On Blogging...

 On Blogging…

When I began my journey as a writer, I attended a writing conference in Wheaton, Illinois. The advice coming from the podium and in nearly every workshop I attended was simple: “If you want to publish, you must blog.” 

That was in 2012. I didn’t even know what a “blog” was…I mean, seriously. To me it sounded like a swamp of words. Maybe it is.

The notion behind “blogging” was to practice writing as well as build an audience for your books. Some people are good at it. 

Some authors blog… Every. Single. Day. Not me. But I did leave that conference with a plan to blog. I have put my blog out every Wednesday since. I called it “A Novel Creation.” I wrote about …writing. I wrote about crafting my first novel. I started to get a following, but to be honest, those first posts weren’t for everybody. They were for writers only. No one else would be interested.

I AM a Novel Creation

When my first book, Breathing on Her Own, was published in 2014, I shared that news on my blog. Not only was it the natural thing to do…it was expected of me by my publisher. 

As I crafted my second novel, I shared recipes I would use in the coffee shop called Libby’s Cuppa Joe on my blog. It was fun. 

My husband, Tom, died in 2014, a few months after Breathing on Her Own was released. I was devastated. I managed to keep the blog afloat with the help of guest authors and such, but it was hard to write. 

I could barely breathe. 

The blog changed when I moved to Kosovo for a year. I wrote about my experiences there. It was a healing time for me. That was in the 2017-2018 academic year. 

Although the blog follows my life and changes as I change, it is still a piece of being an author. 

Since marrying Mike, I have been writing books again. He is good for me and encourages me. I am not only writing, I am  excited about it.

I am now writing a book I consider to be perhaps the most important story I know to tell. It is about a teacher. I spent  twenty years teaching elementary aged students and fourteen and a half years as a professor of teacher education at the university level. 

The best advice any author will give you is to write what you know.

So...If you were to write a story, what would be the focus? What do you know? And what would you put in YOUR blog?

 

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

 

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

This week has been a week of friends… A week of memories.

Mike’s oldest and closest friend, another Mike, and his wife, Sandee, came to our house for dinner. They live in Tampa. Though we have been able to connect a few times at other venues, this was the first time they have visited us since we moved to Inverness. 

My Mike chose the menu. Spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. Sandee brought dessert. 

Hey, entertaining “decision free” is pretty cool. 

I loved hearing the two Mikes talk about times gone by. 

·   There was the time Mike L. wrecked his motorbike on the gravel road and my Mike’s mom patched him up. 

·   Mike L. told me how he walked with my brother-in-law, Ronnie Waters from Adams Junior High to Bob and Ernie’s Bait and Tackle after school. (the Waters family business)

·   Mike L.’s profession was a horse trainer. Stories of training horses with my Mike’s assistance were fun to hear.

     It was a wonderful evening. That was on Thursday. 

If you read last Wednesday’s post, you know I painted a lake picture. If you missed that, you’ll find it HERE. 

The artist I studied under for that painting, offered to help me frame it at her studio this week. 

It turns out her studio is in Dunellon, Florida on Riverbend Road. Interesting. My parents once lived on Riverbend Road. I took Mom with me.

We stopped for a sandwich at The Front Porch, a longtime favorite restaurant started in 1986 by my mother’s oldest and dearest friends. They no longer run the business, but their fingerprints are all over it. The Front Porch remains a favorite among the locals. 

After lunch, we located Briget’s studio and in short order headed back down the road, my framed painting in hand. The area has grown. Changed. We slowed down as we came to Mom and Dad’s house. It has changed a bit, but the memories haven’t. 

“Do you think we could maybe drive down by the cabin?” Mom asked.

Many years ago, my parents and some friends built on adjacent properties. Mom and Dad’s was a cabin for weekends and such. Ed and Treva build a larger place. My daughters have wonderful memories of that property. They loved to feed the foxes and explore the land. And every afternoon, Mom and Dad took them swimming in the icy cold Rainbow River. 

As we drove, we spoke of old times. It was a wonderful afternoon with my mom.

