dreams

No After Cruise Blues

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I did it!

My first cruise and my first time outside of the USA. No fear. Just fun!

Recently, my daughter and I set sail for the Eastern Caribbean. What a fantastic experience!

Carnival Celebration

Laura impressed me with her travel knowledge and skills. If it were up to me, I’d still be standing in the wrong line at the airport trying to figure out how to get my luggage tags. She guided us quickly through a maze of travelers via the short TSA line and to our gate.

We arrived in Miami a day early to reduce the worry of a flight delay or cancellation. She’d arranged transportation from the hotel to the port the next morning , and before long, we were herded along with 5,000 other cruisers onto the ship. She’d selected a wonderful ocean view stateroom with a balcony.

The launch party certainly set the mood. Music, dancing, Caribbean Coladas-and a fun-loving cruise director.

I trailed my daughter like a little puppy the first two days afraid I’d get lost and never see her again. When I wasn’t trying to remember which of the nineteen decks held our room, the lido, and of course, the casino, I was challenged with figuring out forward, aft, port, and starboard.

All the walking helped offset the some of the weight gain from visiting the dozens of the food venues. Of course we had to test them all – well, most of them. We did splurge on the Fahrenheit 555 Steak House and Bonsai Teppanyaki, a Japanese steak house. So worth it!

Our first port stop was at Amber Cove in the Dominican Republic where we experienced monkeys up close and personal at Monkeyland Punta Cana. It was a little unnerving as they climbed all over me, but I didn’t freak out and they were cute.

The following morning we arrived in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Even though it was hot and humid, Laura and I hiked two and a half miles uphill to one of the historical forts. https://www.nps.gov/saju/index.htm

Later that evening, we set sail for St. Maarten island and when we woke the next morning, we were already in port on the Dutch side ruled by the Kingdom of the Netherlands. The other side is the French Republic. We spent the day browsing through shops, wading in the pristine waters, and lounging under an umbrella sipping cold beer.

The Celebration ship is the largest in Carnival’s fleet. At capacity, it can accommodate 6,5003 passengers plus 1,735 crew members. The enormous size impressed me as we passed numerous smaller cruise ships along the way. However, when we docked in port at St. Maarten next to the largest cruise ship in the world, Wonder of the Sea, I had to laugh.

Hopefully this is the first of many new experiences I’ll enjoy in this chapter of my life. I’m keeping an open mind and kicking fear to the curb! Meanwhile, stay tune for news about The Dahlonega Sisters. Coming soon!

I’d love to hear about your adventures. Drop me a line!

A Fresh Start to the New Year!

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Happy New Year to all who read this! Wishing you peace, joy, and fulfillment of any long-held dreams.

Making annual resolutions—which seldom last longer than a few weeks—is not my thing. Life has a way of interrupting my best planned out schedule like losing weight or being more consistent in posting blogs. One thing for sure, my followers can’t complain about me flooding their inbox with too many posts.

While I try never to make promises I can’t/won’t keep, I do have a tendency to travel the backroads of my mind remembering the footsteps which caused me to stumble and the ones where I marched ahead.

With regret, I did not finish editing my romantic suspense novel, nor did I reach 50,000 words on the next Dahlonega Sisters novel during NANOWRIMO.  I count both as stumbles since they are still works-in-progress which I’m hoping to publish in 2023.

While reviewing the positives and negatives, I was inspired to write about a mountain (okay, maybe it was a hill) I successfully climbed this year.

Fear.

It has always limited my world. I’ve never been bold or brave. Conforming to rules and expectations kept me out of trouble as a kid and for the most part, as an adult. I’m not timid, but I seldom risk venturing into the unknown, especially on my own. My husband of fifty-one year is even less adventurous. As such, the width of our world has been pretty limited.

However, we’ve often been very blessed to vacation across the United States with my brother and his wife. They skillfully and confidently take care of all the arrangements: hotel reservations, car rental, and mapping out all the sights to see. We merely get in their vehicle and enjoy the experience.

This year, my dear friend who now lives in Virginia, invited me to join her at a beach house in the Outer Banks, North Carolina. We’d talked about the possibility ever since she moved away. I’d promised to visit and to spend time at the beach with her. When the opportunity presented itself, I balked. The list of reasons why I shouldn’t go grew quickly: Hubby would be all alone. The cost of airline tickets and car rental would dent our savings. Too many commitments listed on my calendar.

