Never give up on Hope, even when Hope appears to have given up on you.
Just when it seems Hope is gone for good, she reappears.
Just when it seems Hope is gone for good, she reappears.
The official blog of Denise M. Baran-Unland, author. Discover her books for all ages at bryonyseries.com.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Throwback Thursday: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Gasps
Thursday, April 21, 2011
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Gasps
Long night, short rest, and big deadlines today!
Over the next few days, I'll share the details of last night's filming of the Bryony book trailer and the Bryony music video.
But for today, we'll let the pictures tell the story.
Over the next few days, I'll share the details of last night's filming of the Bryony book trailer and the Bryony music video.
But for today, we'll let the pictures tell the story.
 |
| Christopher Blankenship on set of the Bryony book trailer. |
 |
| A sinister view as James Onohan gets into his role as John Simons. |
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| Josh Siegers working with Rebekah Baran during filming for the Bryony book trailer. |
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| James Onohan as himself in Victorian clothing for the filming of the "Bryony" music video. |
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| Christopher Blankenship as John Simons and Rebekah Baran as Melissa Marchellis during shooting for the Bryony book trailer. |
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| James Onohan Playing "Bryony." To view the complete album visit http://www.facebook.com/BryonySeries. Click on photos and then the album P. Seth Magosky Museum of Victorian Life. |
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Some Cool Vampire Art, Story Links (Finally), and Back to Work
Talk about resolve going out the window!
Yesterday, at the very least, I was going to keep up with email, edit briefs, and post Thursday's budget. Needless to say, I did none of the above, and I am now very much behind. At last glance, I think I have 400 emails (head THUNK).
I did, however, have an awesome day off, and made some nice progress on chapter 7. (smile).
It's been a week since I've posted story links, so those are below...along with some very cool vampire art. Enjoy!
Joliet Junior Women's Club to host dinner in cornfield at Siegels Cottonwood Farm
At night. With a bonfire. And a s'mores station. And corn right from the field. All for charity.
Minooka man brings joy of summer camp to foster children
Former foster father and school superintendent does more than provide swimming and crafts.
Keeping customers happy for 50 years
After fixing a loose tube in an amp for a shop owner, this Manhattan man embarked on a career of building and repairing guitars...and he's still going strong. Cool video by Chris LaFortune, too. Check it out! :)
Joliet's Brothers of Soul celebrates 40 years
Interviewed these guys in person. Boy, did I have fun talking to them! :) They are more than just about the ride. Read on!
She lit up a room
Talk about true love. This story inspired me to the depth of my soul. So thankful to Bill Warren for sharing it.
Local fire departments receive donatinos of pet oxygen masks from Invisible Fence Brand
Most have not had to use them...yet. But they will make a difference if that happens. Here's why.
Three area women share individual experiences with brain tumors
By Jeanne Millsap
None of which are alike.
JJC to host second farm to fork dinner featuring locally grown food
Outside again, with the opportunity to meet the farmers that produced the food that will be on your plate.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Say It With "Show"
Nothing quite sums up a situation, personality, emotion etc. than simply presenting the facts and allowing the reader to draw his own conclusions. Consider some passages from Before the Blood:
"You appear out of sorts today, Master John." Helsby sat down opposite, folded his hands on the table, and leaned forward with a sympathetic smile as John translated a Michel de Montaigne essay from the original French into his copy book. "Perhaps you'd like to confide in me. They say a trouble shared is a trouble..."
Nurse promptly
abandoned him at the drawing room door, which she quickly shut behind him. In a
haze of Havana smoke gathered New York's financial moguls flanked by their
tightly laced wives, and these women, in their House of Worth gowns, simultaneously
and disapprovingly, raised their lorgnettes at the boy's intrusion into their
society.
The door opened and a slouched man, slight in
height and stout in width, about seventy, and wrapped in a full cape, handed
Gibbs his wide-brimmed hat, swiped the door knob with a gloved finger, and
scornfully appraised the room.
"You may fancy
yourself a master once you compose your own celebrated Missa solemnis," Maestro coldly
replied as John shook his smarting hand. "Until then, add your
embellishments to what you play best, the scales."
He contented himself by pretending to enjoy the
view, but his fingers spoke the truth by intensifying their grip on the crude
seat at every jolt and bump.
Inside, John led the way through the dark
building and up the darker staircase with Helsby close behind him, carrying a
candle.
Just as John was about to turn the door handle, he
heard faint squeals from his father's chambers further down the hall. His hand
froze and then pulled back.
Despite a quaking belly, clammy palms, and breaths that came
a bit too quickly, Helsby couldn't resist staring into the distance, jutting
his chin, and grinning.
John slammed the door behind him. For a moment,
he stood, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, breathing heavy.
Nora's lips pursed in concentration, as she slid her hand
down the chimney, gripped it in her slim hand, and gently twisted it back into
place.
The breeze that fluttered the curtain was cooler
today, a sure sign autumn was snuffing out the last breath of a summer that
needed to die. John raised the lid and sampled the buckwheat cakes without really tasting them.
John took a step
forward, and the girl took one back.
John sat in the corner and
greeted eighteen eighty-two with a bottle of champagne and a heart of steel.
"Frightful affair, isn't?"
Mortimer said from across the table, to no one in particular. "Another
evening of dyspepsia, thank you Pierre."
Head to forehead, face furrowed in deep thought,
Abbott never looked up until John lifted a paperweight off the desk and let it
drop. Abbott leaped to his feet, shoved the account books aside, and
frantically examined the desk for nicks and scratches.
And finally:
"You appear out of sorts today, Master John." Helsby sat down opposite, folded his hands on the table, and leaned forward with a sympathetic smile as John translated a Michel de Montaigne essay from the original French into his copy book. "Perhaps you'd like to confide in me. They say a trouble shared is a trouble..."
"Fuck
off."
Monday, September 1, 2014
"They Who Tread the Path of Labor" by Henry Van Dyke
THEY WHO TREAD THE PATH OF LABOR
By Henry Van Dyke
(1852-1933)
(1852-1933)
They who tread the path of labor follow where My feet have trod;
They who work without complaining, do the holy will of God;
Nevermore thou needest seek Me; I am with thee everywhere;
Raise the stone, and thou shalt find Me, clease the wood and I am there.
Where the many toil together, there am I among My own;
Where the tired workman sleepeth, there am I with him alone:
I, the Peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the daily strife;
I, the Bread of Heav'n am broken in the sacrement of life.
Every task, however simple, sets the soul that does it free;
Every deed of love and mercy, done to man is done to Me.
