September brings memories and experiences dealing with school.  September and the start of a new school year brought out in me and my friends a sense of being able to finally do well.  No matter how the previous year went, the new start made us feel certain the next would be better.
     School today is a different experience. The lessons I prepared then would now be viewed as obsolete, old –fashioned, or naïve. I have had some good times in the classroom, but some memories do dwell on awkward or uncomfortable times. One I recall is that when I was going into the ninth grade, which was the first year in the high school building in our town, I worried about what to wear. My mother, a talented seamstress, made a blouse for me to wear on the first day.  The fabric was yellow like a sunflower, and she had embroidered a design using dark brown thread along the edge of the sleeves.  It was lovely, but I worried about wearing it.  After all, how was I to know what the “town girls” would be wearing?
     My homeroom teacher, Ms. Owens, was a long-time and well- respected teacher. She supported rules!  She demanded excellence! She had no sense of humor! Students entered the classroom and timidly sat at attention while she instructed us on the rules.  She talked about taking up lunch money. She introduced us to the behavior she expected now that we were in high school.  Then, she showed us the textbooks we were to use. Back then we “rented” our textbooks. Okay, as she picked up one after another, she said, and “This book with the yellow cover,”  then horror of horrors, she pointed to me, “the color of her blouse, is the one we’ll be using the most.”  With that comment, I nearly died.
     Throughout the years, I have been cognizant of students’ anxieties. Whether or not a person fits in means a great deal. Commerce depends on these emotions, and thus “going back to school sales” focus on what’s going to be “in” in fashion, backpacks, electronics, and the like.  “Keeping up with the Jones” starts earlier in grade school, but it blossoms mightily in high school. Fortunately, social media and the internet have made it easier for students to be individualistic. Unfortunately, social media and the internet and phones have made it more difficult for students to be sociable.
     But Ms. Owens turned out to be the first teacher who saw my interest in writing. She was a member of a local garden club, and the six garden clubs in the area together sponsored a scholarship to a conservation camp. Goodness knows why but she asked me to  write a short essay as to why I might like to go to camp. I had never been to any camp. I didn’t know what people did at camp, much less a conservation  camp. There were many applications, but I won the scholarship.  I went to camp. I loved camp. I even loved conservation camp.  I became a regular. I went back as a counselor many years thereafter. One thing I was required to do that first year was to give a talk to the district meeting of garden clubs. That experience in the ninth grade led to many successes thereafter, especially in the areas of scriptwriting, speaking, teaching, and writing professionally. That September was one I don’t forget. 

     For the wonderful people who follow my blog, I have a confession to make. August has been difficult for me.  I can’t gather my thoughts sufficiently to write an intelligent essay. (From where did the term “blog” originate?) At any rate, as a political junkie, thanks to broadcasters such as Paul Harvey and Walter Cronkite during my youth and the internet today, it’s hard to keep track of the constantly changing scenarios of the Trump- Vance campaign and the Harris-Walz campaign, much less, assassination attempts, the weaponization of the DOJ, the ongoing conflicts in the Ukraine-Russian war, and the Oct. 7th massacre in Israel.      How is a person to make sense of it all?

     So in this short blog instead, I will talk about zucchini bread, tomatoes, and a surprise email I received.  Recently I was gifted with a large zucchini.  I decided, along with my daughter who was visiting from NC, to attempt to make zucchini bread.  We had never made zucchini bread so we studied some recipes and decided on one that did NOT call for nuts because her son, my illustrious and finest grandson is allergic to nuts.  (He’s my only grandson.) The zucchini bread turned out to be okay. It wasn’t memorable, but it hit the spot. I since have received another zucchini, so last week I used the same recipe but modified it. I used coconut oil for the shortening, added raisins and nuts, and watched it carefully while baking. It was delicious. I gave half of the loaf to a friend who had relatives visiting. I gave my neighbor a thick slice. We kept the rest, and I must say, I am now inspired to make it again. But I refuse to purchase a zucchini. I will wait until someone gifts me one. After all, don’t they proliferate about this time when people try to get rid of them?  I’ll wait.

