Book Review: Ghosts of Greenbrier County

West Virginia has a wealth of ghost stories; over the years there have been many collections of these stories published. A new title, Ghosts of Greenbrier County, focuses on the Greenbrier River region of West Virginia .

Most West Virginians have heard about the Greenbrier Ghost, Zona Shue, who lost her life to her husband's murderous rage in 1896. Zona's mother insisted that her dead daughter came to her at night and described the murder, and the mother's testimony to this effect at the trial of Zona's husband, Trout Shue,was entered into the court records. So when Shue was convicted, the testimony stood as the first on record in which a ghost's word convicted a man of murder. The story is often told, and I've told it here on this blog, and there is even a state highway marker in Zona's honor.

But there are other reported hauntings in Greenbrier county. Nancy Richmond and her daughters, Tammy Workman and Misty Murray Walkup delve into some familiar and many not so well-known stories in their new their book, Ghosts of Greenbrier County.

Greenbrier county was settled early in the exploration of the lands of western Virginia, with some hardy frontier families making their homes in the rich valley as early as 1787. Skirmishes with the native population were not uncommon and these were still fresh in memory when the Civil War raged across the land. Several bloody battles were fought on Greenbrier soil, and many soldiers lost their lives in those conflicts. These three events--settlement, Indian attacks and the Civil War--and the frequently bloody outcomes provide the basis for many of the stories collected by Richmond and her daughters.

For example, a mass grave of Civil War soldiers was blamed for a "ghost army" seen in the skies above Lewisburg by many people one day, and prompted the re-interment of the soldiers' remains in a more fitting grave. Other stories tell of two haunted inns, restless graveyards and houses with a history of uncanny events.

The authors do not seek to dispute the age-old question: are ghosts real? In their introduction they give a nod to the controversy but make no attempt to either prove or disprove the validity of the tales they present. They simply tell the stories as they found them and leave it to the reader to decide what to believe. Some, like the Greenbrier Ghost and the strange events reported at the General Lewis Inn, have been written about in other places and are frequently told at campfire gatherings. These are not horror stories or seance stories; they are straightforward re-tellings of stories that have been passed down in the time-honored style of oral tradition.

The book's large format and well-spaced print makes for easy reading, and many photographs of Greenbrier county locations are included. I realized that although I have visited the county and the county seat of Lewisburg many times, I really did not know many of the historic locations discussed in the book. I would like to visit the area again to see places like the Stone Church and its old graveyard, Carnegie Hall and the county courthouse. There is a lot to see that might be missed by the casual traveler.

Stories included in the section titled "Ghostly Tales" are the kind most often told at campfires and porch gatherings--names, locations and dates tend to be generalized and the stories are brief. These are the kind sometimes referred to as "foaftales" ("friend of a friend" stories) because they have lost their sharp edges and become a tale that could be about any place, any time, anywhere. And yet they retain their haunting, compelling quality, leaving the reader with a faint chill and an uneasy feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, there is something to the story after all.

This well-written collection will leave readers feeling just that, and a few might find themselves looking over their shoulders and moving just a little faster should they pass through Greenbrier county late at night.

What Can You Do with 3 Eggs and a Couple Cups of Flour?

Make noodles, of course. Noodles are easy to make, take only a few minutes and few ingredients. You can make them today, dry them and store for future use. You can cut the dough into squares and add filling to make your own ravioli. You can add well-drained spinach to make green noodles, or some herb seasonings for unique flavors. You can use whole wheat flour or other flours too. The possibilities are limited only by your imagination and your pantry.

Here is the basic recipe from my old Meta Givens cookbook. I tripled it today.

3/4 cup  plus 2 TBSPall-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 large egg

Beat the egg well. Sift the flour the salt and baking powder, then add the flour mixture gradually to the beaten egg. I used my KitchenAid mixer--the mixture gets pretty stiff so the KitchenAid was a great help.

 You might want to knead the dough a little after it's mixed to get all the flour mixed in well. Roll the dough out on a lightly floured board. You want to roll it out as thin as possible (unless you like thick noodles, of course).

Roll the dough up tightly into a long tube.

Slice into rounds, 

then unroll and hang up to dry. I use my clothes drying rack which works perfectly. 

