Today is Dump Day. Dump Day is when the city allows its residents to haul just about anything to a collection point at no charge.
This is one of those days that we allow ourselves to brush up against our "pack-rat-ness."
It’s not that we save everything. We simply hang on to what might be useful someday.
We also cling to items that instantly wrap us in an armful of memories.
Not quite keepsakes, they preserve moments of triumph. Maybe they take us to a place where we felt completely loved. They remind us of a time that we would buy back in a heartbeat if we only could.
Dump Day was never intended to drive a wedge between husbands and wives, mothers and children, brothers and sisters over what to part with and what to keep, but it does.
Drawing a thick chalky line of demarcation between us, Dump Day causes my husband and me to takes sides while keeping score of who is not letting go.
Everything from a drawer full of snarling AC adapters to a vintage leather suitcase that belonged to my parents tax our energy and patience.
We split hairs over little insignificant things that we passed over on last year’s Dump Day and stuff that has since become useless.
A portable TV antenna, leftover wallpaper rolls from a remodel 15 years ago, a broken vacuum cleaner and unused baking dishes.
A microphone stand from the boys’ garage band, old comic books, dog-eared children’s books, grade school art and the list goes on.
I had my hopes up, thinking that we would clear several full truckloads today, but we managed only one.
We both seemed to hit a wall of resistance to opening more drawers, cupboards, boxes and plastic tubs. The thought of it totally zapped whatever zeal we may have had.
It’s just that seeing and touching yesterday chased us back through time. Before we knew it, we were all tired out. The sudden jolt of the many days that had disappeared from our collective memory startled us.
All those decisions to keep or to throw drained us like pulling the plug on a fully drawn bath.
After Brian hauled our one truckload to the dumpsite, he played on the computer for a while and then settled in for a nap. I was feeling drowsy myself and curled up beside him.
I have come to think that Dump Day is just too overwhelming if a person is not in the right frame of mind. What is the right frame of mind? I do not know.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
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Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Part II Mother’s Bible - a geography in pen marks and food stains
A couple of years ago, I wrote about receiving my mother's Bible, which has served as a cryptic map of her interior life. Today, I continue my quest to know my mother….
Besides family photos, one of the things I value the most is my mother’s Catholic Bible.
Copyright 1988, it is entitled "Christian Community Bible." I have used it as my primary text since I received it after her death on August 30, 2005.
When paging through it, I find traces of my very private mother.
For example, on the inside front cover, she used a felt-tip pen to proudly write her name, Lillian Bosco. Below it, she wrote in pencil Healing - 2 Kings 20:5.
I locate second Kings in the Old Testament and make my way to Chapter 20, verse 5, which reads, "I have heard your prayer and I have seen your tears. And now I will cure you."
Mom's annotations are everywhere. Like an ongoing conversation with herself and with God, every marked passage offers clues to her life.
I wonder why she drew a line around Chapter 5 in Book of Wisdom, a passage which compares the godless to the godly?
On the next page, in Chapter 7, Verse 7, she marked with yellow highlighter "I prayed and understanding was given to me; I asked earnestly and the spirit of Wisdom came to me."
Even the coffee stains and food smudges appear expressive.
What kind of energy or hurriedness made her eat and read the Bible at the same time? Or was it simply that her Bible was open on the kitchen table while she passed vegetable soup, drank tomato juice and served pasta sauce that inevitably splattered the pages?
What was her intent with those brackets around verses 21 through 24 in Sirach 37? "A woman will accept any husband but some girls are better than others. A woman’s beauty makes a man happy and is all that he could wish for. If she is kindly-spoken and gentle he is the most fortunate of men. When a man marries he acquires a future, someone who understands him and who will help and support him."
I have concluded that my mother spent most of her time reading Psalms since so many are marked in one way or another. Psalm 91, subtitled "A night prayer," must have been her favorite.
Stained with coffee spills, oiled with greasy fingerprints, discolored by exposure to light, these passages must have been left open as incense for shelter and protection.
While venturing through Mom’s Bible, I work very hard to look beyond her markings to discern her calling, her searching, her rejoicing.
I hope for a glimpse of her bravery. I pray to see a healing of her brokenness. I wish to brush up against her love one more time.
It's not hard to see that her passing has been less about letting go and more about holding on.
Sitting here thumbing through Mom’s Bible, seeking God’s voice in my own life, I admit that I am listening for her and wanting her back.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Besides family photos, one of the things I value the most is my mother’s Catholic Bible.
