Lost in the Plains: A Dilemma of Blessing$

Lost in the Plains: A Dilemma of Blessing$: Remember me? I know it's been a very long time, but I'm still here. The past twelve months have been mostly filled with more of the ...

A Dilemma of Blessing$

Remember me? I know it's been a very long time, but I'm still here. The past twelve months have been mostly filled with more of the same for us. Medical appointments, procedures, bills, and the ongoing financial insecurity. I hate to admit, but by the first of December, '18, I was feeling pretty worn out with the whole scene. John had been through four procedures to attempt to ease his back pain and allow him to stand for more than two or three minutes at a time. Those four had necessitated at least three times that many trips to Kansas City, a six hour or more drive round trip. I did almost all of that driving, until my own medical issues almost sidelined me. Thank heaven for friends who helped out, for determined, compassionate physical therapists, and finally for the relief provided by steroid injections. All those trips, all that effort to keep going from both of us, and  by the end of the year, we were facing the distinct possibility that none of it had improved John's condition.

By the first of December, our bank account was tipping toward the negative, we were fiercely nurturing our holiday spirits, and faith was only thing keeping us going. I was once again wondering if things would ever change, or if we could somehow find some other means of meeting the challenges.

And then the Blessing$ began to flow in. I've said many times that without the generosity of family, friends, and even strangers, the past four years would have brought us to a very different place. But what amazes me is that after so much time, the generosity has not diminished. It seems our situation, not unlike so many others, has somehow inspired ever greater willingness to help. I can't explain it, but every gift feels guided by goodness, marked with love. We accept them with prayerful thanks, knowing just how blessed we are, and try to faithfully use them wisely.

December's gifts quickly brought us relief from the immediate strain. I could pay the bills on time, the pantry shelves were replenished, and a whole deer took up residence in our freezer! We even bought new shoes, replacing the ones John and I had worn most days for the past four years. Most amazing of all those gifts was the new mattress John's brother gave us! Two people with bad backs on a marshmallow/trampoline, we had despaired of ever having a comfortable night's sleep again. I wake up every morning thankful for that particular gift!

We have a rule here. Beyond the essential monthly bills--if it cannot be eaten, isn't necessary for our basic health, or won't go in the gas tank of the car, we don't NEED it. The one exception, what we call our one vice, is seed for our bird feeders. John is convinced our feathered friends will not survive without our help, and he takes such pleasure in watching out for them, I'm willing to keep those feeders filled.

At the end of the year, we were breathing much easier. With strict stewardship, stretching every penny, we might be able to stay ahead of the due dates for a good while. But then something completely unforeseen happened. The gift$ kept coming. For the first time in years, there was--for us--a substantial balance in the bank plus a tidy sum of cash tucked away. For the first time in years, we started to look around for things we've needed, but never thought we would be able to afford
.
I hear a lot from my friends about self-care. Being a caregiver is endless work and leaves little time for attention to the caregiver's needs. I know it's true, that if I don't take care of myself, I won't be here to take care of John. But the days go by, and I do what I do no matter how I feel, until I realize I'm near the end of my endurance. When my Primary Care Provider told me in January--sternly but with a hug--that  I was close to collapse, it hit me hard that she was right. It was time to do something for myself, regularly, or the needs would outlast me. But what?

On the way home from choir last week, we were talking about things worthy of our gift$. At John's insistence, I had already gotten new lenses for my glasses. (I think he'd been quietly terrified during those KC trips, knowing I couldn't read the road signs.) We know he'll need a new wheelchair soon, but it looks like Medicare will take care of most of that. Of course, we could just squirrel away the money for unexpected expenses ahead, but was that what the givers intended? We walked into the house still debating, and I was struck by the pathetic condition of John's recliner. He'd mentioned often, with a laugh, that someday he'd like one that didn't lean sideways.

"You need a new chair! That's what we should buy!" And then a wild idea blew in. I needed a chair, too. One I could sit in for more than a few minutes without my back complaining. One I could get out of without groaning. One comfortable enough to read in, or even watch TV with John sometime. Two chairs? That's crazy, right?

Cut to the end. After some online research, and visits to our two local furniture stores, I found two chairs, matching, no less! With a little negotiation, they even came within my allocated budget. I was glad to be able to buy local, too. Within a day, the chairs were delivered, the old one taken to the alley for trash pickup, and I was battling my conscience.