When the noodles are dry, store them in a jar with a cloth cover or a lid with small holes punched for ventilation. Cook your noodles as you would cook the store-bought ones.

Today was the first time I've made noodles in a long, long time, and I am wondering what took me so long to get back to doing this. Now, I wish I knew how to make elbow macaroni or ziti or penne!

1958

I am seven. 

My bike is passed-down, passed around, bent up and beat up 

but it rolls

And when you’re eight that’s all that really matters.

Golden broomsedge ripples in heat,

shimmers in the vacant lot;

blue-flowered chicory

lines the road and closes its petals in resignation.

It is August.

I am riding around our block,

along the sidewalk in front of the houses 

and kept gardens and trees bending 

under the weight of ripe damsons.

Tar bubbles glisten like my mother’s jet earrings

and pop under my tires,

like hot applesauce on the Tappan stove 

in Grandma Compton’s kitchen.

I pass behind her house, 

her orchard of apple trees as old as she is,

Then to the gravel road and the old dump

Where concrete chunks provide habitat for dragonflies and bamboo,

a hiding place 

for girls with sweaty hair and bare feet.

I watch the dragonflies skim over algae-green puddles

And dream of flying, cool in the water’s reflection,

Into the shadows of hidden places where my mother’s voice

Will not reach me. 

Back on my bike I ride

Into the shadow of mulberries, maples, apples and ash.

Dust turns me golden, ghost-like, 

a mirage that shimmers 

in five o’clock heat.

It is 1958.

On a back road in a small town all that matters

 is flying, flying, 

my sunburnt hair streaming behind

my face pushing eagerly ahead

while all the world is rushing by.

This poem was inspired by pulling words out of a bag of paper strips. Each strip contained a different word or phrase--in this case the words I pulled out were blue-flowered chicory, damsons, heat shimmers, bamboo and tar bubbles. Immediately I was back on my rattling bike, riding on a dirt road in mid-August. Funny how words can do that.

One World, Many Stories and River's Edge

One World Many Stories is the national theme for library summer reading programs for children and it fits perfectly with storytelling. I've been reading and planning for weeks on this theme, trying to find the best possible program to offer to libraries. For most storytellers, summer reading is the summertime bread and butter. While I have always done some library programs in the summer, this year I hope to do more because I'll have more time.

With a theme like this to work with, the possibilities are endless. Do I focus on one country, one continent, one culture? Or do a wide-reaching program to encompass the entire world? Or both? If I focus on one country, which one should it be? Do I offer a craft with the program--some libraries with few staff and little time like that. What songs do I know to go with a multicultural theme? Can I do something with rhythm instruments? puppets?

Those are the kinds of questions I have been mulling over. The program has taken shape--actually, there are two programs I can offer. The first is Around the World with Granny Sue. I'll have flags from different countries, maps, globes and other items on display. We can spin the globe and select a continent to tell a story, or we can reach into my storybag and pull out one of the objects in it and tell the story that goes with the object. We'll have songs and movement, puppets and participation. For those wanting a craft, we'll make a blue dragon from a Korean festival. Or a rainstick from South America. Or...endless possibilities.

Second possibility: libraries can select a country and I will focus my stories and activities on that country or culture. This could get interesting. Festivals, fables,traditions, mythic creatures like fairies, ogres, and dragons --all  possibilities to explore in stories and music. The promotional postcard is mailed and now I'm making telephone calls. So far the response has been very good, so I'm encouraged.



The other project occupying these winter evenings is the Stories at the River's Edge grant. I've been working on this off and on for the past few weeks, and now it's crunch time. More calls to find matching funds, more calls to line up storytellers, more calls to get the necessary letters of support, more planning, more writing and figuring. It is coming together, just a few more pieces to put together, copies to make, calls to make and it will be done. It's exciting to see this coming together and to be able to add new venues and new partners to the project. Will we get funded? That depends on how much money is available to the funding agency and how many other people are asking for it. We can only do our best and then see what happens.

Remember

I remember little things--
a little hand in mine
a little toy truck mired in dirt
little overalls coated in mud
little gloves hung to dry by the fire
a little boy, held in memory,
held in my heart
by little things.