    The second note is the matter of tomatoes. Is there anything tastier than tomatoes that have the burst of sunshine in them? That’s the way a friend of mine described Indiana homegrown tomatoes. She moved to Texas and said she missed the Indiana tomatoes as much as anything. Goodness, they are good, especially in sandwiches, salads, and in stir-fry vegetables. I freeze some to have during the winter. My basil plant gives a good supply of leaves, so with the tomatoes and basil, I am set. That in itself is happiness. But, I do remember tomatoes in the Carolinas  being just as tasty. I think it has to do with home.
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     The third matter to mention is I recently received notice via an email that one of my plays that I submitted to a contest earlier this year has passed the first reading and has moved on to a second round for judging.   It makes me happy to know that from the hundreds of submissions (I’m guessing), my play got a nod.  I count on nothing more, but if, yes, IF, it moves to another round, I will surely let you know.  I hope by September, I will have enough time and energy and brain-power to make sense of all that’s going on these days. Enjoy the rest of the summer!

     For longer than a week our part of the country was under what weather people call a “heat dome.”  The temperature soared; the humidity was terrible. Employers made sure workers were provided plenty of water. Cities opened shelters. Most people stayed indoors.  We are fortunate to have air conditioning so staying indoors was not difficult, although I longed to be outside to garden. So I allowed thistles to grow another foot taller and weeds to spread.  The lawn turned brown.  On one of those days about five in the afternoon, the temperature was in the upper 90s, but my good husband wandered outside.  After about ten minutes, I wondered about his hereabouts so went to find him.  I could not find him.
     Neighbors joined in the search. The heat was intense, and I knew something bad had happened. We called the police. To make a long story short, some people found him. He was seven blocks away from home, disoriented, and suffering.  He was flushed, shaking, and didn’t know where he was.  He was taken to ER.
      Hospital personnel told me they were overwhelmed that evening with people being brought in with heat-stroke symptoms.  Fortunately, my husband was discharged the next day after being thoroughly checked.  It was good to have him home again, and fortunately, the heat lessened. Summer activities resumed at a more normal rate.  The reason I tell this story is to emphasize the importance of staying hydrated.  
      I recall Coleridge’s line in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”  Poets, writers, and artists have repeatedly tried to capture the nuances of water, whether it be a peaceful lake scene, the turbulence of a swirling ocean, or water from the faucet.     
       Water is mysterious. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “The water understands/ Civilization well,/It wets my foot, but prettily,/ It chills my life, but wittily,/ It is not disconcerted,/ It is not broken-hearted./ Well used, it decketh joy, /Adorneth, doubleth joy:/ Ill used, it will destroy, / In perfect time and measure/ With a face of golden pleasure/Elegantly destroy.”
       Emily Dickinson had a better view in “Summer Shower.”  She says, “A drop fell on the apple tree, / Another on the roof, / A half a dozen kissed the eaves,’ and made the gables laugh.
     For artists such as Monet, Hockney, Constable, or Hambleton, seascapes and water have become enduring themes. According to biblical teachings, (Gen. 1:1-2) water was created when the Spirit of God hovered over the surface of the formless material described in Day 1.
      Water refreshes, revitalizes, causes flora and fauna to flourish.  Up to 60% of our bodies is made up of water. H2O is vital. On average, the blood is about 51% water. Water, water, and more water! The body needs it. The body demands it. If not present, the body goes into delirium and confusion. Dehydration symptoms included fatigue, weakness, dizziness, and lightheadedness. No matter the heat index, stay hydrated!
 