Like I said…This has been a week to stroll down Memory Lane…well not exactly. 

Memory Lane was the name of the road I lived on during my teen years. Trust me...that would be an entirely different post!

The Artist in Me

 

The Artist Inside...Sort Of

There is an artist in me. Maybe in all of us. Mine is mostly hidden but begs to get out every once in a while. 

I’m not talking about that “craft person” I humor on occasion by crocheting something using a pattern or painting seashells to look like roses. Nor am I talking about that desire to “try something different” by joining a group of woodcarvers in my neighborhood. There, I follow someone else’s design or instructions to create my “own” hand carved Santa.

Carving "Santa"

No. This person, this artist, resides deep inside of me in a place I almost fear to acknowledge. Not because it is bad. Mostly because it is seemingly forever elusive. 

It is fed by an eye that sees light and color and longs to capture it forever on canvas. Instead, I typically rely on the camera on my Smart Phone to preserve the image.

I’ve done a bit of painting in times gone by. I’ve painted pictures on wood and canvas. 

And walls. Sorry Mom.

I’ve painted with acrylics and oils. I’ve created images with chalk or charcoal. I’ve watched a couple of television programs and followed one or two step by step workbooks. I have enjoyed the process. 

Mostly. 

I’ve produced a few creations worthy to hang up…somewhere. Thanks Mom.

I had no canvas so I painted
 these birds on a
 plank of wood years ago.
Mom still has it.

Yet…the desire to create something beautiful stays closer to my heart than an actual frame worthy painting.

Mike encourages me in my endeavors. He celebrates my writing, tolerates my unfinished “palm frond” fish on a bench in his shop, and encourages me to not injure myself at the woodcarving gathering. 

This past week I signed up to take a painting class at Rainbow Springs Art. (The closest I’ve come to formal training prior to this was a required art class in junior high and a short step by step one hour class at the YMCA.) There were three students in last week’s group class. Our instructor, Bridget, did not exactly offer a step-by-step process. I’ve had those before.

In fact, Bridget started the class by telling us “There are no Rules.” She then handed us a paper titled, “The Rules of Painting.” 

I started to laugh, but the first item reiterated her comment: “There are no Rules. But guidelines create good paintings.”

The second item stated “Be decisive. If you don’t like it, wait for it to dry and start over.” Permission for a do-over? I love it. It was freeing. It meant I didn’t have to get it right on the first try. 

That paved the way for other items such as “Never start with the color you want to end up with,” and “Use one color you are terrified of.”

The rest of the guidelines were as freeing.  Bridget gave us confidence. The daring to try. And anytime you can go into an experience and walk away with a new perspective, it’s a win.

The painting? A boat on the lake. 

A Boat on the Lake

It may never hang in an art gallery, but I’m thinking that framed, it may find a place in our house. Maybe. And maybe, just maybe, it will be the first of many. Or at least a few.

 

 

The Message of the Tree

The Message of the Tree

Mike and I have some tall …and I mean TALL…Silver Maple trees in our backyard. You don’t find them everywhere in Florida, but they are prevalent in Citrus County where we live. 

Our tree is scarred. 

We have a few clues to tell us what happened. 

Shortly after we moved here, we found a long piece of bark from that tree on the ground near it. A length of chain is firmly attached to that bark. 

A few feet away, in another tree, we located a heavy metal hook.We’re guessing there was a hammock strewn between those two trees at one time. Lightening was likely the force that brought the hammock down and damaged the beautiful gigantic Silver Maple.

The location near the lake was perfect for a hammock. The cool breeze off the water on a warm Florida day washing over you in a shaded hammock? Couple that with a tall glass of lemonade or sweet tea? It is the dream of Florida living come true.

But no more. The hammock no longer hangs there. However, though the tree is damaged, it is still alive. 

Recently, I shared this with a widow and widowers’ group: 

“The tree is damaged. It is still growing upward. It gives shade to our yard and is a home to birds and squirrels. I think when my husband died in 2014, I felt as scarred and dead as that tree. I was shocked. I felt marred for life.”. 