Judge me if you will, but I've decided I did the right thing. There's still a very comfortable balance in the bank, and I did something everyone was telling me to do. Something for myself. I may not have a lot of time to sit in that chair, but when I do, it feels good, almost like something I deserve. I refuse to regret it, no matter what my conscience says. But the greatest benefit of all is that I spend more time with John, just sitting side by side. That's the best therapy of all, I'm pretty sure. I think it's even worthy of the shower of blessings sent our way.

Because Sometimes Only a "Book-book" Will Do

 I love ebooks almost as much as I do chocolate! But I'd never buy one for a gift. For one thing, how would I wrap it, or even slip it in one of those cute little gift bags? And how would my friend put it in a special spot, where she would remember me whenever she sees it? Where would I write that  message that has meaning for both of us; the words he'd look back on and smile whenever he opened the cover?Only a "real" book--not an ebook that vanishes into the ether--a "book" book, with a colorful cover and plenty of paper pages, will do the job.
For that reason, I've slashed the price of all my paperbacks to make it easy to purchase a thoughtful gift for under $10. Mother's Day? Graduation? Birthday? Or just a gift to say "You're special."
I would have lowered the price even more, but the on demand printer won't print them for any less. My royalties will amount to a few pennies, but that's okay. The thought of someone receiving one of my books as a gift from one of you who's read it and consider it worthy of your special someone is reward in itself!
Click on over to Amazon (hover in the blank space below the photo for the link) and check out the titles available. And thank you for warming my writer's heart by sharing my words with your family and friends.

https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Spiders on the Ceiling--Bees in the Wall

The house we live in was built in 1882. I'm convinced the spiders who share our home are direct descendants of the original occupants of their species. Their population and variety is such that it would do the human occupants more harm than the spiders, if we attempted to chemically discourage them. I've gotten used to them, or at least I don't scream as loudly when one drops on my head. But I do keep a watchful eye ceilingward, in case one of the little jokers is slow enough for me to get him before he gets me. For the most part, we've coexisted in peace now for almost 20 years. In fact, they keep me on track with the housekeeping. Though I don't suppose gleefully sucking them and their webs into my vacuum cleaner is much of a way to show my gratitude. 

Unexpectedly, last year during a particularly hot Indian Summer day, we discovered another family of tenants sharing our old house. A cyclone cloud of bees suddenly appeared over our patio and then bearded on the eaves of one corner of the original portion of the house. Within an hour they had all but disappeared, leaving a few busy lookouts zooming about outside. Apparently, our old house is also a hive, and has been for some time.

I called around for several days, seeking a reason for this bizarre event, until I was directed to a member of the local Bee Keepers Club. As all bee lovers, including myself, he was very concerned about this hive's unusual behavior. They don't normally swarm until spring. The fact that they returned to the hive seemed to mean the heat got to them, and they just came out for a breath of cooler air. I was assured someone would come and lure them out in the spring, when they are more inclined to relocate, and until then, there was no harm in letting them be. (Sorry, no pun intended!) The bee keeper speculated that we have enough honey in our soffits to keep our toast covered for quite some time.

I occasionally hear a sort of seismic humming in the wall next to my desk. On sunny days, a bee will find its way into the house through the window sash and allow me to show him the door. I have visions of a busy hive just on the other side of the plaster. While I'm severely allergic to bee stings, I'm not at all disturbed by our tenants. Unlike spiders, I encourage bees in my garden and enjoy watching them feed on my zinnias. Also unlike the spiders, they don't attempt to scare the #@$! out of me by zooming from the ceiling just as I'm crossing a dark room. The bees are our friends. I have yet to find anything as nice to say about the spiders.

Lately, I've come to think of the spiders as a metaphor for our life. If you've been here before, you know that we've had our share of life-changing events in the past three years. At present, we're grappling with some, new and gnarly health issues. It seems no sooner one is resolved than another pops up. And, as is too often true in such cases, our financial security has been diminished to the state of a teeter-totter by the loss of income and addition of expense. Like spiders on the ceiling, it feels as though there's always some potential threat lurking overhead. I'm here in the dark, waiting for the fall, armed with hope and little more. But what have we if not hope? Unlikely as it seems some days, most of the things I fear either never happen or are resolved in a way I never saw coming. The truth is, I've never been bitten by a spider.

So, if the spiders represent my anxiety, what about the bees? Those brave, honest little workers laboring to produce something sweet and nourishing? Like the friends and strangers who've offered us help, when otherwise we might have lost this old house and many of the things we enjoy, they came seemingly out of nowhere and made their home here with us. There's comfort in that idea, or at least I'll chose to see it as such.

