My Dear Jasper

Last fall, I talked my fellow author Jasper Reese into reading from his works at the Mitford Museum's poetry night. I knew he was also a poet because we chose several of his poems to include in the book The Way It Was in the Backwoods that we wrote together. 

I knew the audience would appreciate what he had to offer. And they did. 

He read a bawdy poem, "The Old French Broad," about what you might think at first, an old "broad" but with a double entendre, comparing it to the fairly wide French Broad River in western North Carolina. It was fun hearing a ninety-five-year-old man drawing chuckles from the much younger, poet-filled audience. They appreciated him as much as he appreciated them. 

He was so excited about the whole experience that he already knew what he would read for the next poet reading session. Except he didn't have a chance. He passed away last week. If he told me the title, I don't remember, but I'm determined to make a good guess and read it in his honor at the next Mitford Poetry night. 

Another thing he was determined to do was learn to play the fiddle. I'm talking when he was ninety plus years old! He was proficient in guitar and maybe a bit of banjo, but the fiddle was a challenge to him. He screeched through the basics until, at one of my visits, he conned me into playing a duet with him - he on the fiddle and me on the piano. I went home that day, dusted off the ivories, and started practicing until I finally felt comfortable enough to play the song he had selected, "How Beautiful Heaven Must Be." I'm listening to it (and tearing up at the oh so appropriate words) now as I type. It's the version by the Gaither Vocal Band. Click on it and listen to the words as you imagine Jasper finding out how beautiful and wonderful heaven really is. I got a taste of it when I sat at the piano in his living room last summer and fulfilled my promise to him to play this long-overdue duet. We both made all kinds of errors. He sounded a bit like Jack Benny giving the screeching version of music on his violin. Perhaps the two of them are playing music together in heaven! But that day, we certainly weren't up to heaven's standard playing this duet. In my heart, however, (and I think in his), we were making heavenly music as we sang at the top of our voices to drown out all our mistakes. What fun! What a man! I'm so glad he was in my life.

When I am ninety-five, I pray I will be as vibrant and excited about life as Jasper. That's my takeaway, and I hope yours as well. 

Be like Jasper.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

The Number Game

So the word of the year turns out to be a number: 67. What's an author to think? Surely dictionary.com could find more substantial words available to signify the best 2025 had to offer! This site purports to be the "Dictionary for the Real World," in other words, modern, with its nose to the grindstone of creative thinkers who coin words or repurpose them.  

But wait. I can see the logic, even if I'm of a different generation than the one where this number craze originated. It's a meaningless phrase and perfect for now. I'll let the kids delight in it and enjoy the limelight.

What set me off thinking about numbers was a bit of research I did recently, where I came upon a South Carolina town named Ninety Six. Using a number for a place shouldn't have surprised me because in my most recent release, I wrote about a town in Pennsylvania named Eighty Four. It's not all that far from Donora, the setting of my memoir of sorts, The Great Donora Fog and Other Family Stories.

I mention in the book that my husband and I drove through Eighty Four looking for a highway numbered 84 following my uncle's directions. Actually he told us to turn left when we got to Eighty Four, and we assumed he said left on 84. We learned the importance of prepositions the hard way when we ended up nearer to Pittsburgh than we planned! 

A quick Wikipedia search gave me hints for the origin of the name. It was a mere crossroads, founded in 1884. The best explanation, and I quote, "it was named by a postmaster who 'didn't have a whole lot of imagination.'" 

All this came back to me when I dug into a rabbit hole this week looking for information about a Revolutionary War incident that happened at the same location of my newest WIP (Work in Progress). An author friend of mine, Lane Dyer, devoted two chapters of his book, The Tory Oak, to this incident. 

