Joy to the World

Merry Christmas everyone! And a joyous New Year, too! Yes, there is joy even when grief seems to shroud the world. Tornados. Earthquakes. Typhoons. Violence in the streets. 

Where is the joy?

I work through the sadness of the world by writing. I belong to a group of local same-minded people called, appropriately, Foothills Writers, since we live here in the Foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We meet on Wednesdays to share tips and techniques and our latest manuscripts. We've published two anthologies of our writings. 

At each of our gatherings, we take nine minutes to write to a prompt. I enjoy this most of all because the topics are so beyond what I normally write. I feel it stretches my mind and forces me to dabble in alternate writing styles. I would never have attempted poetry were it not for this group. 

But last week we were given one topic I call a poser, a conundrum. "Pick a major problem in the world and tell how you would fix it."

I sat there dazed, and then I wrote a humorous little ditty about catching the bad guys. When we shared our writings aloud, I was amazed at the depth of their answers, sincere attempts at solving the ills of the world.

As I drove home I pondered on our discussions. Their answers seemed to make sense, so why are we still in the dark without so many solutions. Why doesn't someone step up and send help? 

Someone has. God. In Bethlehem. Two millennia ago. The people of that day were as hungry for solutions as we are now. They needed a savior. Violence. Evils. Droughts. Food shortages. Refugees (even Mary and Joseph had to flee to Egypt with their precious baby). 

What God sent was not what they expected. A baby. A poor family. Mother and father not married. This child couldn't be the king they longed for, or so they thought.

The more I read the wisdom Jesus spoke, the more I'm convinced this child grew up to show us the way, to point us to how to solve the problems of the world. So this year of hurt, do away with the manger and follow the grown-up Christ. Read what He had to say. It's truly revolutionary!

Here's a Christmas Card I received from my youth group back in the seventies. I found it when I was cleaning a drawer in my desk. The signatures on the inside show the love and commitment these teens had for not only me and our church, but for the baby in the manger. They grew to be outstanding citizens who followed this grown-up Christ child. Several of them have passed away. Several have grandchildren. Several are on facebook with me. Most of them went through personal trials and tribulations. All of them made me proud to say I was a part of their lives. I think God placed them in my life to show me as much as I showed them, probably more.

This Christmas season, when you wonder what about the solutions to all the ills of the world, remember that God sent a Savior for us all.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Well Done, Thou Good and Faithful Servant

 

This past Sunday we buried my 95 year old aunt. In my last blog post, William Booth and Major Jean, I told about August 8, when Lorraine received the General William Booth founder's award. If you haven't had a chance to read it, now would be a great time to click over.

In the early 1930’s Great Depression years, my grandmother Etha Fish brought five year old Lorraine to her home to raise her alongside my mother and my uncles. Etha and Lorraine’s mother, Jean, were sisters. Their maiden name was Fleming. Lorraine’s mother had divorced and was not well, so Lorraine’s early years were spent in an institution for young children until my grandmother stepped up. Ninety years later, I followed my grandmother’s example and opened our home to Lorraine. She lived with us on six different occasions while she recuperated from her latest ailment, all totaled close to a year. 

During those times I became acquainted with not only her, but with my family, since she was the last surviving member of her generation and held all the family stories and secrets. She said over and over again that God sent her the right people at the right time to help her along in life. Her aunt Etha, my husband and me, co-workers, friends. She was so appreciative of every grace God sent to her through her friendships. 

In the days after Sunday, August 8 she was not well. She moved in with us that day to recover, but by Wednesday she was in the hospital for the fifth time in two months. When she was discharged, the doctor talked privately to me and said that there was nothing more they could do and that she could never live alone again.  

By September, Hospice stepped in to aid in caring for her, another grace sent by God. When the man came to our home to do paperwork for at-home care, he asked her about her final wishes. Would she sign a DNR, Do Not Resuscitate? 

 “Absolutely not! I’m a fighter and the Lord hasn’t called me home. He isn’t through with me yet.”

She became unable to walk and refused to use a wheelchair, so I began pushing her in her walker as she sat leaning on the “Do not sit while moving” warning sign. In the mornings after breakfast she’d say, “Take me to my room. It’s time to go in my closet and talk to the Lord.” Every day.

In the evenings we’d sit on the swing on my back deck and talk. We talked a lot about Job and his suffering and how he never gave up on his faith. She knew Job’s pain because she was in it at the moment. Each time a new symptom manifested itself she became weaker and weaker, just like Job, but she never gave up hope that she would return to her home two hours away in a small North Carolina mountain community named Fine’s Creek. She planned how she would deal with her oxygen tank. She asked me to look online for an electric wheel chair that would fit her house. She made phone calls to friends about her plants she wanted to care for.

I never took that hope away from her and planned with her how to make it happen. After all, God is a God of miracles, and I began to feel I was in the presence of a great miracle. But as her symptoms worsened, I realized I could no longer care for her at home, and the Hospice nurse made it happen to transfer her to their campus. I tried to encourage her, but she did say one time, “Looks like I won’t be going back to my home.” One time only she said that. I told her perhaps the Lord was preparing her a different home, but she said, “He isn’t finished with me yet.”

How she suffered. She wouldn’t give up. She read her Bible daily as long as she was able. She prayed before meals, even thanking the Lord for the bite of pudding the nurse brought her in the afternoon. She felt like the Lord had something for her to do and she was willing, in all her aches and pains, to trust in His wisdom. My prayer was, “Please Lord, call her home, your servant has suffered enough.” Then I’d add the prayer that never fails, “Thy will be done.”

She was right. The Lord wasn’t finished with her yet. “What are you thinking, Lord,” I’d ask. Again and again I’d pray for her to be relieved of her suffering, and add “Thy Will Be done.” But I wasn’t sincere in that part of the prayer. I wanted Him to do it my way and take away her pain. 

She got better, so much better that she was transferred to a long term care facility. Years before, I had promised her I would not put her in a rest home. “Please don’t send me to a rest home” she’d say, and here I was, putting her in a rest home rather than bringing her to my home.

So she went into that belly of the ambulance that transferred her to the rest home. Remember Jonah doing what he could to stay away from Nineveh? There she was, like Jonah, going to the one place she pleaded not to be sent. That’s when I finally sincerely prayed, “Thy will be done. Use her Lord.”

I don’t know what happened or how her Lord used her after I helped her get settled in her newest bed, because, you see, the facility was on covid restrictions and I could not visit her in person. I was forced to knock at the outside window of her room and wave at her and talk to her through cell phones. I waited for the day I could talk to her in person. It never came.

My faith was made stronger than ever after living with this person of God. Faith taught me that the Lord indeed used her in that rest home. Only when the Lord was finished with her did she draw her last breath. Alone.

When the facility called me to say she had passed away overnight, they said I could come be with her until the funeral home picked her up. Finally I held her hand. Finally I stroked her arm. Finally she was in no pain. She had done her Lord’s bidding until the very, very end.

On a warm December Sunday, we said our public farewells to her. I gasped when I saw how the little church was fixed. There below the sign proclaiming, "The Word of God is not Bound," sat the Salvation Army flag with a white bow on the finial of the flagpole, a symbol of a death. Beside it was the statue of General William Booth and the Founder's Award she was given in August.

On the altar table were visual memories so vivid I could feel her with us.

In Salvation Army speech, she didn't just pass away. Not a soldier of God. She had worked through the ranks already to major, but in her final act, she was promoted to glory. Look below the words. There are ceramic animals representing her pets and the animals she loved so well. On the left is her Army bonnet and just beyond that out of the picture is her matching uniform. Covering the box with her ashes is a miniature Salvation Army flag. In the center of the table is a ceramic Christmas tree, one of hundreds that she made and gifted to family and friends. Beside it is the Christmas pillow that she kept on the pew where she sat to alleviate her back pain. After the Christmas season, she turned the decorated side to the rear, but she still used that pillow.

One request I had was that the corps play the timbrels, instruments kin to tambourines. Years ago, when she went from storefront to storefront in the nearby town of Waynesville, she played the timbrel and held it out for people to donate to the Salvation Army. There is nothing quite like singing "There is Power in the Blood" accompanied by the tinny ring of timbrels. 

After the service we walked to the mountain top where corps members had dug a hole themselves. After the prayers and internment, we took turns shoveling the dirt. The sound of dirt landing on the box is one that I will hold in my heart forever. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

Well done, Major Jean Lorraine Frese, thou good and faithful servant.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

 

 

William Booth and Major Jean

Major Jean. That's how she's known in the Smoky mountains of western North Carolina. For sixty years plus she traveled from home to home and church to church spreading the Good News as an officer of the Salvation Army. To me, however, she's Lorraine, my kin folk, and at ninety-five years of age, the last of her generation. She was a cousin to my mother, their mothers were sisters. That makes me her first cousin once removed. Since she was raised by my grandparents alongside my mother and her brothers and sister, that makes her my unofficial aunt. She's living with my husband and me for now, and is as much as blessing to us as we are to her.

Last Sunday, I became more deeply acquainted with the Major Jean side of her when my husband and I attended the annual (since 1936 except for covid last year) Singing on the Mountain at the Salvation Army Waynesville Corps. 

While the singing originally was held on top of a mountain at Maple Springs, it has moved to an open field behind the Salvation Army Corps in the nearby town of Waynesville, North Carolina. We were specially invited because Major Jean was to be awarded the highest honor given by the Salvation Army, the William Booth Award, named for its founder. This award is to the Salvation Army what the Oscar is to the film industry, except with only a few individuals being honored ever. My cousin/aunt was one, and she earned it. Many times over, I'm sure.

We came into the singing by golf carts, and just by coincidence, or by Divine God-incidence, we entered the tent while they were singing my all time favorite hymn, Precious Lord, Take my Hand. Several uniformed majors and captains rushed to hold her frail hand and escort her to our reserved seats up front. I actually gasped as the congregated Army sang the words together: 

Precious Lord, take my hand 

Lead me on, let me stand. 

I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. 

Through the storm, through the night 

Lead me on to the light. 

Take my hand precious Lord, 

Lead me home. 

Look at her precious hands fixing her hair the morning of the singing. Her friend Karen came to help her dress in her uniform, and couldn't resist taking this picture. The second verse hit me just as we stepped under the tent:

When my way grows drear 

Precious Lord linger near. 

When my life is almost gone. 

Hear my cry, hear my call, 

Hold my hand lest I fall. 

Take my hand precious Lord, 

Lead me home.

 After many more of the old, old songs, Commissioner Barbara Howell took the mic and asked Major Jean to join her at the foot of the stage, just a few steps from where we sat. Once again, uniformed soldiers of Christ stepped up and held her hand as she walked.

When the darkness appears 

And the night draws near 

And the day is past and gone. 

At the river I stand, 

Guide my feet, hold my hand. 

Take my hand precious Lord, 

Lead me home. 

 

The Commissioner spoke about the years Lorraine/Jean devoted herself to the Kingdom of God, about how she rode horseback to deliver the message, about the care she gave the people so far back in the mountains that no one else dared to venture. And then she gave the mic to Major Jean, and probably, being a high ranking officer from "up north" was not prepared for what she got.

In her humble thank you for the award, she slid in a few stories, like the one about coming upon a bootlegger and his still. Good old stories about the good old days! The crowd chuckled. They knew her, and they probably had heard plenty more stories from her.

After more songs and a dynamic speaker, we stood and sang the closing hymn, Onward Christian Soldiers. I know I've sung that particular song hundreds of times, but when surrounded by an Army of uniformed souls, it took on a whole new meaning.

Now she is here in our home. Feeble, though still full of stories. Tired and drained after several hospitalizations including a covid positive test. (Thank you God, for the vaccine that helped her survive with little side effects.) My prayer is that she be able to continue on with her life mission by testifying even in her illnesses. And when that time comes and she is, in Salvation Army language, Promoted to Glory, that her Precious Lord meets her and takes her precious hand.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

PS When I taught fourth grade, my students read a book called The Hundred Penny Box by Sharon Beth Mathis. It was framed around Precious Lord, Take My Hand, the hymn by Tommy Dorsey. I studied that hymn and its origin in order to teach the students. The words came from his heart as he grieved the loss of his wife. Look it up. Sing it out. It is my faith.

It's a Circus out there

 When I wrote the Spring Creek book several years ago, I came across an old, abandoned schoolhouse in Keenerville, North Carolina. Many of the people I interviewed had ties to the school or knew people who went there. I visited there this summer and the building had fallen, so I'm glad I was able to take a picture of it before it did.

Looks are deceiving, however. Old and decrepit as it might be in this photo, it was once the glory of the community. Children by the dozens at a time flocked to this one-room school house for their primary education. For many, what the school offered was the only "book learning" they had. Their success in life later is a testament to the basic learning they received. Many of them owned their own businesses and achieved what few of us in modern times would guess was ever possible considering their humble beginnings.

All this to say, I ran across a cartoon in the Sunday paper a few weeks back. It is from The Family Circus by Bil Keane. He has a knack of zeroing in on what touches me, but this particular day's strip showed my feelings exactly.

Does that look like the Keenerville School or what!!

Oh, my, someone else in this world recognizes the value of those old schools. In case the image is too small, let me explain. Mr. Keane drew characters of all kinds around the school to show their adult successes. Not only that, he had the modern children superimposed at the school and wondering what ever became of the "poor little kids." The illustrations answer that. They did well in life! 

If only the walls could talk, what stories would they tell these children? I've heard some of the stories and included them in my book, Back in the Time.

That's my co-author Jasper Reese on the cover when he was fourteen years old. He didn't attend Keenerville School, but his ancestors did. Back in the time, school was in session when the children weren't in the fields working. Teachers lived with families in the community. Students were related to each other. All of them. The older students helped the younger. They walked to school and carried their lunches, as there was no cafeteria. No indoor bathroom either. One year, 1919, the school closed early for the year. Spanish flu epidemic. Last day of school was in early March. The principal reported that there were no promotions. Everyone was held back in the current grade. 

Back in the time...

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

A Great Place to Gogh

A couple years ago I drove from North Carolina to Ohio to do school visits at the schools where the grandchildren of my BFF from high school attended. Several people advised me to listen to books on tape to entertain me since I was driving alone. Selecting the right one wasn't as easy as I thought. I had already decided on non-fiction, but the choices at the library overwhelmed me. Finally I settled on one that sounded intriguing to me, Vincent and Theo: The Van Gogh Brothers. Indeed, I was entertained for hours and developed a new appreciation of Vincent beyond what I learned in my (required) art appreciation class in college.

So when advertisements of a Van Gogh experience began appearing on my facebook feed, I knew I had to go. Let me rephrase that, I knew I had to gogh.

So why not use this opportunity to offer some art appreciation lessons to my family, I reasoned. Tickets to this experience would make perfect birthday presents, I reasoned. 

And I was right!

In the weeks ahead I sent little "gogh" jokes to my teenaged granddaughters. 

Who was Vincent Van Gogh's magician uncle? Where diddy gogh.

What kind of bird did Vincent like best? Flamin-gogh.

What bank did Vincent use? Wells Far Gogh.

Finally the day arrived and we were so ready to gogh.  We appeared at the door, checked in and chose our posters that came with our ticket level: With ear or without ear? That was the question. We also picked up the pillows we rented and bought a glass of wine and bottle of water to boot. Like I say, we were so ready. 

We entered the room mid-cycle (think gigantic warehouse, single room). The ticket punchers had told us to find a circle and sit down. Simple as that.

Since the same digital images were on multiple walls, we didn't block anyone's view as we groped around in the dark to find a spot. From the very first we all were captivated. There was no narration as I expected there to be, only intense orchestral music that fit the scenes before us. When that performance was finished and the credits rolled, about half the audience left and the other half of us repositioned ourselves to watch from a different viewpoint.

.

I could have watched for several additional cycles, but the girls really wanted to gogh to the gift shop that you couldn't escape. So I'm a granny. This was birthday. What can I say?

I can say this was some bizarre, out-of-our-comfort-zone experience. When it was all said and done, for those hours in time, we were lifted from our daily routine and placed into a world beyond our imaginations. A world of art. And beauty. 

Life is good. Gogh for it!

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Sgt. York

 There's a new old book on my to-read list.  It matches a movie, both done decades ago. It was written as an autobiography by Sgt. Alvin York and first published in 1918. It was republished in 2018, a hundred years later. I saw the original.

It was on his desk. At his house. In the backwoods of Tennessee.

I toured his home with my husband and a few other tourists a few weeks ago. How we found this out of the way gem, I have no idea, but I'm glad we did. It was stuffed with everyday living from a century ago, from a family of a beloved World War I hero. The state of Tennessee maintains it as a state historical park.

I must admit I didn't know much about WWI before I entered this park, but I learned a lot about the war and about one humble soldier who fought so valiantly. When he was drafted into the army he completed forms to be a conscience objector, but despite his dramatic faith story, his plea was denied. He went to the front lines in Europe and when the time came to defend his friends and comrades, he did. He was lauded for his actions of killing enemy soldiers to save others. He returned home to a ticker-tape parade in New York City, but only wanted to return to his home in the hills of Tennessee and leave the world behind. 

My personal experience in military is limited, so I can't pretend to imagine his feelings that fateful day when his company was under attack. However, for those of us wondering, the park built a model of the trenches soldiers fought from during this "Great War." 

My husband and I walked the trenches. Everything was pristine. No blood. No dead bodies. No moaning injured.

We had to imagine. My goal now is to read Sgt. York's book and watch the movie based on it. I want to hear it from his own words, not the well researched words of others, no matter how compelling  and excellent their books. An autobiography is from the soul. I want to dive into his soul beyond what I saw in his house. I want a first hand view of living in those trenches. 

Often through my teaching career I referred to us classroom teachers as workers in the trenches. After visiting this state park, I will be more careful when I use this comparison. Actually, I'd say nothing compares to the original use of Sgt. York and the doughboys being in those trenches.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

A Tale of Two Families

When I release a book I never know its future. It could wait on the shelf for years for someone to pick up and read. Someone could spill a pitcher of ice tea and ruin its pages. Someone else could smear suntan lotion on the cover. Or someone could read it and uncover just the right gem to brighten their day.

That last one happened this past week when I met with members of two families featured in one of my latest book, Ernestine Shade's memoir, With God and My Mother's Prayers. Back in the 1930's, Ernestine's parents worked at Dula Hospital in Lenoir, North Carolina. This was during the depression, so for both parents to be working was remarkable. Unfortunately, her father had a heart attack at work one December day, not too long before Christmas. His death changed Ernestine and her mother's lives, and but for the grace of God and Dr. Dula, would have devastated their small family. 

Thanks to this doctor, her mother was able to save her house from those people who falsely claimed her father owed them money. Because of his kindness Ernestine and her mother had a more secure future.