Nevermore thou needest seek Me; I am with thee everywhere;
Raise the stone, and thou shalt find Me; cleave the wood, and I am there
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers
To Melissa, pickles
meant dilled cucumbers on hot dogs and hamburgers, but the Rutherfords
picked everything in sight. First, the spiced vinegar for pickling:
Spiced Vinegar for Pickling
3 gallons vinegar
1 tablespoon alum
1 teacup salt
Pepper
Gingerroot
Spices
Pickling hints: Never allow vinegar to cool in copper, bell
metal, or brass vessels, as it is poisonous. Keep pickles only in wood or stone
ware. Do not keep pickles in common earthenware, as the glazing contains lead and
combines with the vinegar. Anything that has held grease will spoil pickles.
Stir pickles occasionally, and if there are soft ones, takes them out and scald
the vinegar, and pour it hot over the pickles. Keep enough vinegar to cover
them. If it is weak, take fresh vinegar and pour on hot. Do not boil vinegar or
spices over 5 minutes.
To Pickle Peaches
Take ripe, but hard, peaches, wipe off the down, stick a few
cloves into them, and lay them in cold, spiced vinegar. In three months they
will be sufficiently pickled, while retaining much of their natural flavor.
To Pickle Peppers
Carefully remove seeds from green peppers, so as not to
mangle them. Soak them nine days in salt and water, changing it ever day, and
keep them in a warm place. Stuff them with chopped cabbage, seasoned with
cloves, cinnamon, and mace; put them in cold spiced vinegar.
Pickled Walnuts
100 nuts
1 ounce cloves
1 ounce allspice
1 ounce nutmeg
1 ounce of whole pepper
1 ounce race ginger
1 ounce horseradish
½ pint mustard seed, tied in a bag
4 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons salt
Vinegar
Wipe the nuts, prick with a pin, and put them in a pot,
sprinkling with the spice as you lay them in; then add salt; boil sufficient vinegar to fill the pot
and pour over the nuts and spices. Keep for a year in a covered jar, then
pickles will be ready for use. The vinegar makes an excellent catsup.
Fine Pickled Cabbage
Red cabbage
White cabbage
Salt
2 spoonfuls whole black pepper
The same quantity of allspice, cinnamon, and cloves, in a
bag
2 quarts vinegar
Shred cabbages, spread it in layers in a stone jar, with
salt over each layer. Scald pepper and spices in vinegar and pour the vinegar
over the cabbage, and tightly cover for two days.
Pickled Beef Tongue
Beef, pork, tongues or hung beef
4 gallons water
1 ½ pounds sugar or molasses
2 ounces saltpetre
6-9 pounds salt (depending on storage time)
2 ounces sugar
½ pound salt
Mix the meat in water, sugar or molasses, and saltpetre. If
it is to last a month or two, put in 6 pounds of salt; if you wish to keep it
over the summer, use 9 pounds of salt. Boil it all together gently, and skin,
and then let it cool. Put the meat in the vessel in which it is to stand, pour
the pickle on the meat until it is covered, and keep it for family use. Once in
2 months boil and skim the pickle, and throw in 2 ounces of sugar and ½ pound
of salt. When tongues and hung beef are taken out, wash and dry the pieces, put
them in paper bags, and hang in a dry, warm place. In very hot weather, rub the
meat well with salt before it is put in the pickle, and let it lie 3 hours for
the bloody portion to run out. Too much saltpetre is injurious.
From "Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles From 'Bryony'"
All proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and
Grundy Counties. www.bbbswillgrundy.org
Order the cookbook at www.bryonyseries.com/Dalton_s_Dry_Goods.html
Saturday, August 30, 2014
While Ed Calkins is Silent, Let's Have a Little Throwback
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Candy Canes and Irish Vampires
Yes, Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, dressed in an Old World Father Christmasy hat and carrying a bucket of candy canes, was already making his jolly rounds when I, huge mug of coffee in MY hand, arrived at the distribution center at one o'clock this morning.
It's been over a year since Ed last worked at this particular location and just several months since I've stopped delivering newspapers, yet the return was a joyful one for both, especially me, since I'm still in withdrawel. I have these moments, suppressed, of course, where I want to ride around at night--windows down and radio cranked up--throwing things (ideally newspapers) out of windows.
Ed and rival supervisor Dan resumed their plans to take over certain countries with insulting limericks, and one female carrier entered to the loud cry from Ed she (mistakenly) assumed she'd never hear again: "All, hail, Audrey the Magnificent!"
Of course, Ed showed the proper respect by virtue of his former nickname for me (Newspaper Goddess), by genuflecting, head bowed, to offer me a candy, the very pose assumed every day when he brought me my route book.
Now, having immortalized him and all, my nickname is Mistress of Immortality or MOM. Yes, I know it doesn't match, but Ed is horribly dyslexic, so it works for him. FYI: Any blog postings he sends are thoroughly edited by me, keeping in mind my copyediting skills are less than stellar.
Saturdays are a notoriously slow day. Carriers, the ones that still run on Saturdays, arrive late and leave late. Ed still had to drive an hour back to HIS distribution center to run a route. Still, I sold, and he signed, a few books. To catch the attention of sleepy carriers pushing grocery carts full of inserts back to their tables, Ed would stop them and point to his picture on page one hundred and ninety-three.
Periodically, he would stop, grinning, and excitedly say, "We're really doing this. Remember when we only talked about signing books at the center?" Before I could do more than smile and nod, Ed was showing a carrier where his name appeared in Bryony, then add the exhortation to look for the parade in his honor some thousand years hence.
I chatted to a couple of carriers who were a little envious--in a good way--of my having completed an entire book. One, a musician, is writing his autobiography, but got stuck one hundred and fifty-five pages into it. The other, a former Chicago teachers, has an idea for a screen play, but can't get the words out.
Both marveled how I, with homeschooled kids, other writing assignments, and throwing papers at night, managed to write an entire book. I told them my lap goes with me everywhere I go.
"Oh, so you wrote it all the computer?"
Well, yes, eventually. I also wrote bursts of inspiration on backs of old envelopes, margins of books, and myriads of tiny notebooks, really any form of paper within reach. I also had to utilize random bits of time, which is the way I really dislike to write, but when it's the only available time...well, that's when you have to stay true to your goals.
Ed then told me a story about how is granddaughter is beginning to not believe he is REALLY Santa Claus and wondering if his credibility will be shot if he tells her Santa is also a vampire.
"Especially the first Irish vampire," Ed said.
One of the supervisors, who is generally quiet and whom I did not expect to wander near our make-shift work station book "store," spent some time flipping through the Bryony, noting the research, and asking me how long it took me to compose it.
Even better, he made a couple allusions to the distribution center being "one of the seven levels of hell." Later, he referenced something back to "the library of Alexandria." Now my curious was piqued, and I hope an opportunity for conversation with him the next time I bring my teens down to stuff inserts. There's so much more to people than meets the eye, right?
And yes, he bought a book.
