I think I’ll cheat just a little and follow the direction of Sally’s blog written this past Wednesday, maybe like my Rusty, a dog that trails my heels everywhere I venture, heading in the same direction? Sally made me think about this past year and all we have experienced, so I decided to stick to the same subject as hers before me. First, let me say, I couldn’t have expressed better or more thoroughly Sally’s summary of this past year. She covered it well.

To begin with, I would never have predicted I’d be posting this today. Simply because I never thought we would truly pull together all the years of our friendship and stories to fit into a book. I do know a little voice inside my head kept repeating, don’t you want to gather what the group has written? Life changes directions. Better capture it now, not later. So, we discussed the goal, then made a pledge to finish a book we’d started many times before. We intended to collect our tales, bind them into one, and hold a book in our hands to place on our bookshelves. Make it a reality. And we did.

What I didn’t think of or clearly didn’t know was how many steps there were, how much sweat and determination would be necessary. For example, the website. “WHAT? We need a website?” As Sally wrote, Diana took on the difficult chore of providing the website’s framework and the three of us spent endless hours fleshing it out. Then came the blog. Of course, that felt clumsy at first, at least for me. I liked reading other blogs, but writing for ours? No way. However, throughout this past year, I’ve been learning blogging is a new avenue for expressing ourselves and though I am just a baby in this process, I truly enjoy writing Friday’s blog. Blogging regularly means I need to honor my commitment to our group. Accountability, you know.

I’ll stop here and just say it’s been quite a year and I’m thankful we decided to write our book and we’re even more grateful to you—our readers and writers. Like Sally, I hope the website and blog have been entertaining, informative, reassuring, and enjoyable. Thanks for reading our work and think I’ll stop “following Sally!”  

My husband and I decided to drive from our home in Berthoud, Co to visit our long-time friends living in Prescott, Arizona, hopefully before the surrounding mountainous area is visited by more intense heat and monsoon rains. I do like the monsoon season though—when lightning sprays the sky and the rain cools. We lived in Tucson for twelve years, so great memories and nostalgia linger there, monsoons included.

On this two-day road trip, we spent the night in Ouray, Colorado. It is a charming, beautiful mountain town with numerous old buildings from the late 1800’s. The San Juan mountains rise abruptly above the town, literally surrounding it. Waterfalls relieve the mountains of their extremely abundant snowfall this past winter and as we sat on a patio, my husband and I watched a fall gushing out of a cliff. Water is abundant everywhere and the meadows are so moisture soaked and green that everywhere tall grass tickles calves’ bellies. Climate change has become an urgent subject and it seemed as if in Ouray, it was only a myth. 

Nearly twenty years ago, our writing group headed to Steamboat Springs from Tucson to attend a writing conference. We gabbed, joked and on the way, stopped in Ouray for a while to check out the bookstore. It was one of those many terrific times we shared.

Before leaving Ouray with my husband this last time, I visited that same bookstore. It was now at a different location. I purchased a couple books and bookmarks. My heart ached a little, remembering when our writing group was younger. So many years have sped by. So many changes for us all. I’m glad I visited Ouray Bookstore. Sometimes, as we get older, returning to memorable times brings a smile, something we all need as time speeds along much faster than we’d like.

I loved my grandma. We had a special relationship, but I have to say, she had one with all her grandchildren. It’s just I was one of the lucky ones. Our farm was only fifteen minutes away from theirs and we were with them a lot. Their house sat on a large corner lot at the edge of Wood River, a small town. The house was little with front cement steps leading to their dining/living room door. I can’t remember a time Grandma didn’t greet us when she saw our car pull up. She always held the door wide open, a big smile on her face, her gray hair ruffled, wearing a short-sleeved blouse and her heavy black shoes with a small heel like the ones women often wore then. She was large boned and rather tall. I was young and just her presence as I looked up at her made it feel as if warmth and happiness embraced me. She loved us. “Daddy! Look who’s here,” she’d loudly exclaim. He was nearly deaf and would turn around in his soft armed chair facing the television, toss his arm up in the air in greeting and say, “hello, hello!”