Truth was, none of those things were the issue. It was fear.

Traveling alone freaked me out. I hadn’t flown in more than twelve years, hadn’t rented a car in nearly twenty, and even more important, I’d never driven for hours by myself to an unfamiliar location. I don’t even like to test drive a car when we are looking to buy it.

I’m not a “what if” person, but I sure spent a restless night praying for an answer and trying not to think of things that could go wrong.

The following morning, I woke with new-found confidence. I called my daughter, who travels frequently, and asked for her help. She selected the flight, arranged for a rental, and reassured me I could do this. Suddenly, excitement overtook the fear. I mapped out the driving route, researched the requirements and limitations for flying, and started packing.

Not once did I feel anxious or second guess my decision. There were no delays flying out, the rental car was a breeze, and my Garmin took me right to the driveway of the beach house. I felt like I’d released a new me.

We laughed. We cried. We made new memories. Then, we promised to do it again next year. And, I found a confidence that had escaped me for most of my life. Hubby survived alone. I didn’t get lost or end up in Timbuktu. I could do this!

When I got back home, still feeling pumped with confidence, I filled out applications for passports for my husband and myself. He may not ever use his, but I will. There are places I want to go to and things I want to see.

Shortly after I returned from vacation, my daughter booked for us on a Caribbean cruise which we will take in April 2023. Once I’ve gotten my feet wet on a ship and abroad, I hope to convince my husband to join me on another cruise or some other trip out of the country.

Fear is in my rearview mirror. I hope it stays there!

So here is to the start of a new year. May you face your fears and rise above them.

Blessings to all of you.

Diane

The Eyes of March

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Hello My Friends and Followers.

It’s been a long and challenging few months since I’ve posted. Thank you for spending a few minutes with me today to reflect and project.

Spring is close and I feel a renewed energy in the air. I hope I can share some positivity if you are struggling to find the beauty of the season. Let’s start with some visuals.

Bright cheerful flowers, brilliantly budding trees, azure blue skies. True masterpieces lifting my soul to a brighter place. Although I know rainy days, heavy grey clouds, and frightening storms are scattered throughout the season, I have a renewed determination to endure those days with faith, hope, and love.

I’m finally scheduled for my first COVID-19 vaccine this week and my husband has received both of his. Soon I will be able to visit friends and family with less fear of being infected by the virus.

My husband of 49 years, Wart-nicknamed by his grandfather for being a worry wart- made it through three months of cancer treatments and is doing better than expected thanks to his strong stamina, attentive doctors, and some TLC from me. While the emotional toll has been hard, his physical pain has been minimal. With a positive prognosis, a little more energy, and some warmer weather, he’ll be outside cutting grass and growing his tomato plants soon.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is dscn0251.jpg

We’ve seen Hammie, our grand dog more than our daughter, Laura. Hope she’s ready for all the hugs she’s missed. I’ve got a year’s worth coming her way.

Hammie’s had to tolerate a bunch of them, but he doesn’t mind as long as he got a treat.

Spring brings a freshness that exceeds the cold, dark, winter days. Sometimes I have to remind myself that life is good. But, I know it is and I am blessed.

The new season brings thoughts of visiting family and friends, participating in outdoor adventures, and maybe even scheduling a face-to-face book signing.

Until then, you can order a copy of Veins of Gold at https://www.amazon.com/Dahlonega-Sisters-Veins-Gold/dp/1734038330

Enjoy the new season and have faith that spring will bring a renewed sense of hope. If I can help you in the journey, let me know. I’m here for you!

Love you!

Diane

New Book Release!

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Time to snuggle up with a cup of hot cocoa, a warm blanket, and a heart-warming book!

The Dahlonega Sisters are back and ready to entertain!

Will digging up family secrets uncover bones best left buried?

Marge Ledbetter fears once she spits into the small vial and sends it off, nothing will be the same. But she must disprove the outrageous secret she’s been told by a dying woman before it becomes the latest gossip to spread throughout her quaint gold rush town, Dahlonega, Georgia.

Her older sister, Rose Ellen, who is a tad haughty, enthusiastically approves of the ancestry search in hopes of finding a famous relative to add to her bragging list.

Marge’s eccentric twin, Mutzi, vehemently disagrees, fearing the rumor she’s heard most of her life about her and Marge not being sisters is true.

Will the results disprove Marge’s tightly held secret or will The Dahlonega Sisters be faced with news that changes their family dynamics forever?

Veins of Gold

https://books2read.com/u/mvnnLJ and https://www.amazon.com/Dahlonega-Sisters-Veins-Gold-ebook/dp/B08NM337B3. Also available in paperback at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1734038330.

Makes a great Holiday gift for friends and family. Enjoy!

Blessings to all!

Diane

Time to Chill

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Too much time in one place? Too much stress to deal with? Too few things to laugh about?

You are not alone. I’ve been trying to avoid making wine my evening meal. It goes great with chocolate, and I have to admit I keep it close on hand.

What can I say? At least I didn’t hoard toilet paper!

I have to exercise twice as long to keep the weight from packing on, so my husband and I take long walks admiring nature’s glorious treasures.

I heard someone say they were so desperate they were house cleaning. Thank goodness I haven’t reached that level, yet.

Seriously, wouldn’t it be more fun to escape to a quaint Georgia town and eavesdrop on some witty, endearing, and resilient sisters as they unravel the mystery of The Gold Miner Ring?

You’re in luck! For the next couple of weeks, the sisters are offering their e-book at a special price.

https://dashboard.bookfunnel.com/bundles/board/fgq2up6cng

Treat yourself to a little chill time. I think you’ll be glad you did.

What are you doing to adjust to our new normal?

What has been the hardest thing to adjust to?

What silver-linings have you found during this past month?

Hidden Treasures

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Sometimes the thing we’re looking for is right where we are. Hope you enjoy this story.

Hidden Treasures

Julie Perkins’ crisp November morning started before sunrise, while nosy neighbors still slept and streets weren’t snarled in traffic. Other than a few boxes stacked near the door of her studio apartment, the room was bare. Julie sold the furniture and anything that didn’t have strings attached to her heart when she received the certified letter informing her of her father’s passing.

With a loud grunt, she hoisted a box of rejected screenplay manuscripts and spiral bound notebooks and carried them to the `65 Mustang that would take her back to Missouri, provided the tires didn’t go flat and the transmission held up. “Shit,” she moaned when she realized her car key was in her hip pocket. She tried to balance the overstuffed container on the bumper with one hand. The minute she popped the trunk, a gust of wind sent papers flying out into the street. “Crap,” she cursed and dropped the box into the trunk.

By the time everything was retrieved and the final boxes were loaded, sweat dripped down Julie’s neck. Now hot and exhausted, she rolled down the windows, put the car in gear and took off.  Screw this town. I wish I’d never come here. Tears stung with the acknowledgment.

As an only child, Julie swore Hollywood whispered her name in dreams. She envisioned walking on stage to receive an award for best screenplay. She wanted fame and fortune. She wanted to be somebody special. Growing up in the rural Ozark Mountains didn’t afford those opportunities. Julie’s mother, gone since she was twelve, would have understood. She took Julie to the matinee every time a new movie came out.

Her dad, on the other hand, fumed and cussed at Julie, calling her a fool for chasing an elusive dream. “Everything you need is right here,” he’d insisted. The more he talked, the more relentless she was to prove him wrong. Julie never forgot his hurtful words the morning she decided to go. ‘If you leave, don’t come crawling back.’ Too proud to admit defeat, she never returned. Spirit-broken and alone, the need to return to her childhood home tugged at her heart.

The man standing by the stoplight went unnoticed by Julie until he reached into the car and snatched her purse from the passenger seat. “Nooo!” she screamed. He took off down an alley with Julie following close behind in her car. “Stop!” The thief ducked between two buildings and disappeared. What the hell am I going to do now?

Julie circled back around determined to find her belongings. Surely the man would dispose of her purse quickly. A trash bin caught her eye and she threw the car in park, leaving it idle while she dug into the nasty metal container. “Got it.” Pleased with her find, she brushed off her jeans and straightened her blouse, just in time to see her car drive off. “Son of a bitch!”

The sun glared overhead as she stomped her way to the nearest police substation. In her furor, she hadn’t noticed the reporter standing within ear distance and armed with a camera. “Don’t you dare,” Julie protested in vain. The headlines would read, Free-Lance Writer Robbed Twice in One Day. The black mascara streaming down her tear-stained face was just the type of photo the sleazy magazine loved to print and not the kind of fame Julie imagined.

“Just doing my job, trying to make a dime. You know how it is.”