At Last

The writing group is meeting again. After almost a year hiatus, we're back to getting together. Last night was our first meeting, and the next will be at the end of February. I have sure missed the group. Even though I did keep writing without the meetings, I find the time spent with other writers is inspiring and I come away energized. I have some older stories I've let languish--they need to be finished. Every story deserves an ending, that's the least a writer owes them. Editing is next, and that is my least favorite part of writing, I admit.


I have noticed that for many writers the drive to get published is almost an urgent need. I want to be published, of course, but for me the drive is to write and create. Maybe that's because I have this blog to share my work when I feel the need? Having said that, I do have an offer to publish a chapbook of my poetry, so that will be a project in February--selecting the poems will not be easy. Every time I look at them I see things I want to change, so when is the work ever really finished? Probably never.

More snow on the way today, the weatherman says, so it will be a slippery drive either on the way in or home, or both.

An Idea I Can Get Behind

Listening to the radio (NPR of course) on the way home last week, I heard an intriguing report. Apparently there are now canning "swap groups." These are people who can, preserve, pickle, dry or otherwise harvest who get together and trade their products with other folks.

The way it works is this: I have a lot of blackberry jam, but no blueberry. I also have a lot of dried basil, but no elderberry wine. You have wine, and you want some of my jam. We trade. Simple, and boy does this sound like a lot of fun.

You know how it is when you garden or harvest wild foods--some years you're just covered up in one thing (pears this year) but something else fails (apples--they got frosted this year). Then there's the fact that some plants just don't do well in your garden but thrive in your neighbor's garden.

Have you participated in such a swap? If so, how did it work? Were you satisfied with the results of your trades?

I would love to try this. I suppose the hardest part would be finding enough people in a local area to participate. But just imagine how all of our cellars would suddenly diversify if we could trade cider for raspberry preserves or garlic for dried apples.

I hope this exchange expands this year. I sure would be like to start one in my area. How aobut you?

Snowy Sunny Sunday, and So Quiet

It's been bitter cold this weekend. Friday night dropped almost to zero, and last night wasn't a lot warmer. The sun is bright but it isn't sharing its warmth with us today. Joe's Run yesterday morning was frosty-beautiful.

The possible to-do list I posted yesterday got shortened quite a bit because I was on the phone with one of my sisters until almost 2 am. Can you imagine? We had a lot of catching up to do, and at such times the clock seems to move with lightning speed. I didn't get up until almost eleven this morning. So not as much got done as I planned.

What did get done: the grant first draft is almost done. That's a big thing on my list right now, but the end is in sight. Donna and I were on the phone a good while working through our plans. I sure hope this goes through because we've got a lot of plans for the money--storytelling up and down the Ohio River, in libraries, parks, theaters, and museums. We've rounded up 10 partners who are willing to contribute to the matching funds, and we have a few more possibilities to contact. What did not get done: making noodles, working on the picture books.

Canning beans wasn't on my list, because I forgot to put it there. But that got done today too. I ended up with 17 pints of red beans in tomato sauce, black beans, and black-eyed peas with ham, onions and molasses. I cooked chicken for this week's lunches (I'm still on a mostly bread-less diet and it seems to be working), and spaghetti sauce for dinners. The laundry is caught up, and that's about the extent of what I got done. Larry pruned grapevines, cut firewood for the fireplace, cleaned up the porch, fixed a porch table that was on the brink of collapse and took a long walk with the dogs. Now he's in bed and I'm catching up here.

Weekends go so quickly, and the weeks seem to drag on. On my desk I have a countdown of the number of days left before retirement. Every day I cross one day off, and the number of workdays left is now under 80. It's exciting and kind of scary. Will we have enough money? Will I get enough storytelling work? Will I really have time for all of the many, many projects, ideas, and new things I want to do? It's a new adventure, and I think we are in for an interesting time after May 10th.

Meantime, back to the grant I go; maybe I can finish the draft tonight. First, though, here is today's entry into the River of Stones Project:

Cat and Mouse
Catlike, she moves
as she should, being a cat--
uncatlike, she nudges the sliding door
until an opening no wider than her claw appears.
Slowly, she works the opening until it is large enough
for her paw. Both paws slide in, and she pulls and pulls;
the heavy door creeps along its track. It is open enough to allow her
to slide though. She glances around, jumps onto the couch, and sleeps
in the warmth of the stove and the sun. She is a cat; this is where she belongs.