Whenever nature offers me a bit of itself, like the birds who chose to feast at my feeder, or the volunteer seeds that spring up in my garden, it makes me feel special somehow. Honored, even loved. While I doubt I'll ever really feel the love from those spiders on the ceiling, I can honestly say the bees in the wall, like the friends who hold out their hands and open their hearts, make the scary moments of this time in life immeasurably easier to face.

Snowy Day Memory

 I freely admit that, at least from inside a warm house, I love snowy days. Today, here in Kansas, where the wind is teasing and tossing about the snow that fell last night, I'm easily reminded of this scene from Hearts Unfold. It's not coincidence I chose the wild wonder of a snowstorm in which to introduce the hero of this "very special love story." Snow is mysterious, romantic, even dangerous--like the meeting of two strangers. A meeting that will forever change the direction of their lives.

Through the frost-rimmed window, she saw that the snowfall had slowed, though the wind still whipped the tree limbs and spun little white cyclones across the yard.  Beyond the barn, just where the land dropped away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught her eye.  A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed and lost in the storm?  Stepping to the door for a closer look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow.  The shadow moved steadily upward over the rise, until she saw what could only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the general direction of the house.  Head down, swaying slightly, as if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at least she thought it must be a man—was dressed all in black, the windward side of his long overcoat etched with white, and his bared head capped with snow.  There seemed to be something odd about his stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as if bracing the other to his side.  In what must have been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very tall; his possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have come from.  He had to be coming from the road below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a blistering storm?

As she watched, scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised his head and gazed for a moment toward the house.  Then in a slow, graceful spiral, he sank to the ground, disappearing into the snow.  If she had not been watching his progress across the yard, she realized she would never have seen him from the house, once he’d fallen.  Blinking, she wondered for an instant if she might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in the featureless white of the landscape.  But the pounding of her pulse told her otherwise.

https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

While You're Busy Doing Other Things--The Final Diagnosis

It's February 19, 2019 and I'm posting this again with an update. It's worth repeating, if it reaches someone in the same situation I found myself two and a half years ago. It's also worth noting that the friend to whom this letter was written lost his mother to bladder cancer, which I didn't know at the time. His sharing of her experience was a poignant reminder of just how blessed I am. 
My update is this--my most recent diagnosis, as of last week, in fact, is "cancer free." There will still be check ups and tests, but at this point, I'm checking "bladder cancer" off my list of things I never expected to experience.  
I hope you'll read my original post. It may say something to you that you need to hear. 

Recently I was called to task by a dear friend after I mentioned in my Christmas letter that "my cancer was in remission." He asked if I'd mind telling him what kind of cancer and how it was being treated. Shamefaced that I had dropped the C-word so casually and left him hanging, I dashed off this letter. (And before you ask, my friend does not partake of social media and we really do maintain our relationship via good old fashioned letters sent through the US mail.) After thinking about it for a few days, I decided that by posting it here, it might speak to someone who needs to hear its message. 

Dear E----,

Sorry to have overlooked sharing the cancer episode, but just credit my abysmally sporadic letter writing. With all that was happening at the time, I kept putting it on the back burner, but thanks to a benevolent God and a couple of fine doctors, it didn’t take me out.

The story goes something like this. For at least three years before John’s fall, if not longer, I would occasionally see pink in the toilet. Since I’d had numerous bouts of hemorrhagic cystitis in the past, I just went to my doctor and got antibiotics, drank plenty of cranberry juice, and never gave it another thought. Google “blood in urine” and you get urinary tract infection, so even the web vindicated my complacency. Not to discredit a very nice man and a pretty decent GP, but the doc I was seeing at the time wasn’t inclined to push for tests or raise concerns unless the patient insisted, which I didn’t.

As you know, in June of ’15, John took his fall and life turned upside down. My health, which really seemed okay, probably due to constant adrenaline rushes, was my last concern. But the pink was more frequent, enough so that even in his condition, John made note of it. By the following June, several things came together to change the situation. John was finally able to spend an hour or two on his own without me, my doctor retired and a very energetic nurse practitioner became our primary provider, and I was passing sizable blood clots regularly. Suffice it to say, this young woman was more proactive than my former doc. She sent me post haste to a urologist, who had a scan done that day and scheduled a cystoscopy for the following week. Verdict—a largish polyp, possibly a tumor, which was removed two weeks later and proved to be malignant. It was very close to the point where the ureter from the right kidney opens to the bladder, so a temporary stint was put in to keep things flowing. I was not far from a toilet for the next six weeks, but otherwise there was nothing in my recovery that I could complain about. 