She plopped down on a park bench, distraught and homeless. On the following day, the police recovered Julie’s stolen car. Wanting no more delays, she dropped the charges against the teenage joyrider, withdrew the last of her money from the bank and with the warm California sun to her back, she headed east.

November winds had stripped the trees of their leaves, still the rolling Missouri hills brought nostalgia and a sense of peace that had escaped Julie for many years. She’d cherished the memories of picking fresh vegetables from the garden and the endless hours in the kitchen helping to snap the beans, shuck the corn and fry the chicken in preparation of the next meal.  When the sun went down, Dad would come in from tending the fields and give her a big hug.

As the Bloomsdale exit came into view, Julie noticed the addition of a large truck stop. Bet all the farmers love that. She wound her way through the back roads, past quaint little towns, and across low water bridges, in giddy anticipation of seeing the two-story home that held so many treasured memories. She hummed to the music on her radio as the miles clicked away.

The euphoric mood imploded when the house came into view. Abandoned for years, the deteriorating home mourned for attention. Not a window pane survived the solitude. The roof barely provided shelter for intrusive squirrels. Even the front door succumbed to the gravity of its unattended wounds.

“Oh my God,” Julie moaned as she shook her head in despair. The words echoed across the barren yard. Gone, the prized rose garden her mother tended to as if it were an innocent child. Gone, the field that once bore acres of corn, now overgrown with weeds. Gone, the man who protected it all. Puddles filled Julie’s eyes and she blinked to clear them. In the distance, an image appeared. Frozen in disbelief, she watched the man walk toward the house. “Dad?”

“Good, you’re finally home. Follow me.” His firm command, a faint whisper in the wind, wrapped around her and caused a shudder.

Still in command. That’s my dad. Julie smiled to herself. She reached out to touch him just as he disappeared and was met with the hard surface of the wood siding. “Dad?” Julie stepped toward the front of the house peeking through the collection of spider webs, brushing them aside as she stepped through the opening. Her father stood near the bedroom he’d shared with her mother.

“Should have given this to you sooner. Your mother wanted you to have it. I think it’s what you’ve been looking for.”

At the foot of the bed was a slat of wood, slightly ajar. She bent down and dusted off the area before removing the board. With both hands, she wiggled the old cigar box from the snug hiding place. “What is this, Dad?” She glanced up just as her father faded from view. “Dad! Don’t go!” Julie clutched the box close to her chest and hurried outside. Her father was gone. Julie collapsed to the ground sobbing.

***

Dr. James Howell escorted Julie to the front row of the theatre just as the lights flickered, indicating the play was about to begin. She glanced at her handsome date and smiled. Who would have thought I’d be here tonight? The journey had taken her thousands of mile and years of struggle, but the rewards exceeded her greatest expectations.

Her father had been right. The treasure she sought had been there all along. Had he shared it sooner, he might have celebrated with her. Inside the box had been a love story like none she had ever read. The handwritten journals provided Julie with the foundation for an award-winning screenplay and more. She’d never expected to find a family member.

The search to find her brother, placed for adoption years before Julie had been born, had taken longer than writing the screenplay but had been worth it.

Jimmy touched Julie’s hand and whispered, “I’m so glad you found me. We’re finally home.”

“Me too. Finally Home. I thought it was the perfect title for a play.”

The Threads That Bind

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quilt

The Threads That Bind

Much like the intricate quilt given to me by an aunt, I believe that we are all connected by a nearly transparent thread of life. If I take the time to look, listen, and ask questions, the delicate tapestry of my world is revealed. I also believe that when I follow my heart, I end up exactly where I’m supposed to be.  I’m reposting a fresh version of a story from a couple of years ago that reinforces those beliefs.

As I skimmed a list of volunteer opportunities in my local newspaper, my eyes settled on two words, Story Keeper. I paused to read more. Story Keepers capture the meaningful moments of a patient’s life. The simple description intrigued me as I’d always dreamed of writing life stories of other people.

As enticing as the opportunity sounded, the thought of volunteering with a hospice care organization weighed heavily on my mind. The pain of watching my mother die a slow, difficult death associated to Alzheimer’s made me question my ability to perform the service and keep my emotions under control. I cut out the contact information and let the thought simmer.

The clipping remained visible near my laptop for the next two weeks, tugging at my heart and urging me to act. Finally, I picked up the phone and called the manager of volunteer services listed in the ad.

“I may be interested in the Story Keeper position. Can you tell me more about it?”