Busy Day

A picture book writing workshop, meeting with a man who installs security systems at work (yep, on Saturday), cold temps edging toward zero, an evening looking up books and listing a few of mine on Amazon--yes, it's been a busy day. But not too busy to watch a good movie (West is West--old but new to me), play with the dogs and cats, enjoy the fireplace and keep up with my online friends.

Tomorrow looks like writing the first draft of a grant, looking at the picture books I've written (but never sent anywhere except the hard drive on my computer), making noodles maybe, and getting the laundry done. Winter days--value them for the time they allow for reading, writing, thinking and planning. These days will soon pass and we will be buried in gardens, weeding, mowing, and pushing the boundaries of daylight to get all the chores done.

Winter Blooms

The day after I wrote about my father buying primroses when he was 83, I found primroses, marked down, at the grocery store. They were meant for me obviously, so of course I bought them. They have been terribly over-watered and are recuperating on my kitchen windowsill.

I bought a pink one,

and a yellow one,

and one that shall remain a mystery until it blooms, but since it's in a purple pot I am hoping it's a purple one.

 

I bought a few other poor sufferers too--a kalenchoe that looks healthy but is past its prime as far as blooms, and two clay pots of miniature roses. All of them have been over-watered, but I've had good luck with plants that I've put in this window in winter, so we'll see. The roses were worth the $1.99 just for the clay pots, I think--and the white one is full of buds. The other rose is a dark, dark red. 

So the windowsill is in bloom and I am pretty sure I owe it to Dad.

Virtue and Vice

I have been listening to a book on CD of stories by Laurence Yep, who is of Chinese-American heritage. The book, The Rainbow People, is completely entertaining, with monsters, magic, common sense, humor and pathos--not to mention very good writing. Yep worked with a WPA collection of stories collected from immigrant Chinese to produce this collection, and brought new life to tales that might otherwise have been forgotten.

I remember when this book was published, and I even checked it out once but never read it. I didn't think I'd be interested in Chinese stories, to tell the truth. How wrong I was. A few years ago I found Fred Lobb's blog of Chinese stories that he is translating into English and I was completely hooked. The stories, unlike many fairy tales, do not necessarily have a happy ending; indeed by our western standards many might not seem to have an ending at all. But the tales are so rich in imagery and in their keen insight into a culture that they are fascinating and memorable.

Yep's commentary at the beginning of each section of his book helps understand the philosophy behind the stories, and because some also traveled to the US to be told by the Chinese immigrants, he also explores the relevance of these old tales to the Chinese men who told these stories after work at their American jobs, while their families were still back in China. It's heartbreaking to think of, really--these men, separated for years from their loved ones, growing old as they live like bachelors in a land that is not their home.

At the beginning of a chapter titled Virtue and Vice, Lep's first line caught my attention: The virtues and vices of a culture, he said are captured in the culture's folktales. In our American culture, how often do we even hear the word virtue? or vice, for that matter? In our country, what are the virtues that might inform our folktales? What are the vices that define us? Do we even have folktales that can be called American?
Brer Rabbit came from Africa. Paul Bunyan, Mike Fink and other tall tale legends might be uniquely American but are they all we have to call "our" stories?

If this is true, then what are our American virtues and vices as defined in the tall tales? Cleverness, hard work, positive outlook, generosity, and survival jump out at me as the most likely virtues. Vices--Bravado, one-upmanship, act-first-think-later?

In Appalachia there are many stories with supernatural elements; some are immigrants from other places, but most, I think, are unique to our region. The Appalachian ghost stories often have common themes of justice being served or spirits not resting, spirits seeking justice, or of warnings (don't go there or X will get you), or to explain some phenomena ("and that is why the mist always rises..."), or odd markings, formations, buildings, etc. From these, perhaps we can find the virtues of right always prevails or should prevail, children should listen to the elders, foolishness gets its reward, listen to good advice, or history marks its place for future generations? As for vices, well, so many ghost stories are based on acts of violence, that it is not too difficult to define violence as one of our vices.