Dr. Dula had a son, Fred, that was born after Ernestine went away to college. He grew up not far from where she grew up. In reality, however, they were raised in two completely different universes. After all, this was the segregated south, although by the time he was in high school, North Carolina had gone through school desegregation. Turns out, one of his good friends was Ernestine's first cousin. That's just one of many coincidences. 

He grew up, left Lenoir, became a doctor, and married. She grew up, became a teacher, married and moved to Los Angeles. Neither knew the other existed. 

One of the delightful twists in Ernestine's life story was the finding of her long lost childhood boyfriend. She had not seen him for sixty-five years when they reconnected after their spouses passed away. They talked long distance coast to coast, met up at a church homecoming, and three months later married.

His story was so similar to hers, I still shake my head in disbelief. He married his high school sweetheart late in life after both of them had earlier marriages and careers. His story was on the front page of our local newspaper, the NewsTopic. 

I knew the minute I read it I had to connect these two people. We arranged a visit, working around covid restrictions. His sister joined us, as did her husband. I sat back this past week and let the magic happen. When Fred was ten years old, his father died. He told Ernestine he felt like he didn't really know his father, so she filled in the gaps with stories about her family and his. She also told the Black perspective of living in the same town as he once did. The stores she could not enter. The clothing stores that did not allow her to try on clothes. The nurturing Freedman community where Black owned businesses thrived.

Fred Dula is a descendent of Squire Dula, who in the 1800's not only had a family with his first wife, but had a second family later in life with Ernestine's great-grandmother, Harriet. In fact, Ernestine is active in the Dula reunion that Fred declares he will some day attend.

Fred Dula in center with his sister Laura Jo and new friend Ernestine

This one day I felt like I was given the gift of traveling through time. What I experienced I now hold in my heart. It was that special.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Part 2: A Place Called Trust

I zoomed an author visit with a class of fourth graders recently and had a glimpse into the Covid reality of a classroom. The teacher had to relay the questions students asked because they were masked muffled, even though their interest in what I had to say certainly wasn't suppressed. We had a great time. They asked the usual questions, which book do you like best, why do you write, how old are you... those questions.

My favorite question this time was new. "What is the best thing about being an author?"

Easy answer.

Meeting my readers, which was what I was doing with these students.

That was Tuesday. Then Saturday I did exactly that, and did I ever enjoy myself. I even introduced my ninety-one year old coauthor Jasper to the joy of meeting our readers. We were at a little country store in Western North Carolina's backwoods (Trust General Store and Cafe) along with a huge group of locals and tourists stopping in. As I saw it, Jasper held court. 

He mesmerized the crowd with his stories, and he had plenty to tell. 

He met new friends and ran across people who knew his old friends that long since passed away.

Being an author has introduced me to experiences I never anticipated when I submitted my first manuscript years ago. It's been some ride!

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

A Place Called Trust

If I were to pick a spot on this earth to live by using its name alone, not considering any other factors, I'd probably think seriously about a place called Trust. It sounds safe, trustworthy, as if the neighbors have an element of faithfulness to each other.

There is such a place here in North Carolina, and I'm going to be there this Saturday at an Opening Day Celebration at Trust General Store & Cafe. From 11 to 4, fellow author Jasper (JR) Reese and I will be sitting on the front porch, meeting and greeting anyone who stops by.

We have written two books together that we can't wait to share and answer questions about. Both take place in the same valley as this store that's at the corner of scenic NC Highway #209 and even more scenic NC Highway #63. Our first collaboration, Back in the Time, tells the story of the community where Jasper's father practiced medicine in the wilds of the Great Smoky Mountains around the Trust, Hot Springs, and Spring Creek Communities.

Cover picture shows Jasper at fourteen (in the thirties)

driving on the main road in his homemade wagon

Jasper had plenty more stories he collected in his ninety plus years of living, so we wrote a follow-up book, The Way It Was in the Backwoods. Again, the location is in the Trust/Hot Springs/Spring Creek communities, and my bet is we could write a few more books. Yes, there are that many stories to tell. 

Cover picture shows Max Patch in the background,

with inserts of

Jasper and his wife, and Jasper with his great-grandchild

Our goal was to tell "it" like "it" was in the nearly three centuries his ancestors lived off the land there in Madison County. Ancestors can no longer speak for themselves, so we must put them into print before the details of living in the backwoods are lost.

These stories came to him through years of listening to the old folks tell them over and over as they sat on the porch in the heat and humidity of mountain summer evenings, as they worked in the hayfields, as they shucked corn or snapped beans, and as they sat around the wood stoves of general stores of yore. 

Saturday is the next best thing. There at Trust General Store and Cafe, Jasper will swap tales with anyone who sits a spell. 

Come. Join us.

Catch of the day,

 

Gretchen

Found Cat

 Call me soft hearted. Call me bleeding heart, even. Just don't call me a sucker, although I admit that does describe me. I am not apologetic either. Sometimes you do what you have to do, or what fate forces you to do.