     In two years Americans will celebrate the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  It has been suggested that during the next year or so people do something to bring attention to this event, perhaps locally and/or individually. One suggestion is that people read the Declaration of Independence, a document signed in 1776, by the founding fathers.  For community, university, or professional theaters interested in staging a spectacular celebration, the information on the following website; https://liberty-calls.com might fit the bill. “Liberty Calls” is the title of the play, a musical actually, that a friend of mine wrote. It was performed some time ago, and photos of that production are posted on the website.

     But enough about the future. The current state of affairs in our nation makes me remember the song “America the Beautiful.”  On a recent drive through the countryside to meet up with a friend, I was astounded at the beauty spread before me. Fields had been ploughed and planted, flower beds were spilling iris (we used to call them “flags”) and bright peonies and in pastures, fillies and colts were nuzzling.  Spring was truly here. My relative who lives in Texas states it’s like summer there already. Heat waves aside, some parts of the North still have snow, but here in the Midwest, it’s primavera!  This means in my yard, weeds have taken over every inch of my flower beds.  The herd of deer have smacked away the buds of various plants, but there is nothing, but nothing, like the warmth of a sunny time in a park, which is just what my husband and I did two days ago. With one and a half hour to spare, we enjoyed the beauty of a glorious day with a walk around a lake, lunch on a clean park picnic table, and weather that was extra fine.

      Reality rushed in, however, that same day as we learned from a friend that his car had been stolen. Then we learned that in another part of the state, our son’s passenger rear tire had been stolen. Then we learned that another friend came out of his place of business to find the muffler had been stolen off his car. Then our newspaper arrived, and on the front page was news about a 21 year old in our town who had stabbed a 17 years old.  The fight was over electronic cigarettes and a marihuana and their disagreement over the purchase price of $390.  The 17 year old died. The 21 year old will likely spend his life in prison. Alas, is America the land of liberty and freedom or is it sinking under a crime wave where high prices lead some to steal and others to cry?

      Life is a see-saw of emotions, leading one to search for solutions. Consider, the 1958 hit song, written by David Seville, that rescued Liberty Records from financial difficulties. The singer asks a witch doctor for advice about a romantic situation, and the doctor replies with a gibberish line: Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla bing-bang, oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla bang-bang. Here we are in need not for gibberish but for what liberty calls for:   Oh beautiful for heroes proved/In liberating strife/Who more than self, / their country loved/And mercy more than life…  Somehow I almost can hear Ray Charles at his piano.

     According to the news, the world is in crisis and people have their “hair on fire.”  My dilemmas are insignificant in comparison but let me mention three situations I’ve recently experienced.   

     Imagine my surprise when I received a letter from Dow Jones in early March informing me that as of April, I would no longer receive the printed newspaper. I would be transferred to a “digital” subscription.  I called Customer Service. I protested. 

     For most of my adult life, I have read the Wall Street Journal.  As a political science minor in college, I became a political junkie so found it interesting to keep up with the domestic political landscape. Early in my career, I taught geography, civics, and social studies, and the newspaper helped me with some of my work.  Later in my career, it became important to read book and theater reviews.  Even later, we took the paper for the office.  It became a habit.  I often shared news clippings with family and friends, often snipping articles or the “Salt & Pepper” cartoon.  At Thanksgiving and at Christmas, it was usual to enjoy Vermont Royster's articles, which they run every year.

     I was told that the Wall Street Journal could no longer be delivered in my Zip Code.  The person explained it was a matter of “not having a carrier.”  I explained my newspaper came by US postal service.  Let me investigate this, the person said.  Later, I was told again that no one in my Zip Code would be receiving the newspaper in print form.  That was final. Moreover, there were places in other states facing the same situation. To make a long story short, I cancelled my subscription.  I was contacted again and asked if I wanted to re-subscribe. They offered a special rate. The paper would be in digital form.  No. So, I read local papers, which are getting so thin they barely qualify.  Americans now rely on the internet, social media, and podcasts.  Very little is “in-depth.” Much is from Associated Press ad nauseam.

     So, I went out to do some gardening and discovered some foul smelling things in the mulch. It looked like sprouting red snakes coming up from a nest of oval white eggs.  Snakes?  Salamanders?  Lizards? These looked like they had died in the sun. The smell was horrid.  Naturally I did my research. The answer is: Stinkhorn Mushrooms!  I dithered about the matter, then decided I would dig them all up and seal them in a bag and toss them in the garbage. I think I got all the “witches eggs.”  (That’s what they are called.)  I certainly learned about fungi.   Just ask me!  I’ll refer you to the internet!

     On top of that, Sheba has taken to sitting on the deck railing just below two birdhouses.  Finally, after not having any Carolina wrens last year, a couple came this year chirping and a-chattering. Sheba studies them studiously, and I don’t know how to warn them.  The birdhouses were placed there before we acquired the cat.  To make matters worse, another  cat – I call him “Shades”-- wandered through and also parked himself on the railing to study the birds.  While I was watching last evening, a raccoon came up on the deck to peer inside.  I love living here, but there is much commotion. Wild turkeys traipse across the back yard, and we have deer. They nibble everything in our garden on a regular basis. No roses. No pretty flowers here. The hedges remind me of green toothpicks. 
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     Perhaps I should forget all this, watch the Kentucky Derby, and let the dandelions blow.  All these little dilemmas are insignificant, but they do make life interesting.

My son, a fine writer who usually writes about sports or business matters, wrote a brief essay to entertain me about our cat Sheba. With a bit of editing, I will share some of what he wrote:

“About a year ago, a well filled-out black cat started showing up on my parents back deck. Initially it was believed this feline was just another one of the neighboring cats making its rounds throughout the floodplain over which our deck overlooks. Given that this part of the woods represents a universal passageway / proven hunting grounds for a variety of critters, it was no surprise to see a new cat.  There has been harmony amongst the cats in the neighborhood. Most go out of their way to maintain an air of independence by proactively staying out of each other's way, but every now & then, a border dispute breaks out -usually around the break of dawn! That is when we hear a cacophony of sounds never intended to be heard by man!

“Over the years, a select few cats have made their way out of the woods and into our lives. To these ambitious & ubiquitous types, my parents would assign names like 'Gratz' (inspired by a local body shop), 'Tux', 'Shades', and 'Pierre'. I even recall my father naming one after Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. The poor feline had to live up to the modified 'cat friendly' moniker: 'Benjamin Netan"Meow" Hu'. (I'll admit, tt rolls off the tongue.)

"My parents recently warmed up to a black cat visitor & call her 'Sheba'. By all accounts, Sheba is now officially part of the family. This new union was fostered, however, under false pretenses.

"As winter fell last year, Sheba appeared rounder and rounder with each passing day. It was soon believed that Sheba was expecting. So sure of this inevitability, my mother started making arrangements for Sheba's big day. Interested parties were offered first dibs on the yet-to-be-delivered kittens - temporarily named: 'A', 'B','C', & 'D'. We even guessed the number of mews that would eventually emerge from Sheba's ever-widening belly. As this process developed, my mother accepted responsibility, & a bond between them developed.

“The announcement of Sheba's likely pregnancy was met with increasing skepticism when after multiple months of increasing roundness, there were still no signs of 'A', 'B', 'C', or 'D'. My sisters and I did the math and quickly debunked Sheba's state of being. We compared & ultimately disavowed  my mother's  belief. Tthe average pregnancy of a cat  is  around 65 days (per Google).

“We finally accepted that Sheba was just a little plump. Even so, my mother wanted to get that crafty cat to the  nimal Care Clinic not only for initial shots and to be spayed, but for a final ruling. After all if Sheba weren't pregnant, then why did she look like she had 'swallowed a soccer ball?   Sheba did not want any part of this. Despite standing on four short legs, Sheba proved that she could outwit, out-squirm, & outthwart all attempts to get her into a carrier.. After 2 broken appointments, my mother called the Clinic for advice. They reassuringly said, 'If & when you can get her here, we'll fit her in.'
 