“We’re looking for someone to record the life story of a hospice patient for their family to keep as a legacy after the patient passes.”

“Oh,” I felt a hint of disappointment. “I’m not adept at electronic things, more pen to paper.”

“Why don’t you come in and talk further about it? It’s a new position. We can work through the details. And while it doesn’t involve writing, you never know where the journey will lead you. Maybe it was meant for you.”

The charismatic manager’s reassuring words urged me to make a leap of faith. I met with her to learn more. Within two weeks, I’d completed all the prerequisites: TB tests, study guides about working with hospice patients, and Hepatitis injections.

It wasn’t long before I was assigned my first visit. I studied the manual that came with the small, hand-held recorder. Since I was the first person to fill the position, training had been minimal. The anxiety and nervousness I anticipated never surfaced. Instead, an unexpected tranquility about the process made me excited to get started.

“The patient is hesitant to make the recording.” My manager warned me on the drive to his home. “The wife is urging him to do it for her. I thought you should know before we get there.”

The patient’s wife greeted us at the door and invited us in. The man, already seated in a recliner, extended his hand and nodded as he studied my face.

My manager made introductions and a brief explanation for our visit. The man frowned and grumbled, pursing his lips. Then it was my turn to speak. I wanted to help him relax and feel comfortable about the recording.

“We’re just going to talk today. I’d like to get to know you and your wife.”

“Ok.” The tense lines around the man’s eyes eased.

“Did you grow up in Florissant?” I smiled and tilted my head awaiting his response.

“Jennings. I went to Corpus Christi grade school.”

“I know that school. I attended St. Paul the Apostle. We were practically neighbors.”

“I went to St. Paul’s!” His wife announced with excitement. “Oh my goodness! You’re Dorothy’s daughter. I saw the resemblance to your mother when you first arrived, but couldn’t place who you were.”

My eyes welled with tears at the mention of my mother. I was unable to say anything for fear I’d start crying.

“I’m your grandmother’s niece. We’re cousins. I grew up two blocks from you.”

I realized that I knew her parents well, but because of our age difference, our paths had crossed briefly, probably at a funeral, but at a time when I was too young to remember. The emotional journey over the next hour was emotionally rewarding. The wonderful stories about my mother, who was an only child, and her distant cousins with whom I had lost touch over the years, brought such joy to my heart, I left the visit feeling like I was given a gift, one that I would treasure for life and share with my siblings. I even learned that my grandfather saved my cousin from drowning in the Mississippi River when she was a teenager.

Over the next few visits, I recorded heartwarming and memorable stories told to me by the patient and his wife. From their heritage, to their marriage and their many life experiences, we worked together to create a treasured gift for their children, grandchildren and future generations. I completed the project and presented the audio recording to them on their 65th anniversary.

Although the story doesn’t end there, in fact it is just the beginning of my journey, I’ve learned my readers are busy folks and prefer quick reads. I’ll share more in my next post.

Meanwhile, I’d love to hear from you.

When have you made an unexpected connection with someone?

Do you follow your heart or are you more likely to try and control where you are headed?

A Flash of Hope

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I thought the timing was right for this first place short story.

The news too often is filled with suicides, gang wars and school shootings. Most of us feel helpless to make a change. But I believe it all begins with family.

We teach children values and morals through our words and actions. Bullying, rejection and hurtful words last a lifetime. But, so do acceptance, friendship and love.

I hope that no matter where you are in this world, you show compassion for others by your words and actions. You never know the crosses they carry or how your words will affect them.

I invite you to share your thoughts and stories so that we can join hands in making this school year a great experience for all of our future leaders.

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A Flash of Hope

Lakeisha cursed to herself as she gripped the blank notebook with one hand while using the other to push a divergent black curl out of her face. The January winds whipped furiously as she waited for the bus to arrive. The English assignment, due Friday, wore on her mind. Normally, she’d be finished by the time she got home from school. Not this time. For two days she’d stared at the paper, the words refusing to bleed from her pen.

“What is your dream?” Ms. Lowery made it sound as if every student lived a normal life, complete with options and the financial support to achieve them. “College? Career? Travel? Write what you want to happen” Did she have any idea what my life is like? NO! The question seemed cruel to the new transfer student.

I have no dreams. Lakeisha lived in the real world, filled with responsibilities and hardships, drugs and booze, bill collectors and angry people. Her days left no room for dreams. With a mother imprisoned for selling drugs and a father killed when she was five, the chance of having a successful career was improbable. College was out of the question. A high school education, if she were lucky enough to finish the year, would get her a minimum wage job.