My brother, sisters and I would sit for a while to listen to adult conversation. I liked hearing their latest news about farming, weather, my aunts, uncles, and relatives. It felt like I was listening to exposed secrets, which their conversation really wasn’t, but it surely made me feel important. Grandma usually had a canary or a parakeet in a cage in front of one of the dining room windows. I would walk over to them, loving how their small talons danced sideways across a round, long peg the width of the cage, bobbing their heads back and forth to keep an eye on me. Once tired of conversation and birdwatching, we kids climbed the stairs to the attic and easily entertained ourselves. A small, lace-curtained window framed a corn field to the south, making the attic bright and inviting. It was like having our own special playroom, despite the fact there was a bed in it for guests. If we stayed overnight, we loved sleeping “up in the attic” as we called it. We talked, giggled and thoroughly enjoyed that no one could hear us, or so we thought.

My grandparents have been gone for a significant number of years, but I have one visible object that brings me close to Grandma every day.

It’s a plant, the original one Grandma passed on to my mother, then my family passed to me when Mom died. Its flower is unique or must be so because my thirteen-year-old granddaughter yesterday walked over to view its light pink blooms resembling the round spray of a firework.  “What is this plant, Grandma? The flowers are so pretty!” I told her it was a Hoya and we searched for more buds about to bloom. It’s at least fifty years old and thriving. The vines keep growing and growing, extending everywhere. Slips have been “stolen” from it so that my siblings and our children have one. Grandma would be pleased. My granddaughter beside me is the fifth generation able to touch and admire the Hoya. I’m sure Grandma would have liked watching as we searched for blossoms. Or, maybe she was?

I am gluten free, by necessity, not choice. I don’t have celiac, which gives me a sigh of relief. It’s been about six years that I’ve been deprived (tears), considering I’m also to follow the low-fodmap diet, and another rule – no garlic, onion, and keep my sugar intake to 5 grams or less. I mean, who in the world can do that unless you’ve locked your pantry and hired someone to guard it? When I flew to Tucson for the Festival of Books, Diana and Sally cooked gluten free while I stayed with both of them, which was very kind and much appreciated, considering I sent them my low-fodmap, sugar free, no onion, no garlic list. They reviewed the forty page list (not really that long, just seems that way in another language). The day of the Festival, Sally diligently reminded me that I “may not” want to eat the mini-sized bars sitting in a big basket behind us, within arm’s reach. I decided I’d be just fine, spun around and inhaled them. My body rebelled the next day. Just ask Sally and Diana. I wanted to pout, but more books signings were scheduled. 

Yesterday, my husband, my daughter’s family and I attended a Colorado Rockies game and were in a suite, complements of one of her vendors. They provided a nice amount of food, and I drooled past the pizza, brats with buns, hot dogs too, soft, large chocolate chip cookies, Margaritas, beer, coke, sprite and more. All I was able to eat was a bare, lonely hot dog slathered with mustard, catsup, and pickle relish. I also had a tossed salad with dressing and ate next to my granddaughter as she devoured a hot dog with bun and later, a marbled chocolate and vanilla ice cream cone.

You would think I’d get used to eating little sugar. There IS an array of delicious gluten free food, desserts included, but too often, the sugar content is high.

Considering my food limitations, I should be a Twiggy, but sadly, I’m not. I bet she ate at least over 50 grams of sugar, or I like to think she did. I’m still waiting to become her, but so far, it hasn’t happened. Oh well, I’m in a cafeteria as I write this and am going to walk past the pastries and drool. By the way, I know it could be much worse. Many have health situations much more serious than mine. It’s just that my diet keeps me healthier despite my complaining at times. But, just wondering, surely some of you out there share my whining?

Just got done staring at the pastry bar. Heck, who needs a raspberry, cream cheese-filled, gluten, high sugar scone when you can buy bottled water or black coffee. Right? Not.

In the numerous classes and workshops I took on writing, perhaps the most often used phrase was “Okay, let’s do some freewriting.” The instructor would often mention a subject or give a hand-out with different ideas and/or scenarios to write about. The time given to complete it usually ran around twenty minutes. I would stare at my paper, pen in hand, in a slight panic, wondering what to write. It seemed as if it took me half the twenty minutes to decide. All this while watching everyone else in the room bow their head over their paper, pen in hand and start. How do they immediately know what they want to write about?

Our writing group consistently included a freewriting every time we met. We used the same prompt (some are mentioned in our book) and the allotted time ran around fifteen minutes. It wasn’t unusual for us to scatter about in the kitchen, living room or patio to complete our writing. Even then, I felt as if I was last to jump into the prompt. However, an idea always came to me, especially if I got out of the way, and just let the pen and prompt take over.