“After my last visit home, my task was to help find a way of getting Sheba in the carrier and to the vets.”
         My Update:
Before he left, my son decided to pick up Sheba and “talk with her.”  She cuddled up in his arms, and before we knew it, he was in the car holding the cat. No carrier whatsoever! 
With the aid of a friendly assistant who came out to the car to help transport Sheba through the Clinic's front door -(It took all hands on deck), we finally realized success!  Sheba was now in good hands! No trouble.  She would be spayed the next morning.
 
The next day, the vets called. They said they shaved her abdomen to prepare her to be spayed and “found a tattoo there.... the 'universal symbol' of having been spayed.  We could take Sheba home!” They also mentioned "she could stand to lose a little weight."  As an indoor/outdoor cat, perhaps she's eating  somewhere and/or perhaps she is  just on the fat side-- as some cats are. After all our anxiety and work preparing for kittens, Sheba snookered us! 

  Animals have minds of their own. I should know. My cat Sheba held court with 5 young deer the other day. She was on a stump in the back yard and the deer stood around the stump checking her out.  Their courtship didn’t last long. The deer scuttled away, and Sheba moved to other places, no doubt to search for a chipmunk.  But I digress. After a time of waiting for an appointment to have Sheba spayed, we woke, had breakfast, and then tried to coax her into the cat carrier.
     No luck. Sheba would NOT get into the carrier or a box even enticed with deli ham.  We tousled... she scratched... I pushed.... she's strong.... I coaxed... she batted ... she's smart... she knew that carrier wasn't the place she wanted to go. I tried a sturdy box. Not so. I put on gloves and tried to pick her up and put her in. She squirmed, twisted, pushed back... she's very strong. I couldn't get her in. We’ve rescheduled with the vets. Felines and friends! That’s the end of the story for now. Alas!  
      But I am fortunate. I have friends. Friends who care about how things are going with this cat. How things are going with me. With my family. It’s a good feeling, and I appreciate their interest. The older I become, the more I realize relationships are all that matter. A pastor I once had the privilege to know explained that very truth.
      People love their dogs, birds, and pets, probably more than they love some family members. The pet industry is thriving like crazy. North America is the largest pet care market globally, but Europe is close behind. Americans spend around 136.8 billion on pet products. According to APPA, in 2021 the pet industry crossed the $100 billion sales mark. The following year, the spending record was $235.32  billion. The current trend now is in the area of pet nutrition. When I did research (internet) on this, I learned the industry is diverse. We think of dogs and cats, but the pet market ranges from fish to monkeys, turtles, and reptiles, not to mention exotic animals. People develop good relationships with their pets so it’s no surprise that services such training, walking, pet-sitting, and grooming are in demand. Evenf my granddaughter had a dog-walking service when she was seven. I believe she had two dogs. It gave her a chance to learn something about business. 
      Who cannot sigh when remembering books such as Where the Red Fern Grows or Old Yeller, as well as other memorable classics such as Call of the Wild. Certainly the matter of getting Sheba acclimated to our house will lead to an interesting relationship. As the
writer George Eliot (1818-1890) said, “Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.” 
     It seems strangely appropriate to close this essay with a tribute to one of the most passionate of animal lovers, Neil Case, who died two weeks ago at the age of 93. He was in the writing group to which I belong. He was a regular columnist for a 4-county newspaper for years, often detailing and answering questions about animals, birds, groundhogs, dogs, horses—you name it. No doubt he could have helped me corral Sheba!  