Ed took five back with him for family Christmas gifts this weekend and is coming back for twenty more next week. These will be a huge surprise, he said. Although he's told everyone in his large extended family that he is in a book, when you identify yourself as a ruthless dictator and create Celtic myths about yourself, your family tends to dismiss your other claims.
I jubilantly waved a book before him. "And now you have the proof."
He laughed. "Yes, now I have the proof!"
At three-thirty, Ed packed it up, worried about making HIS deadline, then paused.
"Can I hug you?" he asked.
LOL! Why, of course! Merry Christmas, O Ye Steward of Tara!
It's been over a year since Ed last worked at this particular location and just several months since I've stopped delivering newspapers, yet the return was a joyful one for both, especially me, since I'm still in withdrawel. I have these moments, suppressed, of course, where I want to ride around at night--windows down and radio cranked up--throwing things (ideally newspapers) out of windows.
Ed and rival supervisor Dan resumed their plans to take over certain countries with insulting limericks, and one female carrier entered to the loud cry from Ed she (mistakenly) assumed she'd never hear again: "All, hail, Audrey the Magnificent!"
Of course, Ed showed the proper respect by virtue of his former nickname for me (Newspaper Goddess), by genuflecting, head bowed, to offer me a candy, the very pose assumed every day when he brought me my route book.
Now, having immortalized him and all, my nickname is Mistress of Immortality or MOM. Yes, I know it doesn't match, but Ed is horribly dyslexic, so it works for him. FYI: Any blog postings he sends are thoroughly edited by me, keeping in mind my copyediting skills are less than stellar.
Saturdays are a notoriously slow day. Carriers, the ones that still run on Saturdays, arrive late and leave late. Ed still had to drive an hour back to HIS distribution center to run a route. Still, I sold, and he signed, a few books. To catch the attention of sleepy carriers pushing grocery carts full of inserts back to their tables, Ed would stop them and point to his picture on page one hundred and ninety-three.
Periodically, he would stop, grinning, and excitedly say, "We're really doing this. Remember when we only talked about signing books at the center?" Before I could do more than smile and nod, Ed was showing a carrier where his name appeared in Bryony, then add the exhortation to look for the parade in his honor some thousand years hence.
I chatted to a couple of carriers who were a little envious--in a good way--of my having completed an entire book. One, a musician, is writing his autobiography, but got stuck one hundred and fifty-five pages into it. The other, a former Chicago teachers, has an idea for a screen play, but can't get the words out.
Both marveled how I, with homeschooled kids, other writing assignments, and throwing papers at night, managed to write an entire book. I told them my lap goes with me everywhere I go.
"Oh, so you wrote it all the computer?"
Well, yes, eventually. I also wrote bursts of inspiration on backs of old envelopes, margins of books, and myriads of tiny notebooks, really any form of paper within reach. I also had to utilize random bits of time, which is the way I really dislike to write, but when it's the only available time...well, that's when you have to stay true to your goals.
Ed then told me a story about how is granddaughter is beginning to not believe he is REALLY Santa Claus and wondering if his credibility will be shot if he tells her Santa is also a vampire.
"Especially the first Irish vampire," Ed said.
One of the supervisors, who is generally quiet and whom I did not expect to wander near our make-shift work station book "store," spent some time flipping through the Bryony, noting the research, and asking me how long it took me to compose it.
Even better, he made a couple allusions to the distribution center being "one of the seven levels of hell." Later, he referenced something back to "the library of Alexandria." Now my curious was piqued, and I hope an opportunity for conversation with him the next time I bring my teens down to stuff inserts. There's so much more to people than meets the eye, right?
And yes, he bought a book.
Ed took five back with him for family Christmas gifts this weekend and is coming back for twenty more next week. These will be a huge surprise, he said. Although he's told everyone in his large extended family that he is in a book, when you identify yourself as a ruthless dictator and create Celtic myths about yourself, your family tends to dismiss your other claims.
I jubilantly waved a book before him. "And now you have the proof."
He laughed. "Yes, now I have the proof!"
At three-thirty, Ed packed it up, worried about making HIS deadline, then paused.
"Can I hug you?" he asked.
LOL! Why, of course! Merry Christmas, O Ye Steward of Tara!
Friday, August 29, 2014
Short, Sweet, and to the Point
A third proof copy of Staked! greeted me when I returned home from work last night.
First glance: The cover is perfect! THANK YOU, Christopher Gleason (front cover design), Sarah Stegall (back cover design), Cal Graphics (spine, assembly, and size adjustments) for something that is so unique, it draws me in...
Second glance: The interior art is far more dark than the interior art in Bryony and Visage, a decided and interesting contrast to deceptive brightness of the cover and the hilarity the protagonist seems to bring to the story. I say "deceptive" and "seems" because Staked! has more death than the other two books combined and has an uneasiness darkness below its surface. Well done, again, Christopher!
Third glance: I saw at least three pages where the formatting is still off, including one place where correct formatting is crucial. This won't delay the release too much. I'll mark the places, ask Sarah to fix them really fast, and then submit the files again to Createspace. I won't order another proof. Once Createspace approves the files, I'll release the book.
Unless I'm surprised by pestilence, frogs, and floods, we will have a book within the week. Thank you, vampire fans, for your patience.
First glance: The cover is perfect! THANK YOU, Christopher Gleason (front cover design), Sarah Stegall (back cover design), Cal Graphics (spine, assembly, and size adjustments) for something that is so unique, it draws me in...
Second glance: The interior art is far more dark than the interior art in Bryony and Visage, a decided and interesting contrast to deceptive brightness of the cover and the hilarity the protagonist seems to bring to the story. I say "deceptive" and "seems" because Staked! has more death than the other two books combined and has an uneasiness darkness below its surface. Well done, again, Christopher!
Third glance: I saw at least three pages where the formatting is still off, including one place where correct formatting is crucial. This won't delay the release too much. I'll mark the places, ask Sarah to fix them really fast, and then submit the files again to Createspace. I won't order another proof. Once Createspace approves the files, I'll release the book.
Unless I'm surprised by pestilence, frogs, and floods, we will have a book within the week. Thank you, vampire fans, for your patience.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Throwback Thursday: The Return of Family Chores
Monday, December 12, 2011
The Return of Family Chores
Up until a couple of years ago, when I began hiring other people to roll my newspapers, everyone in my household rose at midnight, ate breakfast, packed a lunch, and then departed to the distribution center.
When you have six kids, it's a simple, although highly organized process, to get fifteen hundred newspapers out the door seven days (nights?) a week. So even as my children grew up, moved away, married, etc., younger ones readily filled the gaps, that is, until Timothy began college, and the work crew began to thin out.