When my children first went away to college we didn't have an empty nest. It was filled with their left-over pets. I loved them (and fed them) as much as the kids did, but I put my foot down, and so did my husband. When these are gone, NO MORE PETS. 

The dogs and cats eventually passed away, one by one of natural causes, which broke my heart. The last one was a cat named Sam who endured the teenage years of my children. When I told them Sam had crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I reminded them of our resolution. 

Within mere months a cat found us, kitten actually. We have no idea where it came from, but one day it appeared and forced its way into our hearts. The grands named it Patches since it was a patchwork of gray and white splotches. We forked out the money to have her fixed. No kittens. At least we could control that. 

All went well for a little over six years. We have a routine. She comes inside in the mornings, eats, crawls into a favorite sunlit spot and sleeps until something better comes along. She eats supper and heads outside for the night, assuming the weather cooperates with her. Clockwork. We could set our clocks by her morning meows at the back door.

Then this past week, cat number two appeared. This one was different from the very start. Fully grown. Overly friendly. Would not leave us alone when we stepped outside. However, much to its chagrin, it was shunned by our precious Patches. More than that, Patches hissed and growled at it. 

This was definitely someone's well loved, fully grown fur baby. Its long hair was matted from who knows how long in the wilderness, so matted we couldn't tell if it was male or female. 

And hungry. 

Oh, my, this cat was starving. 

Despite the warnings from my husband, from neighbors, and even from the dog pound (did you know if you feed a stray for three days, you then become responsible for it!) I broke down and fed it. Just enough to tide it over until its owner appeared. Ha!

I advertised on a Lost Pets of Caldwell County facebook page. My post was shared by many others and the network had to have gone out to thousands. No takers. I looked for a no-kill shelter and called. They've not contacted me personally but according to their website as a volunteer organization they must be overwhelmed with cries for help. They go to the county animal shelter and save what they can. First the pet had to be there.

So I called the animal shelter and talked with the lady there. She advised me to take it to a vet to see if it had a micro-chip. They would take the cat, but if it was not claimed after seventy-two hours, then steps would be taken to deal with it. That could mean the no-kill group accepting it. Or not. 

I called our vet and immediately appeared at their door. No chip, but it was, they informed me, a fully intact male. 

So now the question is, can I really take this innocent animal to an uncertain future at the pound and come home to snuggle with my much relieved Patches? Which cat counts most, the one who arrived six years ago, or the newest to arrive, who as fate would have it, is homeless? 

Jesus told a parable of workers in the field. One arrived early in the morning, others began working hours later, one barely by the end of the workday. When the owner of the field paid them, each received the exact same amount of pay. The first arrival complained. Naturally he did. 

This parable always bothered me. How could a fair employer do this to those who got there first! But in his wisdom, Jesus was showing us a loving God accepting us into heaven. Those who accepted the love of God at the last moment of life were no less welcome by God than those who grew from birth in the faith. 

Accept this cat? Yes. I can.

Unless I find the true owner.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

UPDATE:

There are angels among us in the form of cat rescuers who picked it up yesterday evening. This precious cat is on its way to a no-kill adoption shelter. I'd bet it will be re-homed in a matter of days. Things have a way of working themselves out.

Mother's Day 2021

Recently I participated in a six week writing session with North Carolina Poet Laureate Jaki Shelton Greene. From the beginning session she told us it was not a "how-to-write" class. Neither was it a class about her poetry, although we were fortunate that she did share with us. 

Instead this was what she called a "creativity salon," and wow did she pull out the creativity from us. I was fortunate to be among the most talented siSTARs a zoom class could dare to hold. We shared class writing assignments with one another. We had homework and again shared our inmost thoughts after a week of digging deep into our pasts. After all, this was a class based on memoir writing, actually more pulling those memories from the deepest compartments of our brains. We wrote of personal stories we had never revisited. Private thoughts. We became instant kindred souls.

One week's assignment was to write about our mothers. On this Mother's Day of 2021 I want to share a bit of my mother with you through part of what I wrote. She would be one hundred ten years old this year had she lived past 2003. 

She was here for September 11, 2001 and watched the ensuing tragedy. She was also here for the flu epidemic of 1918, so she would have experience to share through the recent Covid pandemic. She was a teen of the Great Depression and an adult of the Greatest Generation. She outlived her husband and her son. She had a wisdom I didn't fully appreciate. Until now, if even.

My mother passed from this earth at the age of ninety-two in the way she wanted to go. In her own bed. On her own terms with her mind fully aware. When the couple that bought her house asked about her dying there and seemed hesitant to purchase because of that, I assured them that whatever aura she might have left behind was pure satisfaction, for she had a happy life despite the struggles. 

I would love to have her back again to answer questions that I'm sure she answered time after time, but I wasn't listening. 

I apologize, Mother. I should have listened. 