I wasn’t at all surprised that it was cancer. I just felt grateful it hadn’t gone through the bladder wall or worse, because I was the one who ignored every message my body tried to send me. By the time I saw the new PCP, I was seriously anemic and, to be honest, could barely make it through each day, but I was still clinging to denial.

The urologist I was referred to is the kind of physician I immediately feel confident with, but when he suggested the most frequent follow-up treatment for bladder cancer, called BCG, I balked. This in very basic terms involves infusing the germ that causes tuberculosis into the bladder, which produces immunity against the cancer. Still worried I might have PFS—Physician’s Family Syndrome, whereby any member of a physician’s family will suffer any and all possible ill or side effects from any treatment of routine illness—which I had experienced when married to “my second husband the doctor,” I refused at first. The major side effect from the treatment is, of course, contracting TB. But during the next cystoscopy three months later,  more tumors had developed. I didn’t argue when the urologist said it was worth the risk. Having the lining of your bladder sliced and burned away in stages is no picnic! And more to the point, It was time I accepted that my life was worth risking even nasty, but treatable, side effects.

The treatments—six in all—went without incident and to date—last cysto in November—there’s no further sign of cancer.

So that’s the story. Bladder cancer and its treatment are not nearly as visible or dramatic as so many other types of cancer. If I hadn’t told anyone, no one would have been the wiser. But I did talk about it, and even post about it on FB, because my case was like so many others. We (women) put off addressing what doesn’t put us flat on our butts, especially when there are others with greater needs, until we put our lives in jeopardy. Ignoring symptoms is stupid! That’s what they’re for, to warn us that something’s not right. We both know of cases like mine that ended tragically. I will always have bladder cancer, but with the same kind of follow up, it shouldn’t be a problem. Many with other types of this insidious disease aren’t so fortunate. I know how blessed I am, in spite of my persistent denial, to be able to use the word "remission" with confidence.

My kind, compassionate urologist has retired as of this month, so I will have a new doc for my next cysto. I’m assured by everyone that he’s wonderful, trained at Mayo Clinic, and no doubt looks about 18. As long as he doesn’t rock my treatment boat, that’s fine. I’m just thankful that when I needed him, my original doctor was on hand to get me through this. Does it really take someone over 60 to understand the issues of caregiving and the limitations that come with age? That is a course I’d gladly teach to every med student in the country! 

For everyone reading this here on my blog, my closing is this. If you see yourself anywhere in my story, get yourself to a doctor, be honest with him/her, and get the testing and treatment you need. Life is precious. Don't let it slip away while you're busy doing other things. 

Love you! 

Karen

When Duty Called

There have been many in my family who served, back to the Revolutionary War, I'm told, all with their own stories. These are the pictures and stories I grew up with, of those closest to me.

  Serving in World War I--My grandfather Henry Rowlette, who never left Ft. Lee, VA in the year after he enlisted.

My great-uncle Levi Yeatts, my grandmother's youngest brother, who is buried in France.

Levi left behind his mother, ten brothers and sisters, and his fiance.

WWII Veterans--My uncle, Anthony Rowlette, who became a surgical nurse by the end of the war. He talked about serving on board the Queen Mary carrying troops to Europe, and bringing back the wounded, some of the same men, after D-Day.

My father, Guy White, Jr., who failed to meet the Navy's weight requirement and "hung around Washington, DC eating bananas" until he gained enough to enlist.

While I'm told my father would much have preferred a few combat tales to pass along, he never saw action while "floating around the Caribbean." Still, he was able to put his talents to work for his country. He not only chronicled the ship's travels, but photographed the entire crew and all of their adventures. (I still have many of the photos.) Of, course, his greatest service was painting this portrait of Buggs Bunny on the side of the ship!

Raise Your Glasses, Please!

Today is the twenty-sixth anniversary of the smartest choice I've ever made. Marrying John set my life on a path that, for the first time in my almost 40 years of twisting, turning, often jolting travel, felt absolutely right. I've decided that if there is no doubt about your choice of partner for a journey, there should never be doubts about where it leads you, regardless of the inevitable ups and downs. We've had plenty of those, still do, but I don't for a moment question the rightness of "us."