Copyright 1988, it is entitled "Christian Community Bible." I have used it as my primary text since I received it after her death on August 30, 2005.
When paging through it, I find traces of my very private mother.
For example, on the inside front cover, she used a felt-tip pen to proudly write her name, Lillian Bosco. Below it, she wrote in pencil Healing - 2 Kings 20:5.
I locate second Kings in the Old Testament and make my way to Chapter 20, verse 5, which reads, "I have heard your prayer and I have seen your tears. And now I will cure you."
Mom's annotations are everywhere. Like an ongoing conversation with herself and with God, every marked passage offers clues to her life.
I wonder why she drew a line around Chapter 5 in Book of Wisdom, a passage which compares the godless to the godly?
On the next page, in Chapter 7, Verse 7, she marked with yellow highlighter "I prayed and understanding was given to me; I asked earnestly and the spirit of Wisdom came to me."
Even the coffee stains and food smudges appear expressive.
What kind of energy or hurriedness made her eat and read the Bible at the same time? Or was it simply that her Bible was open on the kitchen table while she passed vegetable soup, drank tomato juice and served pasta sauce that inevitably splattered the pages?
What was her intent with those brackets around verses 21 through 24 in Sirach 37? "A woman will accept any husband but some girls are better than others. A woman’s beauty makes a man happy and is all that he could wish for. If she is kindly-spoken and gentle he is the most fortunate of men. When a man marries he acquires a future, someone who understands him and who will help and support him."
I have concluded that my mother spent most of her time reading Psalms since so many are marked in one way or another. Psalm 91, subtitled "A night prayer," must have been her favorite.
Stained with coffee spills, oiled with greasy fingerprints, discolored by exposure to light, these passages must have been left open as incense for shelter and protection.
While venturing through Mom’s Bible, I work very hard to look beyond her markings to discern her calling, her searching, her rejoicing.
I hope for a glimpse of her bravery. I pray to see a healing of her brokenness. I wish to brush up against her love one more time.
It's not hard to see that her passing has been less about letting go and more about holding on.
Sitting here thumbing through Mom’s Bible, seeking God’s voice in my own life, I admit that I am listening for her and wanting her back.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I yelled for God, hoping my prayers would stick
He was 22 years old and sharing a room with my father at UCLA Medical Center in January 1994. The young man was being treated for gunshot wounds.
Misty-eyed, his mother, father, brothers and sisters spoke some broken English but mostly mumbled in Spanish as they stood around his hospital bed, forming a ring of hope to combat their fear.
It was difficult for me to look in their direction. The young patient's pale face was absent of any expression. Eyes closed, he appeared to be sleeping. There were no traceable signs of life except for the beep, beep, beep of the machine that was tracking his heart rate. His muscular arms and neck were motionless.
My father, on the other hand, was recovering from triple abdominal aneurysm surgery. Although we were not sure how he would hold up during the nine-hour procedure, Dad, age 73 at the time, came through it just fine.
While at Dad’s bedside, I overheard the sketchy details of the young man’s twist of fate.
By day, he was a college student at UCLA. He had been working evenings as a guard on a Wells Fargo security truck when he was shot in a hold up the night before last.
Now he had a 50-50 chance. Considering the number of bullets he had taken during the assault, he probably would never walk again if he did live.
I could not help feeling guilty as I drew the curtain around my father’s hospital bed. Pondering Dad’s post-op state, I concluded that he had lived a good long life. He had never faced gunfire, not even during his WWII service in the Navy.
All of his children were alive and doing well. Not one of us had stared violence in the face as this young man had less than 24 hours earlier.
While feeding my dad ice chips, I tried to block out the quiet heavy grief "next door." I thought hard about the young man, who really was just a boy.
I pictured him in a sea of white hospital sheets, tubes coming and going from his once virile body, a machine helping him breathe.
Anger and sadness grew inside me. He had been short-changed big time. He was on the cusp of adulthood, almost done with college, getting ready to launch a career. Now, he was hemmed in by the results of a lethal robbery during which the driver was killed.
He was about the same age as my oldest child was and I couldn’t help feeling the loss.
I wanted to push the reset button for him and his family.
I wanted to give them back what we all think we have: more hello hugs, a ton of "see you soon" phone messages, an abundance of weekend plans, a heart full of hopes and a life loaded with endless tomorrows.
I wanted the assailants, now roaming freely with stolen cash paid for with this young man’s blood, to be caught.
At that moment, I wanted to amass a whole host of miracles.