I now experience the same dilemma when it comes to my turn for the blog—Fridays. I am consistently late in figuring out what to write. Late means too often, Thursdays. What in the heck am I going to write about? I squeeze my brain cells and still no answer arrives. I look around me, think of memories or an incident I experienced a few days ago and still the answer is nope, not that. I begin to panic as Thursday evening approaches. Not one iota of a subject has entered my mind. What to do?

I first heard the term “magical thinking” when I read Joan Didion’s powerful book, The Year of Magical Thinking. I was intrigued by those two words. Although her magical thinking alluded to a different subject much deeper, I believe it describes writers’ creativity. For me, the magical thinking happens when I am sitting at my desk, or driving in my car, or walking our dog or even reading a book. That elusive idea pops into my head and thoughts dance around until they form the first two or three beginning sentences. It’s just magical. There’s no other way to describe how the writing process happens.

Oh, by the way, the idea for this blog arrived early–Wednesday morning. What a relief. 

Rain and lots of it has arrived. It has been desperately needed here in Colorado these past years, the front range included. During the time we’ve lived here, over twelve years, fires have raged; engulfing forests, annihilating homes, destroying animals, and even taking human lives. Just three years ago, during the Cameron Peak Fire, my husband was working on a golf course and said it was raining ash, turning the day into an eerie dusk. The powdery residue was actually drifting like snow. At the same time that he was on the golf course, I was sweeping ashes off the porch and brushed the cars to remove the same. It was devastating to hear over the news of the acres and acres destroyed, 208,000, with only a small percentage being contained day after day. 

So, as I watch it rain outside our window for three days now, I am grateful. With a little luck, this moisture just might douse any ember trying to start a forest fire this summer. At the same time, there is the combined concern of flooding considering the mountains were inundated with a vast amount of snow this winter, some areas breaking records. There was so much, there was a concern for wildlife because they were unable to dig deep enough for food. It’s a fact that Mother Nature always has the last word. Sometimes we agree with her, sometimes not.

Even though we are grateful for rain, there is one glitch—Rusty, our dog. Every day by 3:00 P.M., if he hasn’t been walked, he notifies me. If I am sitting, he saunters over and rests his nose on my arm, his brown eyes staring up at me in near desperation. On these rainy days, I pretend I don’t see him, even though his desires usually run my life. I don’t want to walk in the chilly steady rain, but rather watch it from inside. I don’t really believe him wanting to walk anyhow. With this wet weather, I kneel down for more leverage to push his butt out the patio door so he can relieve himself. The minute one drop of rain lands on his nose, his ears lay flat against his head as he tries to spin around and come back in. We start the procedure all over again until I win. No matter what, I’m still delighted we’re receiving moisture, dog battle or not. 

Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls is absolutely, without a doubt, my number one favorite, despite the many books I’ve read over half a century. Just ask my kids. They will tell you. Every time I hear it mentioned, which isn’t often, I say, “Oh, that’s my favorite book ever!” I’m guessing I have company with others loving it, too. Who wouldn’t love Little Ann and Old Dan?  Hound dogs that win your heart. Break it, too.

            In District #37, our country school, one excellent teacher, Mrs. McGuire, read a book to us every day for fifteen minutes after noon recess. We had an hour for lunch and recess time, plenty of time to rev up. She encouraged us, all grades, to lay our heads down with our bright red faces with sweat dripping off our foreheads. We fell into a quiet relaxation, not a sound in the room except her voice reading, taking us to different places and characters. It might have been the only silent time in the entire day and certainly my best-loved moment.

            Once, when Mrs. McDonald reached the last chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows and the plight of Old Dan (I’ll try not to explain it, though you probably have an idea), sobs could be heard around the room. Mrs. McDonald could hardly read it, tears running down her face too. I thought it was just our tears, but later realized she, too, couldn’t get through the story. It made me love her forever, how the book touched her too, that she was unafraid to show it and let her tears flow with us. She finally said, “Okay students, here’s what we’ll do. You can use the mudroom with a friend and read the chapter to each other to finish it.” 