For a long time, midnight at my house resembled the early morning rush at others. Dishes clattered; the vacuum hummed; I was shouting to make sure everyone had been through the bathroom so I could clean it; lunch coolers and coffee thermoses were packed; and litter boxes were scooped. If it was winter, the van was warming up.
Not only did we have to get out the door when the rest of the world had comforters pulled up tp their noses, we had to complete all household chores first, since writing deadlines and homeschool assignments would be awaiting our return. Besides, few things are more demoralizing than braving the elements to throw hundreds of newspapers only to arrive home to a dirty, messy house.
As schedules shifted, I became the only one still tumbling out of bed at midnight. Even though Ron now brought my bagged papers home, I kept the routine, just in case someone called off, and I'd have to come in.
Besides, with the world asleep, the witching hour was the perfect writing time, since I wasn't fielding phone calls and emails (although my publicist and I had some incredibly productive three-thirty a.m. phone chats). I did the chores alone, reveling in the blissful quiet and the jotting down of mental notes for whatever story was on the monitor at the time.
Lately though, that routine has once again begun to shift. The last paper cut (Get it? Paper cut? Knee slap and chuckle) forever altered our paper carrier ways. We no longer could afford to put two large vans on the road, and the few newspapers Ron still delivers hardly feels worth his effort, not compared to the money it takes to run them. Still, even Ron is rarely up at midnight, although I still enjoy many hours of silent darkness before the rest of the world greets the new day.
Between working as a banquet cook and negotiating a full schedule as a culinary arts student, Timothy is coming home later and later, and Rebekah will get a taste of this schedule for the Spring 2012 semester when she embarks upon a four-hour cookie class. The candlelight breakfasts and noon hour Bible studies over farm-style dinners have morphed into Bible study over lighter candelight dinners, with chores following.
Now I would rather do housework at the top of my day, even if it is two a.m., than at the end of it, when I'm uncaffeinated and dragging, yet the advantages of tackling it at this hour exceed my natural inclination to ignore the clutter and proceed to shower and bed, and this is why.
It gives us an opportunity, as new ones outside our home increasingly beckon, to move together as a unit for a common purpose, and to delight in each other's company and the conversation that naturally ensues when hands and feet are occupied. Yes, we have our fair share (and then some) of grumbling and arguing (which can be accompanied by loud and strong language), for our days our long, and we are weary.
But there's something invigorating with moving about each other's orbit for an hour or so, before we again pull back into our individual rooms for the night. We're able to greet the new day with the house in order, no undone work staring you in the face, and knowing it was the combined efforts of the people that dwell together under one roof that accomplished it.
When you have six kids, it's a simple, although highly organized process, to get fifteen hundred newspapers out the door seven days (nights?) a week. So even as my children grew up, moved away, married, etc., younger ones readily filled the gaps, that is, until Timothy began college, and the work crew began to thin out.
For a long time, midnight at my house resembled the early morning rush at others. Dishes clattered; the vacuum hummed; I was shouting to make sure everyone had been through the bathroom so I could clean it; lunch coolers and coffee thermoses were packed; and litter boxes were scooped. If it was winter, the van was warming up.
Not only did we have to get out the door when the rest of the world had comforters pulled up tp their noses, we had to complete all household chores first, since writing deadlines and homeschool assignments would be awaiting our return. Besides, few things are more demoralizing than braving the elements to throw hundreds of newspapers only to arrive home to a dirty, messy house.
As schedules shifted, I became the only one still tumbling out of bed at midnight. Even though Ron now brought my bagged papers home, I kept the routine, just in case someone called off, and I'd have to come in.
Besides, with the world asleep, the witching hour was the perfect writing time, since I wasn't fielding phone calls and emails (although my publicist and I had some incredibly productive three-thirty a.m. phone chats). I did the chores alone, reveling in the blissful quiet and the jotting down of mental notes for whatever story was on the monitor at the time.
Lately though, that routine has once again begun to shift. The last paper cut (Get it? Paper cut? Knee slap and chuckle) forever altered our paper carrier ways. We no longer could afford to put two large vans on the road, and the few newspapers Ron still delivers hardly feels worth his effort, not compared to the money it takes to run them. Still, even Ron is rarely up at midnight, although I still enjoy many hours of silent darkness before the rest of the world greets the new day.
Between working as a banquet cook and negotiating a full schedule as a culinary arts student, Timothy is coming home later and later, and Rebekah will get a taste of this schedule for the Spring 2012 semester when she embarks upon a four-hour cookie class. The candlelight breakfasts and noon hour Bible studies over farm-style dinners have morphed into Bible study over lighter candelight dinners, with chores following.
Now I would rather do housework at the top of my day, even if it is two a.m., than at the end of it, when I'm uncaffeinated and dragging, yet the advantages of tackling it at this hour exceed my natural inclination to ignore the clutter and proceed to shower and bed, and this is why.
It gives us an opportunity, as new ones outside our home increasingly beckon, to move together as a unit for a common purpose, and to delight in each other's company and the conversation that naturally ensues when hands and feet are occupied. Yes, we have our fair share (and then some) of grumbling and arguing (which can be accompanied by loud and strong language), for our days our long, and we are weary.
But there's something invigorating with moving about each other's orbit for an hour or so, before we again pull back into our individual rooms for the night. We're able to greet the new day with the house in order, no undone work staring you in the face, and knowing it was the combined efforts of the people that dwell together under one roof that accomplished it.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Character Development Through Dialogue and Circumstances
In "real" life, how do we get to know people?
We spend time with them, and part of that time consists of conversation, in situations that feel natural and unstilted. We may or may not reflect on what we are observing and hearing, depending on the people involved and the unfolding events. That is what it means to "show" the reader and not "tell" them.
Consider the two excerpts from Before the Blood. One sets a plausible stage; the other provides the enlightenment.
We spend time with them, and part of that time consists of conversation, in situations that feel natural and unstilted. We may or may not reflect on what we are observing and hearing, depending on the people involved and the unfolding events. That is what it means to "show" the reader and not "tell" them.
Consider the two excerpts from Before the Blood. One sets a plausible stage; the other provides the enlightenment.
The following June
brought bad news. Auntie Eleanor sent a telegram that Mama Prudie had suddenly
died and insisted Lucetta and John be dispatched on the next train to New
Haven. Abbott shared the news with John over breakfast the next morning.
John choked,
hastily set down his coffee, and slid the napkin from its porcelain ring.
"You never
told them?" John said, when he regained his breath.
"No reason to
tell them." Abbot sliced into his ham, raised a forkful to his mouth,
noticed John's indignance, and lowered it again.
"Fine, I did mention she was ill and
under the care of New York's finest physicians." Abbott reached for the
peppermill and gave his omelet a generous sprinkling. "Do you think me a
scoundrel? I can't fix it; they can't fix it. It's kinder this way."