My first novel is dedicated "to John, who makes me possible."  I'd lived decades locked in relationships that dictated my every step, because any independent ventures were in some way threatening to my partner. With John, I was free to be, even encouraged to be, whatever I believed I might be. He has never questioned my ability to do whatever I dared attempt, whether it be taking on a starring role in a play two weeks before opening night, or tearing apart and reconstructing a 1940's kitchen. He has far more confidence in me than I have. It's that confidence that finally made "me" possible.

When I started writing, and amazingly continued writing, my first novel, I had no idea it would ever become more than a little story I wrote to affirm the shaky belief that I did indeed "have a book in me." I wasn't even willing at first to share it with John, but eventually it became perversely vital to me that he read what I'd written. He did. At the appropriate points, he laughed, he sighed, and he wept. It was then that we both knew, without knowing how, that this story could do more than exist for a time merely taking up space in my hard drive. I'm certain that without his encouragement, his patience, and his 20-plus years experience as an editor, I would never have attempted to send my little book out into the world. He's made so many wonderful things possible through our years together, and my writing life definitely ranks near the top.

The book John made possible, Hearts Unfold, is currently free wherever ebooks are sold. We can't offer you all a glass of  champagne, but won't you join us in celebrating this special day by helping  yourself to, or sending your friends a copy? We'd be honored to have you share in a "toast" to one more year of "us."

https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hearts-unfold-karen-welch/1124015694?ean=2940153094076
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id1127912900
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/hearts-unfold-miracle-at-valley-rise-book-1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/643753
https://www.instafreebie.com/book/28297

Take My Heart--and Other Broken Bits

The other day John called our pastor to give him an update on all of our various health issues. "The cat is the only member of the family who's well," he began with a slightly weary chuckle. These calls have been a regular form of communication for the past two years, thus the weariness of placing yet another one. Going on to fill in the current details, first his, then mine, and finishing with our cocker Raleigh's, he wrapped things up with gratitude for continuing prayers and all the many practical ways our little congregation has helped to keep us afloat.

I'm grateful, too, don't get me wrong. But the truth is, I'd rather not be in need of their gifts. I'm tired of being broken, not to mention broke. I'm sick of being sick, taking pills, seeing doctors, making appointments, taking tests, all at the expense of the life I'd love to be living. There was a time, a few years ago, when I regularly remarked at how healthy I was as I got older. I figured I'd put in my sick time in my twenties and thirties (that's a sad tale all its own.) Now I was able to enjoy doing most of the things I loved at the risk of nothing more than a few sore muscles. I actually anticipated being one of those tough old ladies, one like my grandmother, who at seventy could swing a grubbing hoe with zeal, can fruit and vegetables all day and then cook supper, and heft a load of wet laundry without so much as a grunt. Things are definitely not working out the way I expected.

After John's leg fractured in June of '15, my strength was put to the ultimate test. A non-ambulatory husband is more work than a newborn baby. Laundry, meals, baths, plus dressing changes, wobbly one-footed transfers, and restorative exercises, and don't forget the endless bills and paperwork, kept me steadily moving pretty much around the clock. Sure, I got tired, but who wouldn't? If I had a pain, I kept it too myself. I was prideful enough to insist I could handle things, mostly because who else, in all honesty, could or would?

I had a little secret, though, which I even tried to keep from myself. I was peeing pink. Whatever the cause, it wasn't going to be seen to until I could leave John for more than an hour, so why worry? That little secret turned out to be bladder cancer, and it was at that point, in June of '16, that I really started to fall apart. I went through a year of tests and treatments and at the moment, things look pretty good on that front. However . . .

I wonder now if I should have just kept some other things to myself. I know all too well that once you mention chest pain and profuse sweating to a doctor, they're not going to just let it ride. I'm having a cardiac cath  next week. And this nasty sinus infection that hasn't cleared up after two years of treatment? The ENT, who looks like he recently finished high school, predicts only surgery will do the trick. And sadly, I expect he's right. I'm not worried about myself, but I do fret over leaving John alone so much and not feeling up to taking care of him as I want to.

Enough about me. Recently, we noticed John having what looked a lot like TIA's and discovered he has a "smallish" cerebral aneurysm. Since his mother died with one, and his brother had one treated, we're certainly not ignoring that! Neurologists are as scarce as fresh seafood out here in the heartland, but we finally got an appointment with one in November. Meanwhile, I'm watching him like a hawk does a newly mowed field. He says he's not worried at all about himself, but he does admit to worrying about me. We're even on that front.