Many of her classmates had applied to numerous colleges and waited anxiously to hear from each. Her goals? The first, survival, avoiding gang fights that erupted into gun battles at any given time. Walking from the bus stop to her front door involved risk. The second, keeping the electricity on. Dreams? How am I supposed to write about such foolishness?

There had been much controversy between the districts when the decision was made to transfer students from failing inner city schools to academically successful ones in affluent neighborhoods. At first, Lakeisha felt a tinge of excitement, holding out hope that she’d make new friends and learn useful skills. Hope faded quickly during the first week. The long commute added more stress to her day and limited the hours she could work.

Cliques of girls that didn’t look like her, didn’t speak like her, and didn’t dress like her, whispered and giggled as she walked alone through the long hallways. Even the boys said lewd and offensive things, much like those in her old school, just in hushed voices.

Lakeisha knew why she’d been unable to complete the assignment. She wanted to tell the truth, not lie or pretend her future held magnificent opportunities. Dreams required more than just imagination. She wanted to respond to the snickers as they pointed to the same pair of shoes she wore every day. Her threads came from nearby dumpsters or Goodwill, hardly the place to find a dress for the upcoming prom.

It hurt to watch the students snub their noses at lunch menus and throw away perfectly good trays of food, knowing how many times she’d stood in soup lines waiting for a meal. Their spoiled, over-indulgent lifestyles sickened her. The anger boiled inside her head as she squeezed her pen. Suddenly, the words spilled across the paper. One page filled, she flipped the notebook and began another without pausing. The furor didn’t’ stop until ink seeped to the edges of a dozen pages.

With trembling hands, Lakeisha slammed the notebook closed, pressed it against her chest and glanced around to reassure herself of the private moment. The corners of her lips turned upward in acknowledgement of her decision. I’m done! And I’m going to turn this in, no matter the consequences.

Sleep evaded Lakeisha as she tossed and turned in bed, bits and pieces of her essay inching through the protective wall that normally kept her worries at bay. Did I share too much? What if I have to read it out loud? Would it be worse than it already is? Fear rose in her throat and she jumped up from the bed. I should rewrite it.

She picked up the spiral-bound notebook and studied the cover that was filled with her favorite words. Words like dauntless, temerity, indomitable. Words never spoken in the world she lived in, but so inspirational to Lakeisha. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a quote from the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. emerged. “Take the first step in faith. You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”

The frantic doubt that had unnerved her earlier settled down to a vibration. She placed the unopened notebook on top of her coat, convinced the words had needed to be written and now they must be heard. I’ll be a voice for others.

***

Lakeisha held the papers tightly on the twenty mile ride to school. Silently, she repeated her conviction. I have a voice. I can make a difference. It took hold and by the time the bus arrived at school, she held her head a little higher than normal and smiled as she strode down the busy hallway.

“Sorry for the thumbprint, Ms. Lowery.” Lakeisha mumbled as she laid the assignment on the paper-free desk, aware the rest of the class had submitted their stories electronically, not scribbled on lined paper.

“Don’t worry about it.” The teacher smiled as she accepted the paper and stuck it in her drawer, out of sight. “They’re still trying to get a computer for you. Hopefully, soon.”

Her words rang like an empty promise, one she’d heard for months. I’ll be gone before it gets here.

The essay lingered in the back of her mind the rest of the day and throughout the weekend. Her emotions rode the wave from excitement to fear. One minute proud of her courage. Then next, kicking herself for lowering the wall. Upon arrival in English class on Monday, Lakeisha was greeted by Ms. Lowery.

“Before you take your seat, the principal would like to speak to you.”

“Mr. Hackmann? Why? I didn’t do anything!” The announcement rattled in her brain. Oh, Crap. My essay. They’re going to send me back to my old school.

“You can put your books down first.” Ms. Lowery looked at the blackboard as she spoke.

Lakeisha left the room on trembling legs, stopping at the water fountain to sooth her parched throat. A bright light shined on the metal object, her mouth agape at the brilliance as she searched for the source in the windowless hall. Suddenly, the place she’d dreaded walking down every day took on a significance she’d not previously considered. My ancestors were never allowed to walk this hall, much less quench their thirst from this fountain.