There's an ambush. There's kidnapping and intrigue. There's a quick trial and a hanging, several hangings, on the tree outside the courthouse. It's all true, and it gives a glimpse into the unfortunate tensions and violence of war. I read the two chapters that held what I was looking for, then started back at the beginning just because I wanted to. In my manuscript, I wrote only what I needed to give the reader an idea of why this location was important to the family history I was recording. It amounted to a paragraph, but what a paragraph that is! I will probably leave out the town called Ninety Six since it wasn't significant to my WIP. A family loyal to the crown had plans to flee to Ninety Six from their camp at the Wolf Den in the North Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains. Colonel Cleveland made sure this didn't happen.

The fun of being an author is connecting to the small discoveries along the way. Angels can be in the details as much as devils can.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen

Inhumanity

Some books are hard to read, not because of the difficulty of sentence structure or word choice, but because of the theme or because of actions depicted. Such is the case of a few books I want to share, two I read recently. One I helped get published years ago. All three of these, in their own ways, incorporated man's inhumanity to man into the theme.

Its title alone should have prepared me - I was a War Child, a memoir by an author I met at lunch one day last May. This elegant lady, Helene Gaillet de Neergaard, at ninety years, was delightful and self-assured, almost dripping aristocracy. I had a hard time picturing the few events she told me about her childhood years. The subtitle, World War II Memoir of a Little French Girl, held more of a clue to the book than the delightful person sitting beside me. I added her book to my TBR stack, but kept selecting other books ahead of it because I just never seemed to be in the mood to read about man's inhumanity to child. Between Christmas and New Year's this year, I had some downtime and looked through the stack. There it was, and maybe I was ready, I decided. I gulped, opened to page one, and dove in. I was immediately sucked into a life I could never imagine, nor hope to imagine for any child now in 2026. 

What happens to children when they hear bombs all night or have to leave their homes because of war? She tells. Give it a read!

Her nonfiction about France during the war years dredged up memories of my reading Kristin Hannah's historical fiction, The Nighengale. This was one of those books I wanted to slam shut the cover and scream, but couldn't bear to stop reading long enough to do it. Two views of war-torn France, often too graphic, yet too necessary not to be. As was the other book by Kristin Hannah, The Women. It too sat on my TBR stack for the same reason as the others - my reluctance to surround myself with stories of war and death and the inhumanity of it all. I read this one in December of this year, when all around me were lights and cheer and gaiety. Instead, I wreathed (what an appropriate word for this time of year) myself in the life of nurses in Viet Nam. It wasn't pleasant. It was hard to take. But if we ignore the inhumanity and skip books such as these, then the act remains hidden and easier to repeat.

The settings of those books were continents away, not here in the United States, where freedom rings. We brag about freedoms. We teach our children that the First Amendment to the Constitution protects free speech and freedom of religion. And yet...

Tell that to the characters featured in Debbra Beecher Nance's book The Picking Bag. Ten years ago (has it really been ten years?), an author friend and I agreed to help Debbra self-publish this middle grade novel. She sent the manuscript and I read it. The theme of inhumanity struck me deeply. Here in America, Mormons were persecuted because of their faith. The novel follows a young boy as his family is forced to move away from the only home he'd ever known. It was not merely a pack-up-and-move story. It was one of death and destruction...and inhumanity.

In my books I have only touched on man's humanity to man once, and it's in my latest release, only a paragraph or two. I wrote a memoir, well, a memoir of sorts, I call it. It delves into my family history and I couldn't leave out the story of my sixth great-grandparents.

While The Great Donora Fog and Other Family Stories concerns a town in Pennsylvania, I included stories about my family that I had heard told over and over. These sixth great-grandparents were killed when their house was burned as punishment for believing as they did, for being Huguenots. Only my fifth great-grandfather escaped, as I write it, "with the family Bible and my genes." That was on another continent, but there was my third great-grandfather who, on US military duty in 1812, was burned at the stake by native Americans who were defending their right to exist. The past should haunt us!

In all these books, without exception, the take-away for me, was survival. Despite what was done to them, people came out the other end stronger, wiser, and with a surprising amount of compassion for others, considering what they had endured.

Books like these are a must-read for us to develop this compassion as well. Civilization depends on revealing the past so we can do better when it's our turn.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen