My Essay on How I Met My Husband is in Sasee's October Magazine

Photo, Oct 17 Sasee Magazine

"Melodies and Memories"

Cover Artist: Mike Daneshi

If you're curious how a nineteen-year-old teenage girl from St. Louis met a twenty-year-old airman/immigrant who was born in the German Bavarian Alps, you can read about it by following the link below.

My essay titled "Living the American Dream" appears in Sasee's October 2017 issue with the theme "Melodies and Memories." The beautifully vivid and evocative cover art is done by Mike Daneshi.

If you're a writer interested in submitting to Sasee, here's a copy of their guidelines.

Hope you enjoy!

Note: Next week I will begin posting interviews I've received from contributors to Mysteries of the Ozarks, V.

Beautiful Lilies and Proof of a Russian Invasion -- Russian SageThat Is

June is one of my favorite months, and not just because I turn a year older in June, but because everywhere I look I see the beauty of nature.

In my family I'm known as the sibling who didn't inherit my mother's green thumb.

But not so fast brothers and sisters, how do  you explain the gorgeous day lilies and tiger lilies that have bloomed in my garden the past few years?

This June they are especially vibrant.

And what about the Russian sage that is sprouting out all over?

With all the Senate committees searching for proof of Russian interference in the USA, I have proof of Russian invasion -- in my yard.

Here are photos of the Russian Sage that's taking over, although in some spots it's fighting for space with the blackberry bushes and spearmint plants.

How about you?

How does your garden grow?

Writing to Heal

One way I’m coping with breast cancer—and the side effect of chemo brain, which causes forgetfulness and muddy thinking—is to write.  

I’ve been encouraged to journal and have received several journals as gifts (like the one on the left) from friends, but I haven’t used them yet. I’m not ready to record all the day-to-day events about my illness. It feels too raw. Plus the journals are so pretty, I’m saving them for happier times.

What I am doing is writing when I have energy and the mood strikes. Mostly I write on my laptop, but I also scribble notes in raggedy notebooks.  

A short story I began in January started as a romantic mystery to read at critique group for a Valentine’s love story challenge was titled “Time Will Tell.” Around the same time, I was invited to submit to Mysteries of the Ozarks (Vol V), a project of the Ozarks Writers Inc. I reworked and lengthened the story to highlight the mystery aspect, and the story was accepted just before my diagnosis. A few weeks later, I was asked to help with editing and proofreading the anthology. I agreed because when I first started chemo treatments I was having trouble sleeping and welcomed doing something productive. In addition to that, I was asked to become a member of the OWI board. It has been a positive experience in every way.

In February, I rewrote and expanded my essay, “Remembering Miss Tobin,” which was among the top ten finalist in 2014 Erma Bombeck human interest competition, but never published. I revised and renamed the new essay, “Miss Tobin’s Special Gifts,” and submitted it to Whispering Prairie Press for their KC Voices magazine. Earlier this month I received an e-mail that the editor “loved” my essay asked for permission to use it. Of course, I accepted.

Earlier this month, I pulled out an old essay about the day my husband became a US citizen. The expanded version corrected mistakes in the original and included the night we met at a USO dance. I wasn’t able to attend my critique group to read the story, so my good friend Alice printed it off and read it for me then called and relayed everyone’s comments. Using many of their suggestions, I cut the original version from around 1,000 words to 750, changed the title, and the end result resulted in a tighter and I think better story. It’s a long shot, but I submitted it to Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Kind Of America. I won’t know until June if "A Good Day for A New Citizen" is accepted. If I don’t hear by then I’ll know it isn’t a good fit, but I’ll remain hopeful.

Last week, my mind wandered to my childhood neighborhood in North St. Louis and a memory of an unusual boy who lived down the alley. He was a few years older than the rest of the boys on our block, who never invited him to play, so he usually stood and watched the rest of us have fun. I felt sorry for him, but he also made me feel uneasy, the way he stared and watched the rest of us. That memory resulted in a short story about a lonely writer/blogger/teacher who spies on his coworkers and students and uses what he learns about them to get ahead. It’s an odd piece and I’m not sure what will become of it, but it might eventually find a home.

More than a month ago, I started on an essay about losing my hair, but I’m not quite ready to finish that one yet.

I’ve put my novel aside for the time being, but who knows maybe if I get a burst of inspiration I’ll pick it up again. Now that I finished the “red devil” chemo sessions, have started on “chemo light” treatments, and will start physical rehab next week to get my strength back, I might get inspired.

How about you? Have you ever written to heal—from an illness, grief, personal tragedy, or for any other reason? If so, has writing helped?

RIP - Rock In Peace, Chuck Berry

I was saddened, but not totally surprised, to hear the news that St. Louis legendary music icon Chuck Berry passed away on Saturday. Chuck Berry was 90 when he died in St. Charles County, Missouri, the same county where I live—about fifteen miles from my home.

It’s strange how the death of one person can trigger memories that have been packed away for decades. Although I never met Chuck Berry in person, his music and presence touched my soul and influenced my childhood.

Just about everyone in my North St. Louis neighborhood of the 1950s and 1960s knew about Chuck Berry and his music, including my mom.

Mom loved music, and she loved to dance. Her tastes ranged from the Country music of Johnny Cash, the soulful melodies of Johnny Mathis and Andy Williams, and the rock and roll of Elvis, Chubby Checker—and, of course, St. Louis songwriter and musical icon Chuck Berry.

My dad was a germaphobe, so it wasn’t surprising that Mom was an immaculate housekeeper. Music was Mom’s constant companion every day when she cleaned our house—make that rented flat—because my folks never owned a house back then.  

Once a week, to the sounds of whatever was playing the radio, Mom would wash and wax the floors. After the wax dried, she got out Dad’s old Army blanket and my siblings and I took turns riding the blanket like a sled as Mom pulled us around in her butts-on-the-blanket buffer.

In our cozy 1950s kitchen, Mom kicked up her heels and taught my sisters and me how to dance her version of the Charleston and Jitterbug to Chuck Berry’s songs such as: “Maybellene,” “Johnny B. Goode,” and of course, “Rock and Roll Music.”

So, rock in peace, Chuck Berry.

Thank you for bringing your gift of music to the world and a little bit of soul to my family.

Lastly, thank you for sparking this memory of dancing in the kitchen with my mom.

Beating the Beast

Some of my friends already know what's been going on with me lately, but for those who don't, I thought I'd post about why I'll be taking a break from blogging.

Last month I went in for a mammogram, and a few days later I got "the call." It was definitely not one I expected. No one in my family has ever had breast cancer, so I thought I was immune. Shows how wrong I was. Several additional tests confirmed the diagnosis.

Last week I had my first chemo treatment, and it threw me for a loop. I'm not going to go into all the details of my treatment plan, but I've quickly learned that Cancer and Chemo aren't for Sissies!

I've found peace and comfort from family and friends and church members who are providing physical and moral sustenance and praying for me every day.  I'm also encouraged by the kindness of strangers who are including me in their prayers. Every kindness and prayer I've received has been a grace-filled blessing.

Today was a rough day, but this evening I'm feeling strong enough to blog. I'm not posting this for pity so please don't feel like you have to leave a comment, but if you're inclined to prayer, that would be a welcome gift!

I hope to get back to writing and blogging from time to time when I'm feeling better and beat this beast!

Advent by Candlelight and the Great St. Nicholas Day Debate

Celtic Advent wreath

Last evening our church (All Saints in St. Peters) hosted its eleventh annual Advent by Candlelight celebration for the women in our parish--and beyond our parish borders.

Advent is a time of anticipation and wonder. The Advent by Candlelight celebration is an evening of quiet reflection, prayers, music, and inspiration--along with the sharing of food and friendship.

In years past, our table has been filled with people I know; it's been a delightful and comfortable evening. This year was a bit different. A few women from our Bunco group (that's been going strong for 43 years) weren't able to attend, so we had empty spots at our table. What made the evening special was I met Diana and Mindy, two women who belong to our parish I'd never met before who sat with our group.

We all shared food and drink and stories and recipes. I brought chicken salad sandwiches on croissants and some port wine cheese. Cheryl brought raspberry moscato wine and a beef ball and crackers. My sister Kathleen provided all the table wear, and her rumchata pudding shots were a big hit. Everyone asked for her recipe! Geri brought dessert and some sweets to take home. Diana provided fruit salad with whipped cream topping. Mindy served cheese and salami and crackers. The menu was unplanned, but it all worked!

In between eating. listening to songs and music, and prayerful reflection, I spoke with Diana, a retired nurse who sat next to me. She had some wonderful stories to share, including one about how she and her husband met and how they love putting puzzles together and how the puzzles became so special to them and their marriage. She also told me about her miracle baby son, who is now in his early 30s. She also shared a few sad stories. Her eyes glistened with tears, so I listened and patted her hand. 

Everyone at our table also discussed St. Nicholas Day. Mindy asked what she should tell her daughter about when to put out her granddaughter's shoes. We talked about the origin of St. Nicholas Day and why we put out the shoes, but the great St. Nicholas debate continues.

Do you put out your shoes on December fifth so St. Nicholas can fill them up for the sixth, which is St. Nicholas Day? Or, do you put them out the night of December sixth because that's the actual day?

"Santa Wore Cowboy Boots"

Toward the end of the night a woman walked up and introduced herself. She asked if I was Donna Volkenannt, the writer, which surprised me. She told me she had heard me speak at a writing event several years ago and had read one of my stories and it inspired her.

It was a Christmas story called "Santa Wore Cowboy Boots" that I wrote about 15 years ago for a Cup of Comfort book. That story dealt with my depression about being homesick at Christmas time while living in Arizona so far away from my family and how my mood affected my children, especially my son, who that year taught me the true meaning of Christmas.

The woman had an unusual last name so I asked her if she was related to a man I used to work with before I was married, who happens to be her husband's uncle. Turns out it's a small and wonderful world, and we never know what to expect.

So, while the question lingers on when to put your children's or grandchildren's shoes out for St. Nicholas Day, the Advent season remains a special time -- of reflection and expectation and delight at our wonderful world.

A Swell of Memories -- And Aren't Memories are Swell?

I've been in a nostalgic mood lately.

Now that my granddaughter is spending a month studying with her college overseas, or "studying abroad" as she puts it, memories of living overseas with my husband and children for three years during the 1980s and working in Germany come flooding back.

My granddaughter has been studying in Europe for about ten days now, and over the weekend she went on an excursion to the German city of Berlin. She has called and texted and posted on Facebook about her excursion, which was filled with trips to landmarks, museums, and a concentration camp.

One site her group visited was The Berlin Wall, which was still intact when we lived in Germany during the 1980s, but is now a tourist destination. Although, she noted, she also visited another famous tourist-destination wall, the graffiti-decorated John Lennon Wall.

Back in the 1980s, my daughter (my granddaughter's mom) also traveled to what was then called West Berlin. At that time, my daughter was a high school freshman and an amazing athlete -- she ran track and played softball -- and her American high school was invited to play in a softball tournament against another American high school in West Berlin. And she made the trip with her team.

During the 80s, Americans working in Germany needed special permission for themselves or family members to travel from West Germany, where we worked, to East Germany, which had to be traveled through to get to West Berlin. My husband had to get a "flag" letter signed by a General Officer from his work authorizing our daughter to go with her school team.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to accompany her to Berlin, so I don't have photos, but when she returned, she had a wealth of memories. She told stories, not so much about the softball tournament, but of standing next to the Berlin Wall and of riding on a train that left during the middle of the night with the shade-drawn windows so the teenage girls and their coaches couldn't "spy" on the East German countryside.

Now, more than 30 years later, her daughter has made a similar trip, with her school, but on a bus with an open view of the German countryside, to a much different, undivided Germany and undivided Berlin.

This summer my granddaughter is making special memories that will last her a lifetime of her visit to Berlin, over the same, yet different, streets and sites her mom walked across and visited decades ago. And isn't that a wonderful adventure?

The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same

I don't remember the first time I heard the saying, "The more things change, the more they remain the same," but I've found it to be true several times in my life.

Take last Sunday morning, for example.

My sister Kathleen and I were returning from a mini-writing retreat on Fripp Island, South Carolina, where we were guests of my generous and gracious writing friend, Berta Rosenberg. During our three-day visit, we had a wonderful time: catching up, sharing family stories, writing, talking about writing, doing a writing exercise, walking on the beach, eating new foods, and relaxing.

After saying goodbye to Berta, as we drove from Fripp and headed toward Beaufort, Kathleen and I discussed the possibility of finding a church so we could attend Sunday Mass. Being in an unfamiliar town, we didn't know where that might be.

But I had a plan. I had visited the cathedral in Savannah a few years ago, so I thought we could stop in Savannah on our way home and hope to catch a service there.

First, I was on a mission to find South Carolina tee-shirts for my grandkids. Berta told us we might find some at the Walgreen's in Beaufort, so that was our first stop. No luck. A cashier told us we might find some tee-shirts at a sporting goods store across the street. After making a wrong turn out of Walgreen's, I made a U-turn and followed a line of cars which veered off to the left into a parking lot. (I later found out the sporting goods store was on the right.)

Can you guess where the cars were headed? Into the parking lot of St. Peter's Catholic Church on Lady Island Drive in Beaufort. My sister and I read the church's sign, looked at each other, and decided divine providence had a hand in my making a wrong turn. "It was meant to be," we said in unison, and headed inside the lovely church, where Mass was to begin in seven minutes.

Even more surprising was that the Mass was a Latin high Mass, complete with incense, three priests celebrating, and several altar servers. Sitting in the pew I flashed back to my high school days wearing a chapel veil for Mass, which was celebrated in Latin until Junior year when the Church switched to English.

After leaving Beaufort we headed home, with a side trip in Savannah for lunch. We stopped at a casual restaurant on Bay Street and had a spinach salad and a mouth-watering 77 Monte Carlo sandwich, which was topped with powdered sugar. It was like eating French toast with ham and turkey inside.

From there, we walked off lunch until we found the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist on Harris Street. A police officer stood at the front door informing visitors know Mass was in session. We were welcome to come inside but not for a tour until Mass was complete. Kathleen and I ventured inside and found a pew in the back of the magnificent cathedral. My ears perked up when I heard the priest conducting the Mass in Latin. Families attended, with moms and young girls wearing chapel veils.

So, within the span of a few hours, we had attended not one but two Latin Masses, where women wore chapel veils.

The more things change . . .

Thoughts on Elvis Presley on His Birthday

It's hard to believe Elvis Presley would've been 81 years old tomorrow, January 8th. Elvis, the "King of Rock and Roll," was in his early 40s when he died, but he lives on through his music and memories of him.

My mom was an Elvis fan. Sunday nights we sat around the TV and watched Elvis and other musicians perform on the Ed Sullivan Show. At other times, Mom would turn the radio on and dance around the kitchen to tunes by Elvis, Johnny Mathis, Tony Bennett, and Andy Williams. She also loved Tom Jones.

Two of her glitzy (and, to be honest, ditzy) sisters made several trips to Vegas, where they saw Elvis and other famous entertainers perform then they'd come home and tell Mom about their adventures. Mom could never afford to go with them -- although she was thrilled when my sister Kathleen and I took her, much later in her life, to see Tony Bennett and Andy Williams perform when they visited St. Louis on separate occasions.

Back to Elvis. I wasn't a huge Elvis fan. I liked some of his music, especially "Love Me Tender," "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" and "Blue Suede Shoes" was another good one, but I thought his movies were cheesey. Several friends from our neighborhood Bunco, which has been going strong since 1974, adored "The King" while they were teens and well into adulthood. In fact, a few of them were  upset on Bunco night two days after Elvis died in August of 1977; they were so inconsolable they could barely roll the Bunco dice.

Another Elvis story came from Nick Nixon, a contemporary of Elvis. Nick was a local St. Louis area celebrity, a songwriter, and country singer. Nick discovered late in life that he wanted to write something other than songs, and he became a treasured member of our Coffee and Critique writers' group for several years until he passed away a couple years ago.

Nick once told a story during lunch at C&C of how, while he was in the Marine Corps and stationed in Tennessee, he had a run in with "The King of Rock and Roll." Apparently words were exchanged between Nick and Elvis, a gun was brandished, and an apology from Elvis arrived in the form of a telegram to Nick some time later.

How about you? Care to share any thoughts or memories about Elvis on his birthday?  Or, do you have a favorite Elvis song?

Season of Miracles

The December 2015 issue of Sasee magazine is aptly titled, "Season of Miracles."

I love the cover of this issue. It's eye-catching and memorable, with one woman with a broad stride who stands out from the crowd. The woman is dressed in black gloves, a red dress and matching shoes, with a tiny black-and-white bow on them. Just from looking at that cover, you can imagine that woman is going places.

I'm pleased that an essay I wrote titled "Sweet Memories" is included in this issue. The story might bring a tear to your eye, but it ends on a hopeful note. If you get some time, click on the link above and read it. Another local writer, Linda O'Connell, also has an essay in the same issue.

Here's wishing you a joyful Christmas season filled with sweet memories and maybe even a miracle or two.

Halloween Tales: Our Haunted Farmhouse, Mom's Strange Brews, a Monster Buck, and Jack-o-Lantern Mushrooms

Road to the farm

My husband reminded me this morning that today is the 23rd anniversary of our buying our 89-acre farmland in Osage County.

It's not that we deliberately bought the property on Halloween; it's just that was the day we signed the paperwork. Some might say that was an omen, or it might be a coincidence that the old farmhouse, which burned down several years ago, was haunted.

One year, after my husband and several relatives went deer hunting, they returned with stories of strange happenings. They swore the old farmhouse was haunted by a ghost they named Gary because Casper was already taken.

The old barn is still standing

I attributed their stories to drinking too much beer around the campfire and over-active imaginations. I'd been to the farmhouse many times, but I'd never  seen  anything to make me believe the farmhouse was haunted -- until one Saturday afternoon. Let's just say after that experience I changed my mind.

Just the other day one of my sisters and I were talking about our mom's cautionary tales and home remedies, some of which might be considered old wives' tales.


Mom warned us not to go outside after washing our hair, tried to get us to eat fish because it was "brain food," and fed us chicken soup when we had colds. But that wasn't all she did to cure what ailed one of her brood.

While she didn't stir up ingredients as weird as a witch's brew like "the eye of a newt or toe of a frog," she did create some strange brews. She made onion poultices to cure croup or bad colds. She sliced an onion and sprinkled sugar over it then put the concoction in a small pan with a small bit of water then made a poultice. For warts, she sliced a raw potato in half, rubbed half on the wart then had someone, other than the one with the wart, bury the second half of the potato but not tell where it was buried. By the time the potato grew, the wart would be gone. Then there was iodine for swollen tonsils.

Oh, yeah, Mom was definitely old school.

On the topic of old school: Last weekend my nephew Paul downed a monster 15-point buck in St. Charles County using an atlatl. A what? That's what I asked.

An atlatl is an ancient weapon, basically a spear, a stick with a handle on one end and a hook on the other. You can see a photo of Paul, the monster buck, and his atlatl on the Missouri Conservation Department Facebook page, where you can also see a photo of Jack-o-Lantern mushrooms.

How about you? Any Halloween tales or spooky stories to share?

Superstitions from Family and Friends

An unusual event happened at Bunco last month. It was strange because the Bunco group I belong to has been playing once a month for over forty years and this has never happened--at least not as long as I can remember.

The Bunco attendance prize was a cute and fancy watermelon knife, like the one on the left. (I had already bought an identical one at a local supermarket for me -- there was a super sale --- and another for my granddaughter to use in her new apartment.)

 Immediately after opening the Bunco gift bag with the knife inside, the prize winner hopped up from her chair, grabbed her wallet, and gave the hostess a penny.  When I asked the winner why she did that she told me it's bad luck to receive a knife as a gift. When you receive one, you're supposed to give whoever gave it to you some money. Curious about why it was bad luck, after I got home I did some research. Seems like there are several superstitions connected with knives.

The next time I saw my granddaughter I told her about the knife-gift superstition and reminded her that I had given her some money, along with the knife, so she was good. She looked at me like it was just another of my weird stories.

That reminded me of my mother's superstitions. Here are a few I remember:

If you spill salt, toss some over your left shoulder.
If your right hand itches, you're going to meet someone.
If your left hand itches, you're going to get some money.
Never put an umbrella on a table.
Never put a hat or shoes on a bed.
It's bad luck for a bird to fly into the house.
Don't let cats near newborns.
Don't cut a baby's hair before it's a year old.
Finding a coin heads-up is good luck.
Dreaming of muddy water mean bad luck. (My grandma would call everyone in the family when she had one of these dreams.)
Bad luck and good luck come in threes.
If it comes in three, let it be -- a warning to watch out for poison ivy and poison oak.

That's all I can think of right now.

How about you? Did your family have any superstitions?

Whole Lot of Shaking Going On

The last two weeks have been stormy, with strong winds, rain, hail, thunder, and lightning piercing the days and nights.

And. over those weekends, when my hubby, grandson, and I made trips to our house in Osage County, we could tell the storms that passed through had left their marks.

Driving the half-mile from the county road to our house, we found several branches down. Dark green palm-like cedar branches littered the road, while yellowish-orange globs of persimmons lined the sides of the road. Persimmons must be good eating because flocks of turkeys gather near the base of the persimmon trees.

When we made the curve to where the woods part into an open field, I spotted the old oak tree (on the left) in the cemetery had lost two large limbs.

I spent most of one day trimming small branches from the large limbs and putting them into the area where the guys collect firewood. My hubby and grandson (mostly) use the small branches for bonfires during deer season. And once the large limbs are cut down, the larger hunks of wood will warm our home on cold winter nights.

As I cut down and hauled off the detritus, I wondered how old the tree is. My hubby's guess is more than a century. I wish that oak tree could talk; what amazing stories it could tell.

Of the hundreds of trees on our property, the old oak took the biggest hit, but it wasn't the only one that took a good shaking during the late summer storms.

Several walnut and pecan trees lost limbs --  and countless nuts. Pear trees also lost some branches--and mostly unripe pears littered the ground. I gathered bags full of nuts from the trees nearest our house and a few of the palatable pears and laid them out on a towel on top of a table.

Squirrels were especially busy under the pecan tree near the porch, gathering their bounty then dashing across the gravel driveway to the nearest outbuilding, where they must be storing the nuts for the winter.

If the large amount of nuts, acorns, and fruit weighing down the trees on our property is any indication of what's to come, we're in for a cold winter.

On Labor Day weekend, we went to a neighbor's farm for an end-of-summer party, which our host described as a  "Hillbilly Hootenanny," complete with a shared pot luck dinner, swimming, line dancing on the backyard deck, and Karaoke performances. Some folks, from as far away as Linn and Jefferson City, remarked about how they'd also lost trees during the stormy weather.

By the time we returned home, I was sore from all the bending, stretching, and hauling, but I also felt peace after being out in the country, communing with nature and spending time with our neighbors.

While there was a whole lot of shaking going on, and the storms knocked down tree branches and limbs, the storms also left behind easy pickings for wildlife.

I believe from time-to-time it's necessary to shake things up and change. And so, the cycle of life continues. Storms pass and leave their marks, but goodness and bounty prevail.

When Riding a Zip Line Watch Out for the Noodle

Last Friday, my sister Kathleen and I, along with some of her former co-workers and 50 other brave souls, met bright and early at the YMCA in O'Fallon, MO, for a bus trip to the Trout Lodge at the YMCA of the Ozarks in Potosi, MO.

The day started out great. The early morning weather was sunny and mild with just a hint of clouds. Before we boarded the bus, our hosts at the Y provided fruit juice, bottled water, and brown paper sacks of snacks for our trip.

Due to an accident on the highway, the bus ride took longer than expected, but we enjoyed a movie on the way.

Because of our late arrival, Kathleen and I weren't able to participate in the GEO-caching event that had already begun. In a nutshell, the task involves taking a GPS tracker and making your way through the woods using longitude and latitude markings to find landmarks. Maybe next time.

Instead, we joined some friends for a pontoon ride around the lake. Our pontoon driver/guide was enthusiastic and knowledgeable. She pointed out special features of the lodge, the horse trail ride path, and the location of a pair of eagles' nest. Her passion came through as we rode across the lake.

During lunch, the weather took a turn for nasty, but we were safely inside the glassed-in dining room, with a spectacular view of the lake, as hummingbirds flitted about their feeders and lightning zigzagged across the dark sky.

Also during lunch we debated if we should try the zip lines. We decided if it rained we wouldn't do it. By the time we finished eating, the sun reappeared and clouds fluttered away -- so did our excuse.

Our group of ten was last to go, so after walking about half a mile to the launch site, we were able to observe the first group and get some tips before getting harnessed up and ready to soar.

When Kathleen took to the platform I watched for her reaction. For years she's wanted to try zip-riding, but has been talked out of it. But after seeing men and women in the first group in ages ranging from their 40s to their 80s take to the platform, she worked up her courage, and so did I.

After putting on a helmet, we were instructed to run from a platform down an incline, where we would be launched. After a successful first trip she was handed a noodle to try and hit a red-white-and-blue target at the end of the ride. After hitting the target, she returned with a huge smile and a thumbs up.

So far, so good.


My first trip was amazing. I ran off the platform and down the incline and was lifted into the sky. My ride lasted only a few minutes, but the view was lovely. Zipping past evergreens and the winding trail below, I had a great view of the dogwoods in bloom.

Not to be outdone by my sister, I decided to try my luck at hitting the target with a noodle and opted for blue to match my helmet. Just before my ride began I asked for final instructions on how to hold the noodle while also holding onto the rope.


Um. I was so focused on my hands I forgot about my feet. I made it off the platform then stumbled on the incline.

I scraped the top of my right foot and twisted my left knee--the one I've had surgery on. Ouch!

But I persevered. Although my dignity took a hit, I held onto the noodle, swatted but missed, the target, and finished the ride.

After removing my helmet and harness and being treated for a flesh wound, I hobbled back to the lodge. My knee swelled up, and it has been painful to walk on, and much to my disappointment I missed the Heart Walk on Saturday.

You might wonder: Would she do it again?

Yep. I would. It was an amazing experience, a feeling of gliding through the fresh air among tall trees with the ground below.

But next time I think I'll skip the noodle.

When Actions Speak Louder than Words

As soon as my grandson got off school Friday afternoon, my husband picked him up and they drove to our 89-plus acre "farm" to get ready to turkey hunt -- and search for morel mushrooms.

Saturday was opening day of turkey season, always an exciting time for the guys, but there was an incident on Friday that deeply troubled my husband.

Friday evening, while walking our property searching for morel mushrooms (on left), hubby found a turkey blind with decoys hidden behind a log in the woods on our property. About fifty yards away from the hidden blind, my grandson spotted a dead coyote that appeared to have been shot earlier that day.

Apparently, trespassers had come onto our property Friday and set up their turkey blind so they could be ready for Saturday morning, but while they were there they shot a coyote -- out of season.

To say my husband was angry is an understatement. He hadn't given anyone permission to hunt our property that weekend. He confiscated the turkey blind and decoys and took them to our farmhouse.

Later that night he was so upset he couldn't sleep. So, he hopped in his pickup, drove to the spot in the woods, and used his flashlight to find the coyote carrion. He then dragged the carcass and placed in front of the spot where the poachers had set up their turkey blind.

I can only imagine the looks on the poachers'  faces when they arrived at their hidden blind early Saturday morning. While hubby didn't send a Godfather's dead-horse-in-the-bed warning to the poachers, he got his message across.

My guys didn't shoot any Toms (they only saw a few hens) over the weekend, but they came home with a story that I'm sure my grandson will one day tell his own grandchildren.

Not Your Mother's Book: On Being a Mom Is Out -- and I'm In It!

Yesterday on the front porch I did a happy dance (actually it was more of a stumble) as I carried into the house the box of my contributor copies of NYMB: On Being a Mom.

The Publishing Syndicate book, edited by Dahlynn McKowen, Ken McKowen, and Dianna Graveman, has 64 stories by moms about raising their families.

While I haven't read all the stories, many of those I did read were laugh-out-loud funny. Others were warm and humorous in a sweet kind of way. The cover depicts the sassy, yet humorous, tone of the stories in book--and the candid snapshots inside are great!

Julie, Erik, and me

On page 57 you'll find my true story, "A Hairy Situation," about a shopping adventure my sister Kathleen and I took with our sons while our daughters were in school.

Let's just say my towheaded, blue-eyed, four-year-old son, Walt (Erik), made the trip memorable.

You can find this photo of my daughter Julie, son Erik, and me on page 60 of the anthology.

Next month, just in time for Mother's Day, several local contributors, including editor Dianna Graveman and yours truly, will be signing copies of the anthology at a sponsored event.

If you can't make it to the signing and would like to purchase a copy signed by me, send an e-mail to dvolkenannt (at) charter.net and I'll provide details.

Dreaming Impossible Dreams

Last Saturday night I went to see "Man of La Mancha" at the Peabody Opera House in St. Louis. A very generous friend had an extra ticket and invited me watch the play with her.

When the entire cast sang "The Quest" ("The Impossible Dream") reprise at the end of the play, I got chills--on top of the ones I had in the rather cool opera house.

Since then I've been singing "The Impossible Dream." Off-key and softly, except when no one is around I sing loudly--like in the shower.

The play and song got me to thinking about my impossible dreams.