I am interested in hearing what you think: what would you say are our American virtues, and our worst vices? What stories do you consider "American" stories--and what virtues and vices do you derive from them?

Possession

Blue lace around thin linen 

waits in my dresser drawer

to surprise me with a memory 

of my mother, dabbing the white cloth 

with lavender scent

and tucking it in her sleeve.

As the Next Storm Approaches

These are a few pictures I've taken over the past two weeks, but haven't had a chance to post: looking back to the last snowfall as the next storm is on its way. Right now most of the old snow is gone in the sunny places, just the drifts and shaded places are still white. The ground is muddy and dreary and along the roads are patches of gray, tired slush. It's time for a new blanket. I'd rather have snow than mud.

In this last picture, taken two days ago, you can see how much has melted. Even more is gone now. One thing about a thaw like this is that the ground smells so rich, so like Spring. And on Sunday, I saw a lone robin on a branch--now I'm trying to figure out if he was lost or just confused. Seriously, though, robins sometimes do winter over in this area, although this is the first one I've seen this winter.

Larry has been getting ready for Spring anyway. Yesterday he oiled up all the garden tools, fixed a few handles, and even cut some brush. He's been organizing buildings, too, and taking long walks with the dogs and the cats each day, and reading the pruning book before venturing out to the grapevines and fruit trees. It's getting late for pruning, but I hope he will finish by the end of next week.

And in three weeks, if the weather breaks for a couple days, he'll be burning off the lettuce bed and getting the first seeds out. Yes, Spring is coming and it's not so far off.

Skipping Stones

Suddenly I saw him as he must have been--
a scrawny boy with scraped elbows in dusty bib overalls
squatting by the side of a rocky creek,
skipping stones across its surface--
In his jeans, flannel jacket and straw hat
he stretches on the post office's metal bench
and sings Rolling in My Sweet Baby's Arms
and carries on a conversation with himself
about being in the Air Force
and walking to the post office--
But before he came to this,
before he was a working man,
before he was a father,
or a husband or a student,
he was a small boy with scabby elbows
and nothing more important to do
than skipping stones across a rocky creek.

Canning Beans

It sounds like I've lost my mind, right? Canning beans in this weather?

But that is just what I did yesterday, after going to our granddaughter's birthday party and before figuring out how to do mail merge and labeling 500 promotional postcards. I'd rather can beans any day than have to do that again, let me tell you. It must be my left-handed-right-brain thing, but doing a step-by-step procedure like the mail merge and working through eleven pages of instructions just about makes me a blithering idiot. But it's done.

We like dried beans like pintos, black beans, black-eye peas (are these really a bean or a pea? Inquiring minds want to know), navy beans ,limas--pretty much all of them. Cooking them is another story. I have to remember to put them in to soak, or do the quick-soak method, and then have several hours to spare to let them cook. Usually I end up with a huge pot of beans that we either eat until we're sick of them, or put in the freezer and forget until we find a frozen lump down in the bottom of the freezer, all freezer-burnt and unrecognizable. Canned beans are an option, but the prices keep going up--have you noticed? It used to be I could get two cans for a dollar, now they're almost a dollar a can at our local supermarket.

The next option is to can them myself. It's not difficult, it's a good thing to do in winter because the stove and canner add a little more warmth to the house, and with free gas, now it's a good savings over the store-bought cans.

Most canning books have instructions for processing dried beans. Basically, the beans are cleaned, re-hydrated, heated, put into jars and processed. The University of Georgia has some clear instructions and even some recipes for tomato or molasses sauce to add to your beans. I prefer to can mine plain so that I can use them in whatever way I want when I open them. The recipes all call for adding salt--I don't.

Canning beans needs a pressure canner, so if you don't have one, don't try it. And don't over-fill the jars, because the beans will expand with processing. An inch of headspace is needed in the top of the jars.

Yields: I had a 4-pound bag of navy beans, and I ended up with 15 pints. So how does that figure out monetarily? Well, a can of store-bought beans is 15 ounces; my 15 jars equal 16 store-bought cans then. At eighty-five cents a can, my beans are worth $13.60. The 4-pound bag of beans cost $4.29, or 27 cents per jar.