        After five months of trying, chasing, coaxing, and bribing, we finally got Sheba into a cat carrier.  After five months, we finally got Sheba to the veterinarian.  After five months of questioning by family and friends regarding Sheba’s pregnancy, we learned today Sheba is not pregnant.  She’s now vaccinated and had her shots. She was given an ultra sound and an x-ray, both confirming she is not with kittens.
            We had gotten concerned because “little” Sheba, who came to us from the woods and stayed, was getting pretty round and heavy. The question was posed: is Sheba being fed by a neighbor in addition to the prescribed food we give her?  We think not. We hope not, but who knows?  We learned that Sheba weighs 11lbs. and 6 ounces.  Sheba is fat.  Sheba is now on a diet.  It was neither worms nor a tumor, even though any normal human being would have thought she was pregnant.  She looked like she had swallowed a soccer ball. Sheba is scheduled to be spayed in a few days.
            The odd thing is when we learned she’s not expecting kittens—we’d named them a, b, c. & d—we suddenly missed the kittens that weren’t. We have been living with the expectation of kittens for months, and when the days of supposed gestation passed and nothing was occurring, we had to find out what was going on.  We even had a raffle going, how many kittens would Sheba have?  Most first litters are around three or four. One relative told us some cats can have as many as 12 or 13.  Frankly, I was worried.       
            Now I have random emotions. I am relieved, but I sort of miss the kittens that aren’t.  I had to inform some potential kitten owners they won’t be getting any. One said, “I’d hoped for one, but now I’ll have to go to the shelter.”  Another said, “You mean I won’t get a kitten?”  I told Sheba she disappointed some of our friends. She yawned.  I now have to make some phone calls to people up and down the East Coast who have been following Sheba’s “pregnancy” and give them the news.
            One emotion we have is the sense of feeling foolish. How could we have been hoodwinked like this?  We have been cat owners for years, but never experienced anything quite like this.  Random emotions, yes.  Relief, disappointment, disbelief, foolish, hoodwinked, amused.
            Well, since many readers were interested, it gives me a subject about which to write this month.  But enough about Sheba.   As Leo Dworken said, “No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat….”   I have a friend who dotes on her cats: Bobby and Tommy. Another friend has five cats, one of which is named Frost. She says “I’m his staff.”  A dear friend and her husband (both deceased but still dear to me) had a cat named Orson who ruled their home.  The woman who used to cut my hair, Madeline (also now deceased), had 23 cats roaming around her country place.  Her husband, a carpenter, built two large cat houses for them.  Another friend and her husband when building their new home had ten individual cat boxes installed in their garage for their ten cats. 
         Poets and playwrights have written about cats, Thomas Hatdy, Mark Twain, Baudelaire, even Edgar Alan Poe and Emily Dickinson. T.S. Elliot’s Possum’s Book of Practical Cats was the source of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical “Cats.”My one blog about Sheba is probably enough for me. Hemingway stated, “A cat has absolute emotional honesty. Human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.”  Care and love your pets… cats, dogs or leaping lizards! 

      People search for happiness, but actually, happiness finds us. When it comes, it generally surprises us and most often when we least expect it to do so.  Suddenly we realize something is awesome, beautiful, or precious, and the reality of the emotion is happiness.  Those happy moments make life endurable. Consider people in prison during WWII or even before that recording how looking out a window at one little square of sky sustained  them with hope and the  knowledge that beyond their prison walls there was a world where birds soared, rain fell, sun shone, and grass and flowers thrived. It gave them happiness to stare at that little square of life in the middle of their dismal and horrible situation.

     The world seems dismal these times. Recently my brother and I were talking about how in the “olden days,” we didn’t know about the disasters and tragedies happening on the other side of the world, much less in neighboring towns or states.  We didn’t have the internet. We weren’t bombarded with news twenty four hours every day. We had three main TV networks, and we listened to “the news” maybe each evening.  If something terrible happened in our town we were astounded but we were blissfully unaware of problems in other places.  We were happier, I believe, because in that sense, our ignorance was bliss. We didn’t worry about everything.