God and my family sustained me during that dark time. And in 2022, God brought Mike into my life. 

Mike and I have both weathered storms in the past. We’ve both lost people we loved. We’re not so naïve to think we will live out our senior years without a little wind and some rain. 

In the meantime, we have this beautiful lake, a swing instead of a hammock, lots of lemonade and sweet tea. 

And…we keep looking up. As we grow closer together, our roots grow deep. 

That’s the message of the tree. 

 

A Great Cuppa Joe

 A Great Cuppa Joe

Mike and I enjoy our coffee. 

Every morning. 

We have a Mr. Coffee. Nothing fancy, but it gets the job done. In the evening, I pour the water in the machine, measure out ground coffee I bought at the store, and set everything up so that all we need to do in the morning is hit the ON button.

Easy. I even bought a permanent filter so we don’t have to fool with those little paper ones.

When my mother moved to Florida from Ohio in May, she knew she needed to downsize. She gave people she knew Items they could use or wanted. She donated furniture and lamps to a charity. 

She gave me two special items. Two coffee grinders. Not that I’ll ever use them.

One belonged to my paternal grandmother. It is ceramic and hangs on the wall. The coffee beans feed into the top, someone turns the handle, and a glass container collects the freshly ground coffee. I don’t how much my Grandma Williams used it…if at all. Mom didn’t know. She only knew it belonged to Grandma. Grandma gave it to Mom.

The second one isn’t as fancy. It is wood and rests on a counter or table. There is a handle to turn on top and a small drawer to collect the ground coffee to brew. This one is packed with memories.

My mother remembers her mother, my Grandma Woolum, setting the wood grinder on the table, pouring coffee beans in the box and turning the grinder. I don’t remember that. 

I do remember waking up to the smell of coffee brewing on the wood stove. I remember coaxing myself to crawl from under the quilt Grandma made…out from the featherbed. (Her own mother made her a featherbed when she was a little girl so that memory is a sweet connection for me.) I loved waking up to the sounds of Grandma in the kitchen. 

Those are all tender memories.

I am blessed to have sweet memories of both of my grandmothers…and grandfathers.

Now I am blessed to have two coffee grinders from my grandmothers. 

Oh, and the book in the picture? Libby’s Cuppa Joe was my second novel. You can still grab a copy on Amazon. I think the Kindle edition is on sale. Let me know what you think about it. Or better yet, write a review on Amazon. Reviews are like gold…better than a cup of joe for authors!

 

Gulf Coast Golf Post

        A Gulf Coast Golf Post

Mike and I both grew up enjoying swimming, boating, and water skiing. We also both grew up around horses.

 
Though I never considered myself a “car girl,” I appreciate the same cars Mike likes. We attend car shows with friends and enjoy the comradery. Car shows were new for me.

Mike and I have been married over two years now. It’s been fun to discover the many things we have in common. A good hamburger. Old Westerns on television. Tampa Bay Rays baseball.
It has also been good to discover new experiences.

Looking at a New Adventure

Mike was…and is… a true fisherman. I’m not talking about putting a worm on a hook, tossing your line out and waiting for the bobber to bounce. Mike understands lines and lures. He knows how to cast a line and reel it in with a certain rhythm to attract a bass. I know. He’s teaching me. I caught a bass off our dock. Even though I still contend it was “monster” sized fish, on Mike’s assessment, we threw it back. Just as well. I wasn’t prepared to clean and cook it. (Picture at the bottom of this post.) 

While he was enjoying fishing in his past life, I was snow skiing in the winter and golfing in the summer. I don’t see snow skiing in our future. But golf? I enjoy the game. I’m no pro, but I do have family members who are good golfers.

Golf is a great activity and Mike’s dad was a golfer. Still, I was both happy and surprised my sweet husband decided to take up the sport. When our grandson, came for a visit in March, Spencer went with Mike to get a set of clubs. When we moved my mom from Ohio to Florida, we found room in the truck for my clubs to make the trek.  

Mike contacted the golf pro, Lou Harris, who purchased a venue called Adventureland in Floral City, Florida. The driving range is ten-minutes or so from our house.