As an adult, my first was to get my college degree. I started off as an 18-year old at night school at UMSL, while working as a civilian clerk-stenographer for the Army. I quit college when I got married and moved to Illinois. More than a decade later I returned, again at night, after my children were in school. It wasn't easy, studying, raising a family, working full-time. Then my husband's job moved us around.

In Sierra Vista, AZ, I enrolled in Cochise Community College. Love the name! After less than a year, onto Germany and classes with the University of Maryland. After three years of study I needed 12 credits to complete my BS in Business and Management. Then we were moved again. I finished up my last credits with Park College, which held classes at Fort Bliss, TX. Those last credits transferred to the University of Maryland so I could complete my degree requirements. In 1986 -- 20 years after high school graduation --I received my college degree. Impossible dream accomplished!

My second impossible dream was to get serious about my writing. Dare I dream to one day get published and paid for writing? That happened in the 1990s after my children were grown and I joined a critique group. I met a great group of writers, many of whom I'm still friends with this day. Their encouragement, love, and sharing of wisdom and knowledge helped me achieve my writing dream.

For the past nine years my most important and most personal quest has been to raise my grandchildren to become happy, healthy, and self-sufficient adults. They were ten and six when they came to live with us after their parents had their fatal accident nine years ago this month. My grandchildren have grown from grief-stricken orphans into loving and caring young adults. I'm sure their parents would be proud of them; I sure am.

I've chased a few windmills and slain a few monsters along the way. Perhaps, like Don Quixote, I've even acted a bit mad at times during my quests. But it all has been worth it!

How about you? What impossible dreams have you accomplished?

Watching the Cardinals Win, Home from Bunker Hill and the Winner of Baker Mountain

Last week was busy and a ton of fun, but somehow time got away from me.

I had intended to post the name of the winner of Baker Mountain on October 3, but life got in the way of my good intentions.

The winner's name is posted at the end of this here's-my-excuse-for-posting-late ramble.

Wednesday I got a call from Las Vegas from a very generous writer-friend, who was returning to St. Louis around midnight.

She is a season ticket holder for the St. Louis Cardinals and had some extra tickets to the Cardinals first playoff game. She knows what big Cardinal fans my grandchildren and I are. A few weeks ago I mentioned that Cari and I made it to one game this year with her Irish dance studio, but the only game Michael got to was the game he went to on a school field trip for being on Safety Patrol.

"Would you like to go to the game tomorrow?" she asked. "I have some extra tickets."

"Are you kidding? Of course!"

"Great!" she answered.

We chatted for awhile before I thought to ask.

"How much are they?"

"Don't worry about it," she said.

I told her how good she has been to me and my family and how grateful I was for her thoughtfulness -- not only was she giving me tickets to the Cardinals playoff game, she had let us use her beach house in South Carolina for a week in June.

Did I mention she is very generous?

So, on Thursday I picked up Michael right after school. We grabbed a quick meal before heading down to the ballpark for the 4 p.m. game, where we scouted for a parking place before picking up tickets at the Will Call booth. 

As we entered the stadium, we were given rally towels, which we waved frequently during the Cardinals 9-1 win. It was hot that day and supposed to rain. I brought a jacket and an umbrella. Thankfully I didn't need either. It was a perfect evening.

During the game I offered to buy my friend something to eat or to drink. "No, thanks," she said.  While there was no way I could repay her generosity, she graciously let me buy her a bottle of water.

Michael and I had a wonderful time at the ballgame. We have a special memory, one I'm sure Michael will remember until he's my age or older--and the Cardinals brought home a winner. I'm hoping they'll win two more to move on in the playoffs.

Friday was occupied with getting ready for my trip to the Missouri State Teachers Association third annual Creative Retreat at Bunker Hill, Missouri, on the Jacks Fork River in the heart of the Ozarks.

Last fall, while I was a speaker at a writing conference in Columbia,  I was invited by the managing editor of the MSTA magazine to be a presenter during this year's retreat.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd taught adults before on my government jobs, at writers' conferences, and a college seminar, but teaching teachers? I was a bit anxious. Teachers are so smart. What if they asked a question about writing I couldn't answer? I planned and organized my material, prepared handouts and hoped for the best.

My publisher-friend Lou was also invited to be a speaker. Friday afternoon Lou and her husband Squeak arrived at my house, where Squeak and my husband Walt loaded up my VW Passat. Well, almost everything got put in my car--but that's another story.

On the drive down to Bunker Hill, Lou told me a friend of hers called right before she left to warn us to be careful because we would be driving through "Winter's Bone" country, where if someone tells you they're a cook, they're more of a cook like Walter White than a fry cook at McDonald's. We didn't she any sketchy characters or run across any meth labs, but we did see lots of strange colored mushrooms--more about them on another day.

I had a wonderful time during the retreat. It was a full schedule and I met some amazing and talented writers, who happen to be teachers. Teachers really are smart, but they also are very kind. Before we left I took  time to take photos which I'll share on another post.

Now, for the big announcement. 

