.