     Prior to Christmas, my husband and I were invited to attend the dress rehearsal of a local church’s Christmas Eve cantata. We went on a cold Wed. night, sat in a dimly lit church, and were blown away by the beauty of the music and choir. It was a moment of happiness. On a less inspirational situation, happiness found me one morning when I was overwhelmed and a person knocked on the door. She had come to pick up some newspapers. We had a little visit. I was glad to get to know her better and to share some local news.  After she told about a couple of family situations, we moved to other topics and began to laugh about some trivial matters.  As I said goodbye and closed the door, I realized I was happy.  

     Another moment of happiness surprised me when I was with a bunch of writers who shared thoughts, food, and general talk. Being with those people was invigorating, and I realized I was happy. I think happiness has to do with feeling thankful. These little slivers of happy moments remind me of a couple of lines in the prologue of Tennyson’s poem, “In Memoriam.”   He wrote about the death of his friend, and he concluded that our lives, however short, are but “broken lights of Thee.”  It’s interesting to think about that.
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        It is now a new year and we have no idea what sort of tragedies will occur in our lives or in the world. Some people are talking about how we are “in the end of times.”  Whether true or not, who can say?  Meanwhile, I wish for everyone with an ounce of capacity to think, to work to make your own luck. Allow yourself to realize that you can be happy.  Be thankful. Be wise.   Alas, for children who are told, see, and hear everything!  If there is anything we can teach them, we must teach them self-control and not to spend time searching for happiness. Am I too philosophical? Perhaps, but it doesn’t matter.  Happy New Year. 

     Thus far, Sheba has not had her kittens. She’s as round as can be, and signs make it appear she soon will be a momma cat.  She has a place in the garage that should suit the situation beautifully, should she choose to accept the place. We will see.  Meanwhile, we’ve been encouraged to learn a first litter generally is a small one. We are hoping that’s the case since we’re not and never were expecting this sort of news from this beautiful black cat that adopted us.  Our acceptance of her determination was set when we first purchased a bag of cat food at the local grocery.

     Speaking of encouragement, as I was leaving church last Sunday, a man asked me if was “writing or working on anything major.”  I hardly knew how to answer because it’s been some time since I’ve written anything major. Perhaps he was thinking of my biography Art Smith, Pioneer Aviator or one of my plays.  I try to write a blog (essay) once a month and post it on the internet. I write up news articles and/or meetings which get posted in the local newspaper, thankfully with no byline, and from time to time I submit some creative items to some competitions. The last one was a ten-minute monologue contest. My entry out of 400 made it to semi-final rounds.  What I write these days mostly seems to be birthday, get-well, and sympathy cards.   What I like to do, however, is to write. I like doing that more than gardening, an activity that gives me a sense of satisfaction. Alas, this past summer and fall, my flower beds have gone to weeds. Blame the weather and the deer that wander through the yard and a busy schedule.

     Yes, I do like to write. It’s in my DNA. I am glad that I have friends who are like me. Words mean so much, and once they are placed on paper or submitted, they exist.  But back to the man’s question. Since I haven’t written anything MAJOR or even marketed what I have done in the past, his pleasant query made me happy. I felt affirmed. I was encouraged to tackle a new project. I have ideas I cannot wait to explore.  The importance of someone who asks that sort of question is incredible.

     Most artists, musicians, and authors credit some teacher they had in middle school or high school that saw their potential.  If it were not for Mr. John Fowler, my high school English teacher, I would not have pursued writing. Before he died many years ago, I did write him a thank you letter. Later a college teacher, Mrs. Gilpatrick, inspired me. I minored in political science and majored in English so it’s not surprising I’m a political junkie. I read newspapers and listen to the news.

     Today’s world is chaotic and crazy, and there is a need for sanity, common sense, the quiet rituals of the pews, and encouragement. I am fortunate I live in place that gives me those opportunities.  I am glad Stan Wilson asked me that question.  I feel encouraged. Affirmed.  For Christmas this year and next year as well, consider giving someone the gift of encouragement either in person or in a note card.  
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     I now must stop writing and put out some food for Sheba.