Lou gives golf lessons for a small fee. He’s qualified. For over forty-four years… actually, “Forty-four years, one-hundred sixty-three days,” he told me, Lou was the Director of Golf at McDill Air Force Base in Tampa. 

I’m sure he has interesting stories to share about the base and the people who have played golf there. Another story for another day.

Mike took a few lessons on his own. This past week, he suggested we go together to hit a few balls. What fun. I haven’t golfed in over two years so the practice was much needed. Mike purchased a good-sized basket of golf balls and we were set.

The weather was perfect. Lou left us alone for the most part, coming over only as we neared the end of our visit. His wife, Coni, manages the weekly Thursday Flea Market in the parking lot (seasonal) and sells a variety of decorative pieces in the shop.

I love an impromptu date with my husband. Making it an afternoon of perfect weather hitting golf balls at Adventureland? Well…let’s call it what it was: “A Sweet Adventure.”

Interested in lessons or practice or poking around the antiques and one-of-a-kind décor for your home? Check it out. Adventureland, 6440 S. Florida Ave, Floral City, Florida 34436.

My Bass! Look at the size of that thing!

Cowgirl to Car Girl

 From Cowgirl to Car Girl

If you caught last week’s post, you know my parents moved to Arizona when I was four years old because I had asthma. If you didn’t catch that post, I put a link at the end of this one so you can check it out. 

The move to Arizona likely influenced my decision to be a cowgirl when I grew up. Well, that and the fact my dad and I watched westerns on television every Sunday afternoon.

In Arizona we went to rodeos and visited Old Tucson. My closest friend was a Mexican girl named Moey. She taught me a few words in Spanish. Her mother cooked tortillas on a griddle, flipping the thin round flour food they used as we did bread, with her bare hands. I was fascinated. We pretended broomsticks were our horses and we fought wild Indians together. (No comments on not being “politically correct” here, please. I was four.)

We moved back to Ohio near the end of my first-grade year to the house where my father was born. It was on my grandparents’ property. The move was necessary because my grandfather needed help on the farm following a heart attack. The medical assumption on my end was I had “outgrown” the asthma by that time. 

Once we settled in Ohio, my dad made good on his promise to buy me a pony. I named her Flicka after a pony on the television show, My Friend Flicka. I know. Not very original.

Flicka came with only a short lead. Dad talked with me about learning to ride a horse. He told me my pony had never been ridden and it would take a while to break her in. “And the thing to do if you get bucked off is to get right back on,” he advised. Dad looped a rope around Flicka and tied her to the fence post in the front pasture and left. 

I must have figured it was up to me at that point. She was, after all, my pony. I took a feed sack and draped across her back.  I tugged on the rope to get her close to the fence, climbed up and jumped on her back. 

In less than a minute I was on the ground. Undaunted, I tried again. And again. And again. I don’t know how many times I tried before my mom came around to the front of the house and saw me. She was not a fan of broken bones. She told me to stop before I broke my neck. 

It wasn’t my neck that was hurting. 

Dad came home later with a saddle, bridle and blanket for my pony. Under his instruction, Flicka and I learned the joy of riding. We had many adventures on that dairy farm. I was truly a “cowgirl.”

Flicka wasn’t my only horse experience. Flicka birthed Thunderhead. I had a Quarter horse named Duchess and her foal I called Princess. There was Tiny and the Appaloosa I called Saki. She birthed Abi. 

In high school I lost my passion for horses as my interest in boys increased. The only “horse” I enjoyed through those years was a Midnight Blue1966 Mustang. I named her “Midnight.”

Perhaps Midnight was a vision of my future. 

You see, since marrying Mike, I’ve become less of a cowgirl and more of a “car girl.” 

My Arizona Experience: I call it The Gift of Caring Parents. Click HERE.

    More of a Car girl, Less of a Cowgirl, though I get my "fix" every Sunday. My husband, Mike, and I now attend Stable Faith Cowboy Church in Brooksville, Florida. (12077 Broad Street)