"So I'm
staying home?" John returned to his breakfast. Nurse had retired to her
sister's Boston home early in the spring, so even that option was not available
to him.
"No, you're
leaving tomorrow. Helsby will accompany you."
(FYI: His tutor, Mr. Andrew Helsby from lower Manhattan,
a foppish sort in corduroy jacket, well-coiffured tower of scented curls, and homespun breeches tucked inside a sturdy set
of boots...).
The next day,
standing on the bustling terminal, John had to remind himself that the reason
behind the journey was a grim one, so elated was he at freedom from Maestro's
obsessive admonishments. Beside him, Helsby carried the lunch box in one hand,
the large water jar in the other, and the morning edition of the New York
Gazette under one arm.
Gazing happily
around him, Helsby puffed out his chest, inhaled deeply, and exclaimed,
"What a perfect day for an excursion!"
The locomotive responded with a loud hiss of
steam. John glanced at his tutor. Helsby's eyes were dancing as they roamed about
the platform. John couldn't understand such animation for a simple four-hour
jaunt until a sudden thought came to him.
"Ever ride on
a train, Helsby?"
Still smiling,
Helsby bent close to John's ear.
"Never."
A giggle escaped Helsby lips, and he quickly masked it with a cough.
"First time."
"Well, man. pull
yourself together," John whispered, looking around with a sharp eye. "It's
undignified."
But Helsby's
fascination continued as they boarded the train. He bowed at everyone he passed
and ran his hands over the chair fabrics once they had settled in their seats. They
had barely left New York City when Helsby assumed the role of town crier.
"Master John,
listen to this. The attorney general has asked the treasury for accounts Brigham
Young filed twelve years ago."
John said nothing.
He'd read that item in last night's evening edition.
"Illegal
trading with Indians, it seems." Helsby turned a page. "Railroad laborers
are considering striking."
John stifled an
irritated sigh and turned his attention to the blurring tracks.
"Wages cut
again."
"I
heard."
A rustling of
paper, silence, and then Helsby's voice rang out, "Edison's done it again,
invented a machine that talks."
"I know."
"Ah!
He nudged John's
shoulder and then held out the newspaper for John to see. Perplexed, John read,
"Officials in Washington want to offer Sitting Bull immunity?"
Helsby's face fell,
and he impatiently tapped an advertisement.
"This one,"
he said.
John began again. "Grand
concert by the celebrated Gilmore Brass Band. Every Sunday afternoon. Free
admission.'" He pushed the newspaper away. "Who cares?"
"I care. I can
take my girl."
The insult John was
ready to level against the celebrated Gilmore and his Brass Band died on his
lips. Domestics had a separate life outside their service to the household? The
concept was one he had never fully considered. Stunned, John regarded his tutor
with this fresh insight.
"You have a
girl, Helsby?
"I do. And her
father lets me see her every Sunday afternoon."
"Well, good
for you," John said with a short laugh. Imagine that. Helsby. In love.
With a girl.
"Thank
you." Helsby turned another page. "'A Pictorial History of the World.
Six hundred and seventy-two fine engravings.' How I long to own this book."
"Why?"
An image rose in
John's mind of the library at home, a large room with thousands of titles. It
had never occurred to John to actually buy a book. When he wanted one to read,
he just walked to the west wing and selected one.
"What do you
mean, 'why?' I like to learn things. Don't you?"
"I should
think you'd want to abandon the schoolmaster's role for a spell."
"It's not
about a role. It's curiosity about the world. If I had the money, I'd send for
a copy straight away."
"So do
it." John once again turned his attention to the window. "My father
pays you generously."
"I couldn't possibly, not in good
conscience."
"Why
not?"
"My pay goes
to Mums. Father ran away six years ago, and she's not in good health."
Stunned again, John
faced Helsby. "You're supporting a family?"
"Only until my
younger brother is old enough for charity school. Then Mums will return to
Rhode Island. She still has family there."
"You say that
so casually." John thought of Lucetta, alone in her chambers, talking to
plants, and the fact that he would no longer take a trip under her care. "Won't
you...?"
"Miss her?
Certainly, but it's preferable to her dying in a tenement."
Truth, as John knew
truth, was peeling back its layers to reveal another truth, stark and blunt.
How astounding that beneath the worn clothes in the adjacent chair lived an
actual man, one with hopes and dreams and longings and aspirations. John
reflected on the financial empire Abbott had built and the musical one he was
constructing. He couldn't imagine applying Herculean effort toward teaching.
"But...tutoring? Why Helsby?"
"The money, of
course...and a natural aptitude for it, I suppose. Before working for your
father, I actually served as headmaster for a small school in
Cooperstown."
Helsby folded the
newspaper, slid it down the arm chair, and then reached for the lunch tin on
the floor.
"Well, I'm
famished." Helsby opened the box and tipped it toward John.
"Sandwich?"
Crest Hill studio teaches yoga to seniors
By Jeanne Millsap
Twists, contortions and magnificent feats of limbs is not just for the young. When modified, yoga possess great benefits for the over 50 crowd (like me!), too.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Dibs and Dabs
A second proof copy of Staked! is ordered and on the way. If the formatting is correct this time, we will release the book. Hoping!
Work and family obligations prevented any substantial fiction writing until mid-Saturday afternoon, and, even then, much of it was research. The prose never started flowing until nine o'clock that night, so actual writing time was less than hoped. Still, the research is a crucial component of the story and cannot be ignored.
Church, work and family obligations ruled on Sunday, too. However, Rebekah and I did manage to sneak in an episode of Once Upon a Time.
And that, folks, was my weekend. Crunching week ahead with Labor Day weekend deadlines.
Readers, I hope your weekend was fantastic and the next seven days even more so.
An Extraordinary Life: Caring, loving, merciful - Channahon teacher, farmer exemplified her Catholic faith
And she did it by following key advice from her father.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/18/an-extraordinary-life-caring-loving-merciful/a3ihgfe/
Local residents support national petition against confining animals in vehicles
Illinois already has laws in place - as do 14 other states - but this petition calls for action in all 50.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/20/local-residents-support-national-petition-against-confining-animals-in-vehicles/ardgnxb/
Work and family obligations prevented any substantial fiction writing until mid-Saturday afternoon, and, even then, much of it was research. The prose never started flowing until nine o'clock that night, so actual writing time was less than hoped. Still, the research is a crucial component of the story and cannot be ignored.
Church, work and family obligations ruled on Sunday, too. However, Rebekah and I did manage to sneak in an episode of Once Upon a Time.
And that, folks, was my weekend. Crunching week ahead with Labor Day weekend deadlines.
Readers, I hope your weekend was fantastic and the next seven days even more so.
An Extraordinary Life: Caring, loving, merciful - Channahon teacher, farmer exemplified her Catholic faith
And she did it by following key advice from her father.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/18/an-extraordinary-life-caring-loving-merciful/a3ihgfe/
Local residents support national petition against confining animals in vehicles
Illinois already has laws in place - as do 14 other states - but this petition calls for action in all 50.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/20/local-residents-support-national-petition-against-confining-animals-in-vehicles/ardgnxb/
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Not Your Typical Picnic Fare
One afternoon, as Melissa stepped into the hallway following another
dreadful tea, John strolled from the music room and ordered Bryga to pack a
supper basket
“I’m taking Mrs. Simons on a picnic,” he said. “We won’t return for
dinner.”
Bryony, Chapter 24: "It's No Uuse"
Melissa is thrilled when John finally
invites her to a picnic away from the mansion, just the two of them. Of course,
John feels Bryga packed enough food to feed them for a week, but even that careless
remark couldn’t completely dampen Melissa’s excitement of being alone with
John.
Cold Beef Stewed with
Apples
Beef, cut into thin slices
Butter
Apple, sliced fine
Salt
Pepper
Onion (optional)
Rub a stew pan with butter and put in sliced beef with
pepper, salt, and apple; some would add a little onion. Cover it tight and stew
until tender.
From 'Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles From 'Bryony'"
All proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and
Grundy Counties. www.bbbswillgrundy.org
Order the cookbook at www.bryonyseries.com/Dalton_s_Dry_Goods.html
New Lenox man hopeful for heart transplant
Yes, the six-month vacation is past, but hopefully that means good things for Robert Strilko
And the earlier story...
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Friday, August 22, 2014
Guest Post by Ken McGee: Summertime In Sunny Severnaya
A member of WriteOn Joliet, this was Ken's rendition of an assignment for a topic simply called, "summer."
Summertime In Sunny
Severnaya
By Ken McGee
Taras Arkady rubbed his permanently
stained dirty hand through his matted heavy black beard. He lay on his back
under a thick goose-down comforter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee reached
his nostrils. He absentmindedly reached out and felt Marat, his Siberian husky,
lying next to him. When the sizzle of frying salo reached his ears, he moved
out from under the comforter and sat on the edge of the thin mattress on the
wooden bed frame. Marat jumped down and trotted into the cooking area only ten
feet away on the opposite wall of the windowless, one-room dwelling. Taras
groaned as he stretched his arms over his head. He turned back and forth in a
vain effort to loosen the stiff muscles of his back. His neck cracked audibly
as he bent his head to the side. He slipped his insulated boots over his thick
woolen socks. The bed frame groaned as he lifted his 250 pounds and stood to
his full height of six and a half feet.
Daria
Zakhar turned around and waved her iron spatula at Marat. “You will get your
share, but only after we have eaten.” Her breath hung in the air like a cloud
of frozen dust.
Marat
barked once, then sat on his haunches in strict obedience.
“This
is the last of the coffee, Taras.”
“That
it has lasted this long is indeed a surprise.” Taras grabbed his Mickey Mouse
mug from the wooden shelf above the coal-fired stove. He poured a cup of the
thick brew. He swallowed half of it as he put an arm around his six foot tall
blonde companion. “I suppose I will have to make a trip into Severnaya soon.”
“It
cannot be avoided much longer. We are down to our last bottle of Double Blow.”
“We
cannot run out of vodka! Coffee I can live without, but not my vodka.” His
laughter filled the room. “I will be back in a moment.” He grabbed his gloves
and fur-lined parka.
“I
tried to make it to the coal shed yesterday, but it was still blocked.” Daria
held her hands over the stove in a futile attempt to keep them warm. “I could
see most of it though.”
Taras
opened the door and peered into the bright sunshine. He took ten steps into the
wind. He looked around, then spat at a pesky weasel. His face registered
surprise, so he spat again. He traced his footsteps back inside.
“Daria,
I have good news.” His face beamed.
“What
is it, Taras?”
“It must be
summer because my spittle did not freeze until it landed on the snow.”
And catching up...
Fermenting an interest in beer
Lockport librarian home brews, presents educational programs
Joliet ex-drug addict isn't letting cancer stop his foundation work
He's hosting his fifth annual Back to School fair tomorrow, despite battling stage four lymphoma and stage two lung cancer.
Hopstring Fest to feature regional as well as local talent
Except for the headliner band, everything is local: The other thirty bands, the food vendors, the beer suppliers, the sponsors, the charity recipients.
Beer Geeks host fourth Midwest Brewers Fest for charity
Over 200 different beers to try, including some rare beers and cask ales. Whew!
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
One Good Trick for Jump-Starting Your Muse
"A little provoked, she drew back, and after looking everywhere for the queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction." Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
Ever finally carve out some time to work on the masterpiece, only to find the prose stopped up? Try this solution: Procrastinate.
Yes, procrastinate.
I started planned procrastinating years ago, when I first started writing on deadline couldn't think of anything brilliant fast enough and panic didn't work. In those crucual moments when inspiration takes a holiday, it's sometimes better to let it do just that.
A tired muse doesn't produce very good material. So allow it to rest. It will be back. What do I do in the meantime, especially while at work, and on deadline?
I catch up on email.
I take a walk.
I return phone calls.
I post something extraordinary to Facebook.
I reheat my coffee.
I review my notes, to that story or to another.
I edit soemthing else.
But while I'm doing this, my muse regains strength. However, when it awakens from its power nap, although it may be rested, it may still feel a bit sluggish. Go slowly; build gradually; and you may soon find the muse running full speed toward the finish line.
"Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder." Henry David Thoreau
Good writing sometimes works like that, too.
Grundy County employees combat the negative effects of sedentary jobs
By Jeanne Millsap
Betcha their muses got back up and moving, too.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/13/grundy-county-employees-combat-the-negative-effects-of-sedentary-jobs/axz1mwp/
Ever finally carve out some time to work on the masterpiece, only to find the prose stopped up? Try this solution: Procrastinate.
Yes, procrastinate.
I started planned procrastinating years ago, when I first started writing on deadline couldn't think of anything brilliant fast enough and panic didn't work. In those crucual moments when inspiration takes a holiday, it's sometimes better to let it do just that.
A tired muse doesn't produce very good material. So allow it to rest. It will be back. What do I do in the meantime, especially while at work, and on deadline?
I catch up on email.
I take a walk.
I return phone calls.
I post something extraordinary to Facebook.
I reheat my coffee.
I review my notes, to that story or to another.
I edit soemthing else.
But while I'm doing this, my muse regains strength. However, when it awakens from its power nap, although it may be rested, it may still feel a bit sluggish. Go slowly; build gradually; and you may soon find the muse running full speed toward the finish line.
"Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder." Henry David Thoreau
Good writing sometimes works like that, too.