 

The winner selected at random to win a copy of BAKER MOUNTAIN is:

LISA RICARD CLARO

So, Lisa, please e-mail me at dvolkenannt @ charter.net (without the spaces) with your address so I can get Doyle's book in the mail to you.

Hope you're all enjoying this lovely fall weather--and Go, Cards!

The Importance of Transitions in Writing and in Life

Writers know how important transitions are to make their words flow smoothly so readers can understand what they are trying to communicate and don't get lost. According to the Writing Center at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, "transitions glue our ideas and our essays together."

In my little corner of the world, the past few days have been a time of major transitions. For us, the love of family and the kindness of friends have been the glue that has kept us together.

Last Thursday my grandson attended Freshman Transition Day at his new high school.

Being a shy kid, the thought of switching from a small Catholic elementary school to a large public high school has been intimidating. On the drive to his new school, he and his best friend from grade school told me how nervous they were.

By the time I picked them up three hours later, they told me how much fun they had and how they can't wait to start their new high school.

During transition day, my grandson met other students, found his way to his locker and classes, had a teacher/coach invite him to try out for a team, and even talked to some girls. His transition day was a big hit!

First-day jitters is the last hurdle he has to overcome: riding the school bus and maneuvering through his first lunch period, but experiencing transition day has made that prospect less daunting.

And he isn't the only one making a major change this month.

Yesterday, my granddaughter began her trek to college, where it's Rush Week for coeds interested in Greek Life and thinking about joining a sorority.

After a quick breakfast, my husband and grandson loaded her car and mine. We barely fit her stuff into two cars with room for two of us in each vehicle; I wondered how she would fit everything in her half of the dorm room.

Oops, they're not called dorms anymore; they're called residence halls.

On the 100-mile drive, she and I had a good talk. Mostly, I listened, and we both shed some tears. To keep her eyes dry while she drove, I read out loud a few pages from Start Something that Matters by Blake Mycoskie, creator of the TOMS shoe company.

She had already started reading the book but needs to have it finished for a group discussion the first week at school -- and I'm always happy to read and learn, especially if it's something my grandchildren are reading and learning.

Upon arrival, we were directed to park in spots designated for 20-minute unloading. That's when the fun began. The scene was controlled chaos as students and family members unloaded cars, trucks, and vans then waited their turns to check in and haul everything up to their rooms.


Several hours later, with the help of her grandpa and "little" brother, who did most of the heavy lifting and moving of furniture, she was unpacked and ready to register for Greek Week.

After sharing a late lunch with the family of one of her good friends, we loaded the dolly, the empty suitcases, and the storage containers into my car for the trip home.

By 6 p.m., we said our farewells and shed even more tears as we watched her and her friend head off for their first Greek Life meeting and the beginning of a new chapter in her life.

Loving families, good friends, and smooth transitions; without them, we'd be lost.

A Day to Remember: Bastille Day, a Book Launch, and a New Heart

For many reasons, yesterday was a day to remember.

Historically, July 14 is Bastille Day, the day the French, and other countries, commemorate the conclusion of the French Revolution.

Locally, several writers celebrated the July 14 Well Versed 2013 book launch with the Columbia Chapter of the Missouri Writers Guild at the Unity Center in Columbia, Missouri. The Sunday afternoon event brought out writers, friends, and family members.

Lynn, Marcia, Donna, Sheree, Linda

For the drive to the launch, I carpooled with Sheree, Marcia, and Lynn, three other Well Versed contributors.

The room was crowded, and several chairs had to be added to accommodate attendees. One of Lynn's grade-school classmates showed up for the event, along with Lynn's critique group pals Sioux and Tammy. Sioux took several photos, including the one on the left.

During the celebration, editor Linda Fisher announced the names of the Judges' Picks in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. She also handed out certificates to winners and honorable mentions. Afterwards, several contributors read and signed books; conversations were friendly and snacks plentiful.

During the drive, Lynn, Sheree, Marcia, and I chatted and shared stories about our lives and how we met our husbands. I also told them about how anxious I was because of a call I received that morning.

For my family, July 14 is a day to remember because my sister-in-law has a new heart.

After months of hospital stays, setbacks, hopes, waiting and praying, yesterday morning my brother received a call to be at the hospital around 10 a.m. The transplant team believed they had a perfect match, and if all went well my sister-in-law's surgery would be late in the afternoon or early evening. I thought about going to the hospital instead of the launch, but one of my sisters convinced me we might get in the way. Coincidentally, yesterday was the day of a special Mass for our sister-in-law's heart health.

During the book launch, I discretely checked my phone for news from home. On the return trip, I received a call that surgery was a go for the evening. Late last night I received another call that, according to the surgeon, everything went "splendidly."

This morning when I spoke with my brother, we talked about how it truly was a miracle that his wife now has a strong, young heart, and how grateful we all are for the God-given talent of the surgeon and the medical team, for the generosity of the organ donor's family, but especially to God for the gifts he gives that others share.

So, yesterday will be a day I will remember -- for the book launch and for spending an afternoon with several writing friends, but most of all I will remember July 14, 2013 as the day one family's organ donation gave my sister-in-law a new heart and a second chance on life.