The unexpected affirmation filled her with renewed courage. Changes were made by brave people who dared to speak up. I have a voice. I can make a difference. She repeated the mantra as she walked through Mr. Hackmann’s office door.

“Good morning, Ms. Washington. Please have a seat.” The tall, gray-haired man gestured toward a round table aside his massive oak desk. He reached for a file folder and joined her. “How are you today?”

“I was fine until I got called to see you. What did I do?” Lakeisha’s voice sharp, but respectful.

“I understand you wrote this essay.” He passed the lined papers to Lakeisha as he spoke.

“Yes, sir. I did.” Lakeisha straightened her back and look directly at Mr. Hackmann, prepared to defend her assignment.

“Ms. Lowery was kind enough to share your story with me and my staff.”

“And?” Her question blurted out more defensively than she’d intended.

“Your words stung. Painfully.” He furrowed his brows and shook his head side to side, looking down at the floor. “I’ve always prided myself on being in tune with my students.”

Lakeisha stirred in her chair, unsure how to respond.

The man drew in a long breath that filled his chest, then looked at Lakeisha with moist eyes. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. So very wrong.” He choked as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. “You have shown me how much I have to learn, how much we all have to learn.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Lakeisha tucked a curl behind her ear and leaned forward.

“Of course not, Ms. Washington. You were brave enough to share intimate details of your life and by doing so, you educated me and my staff in more ways than reading a thousand books. I want to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor of me? What could I possibly do for you?”

“Share your story with the entire school. Every teacher and student needs to hear what you have to say.” Mr. Hackmann raised a brow and waited for her response.

Lakeisha paused, her eyes flashed toward the door. “Share with everyone? Do you really think that’s a good idea? I’m not very popular with my classmates.”

“Teenagers can be hurtful, but I’ve seen the same students rally to support injustice when an issue is brought to their attention. Everyone needs a reminder of the things we take for granted. Your essay delivers a lesson they won’t soon forget. I hope you will give them a chance to show you.

***

The gymnasium buzzed with questions regarding the school assembly.

“So what’s the assembly for?”

“Just Black History Month. Boring.”

A voice loud enough to be hears across the room drew Lakeisha’s attention.

“What she’s doing up there?” One of the students glared at Lakeisha who sat on a folding chair a short distance from the stage.

You’re not going to rattle me today. This is too important. Lakeisha directed her attention to the hundreds of students taking their seats. Ms. Lowery worked her way through the crowd and settled into the chair next to her, gently touching her arm with a reassuring nod.

Mr. Hackmann called Lakeisha to the podium. She stepped forward, forcing her shoulders back and raising her chin.

She inhaled slowly, repeating her mantra in silence then began. “I’m Lakeisha…Jackson…a transfer student from Roosevelt High.” She glanced down at the ink filled pages for reassurance, then raised her head and continued. “I’ve been asked to share my story with you today.” Quiet murmurs buzzed the room.

“More than 50 years ago Dr. King addressed the sacred obligations of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence in his speech, I Have a Dream. His words inspired significant changes, changes that I’m privileged to experience today, just by being in this school.” Lakeisha paused, searching the room for reactions. “He also spoke of the ‘tranquilizing drug of gradualism.’ I didn’t understand what he meant until recently.

“He was saying that while America has made tremendous strides, there‘s more work to be done. Ms. Lowery assigned an essay, ‘What is your dream?’ I’ve been asked to share my response. This is what I wrote.” Lakeisha spoke slowly, deliberately as she read her essay, allowing the words time to penetrate. When she finished, Julie, the cheer leading squad captain, stood and clapped slowly. Joshua, a football quarterback followed, then another and another. Soon the entire audience joinrf in a deafening applause.

Mr. Hackmann stepped to Lakeisha’s side, a smile spread across his face. In a hushed voice, easily drowned out by the cheers, he said, “Thank you for taking the risk.” He nodded toward the assembly that continued to cheer. “I think you’ve made some new friends. Can you forgive our ignorance?”

“I can do that.” Lakeisha stepped away from the podium, moving toward her seat.

The principal stopped her and motioned to the students to sit. “Ms. Washington, we are grateful for the wisdom you’ve shared with us today. Ms. Lowery has something for you.”

Her teacher came forward carrying a package. “Lakeisha, this laptop is a small token of our appreciation for your eloquent presentation. I think I speak for the entire school in saying you’ve touched our lives in ways that will continue for years to come. Thank you.”