            We three girls in the fifth grade took the book and drug our three chairs into the small room with its swinging door to the classroom, the faded wooden floor, and mint green walls with a small window near the ceiling. It was no longer used as an entrance, but rather to study with each other, which usually ended up in giggles or sneaking open the old squeaky door to bravely run around the schoolhouse in hopes to not be caught. We figured she wouldn’t know. The sometimes naivety of children.

            However, there were no giggles this time. First, Peggy read a few pages of the last chapter, then Debbie, then me. We sobbed through the last pages, Kleenexes in hand. I’m sure the kids in the actual school room heard us, but never to mind. It would soon be their turn to sit in the little room and cry, shedding tears after those before. 

            This story always warms me. The way a book can take you into a world and connects you to others. Relatable characters, vivid scenes and great dialogue combine to make a remarkable book, just like Where the Red Fern Grows.

Yesterday, while driving for errands, I had the radio station turned to NPR. The famous author Judy Blume was being interviewed. She no longer writes, but the interviewer discussed her books and writing life. In fact, a movie has just been released regarding her first popular book, are you there god, it’s me Margaret. The subject matter? The story is about Margaret being upset her period hasn’t started while others her age have. Blume’s books have been definitely controversial as she writes of situations youth face while growing up. She has even received death threats. That never stopped her. Not to be OCD on banned books (or maybe I am), she has clearly written an unbelievable and relevant number of beloved books for youth. She has won more than ninety awards and none more important than those coming directly from her youngest readers. She was also honored with the Margaret A. Edwards Award for Lifetime Achievement.

I bring up Judy Blume and her books because first, I’m looking forward to the movie. I regret I’ve read very few of her books. I’m not sure why. Guess I was busy being a mom. However, I plan on reading more.

Secondly, my thirteen-year-old granddaughter, an age Blume addresses in her books , has recently been invaded by the reading “bug.” I need to ask her if she’s read Blume’s books and truly love watching her curl up into a chair with her her newest book, her legs tucked under her, closing all out as she enters into the world of her next read. 

A few days ago, I picked her up from school and was a few minutes late. She was easy to locate sitting on the school’s front steps, her head bent over a book as she devoured another mystery. She didn’t look up even though a few students were hurrying down the steps beside her, locating their ride home. Luckily, she raised her head as I pulled the car up in front of her, closing her book until she could revisit her characters and the story once more. 

Her recent passion for books warms me, makes me happy. It reminds me of my days in country school when all grades, around thirty students were in the same room – the sound of feet shuffling on wooden floors, the teacher instructing another grade, other students softly talking back and forth, discussing assignments. I disappeared, sitting at my desk, my nose buried in the latest animal book. I heard nothing as the book’s characters surrounding me took over.  

I still experience the same as I continue to enter my next a book. 

My granddaughter now asks what I am reading every time she sees me with an open book, which like her, could take place in any setting. She always shows me her “latest” book purchase and I read the first chapter to discover its tone. She loves that I do, and we discuss the book a little bit. I’m delighted, not only because she shares with me the book she’s reading, but also because it gives us a special connection. Thank heaven for books.

Osher Lifelong Learning Institute is associated with Colorado State University in Fort Collins. A year ago, a friend mentioned it to me. Providing classes for 17 years, they offer over 70 courses for adults ages 50 and better. I clearly fit the age requirement.

I recently took three classes by the same instructor regarding banned books in certain areas of Colorado. Books like Of Mice and Men by Steinbeck, James and the Giant Peach by Dahl, Captain Underpants by Pilkey, The Storyteller by Picoult, To Kill a Mockingbird by Lee, Glass Castle by Walls and more. There were over twenty-five attendees and due to the comments and questions, I’m certain we were all on the same page (no pun intended). Basically, we were saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me!’

Currently, some places have already taken these certain ones off the shelf or are currently in the process of the “fight” to do so. I learned that it could take only one person to request the ban and depending on the city board, the library board, and others, it can happen. One person! I knew that bans were being introduced across the country, but even so, I’m sure my mouth gaped open when the instructor showed book covers on the screen that are currently in the “penalty box.” In fact, license has been used to change some words within the book to appease the protestors. 

This recent movement isn’t new. For generations, books have been banned due to use of certain words, graphics, and subject matter. Classics have also been a target, now and before. I’ve read many and enjoyed them—they’ve also taught me much. I earnestly am appalled at what’s taking place today. I don’t believe any of us readers and writers want extraordinary readings written by the ordinary removed from us. It’s time to pay attention.