That's the key to my disappointment now. I wasn't listening. Tell me again, Mother, about my grandparents. I never met any of them, so you were the lifeline from them to me. What about your childhood and college. I want so much to imagine you and Daddy as a young married couple during World War II. What about the years raising my brother and me? 

I doubt you ever told me, but I want to know if the dreams you had once upon a time ever came to fruition. Did you forfeit any dreams? Were they replaced with a life far better than you dreamed?

Another activity in our Creativity Salon was to write an "I am from..." poem. What I wrote was partially about my mother, or somehow influenced by her:

I am from coal fields and steel mills and smut clinging to the front room curtains.

I am from empty coal mines drained of their worth, silent steel mills and boarded storefronts.

I am from parents moving south, seeking a life beyond unemployment lines.

I am from a mother snatched from her comfort zone and placed in an alien culture.

I am from a family learning new rules of conduct that were on the brink of cracking as the fifties melted into the sixties.

I am from learning to use the appropriate water fountains, swimming pools, theatre seats.

I am from a strictly defined society kept apart from any hope of interactions.

I am from a mother who clicked off the television set when images of fire hoses spraying demonstrators bothered her too much to watch.

I am from parents who fretted daily, every moment, I'm sure, while my brother served his country in Viet Nam.

There was more in my I am from... poem, but here I want to keep the spotlight on my mother, because on this Mother's Day, I want to make sure the world meets her and doesn't forget her. This creativity salon allowed me to see the world from her point of view, and today I'm sharing that. 

I'm proud to be from her!

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Hoop Hike Revisited

 

Every so often one of my books comes out of the shadows and says, "Hey, remember me?" I've found this to be one of the most fun rewards of being an author because it pops out of the blue, from nowhere except the heart of a reader. One case in point, Hoop Hike, my picture book I wrote with illustrator Bobbie Gumbert.

This book mulled around in my mind for several years before I actually started the writing process. It came from my taking field trips with fourth graders to the local state park. One of the activities we did was to go on a hoop hike, a simple concept, but one that a teacher could milk for all it was worth. We carried one hoop per three students and when I said stop, they threw the hoop beside the trail we were walking and recorded what they found inside their hoops, charted and graphed the data. 

But I couldn't figure out how to capture this activity into a story, until I was doing an author visit with a group of first graders and we went on a bear hunt, one of my favorite ice breakers. The rhythm struck me. The repetition, too, where children repeated each phrase after me.

Me: "Let's go on a bear hunt."

Them: "Let's go on a bear hunt."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Let's go."

"Let's go..."

...and the children followed my lead and slapped their legs as we "walked" on the bear hunt.

About midway through the hunt, I began thinking about "Let's go on a hoop hike..." and the rest is history. I established a rhythm, and as I wrote I imagined readers echoing my words. "Let's go on a hoop hike."

Except that history has turned on me and come back with a text from my thirteen year old granddaughter, Reagan: 

<Can I use your Hoop Hike book for my book character dress up day at school?>

<Of course!>

Even though Reagan is now in seventh grade and this book is the most elementary of my published books, she had a special right to use it for "dressing as a character day" because the main character in the book is Reagan Roo.

Her.

She's come a long way since then, but I couldn't be happier. I hope the teacher was impressed, too. It's not too often that a student on "Book Character Dress-up Day" can come as herself. 

What fun!

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

On being a storycatcher

When I first proclaimed the title "Storycatcher" for myself, I was not really aware of its implications. It just seemed like a fitting label when I innocently attached it to me and my works. I've written books from the stories I've caught, yet there are many personal stories shared with me from other people who never intend to see them in print. These people just want to unload the heaviness or find a common ground with my humanity.

Storycatching comes with baggage, for sure. When I capture a story someone shares, I tear off a bit of their soul and pin it into mine. Amazing fact, there's room aplenty in the many corners of my own soul for them to unburden on me. Saying the words aloud for the first time ever often brings them relief. Sad fact, often those stories tear at my soul so much, I toss and turn and think on them at three o'clock in the morning. Knowing what secrets lie behind a person's masked smile is an onus that I have learned to accept.

Last week, for one example, I was walking laps at the gym. I've been there long enough that I have become acquainted with stories of others walking beside me, talking as we go, so when one particular man waited at the curve and asked if he could talk with me, it was nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't hesitate and blurted out right away, "Today's the day my brother was killed, seventy-seven years ago." 

The anguish in his voice, even though muted by the required mask, brought tears to my eyes. "He was returning from a bombing mission over Germany. The plane was almost back over England, but then was shot down by enemy fire." 

We kept walking and my heart began breaking for the soldier killed, and as he continued, for his family. "We didn't know he was dead for eight days when the telegram arrived. Eight days of praying the daily prayers that he would be safe in the war, and he was already dead."

He went on, "There were survivors. One came to visit my mother after the war ended and told her about his last hours."