Of course, along with all of the above mentioned ailments come the bills--for every test, every unseen doctor who reads the results of said tests, every doctor's visit to get the order for the test and hear the test results. That's before the bills for the actual treatments, which would make my heart race even if it's perfectly healthy. Thank heaven for all the generous souls whose gifts at least keep us in groceries and more. Those gifts are more than money, they are love. They remind us that, worthy or not, we are cared for.

I so long to go back to becoming a tough old lady. My hope is that repairing all these broken bits will give us the time to do things we still want and even need to do. I even hold out hope of becoming a writer again some day. While we accept we'll never have money to spend the way we used to, money is nothing compared to days and nights spent together doing what we love. If you're one of those praying for us, just ask for that--time together to watch the garden grow, time to listen to the music, to read the books, and just be.

Small Town Inspired

In the real world, small towns are love 'em or leave 'em kinds of places. In fiction, they are often  airbrushed with rainbow colors of innocence or brutalized in darker shades of prejudice or worse. It's no secret that I grew up in a small town--well, to be honest, a small village--situated on land first granted to my ancestors by the King of England in the 1720's. I've since lived in towns with populations of 1,000 to 10,000, and the dynamic is pretty much the same, regardless of the number of souls within the city limits. Unique to small towns are treasures such as unsolicited support in hard times, shared celebration and grief, life long friendships, time honored feuds, and mutually respected secrets.

I keep in touch with a childhood friend who unequivocally declares the years he and his family spent in our little village are the foundation for his life. "Everything I needed to know I learned there." I agree that the lessons were simple and straightforward, possibly purified by memory and softened in the haze of experience by now. While his memories are idyllic, mine include the bumps and bruises of living where everyone not only knew your name, but those of the skeletons in your family closet, the transgressions of your ancestors, as well as your daily business.

My friend's family were not "from there." They came from a nearby city and eventually returned there. While they were welcomed and accepted  during the years they spent with us, they never experienced the deeply rooted ties of those who shared DNA with the generations who pioneered, timbered, plowed, and constructed everything in sight. My friend enjoyed the benefits of a close-knit community without the obligations history passed down to some of us.

I eventually left what I saw as the confines of that little village, only to find myself in similar places time after time. Of course, in those places I wasn't one of the "original settlers" but I clearly recognized the inner workings of a small town. As happens with experience and age, I came to appreciate the value of those deep roots, despite their obligations. All of those benefits my friend had enjoyed came into focus for me, too. Sadly, I can't go back to apologize to my village for my lack of proper respect. It barely exists today and bears little resemblance to the place where I grew up.

Instead, without setting out to do so, I memorialized my small town experiences when I started writing Hearts Unfold. Once I saw what I was doing, folding the best of my memories into Emily's story, I wondered if anyone would believe a single, small community could possess so many sterling qualities. But the memories were truth, from the town fathers at the coffee shop to the postmistress who passed on the latest news along with the daily mail. I hadn't fabricated the "courthouse" or the characters who populated the surrounding farmlands.They were carefully preserved in a benevolent corner of my mind.

Stani gently brushed a windblown strand of hair from her cheek.  “You really love it here, don't you?  You positively light up when you talk about it.”

Emily blushed, turning to lead him further along the street.  “I know it's all very ordinary, but yes, I love it.  When I was a little girl, I would come into town with Pop.  Everywhere we went everybody knew us and seemed to genuinely care about us.  It made me feel important when someone asked how my mother was doing, or how the garden was coming along.  Now that I'm back, everybody makes me feel included, like a part of the community.”  She swept her hand through the air, taking in the four blocks of the square and all of the shop fronts.  “These people are my family, although I'm not related to any one of them.  From Mr. Harris at the bank, to Katie Malone at the flower shop, to Mr. Brown at the market, to Martha Jean at the boutique, I know I can count on every one of them to be there if I need anything.”--Hearts Unfold 

Like Emily, I was raised by a small town. As a fatherless child, the daughter of one of the founding family's daughters, I was gathered to the collective bosom of my village. If at times I felt more smothered than cherished, I know now that was not the intention. They, like Emily's neighbors, recognized a need and were called to address it. Unlike Emily, I can't go back, and probably wouldn't chose to if I could. Still, there's no doubt growing up in the secure embrace of a small town inspired not only my writing, but much of what is best in me. Thankfully, my village lives on in the memory of those of us who grew up there, not only as inspiration for written word, but also for life well lived.