Grundy County employees combat the negative effects of sedentary jobs
By Jeanne Millsap
Betcha their muses got back up and moving, too.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/13/grundy-county-employees-combat-the-negative-effects-of-sedentary-jobs/axz1mwp/
Monday, August 18, 2014
This Past Weekend, from a Monday Point of View
Tired, for one.
Some people catch up on sleep on the weekends. I am (generally) not one of them, since I hate to lose any fiction-writing time by sleeping or indulging in naps. The delicious exception, as I found out during the Fourth of July weekend, is a a block of three days, where a nap on one still leaves me with more time than a block of two. Make sense? Nevertheless, I'm thinking less caffeine and more sleep might be a wise choice. Not sure if I'll feel the same way come Friday.
Number two: Waking up a stubborn muse can be hard to do.
Mine took until four o'clock on Saturday, extremely frustrating when large blocks of fantasy writing must be reserved for the weekend. After a combination of walking, scanning, researching, trying different music combinations, art prompts, and re-reading past chapters, said muse finally got in the spirit of things and started producing...and was still producing nearly twelve hours later, not cool when Divine Liturgy begins at ten-thirty forty miles away. I did get insight on preventing muse laziness, which leads me to number three.
Number three: A satisfying writing weekend isn't necessarily good for the novel.
Huh?
No, really. Last week, I started Monday feeling so good. I'd finished the fifth chapter in John's story and was looking forward to beginning the sixth. I do a lot of mental writing on my power walks, but that just wasn't happening this past week (the ideas, that is. The walks almost always happen.), a bit of a stumper, since I was really sailing high from my productivity.
Turns out, the productivity was the problem.
By wrapping up the previous chapter so neatly AND stopping there, I'd left no seeds to start the next garden. No ideas took root, no scenes began blooming, the plot line went dormant, and the characters stood around like extras on a movie set waiting for something to do.
I learned this Sunday morning on the way to church, with hoardes of ideas inside my head clamoring for keyboards and computers. A few found their destination later that afternoon, but the rest will have to wait for Friday night, unless I have the opportunity to wrap up chapter six one night this week (Doubt it).
Thus frustrated, those ideas will have nothing else to do this week except be fruitful and multiply. My overtired mind helped them get in the mood by taking my notes for chapter seven to bed with me. They can thank me later.
Quick Staked! update:
New cover is ready to be uploaded. (Still) waiting for Sarah Stegall to uploaded format-corrected manuscript. Getting impatient? Nudge her along at bryonyseries@gmail.com.
An Extraordinary Life: Joliet woman shied limelight, served family and church
The amount of service she accomplished behind the scenes is truly inspiring
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/15/joliet-woman-shied-limelight-served-famliy-and-church/asg7341/
Heat: not the only summer hazard to pets
Betcha there's at least one here you didn't consider. Some were revelation to me
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/06/heat-not-only-summer-hazard-to-pets/ai169io/
Some people catch up on sleep on the weekends. I am (generally) not one of them, since I hate to lose any fiction-writing time by sleeping or indulging in naps. The delicious exception, as I found out during the Fourth of July weekend, is a a block of three days, where a nap on one still leaves me with more time than a block of two. Make sense? Nevertheless, I'm thinking less caffeine and more sleep might be a wise choice. Not sure if I'll feel the same way come Friday.
Number two: Waking up a stubborn muse can be hard to do.
Mine took until four o'clock on Saturday, extremely frustrating when large blocks of fantasy writing must be reserved for the weekend. After a combination of walking, scanning, researching, trying different music combinations, art prompts, and re-reading past chapters, said muse finally got in the spirit of things and started producing...and was still producing nearly twelve hours later, not cool when Divine Liturgy begins at ten-thirty forty miles away. I did get insight on preventing muse laziness, which leads me to number three.
Number three: A satisfying writing weekend isn't necessarily good for the novel.
Huh?
No, really. Last week, I started Monday feeling so good. I'd finished the fifth chapter in John's story and was looking forward to beginning the sixth. I do a lot of mental writing on my power walks, but that just wasn't happening this past week (the ideas, that is. The walks almost always happen.), a bit of a stumper, since I was really sailing high from my productivity.
Turns out, the productivity was the problem.
By wrapping up the previous chapter so neatly AND stopping there, I'd left no seeds to start the next garden. No ideas took root, no scenes began blooming, the plot line went dormant, and the characters stood around like extras on a movie set waiting for something to do.
I learned this Sunday morning on the way to church, with hoardes of ideas inside my head clamoring for keyboards and computers. A few found their destination later that afternoon, but the rest will have to wait for Friday night, unless I have the opportunity to wrap up chapter six one night this week (Doubt it).
Thus frustrated, those ideas will have nothing else to do this week except be fruitful and multiply. My overtired mind helped them get in the mood by taking my notes for chapter seven to bed with me. They can thank me later.
Quick Staked! update:
New cover is ready to be uploaded. (Still) waiting for Sarah Stegall to uploaded format-corrected manuscript. Getting impatient? Nudge her along at bryonyseries@gmail.com.
An Extraordinary Life: Joliet woman shied limelight, served family and church
The amount of service she accomplished behind the scenes is truly inspiring
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/15/joliet-woman-shied-limelight-served-famliy-and-church/asg7341/
Heat: not the only summer hazard to pets
Betcha there's at least one here you didn't consider. Some were revelation to me
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/06/heat-not-only-summer-hazard-to-pets/ai169io/
Sunday, August 17, 2014
My Favorite Dinner Salad in the Whole World (served also at Sue's Diner)
House Salad
By Timothy Baran
A
handful of Romaine lettuce, chopped
½
of a tomato, small diced
½
of a peeled cucumber eight cucumber pieces-sliced thin, the rest small diced
Broccoli
Garlic
powder
Onion
powder
Poppy
seeds
1
lemon, juice only (You may not need the whole lemon)
Pepper
Olive
oil
Balsamic
vinegar
Put
greens on plate. Thinly slice part of the cucumber into 8 pieces; small dice
the rest. In a bowl mix, garlic powder, onion powder, poppy seed, and pepper.
Add sliced cucumbers and gently shake the bowl so that the cucumbers become
LIGHTLY coated, then place them around the rim of the plate, standing up and
leaning against the salad. Grate broccoli heads. In a bowl, mix tomatoes,
cucumbers, grated broccoli, lemon juice, garlic powder, onion powder, and
pepper. After it is well mixed place in the center of the salad. LIGHTLY toss
with oil and vinegar. Yield: 1 salad.
From "Memories in the Kitchen: Bites and Nibbles From 'Bryony'"
All proceeds benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters of Will and
Grundy Counties. www.bbbswillgrundy.org
Order the cookbook at www.bryonyseries.com/Dalton_s_Dry_Goods.html
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Friday, August 15, 2014
Short and to the Point of What We Do
Quite randonly, I read something the other day that has just stuck.