I had the jars, so I will estimate that I've used each one at least 3 times and will re-use them at least 5 more times. At $9.00 a dozen, each jar cost 75 cents. That means each use cost about 9 cents. Lids are about 10 cents each. The water is free from the well, and the gas to cook them is free.

Total cost per jar: 27 cents for the beans; 9 cents for the jar; 10 cents for the lids = 46 cents per jar.

You can see that this would not be nearly as cost effective if I paid for my water and the gas. And probably I could find beans a little cheaper at another store, but then there is also the cost of gasoline to factor in. I could save more if I bought my beans in larger quantities too, but 15 jars will last us for a good while--and that's just the navy beans. I still have pintos, red beans, black beans, limas and black-eyed peas to do, sometime this month or next.

All the economics aside, there is one thing that can't be quantified: the satisfaction of seeing the finished product on the shelves of the cellar and knowing that meals can be ready to eat without a trip to town. There's no dollar value for that.

Primroses

 My father, at age 83 and walking with a walker

asked my sister to stop at the garden center 

so he could pick out three primrose plants--

one deep yellow, one indigo, and one of the brightest rose.

With my sister's help he planted them by his garden gate

where he would see them every time he looked out the window.

He did not get to see the flowers the following spring;

he rested with them beneath the winter's snow.

The primroses returned to bloom and bloom again

and Dad's memory, like those bright flowers

shines each time I see a primrose

blooming by a garden gate.

Sistersville Night Light, Night Life

We were in Sistersville, WV last night for a concert by the bluegrass band called Blue Maggie. I wanted to go for several reasons, besides the fact that I always find something interesting in this small town:

1. Sistersville is one of the prettiest towns in West Virginia and one of the state's best kept secrets. Built during the oil and gas boom days at the turn of the last century, Sistersville is filled with beautiful homes. Its situation on the banks of the Ohio mean that you can ride the ferry across the river in good weather, and it is also the home of the famed Wells Inn. The Inn was closed for a couple of years, but new owner Charles Winslow has brought this landmark back to life, and is also bringing many other good things to Sistersville--like events at the old Gaslight Theatre.

2. The weather had cleared up enough to go somewhere...and I've always been curious about the Gaslight. What was it like inside?

3. I've been a friend of Blue Maggie on Facebook but I had never heard the band and I wanted to see what they were like.

4. If I stayed home, I had to do laundry. Enough said.

So off we went. I wish we had left earlier because as usual the drive up Route 2 was picturesque--the snow, the river, the tiny communities...really, you need to see it to understand why I am always ready for a road trip through there. 

The Wells Inn offered a dinner-and-show package but I was afraid to sign up for that because the weather has been so bad I wasn't sure we'd be able to make the trip. I wish I had taken the chance because I so want to see the inside of the newly refurbished inn. I've stayed there several times in the past and always loved its vintage charm, and I am more pleased than I can say that the inn is welcoming guests once again. We missed out on dinner this time, but I hope to go back soon and check it out.

When we got to Sistersville, the Wells Inn parking lot was full but the rest of town was very quiet. We drove down by the ferry just to see it in the snow. I remembered the beautiful summer days when I took my grandchildren across to Fly, Ohio for lunch at the little diner that sits right on the riverbank; last night was an interesting contrast to those summer memories.

We drove around just to look at the houses. So many had intricate stained glass or leaded windows; most are of the Victorian era with deep porches, detailed woodwork and interesting architectural features. I have always loved this town, and being there on a dark winter night was neat. 

The railroad running through town has always interested me too, and although this shot did not come out as well as I would have liked, perhaps it tells you why I have wanted a picture of the tracks as they wend through the houses.

By the time we pulled into the street where the Gaslight Theater was located, there were a lot of cars. 

Where did they all come from? The street had been mostly empty when we arrived. We found our way into the theater, and there was a surprise:

Steps! The theater was accessed by a narrow staircase. We followed the other folks and found ourselves in a dark room with about 150 seats, with the stage down below. Interesting! We sat down and pretty soon were in conversation with the couple seated next to us, who had moved to Sistersville from New Jersey. They said there were quite a few retirees from Jersey in the area--all had found the town so attractive and the real estate prices so reasonable. I remembered meeting another couple several years ago who had come here from New Jersey too, and they gave the same reasons for relocating. Smart people.