I asked questions. He had answers, rehearsed and rehashed over the seventy plus years. His brother was only twenty-one years old. That's what kept me up at night. His life was ahead of him, but it ended in a fight for my freedoms. A man I would never know. A promising life cut short.

Storycatching is not all fluff and "Mama in the backyard chasing chickens." It is down to the core capturing. It is never-forget-the-past retelling. It is a necessary part of being human.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Ghost Gardens

I heard a new term recently. I knew the concept, but never realized it had a name attached to it. 

Imagine a bunch of daffodils as if in a flower garden in the side yard. House gone. No life around. No explanation for a garden in the middle of nowhere.

Hence, ghost garden - 

I've witnessed several ghost gardens in my hiking the backwoods of the Carolinas. These clumps of flowers appear faithfully every year for no reason at all except that they can. I've thought often of the flowers. Who planted them. Why there is no house.

As a storycatcher I yearn to know the story behind the story, but in nearly every case where I've seen a ghost garden, the land is as bare as the explanation. As a writer I am compelled to create the reason. I can't help myself. 

And then I start. What if?

My mind will weave a story, build a cabin, add characters to come alive and plant bulbs.

That's what writers do, so please excuse me while I mull a while.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Ernestine and Me

 

Introducing my new friend. Ernestine Paschall Shade.

We've worked together for over two years to write her life story, and what a story it is! It's out in the public now and I can't wait for you to read it. 

As we worked through the personal interview process, Ernestine repeatedly gave credit to God and her mother's prayers for how her life turned out. When time came to select a title for the book, I knew that phrase somehow had to be included. Although I came on the scene years after her mother Inez passed, I feel like I know her from our many discussions.  

Ernestine and I are involved now in a zoom workshop with NC Poet Laureate Jacki Shelton Green and a group of talented writers from our area. We were to select an artifact from our home that would introduce us to the others in the zoom meeting. I was caught off-guard at first, but after a week of walking around my house, I found the one item that defines my past and the reason I live in North Carolina, a model coal miner my mother kept on the top of a bookshelf as her reminder of a life once lived. It represents the job loss my father endured when I was a young child and our migration from the mountains of western Pennsylvania to the Piedmont of North Carolina.

Through this amazing series of zoom-sharing activities, both Ernestine and I have dug deeper into our pasts. One such activity has been to develop an imaginary "Human Museum" of artifacts that tell our individual stories. Coal miner goes first into mine, along with the tiny lantern that hooked to my grandfather's safety hat when he entered the mine each workday. 

I talked with Ernestine as to what artifacts from her early years (she's over ninety) she would include. The oldest item she could think of was the piano her father gave her as a child. She talks lovingly of it in the book, still has it, and cherishes it greatly. There's also the autograph book from her senior year at Bennett College where her mother led off the signature pages with words of wisdom.

Most precious of all is the Christmas card she received from her seventh grade boyfriend that she saved through all the years of moving from east coast to west and back again. Their love story is one for the "Human Museum" for sure, full of miscues and star-crossed love. How it unfolded was the best part of the book to write.

With God and My Mother's Prayers is available at Tybrisa Books in Lenoir or from Ernestine herself. Start with the preface and imagine you are walking through a museum that tells a compelling story of love, faith and devotion to family. It's a must read.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

He is risen!

 Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed!

A penny post card from the thirties.

The message still rings today.

Have a blessed Easter.

Gretchen

International Women's Day

In my writing career I have captured stories and shared the lives of many people in western North Carolina. In every case I have been awed at the accomplishments of each and every person.

Today I want to feature three of them, my three women...and oh, what women they are.

Jean Lorraine Frese

Jane Carswell

Ernestine Paschall Shade

What a privilege to be entrusted to write the stories of their lives. They touched me in ways I never anticipated when I first cracked open a blank notebook and began the process. Each of them chose different paths in life, a major in the Salvation Army, a physician, an educator, but beyond their photographs on the book covers, they are strikingly similar.

They had passion in their chosen fields, a passion that only the outstanding amongst us has.

They had determination that no matter the challenges, they could accomplish the task.

They had a strength that served them well and brought them through their dark, uncertain days.

Most of all, they had faith in God. Each faith story impressed me and drew me beyond my own beliefs into a glimpse of what belief in a Higher Power really meant.

I worked with Jean and Ernestine in person, recording their stories, always pressing, questioning, each session squeezing more and more information out of the recesses of their minds. They were delightful and I miss our interactions.

Jane, however, had passed away before I was approached about the book. I worked with her husband and her friends and colleagues to capture the real person beyond the many photographs. Hearing of her life second hand was different from the other two, but in the end, I knew her as well as I did the others.

These wonders of the world truly need to be honored not just on a designated day out of three hundred sixty-five, but every day. Their stories might just give hope to other women that they, too, can make a difference in their own corners of the world. 

Catch of the day,

Gretchen