Varieties of activities planned in Mokena for 10th annual farm and barn fest
By Jeanne Millsap
From blacksmiths to corn steamed in a vintage engine, the fest offers plenty to see and do.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/05/variety-of-activities-planned-in-mokena-for-10th-annual-farm-barn-fest/athgpw3/
I can't remember the entire quote but it read something to the effect that many (granted, not all) problems are caused by communication that isn't honest and clear, both on the part of the do-er and the hear-er of the words.
Can you imagine communication that is totally lacking in prejudice, back-pedaling, back-biting, self-justification, and totally untinged with past experiences? Because when it is not, we end up with
* slander
* libel
* misunderstandings
* resentments
* distrust
* hostility
* separateness
* confusion
* defensiveness
By the way, "clear and honest" doesn't mean jabbing someone in the heart with your words. I think whether communication is face to face, via text, email, blogs, novels, or any broadcast media, the communicator should strive for "clear and honest" in a way that is respectful of and present to the listener.
And vice versa.
If everyone did this, - my God! - the possibilties...
And catching up...
Frankfort partners with Jaycees and Lions to serve up amateur rib competition for charity
A samply of the contestants and why they compete.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/05/frankfort-partners-with-jaycees-and-lions-to-serve-up-amateur-rib-competition-for-charity/aspz0oj/
Minooka girl delays college for missionary work
Which won't happen if she doesn't raise another couple thousand by Aug. 18. If you're able to help, please do.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/11/minooka-girl-delays-college-for-missionary-work/alkz8k6/
And catching up...
Frankfort partners with Jaycees and Lions to serve up amateur rib competition for charity
A samply of the contestants and why they compete.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/05/frankfort-partners-with-jaycees-and-lions-to-serve-up-amateur-rib-competition-for-charity/aspz0oj/
Minooka girl delays college for missionary work
Which won't happen if she doesn't raise another couple thousand by Aug. 18. If you're able to help, please do.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/11/minooka-girl-delays-college-for-missionary-work/alkz8k6/
Varieties of activities planned in Mokena for 10th annual farm and barn fest
By Jeanne Millsap
From blacksmiths to corn steamed in a vintage engine, the fest offers plenty to see and do.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/05/variety-of-activities-planned-in-mokena-for-10th-annual-farm-barn-fest/athgpw3/
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Throwback Thursday: The Good Samaritan Revisted: A Recipe for Building Fellowship in the World via Facebook
Thursday, December 22, 2011
The Good Samaritan Revisited: A Recipe for Building Fellowship in the World via Facebook
Last week, a most pressing engagement was unfortunately rescheduled in favor of a more pressing need: our water heater, just several months past its warranty expiration, had ceased functioning.
Now, I often unintentionally land in hot water, but when it’s unexpectedly dried up at its source with no tangible resources for quick replacement (especially when the dishes are stacked to the ceiling and a line is forming at the bathroom door for evening showers), it’s a miserable situation. So, fully trusting in God for wisdom and provision, I prayed and posted a double entendre on Facebook to amuse my family.
Someone I know only on Facebook responded with a silly comment, to which I added a one-sentence summary of our situation. She immediately messaged me and asked for a longer synopsis. I provided a brief sketch of our bleak financial situation and thanked her for the concern. In desperate moments, compassionate words are truly soothing. Rebekah proceeded to boil water for dishes and hair washings.
"I feel like Little House on the Prairie,” she said.
By next morning, this Facebook angel had located the lowest price for water heaters and solicited a family member to install it after he clocked out of work for the evening; would after six o’clock be convenient for us? When I offered to thank her in person, with a copy of Bryony in-hand, she postponed the suggestion because she was fighting a virus.
As I emptied my scant savings, the bank teller, who knows of our situation, became a little chocked-up. I’m humming to the rendition of Winter Wonderland piping through the lobby’s speakers.
"It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s Christmas.”
The kind fellow who performed the installation, who had family at home waiting for him and who had to be on his feet again before dawn, stayed until ten o’clock, long enough to guarantee the glue had dried, nothing leaked, and that the new unit was properly heating water. Timothy connected well with him, so to speak, as he played both host and assistant while I hid in the attic and pounded out assignments.
With all the news stories about the dangers of the internet, online predators, identity robbers, and the like, as well the usual moaning of how texting and email have destroyed authentic communication, it’s heartening and humbling to know that social networking is just that, a means of connecting in a very rich and rewarding way with the other humans on this planet.
In this case, two people went out of their way to help me, at personal discomfort to themselves, not because they knew me or liked me, but because their characters are solid gold. I, for one, am humbled and grateful for their kindness and generosity, which made my world, not just my water, a little warmer.
Now, I often unintentionally land in hot water, but when it’s unexpectedly dried up at its source with no tangible resources for quick replacement (especially when the dishes are stacked to the ceiling and a line is forming at the bathroom door for evening showers), it’s a miserable situation. So, fully trusting in God for wisdom and provision, I prayed and posted a double entendre on Facebook to amuse my family.
Someone I know only on Facebook responded with a silly comment, to which I added a one-sentence summary of our situation. She immediately messaged me and asked for a longer synopsis. I provided a brief sketch of our bleak financial situation and thanked her for the concern. In desperate moments, compassionate words are truly soothing. Rebekah proceeded to boil water for dishes and hair washings.
"I feel like Little House on the Prairie,” she said.
By next morning, this Facebook angel had located the lowest price for water heaters and solicited a family member to install it after he clocked out of work for the evening; would after six o’clock be convenient for us? When I offered to thank her in person, with a copy of Bryony in-hand, she postponed the suggestion because she was fighting a virus.
As I emptied my scant savings, the bank teller, who knows of our situation, became a little chocked-up. I’m humming to the rendition of Winter Wonderland piping through the lobby’s speakers.
"It’s okay,” I told her. “It’s Christmas.”
The kind fellow who performed the installation, who had family at home waiting for him and who had to be on his feet again before dawn, stayed until ten o’clock, long enough to guarantee the glue had dried, nothing leaked, and that the new unit was properly heating water. Timothy connected well with him, so to speak, as he played both host and assistant while I hid in the attic and pounded out assignments.
With all the news stories about the dangers of the internet, online predators, identity robbers, and the like, as well the usual moaning of how texting and email have destroyed authentic communication, it’s heartening and humbling to know that social networking is just that, a means of connecting in a very rich and rewarding way with the other humans on this planet.
In this case, two people went out of their way to help me, at personal discomfort to themselves, not because they knew me or liked me, but because their characters are solid gold. I, for one, am humbled and grateful for their kindness and generosity, which made my world, not just my water, a little warmer.
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