We wondered how many people would come out on a cold January evening; as the minutes passed, more and more people came in and the theater filled up--not full, mind you but for the first event like this in many years it was a very good crowd and the theater was at least 75% full.

Blue Maggie did not disappoint. They were lively, funny, touching and just overall entertaining as they performed everything from John Prine and Janis Joplin to Patsy Cline and gospel. We were completely entertained and everyone else there seemed to have a good time too. 

The Wells Inn is offering a Valentine's Day package that includes a 3-comedian show at the Gaslight in February (call them! 304-652-1312). Then there are the festivals--the Oil and Gas Festival, Sister Fest, and several others. I think the town and the Wells Inn will become a destination for those who want a beautiful and restful place to visit that offers history, shopping, entertainment, and maybe, if you're lucky, even a ghost of two in the bargain.

The Music Within

The bass rests, quiet.

But I can hear

the music within.

Ohio River in January

Beneath the ice

 the river slides

and the catfish goes about his business

We drove north along the Ohio this evening, on our way to Sistersville, and the river prompted these lines.

Winners!

Congratulations to Mama-bug, Cheryl, Rebecca Clayton, Kate, and Jane! You were the winners in the 200,000-posts drawing.

Please email your addresses to me so I can send you each a copy of my chapbook, Lives Unheralded.
Email is susannaholstein@yahoo.com 

And thank you again to everyone for reading and commenting!

Home

At the end of the day, warmth spills from welcoming windows.

Home.

Where my husband waits to hear about my day.

Where the dogs are glad to see me, and the cats don't mind.

Where I can put up my feet, listen to silence and know that all is well.

I'm home.

Unity

If you have not heard or read President Obama's speech last night, please try to find time to do so. he said the words we as a nation need to hear. Those that came home most forcefully for me:

"After all, that's what most of us do when we lose someone in our family - especially if the loss is unexpected. We're shaken from our routines, and forced to look inward. We reflect on the past. Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in awhile but every single day?



"So sudden loss causes us to look backward - but it also forces us to look forward, to reflect on the present and the future, on the manner in which we live our lives and nurture our relationships with those who are still with us. We may ask ourselves if we've shown enough kindness and generosity and compassion to the people in our lives. Perhaps we question whether we are doing right by our children, or our community, and whether our priorities are in order. We recognize our own mortality, and are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame - but rather, how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in bettering the lives of others."

Longtime readers of this blog know that I suffered a sudden loss in the past year and Obama's words are so true of how I felt and continue to feel about that heartbreaking loss. And yet, we as a nation are now also feeling that sense of loss and asking those same questions. We all lost someone dear to us, even though we did not know them personally. When any American (or other nationality, for that matter) dies needlessly by violence, we all hurt for that loss. Reflecting on what we have done in the past and what we can do in the future--this is the time to think on those things. And remembering to tell those we love just how much they mean to us. I will be eternally grateful for my last conversation with my son, a happy one that ended as usual with the words, "I love you." How easily it could have been otherwise!

The President also said:

"The loss of these wonderful people should make every one of us strive to be better in our private lives - to be better friends and neighbors, co-workers and parents. And if, as has been discussed in recent days, their deaths help usher in more civility in our public discourse, let's remember that it is not because a simple lack of civility caused this tragedy, but rather because only a more civil and honest public discourse can help us face up to our challenges as a nation, in a way that would make them proud. It should be because we want to live up to the example of public servants like John Roll and Gabby Giffords, who knew first and foremost that we are all Americans, and that we can question each other's ideas without questioning each other's love of country, and that our task, working together, is to constantly widen the circle of our concern so that we bequeath the American dream to future generations.


"I believe we can be better. Those who died here, those who saved lives here - they help me believe. We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another is entirely up to us. I believe that for all our imperfections, we are full of decency and goodness, and that the forces that divide us are not as strong as those that unite us."

Amen and amen and amen.

It is up to us. Every one of us knows the difference between civility and rudeness, and most of us have heard those famous words, "My rights end where your begin." If everyone lived by that statement, what a country this would be.