Lakeisha’s eyes widened and a smile spread across her face as she accepted the gift. “Thanks.” The room exploded in another round of applause. Maybe I did make a difference.

Writing with Perseverance

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My fingers rest on the keyboard, waiting for profound words to flow. The painful delay remains the same each time I write something new. That first sentence, the one needed to hook a reader, remains scrambled like a cryptogram waiting to be solved. I wonder, does it ever get easier? Still, I must persevere. I must write.

Fortunately, I no longer begin my posts, short stories or poems on yellow, pre-lined pads, wadding up my futile attempts on half-filled sheets of paper and tossing them into the recycle bin. My laptop’s delete key has saved many trees from extinction over the past few years.

While I am slow to start the process, once the journey begins, I must complete it. Each muse bares a part of my soul. It requires attention and nurturing, never reaching perfection, because there is no such creature in a writer’s world, but every scrawl has worth and I must give it my best.

There was a time when I clutched my prose and poetry tight to my chest, afraid of the reaction I’d receive if anyone caught a glimpse. Confidence didn’t exist in my vocabulary. Hiding away on my deserted island did little to improve my limited writing abilities. Isolation is lonely and depressing. Desperation drove me to try something different.

A creative writing class at a local college opened my mind to new possibilities. The instructor told us to “Write what you know.” So I started with myself, jotting down cherished childhood memories and funny vignettes. Then I cleaned some skeletons from a few closets. Before long, I had accumulated a collection of short stories. With the help and encouragement of a writing buddy, I published Peaks and Valleys, a compilation of the joys and pains that made me who I am today. The therapeutic trip back in time helped me heal wounds long buried behind the scenes, even though most of those stories didn’t make it into the book.

I share that bit of information hoping to inspire other writers who may be on a similar journey. I had assumed the role of caretaker and servant for most of my life. Taking time to write wasn’t as important as everyone else’s needs. Honestly, it was an excuse. It was fear of failure and a belief that I wasn’t good enough to succeed.

While volunteering and caring for family are commendable attributes and often necessary, they don’t always stoke the fire in your soul. Without fuel, your soul will wither away, your passions will die, and the gifts you’ve been given will have been wasted. I offer what I’ve learned to those whose furnace needs stoking. Dare to pursue your passion, whatever it is. Do it today.

Finding a writing buddy and support group opened more doors for me. I gathered enough confidence to share my stories and risk hearing how I could improve my writing.  I admit, the first few critiques hurt a little, but most every comment helped me improve. With time, I learned to accept critiques that helped me and ignore the ones that did not fit my style. Now, I looked forward to a thorough (sometimes harsh) critique for two reasons: First, it’s a sign the person cares enough to offer insight, not just a cursory glance. Second, I take it as a personal challenge to see my stories in a new light.

Writers have an abundance of opportunities to share their work. There are contests and anthologies open for submissions almost daily. A simple google search provides prompts and on-line help. Local libraries often promote writing groups and allow them to meet in their facilities. I’m blessed to be a member of one of the most successful groups in my area, Saturday Writers, a chapter of Missouri Writers Guild.

http://saturdaywriters.org/index.html.

I’ve won numerous contests and have had my writing published in a many anthologies. I couldn’t have done it without help from my writing partners. If I’d never faced my fears, I’d still be scribbling on a yellow pad, hiding behind a façade of distractions. I still have insecurities, but from what other writers tell me, that’s normal.

If I submit a piece and it is rejected, I don’t toss it aside. I work on it and improve it, determined to get it right, and submit it to another contest. Many of my winning entries were rejections revisited. A few months ago, I found a story I’d begun, but never finished. I dusted it off, put some lipstick on it and sent it off. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

My first attempt at writing a novel happened during NANOWRIMO, National Novel Writing Month, https://nanowrimo.org/. The concept is to write a 50k word novel in 30 days. I completed the challenge 7 years ago with a novel titled Burning Embers. Through more rewrites and edits than I care to remember, I finally reached a place where I was confident enough to pitch it to an agent a few weeks ago. Much to my joy and amazement, the agent requested the entire manuscript. Now, I wait patiently to hear the results. Both of my feet are planted firmly on the ground, trying not to get too excited, but hoping for some positive feedback. Regardless of the outcome, I will keep trying.

No matter where you are on your writing journey, persevere and keep looking for ways to fulfill your dreams. Consider me one of your writing buddies. I hope you share your journey with me. I’d love to hear all about it.