I yelled for God, hoping my prayers would stick. I wanted to let loose on him and his family an army of heaven’s angels.
I wanted to surround him with a hedge of protection. I wanted them to have what I thought I had.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Misty-eyed, his mother, father, brothers and sisters spoke some broken English but mostly mumbled in Spanish as they stood around his hospital bed, forming a ring of hope to combat their fear.
It was difficult for me to look in their direction. The young patient's pale face was absent of any expression. Eyes closed, he appeared to be sleeping. There were no traceable signs of life except for the beep, beep, beep of the machine that was tracking his heart rate. His muscular arms and neck were motionless.
My father, on the other hand, was recovering from triple abdominal aneurysm surgery. Although we were not sure how he would hold up during the nine-hour procedure, Dad, age 73 at the time, came through it just fine.
While at Dad’s bedside, I overheard the sketchy details of the young man’s twist of fate.
By day, he was a college student at UCLA. He had been working evenings as a guard on a Wells Fargo security truck when he was shot in a hold up the night before last.
Now he had a 50-50 chance. Considering the number of bullets he had taken during the assault, he probably would never walk again if he did live.
I could not help feeling guilty as I drew the curtain around my father’s hospital bed. Pondering Dad’s post-op state, I concluded that he had lived a good long life. He had never faced gunfire, not even during his WWII service in the Navy.
All of his children were alive and doing well. Not one of us had stared violence in the face as this young man had less than 24 hours earlier.
While feeding my dad ice chips, I tried to block out the quiet heavy grief "next door." I thought hard about the young man, who really was just a boy.
I pictured him in a sea of white hospital sheets, tubes coming and going from his once virile body, a machine helping him breathe.
Anger and sadness grew inside me. He had been short-changed big time. He was on the cusp of adulthood, almost done with college, getting ready to launch a career. Now, he was hemmed in by the results of a lethal robbery during which the driver was killed.
He was about the same age as my oldest child was and I couldn’t help feeling the loss.
I wanted to push the reset button for him and his family.
I wanted to give them back what we all think we have: more hello hugs, a ton of "see you soon" phone messages, an abundance of weekend plans, a heart full of hopes and a life loaded with endless tomorrows.
I wanted the assailants, now roaming freely with stolen cash paid for with this young man’s blood, to be caught.
At that moment, I wanted to amass a whole host of miracles.
I yelled for God, hoping my prayers would stick. I wanted to let loose on him and his family an army of heaven’s angels.
I wanted to surround him with a hedge of protection. I wanted them to have what I thought I had.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Murder in first degree shatters Easter bliss
This is a story of innocence and vulnerability ….
The mercantile store clerk reached down into the large pen and with one unfailing swoop snatched the little chick that was destined to go home with us.
The year was 1959. My five siblings and I ranged in ages from 11 to two. I was in the middle, turning seven.
There were blue, green, pink and purple baby chicks. We chose a pink one. Their feathers were intentionally dyed for the Easter season.
At the time, having a live baby chick at Easter was a marvel to our brood. It was like bringing home a hamster or a gerbil.
We took turns holding "Peep-peep," which is what we named him after his chirping sound. One at a time, we reached down into his makeshift pen, which was lined with Sunday’s paper.
Our bodies quivered while we balanced that fluff ball of innocence in our hands. Our fingers curled ever so gently around his tiny body to keep him from certain death by falling on the hardwood floor.
Some part of having a new creature in our lives was the excitement of holding vulnerability in the palms of our hands.
Looking back, that was a cruel Easter ritual for Peep-peep, but one that brought us collective excitement, second only to having the Easter Bunny himself hip-pity-hop right through our front door.
The baby chick’s pen quickly turned into a playful shrine, which we visited and knelt at, watching for long spells, waiting, wondering even though he never once came around to our caresses or attempted kisses atop his miniature head.
Embedded in my elation was a certain sadness. For our benefit, his body was dyed and then he was removed from his home. His appetite soon gone. The fight in him failed.
We wanted him to play. We wanted him to respond. Maybe that’s why the youngest, Anita, age 2, held on so tightly the morning after his arrival.
At first, she was skittish about how he felt on her skin. Then, she became ecstatic. Her eyes and mouth widened. Her grip tightened while her fingers collected slowly around his neck.
"Let go, Anita!" I yelled; the others joined my cry. "Let go-o-o-o-o-o!" We ran screaming for our mother, leaving Anita alone, frozen on an island of desperate bliss with feathery soft Peep-peep still under her power. His eyes closed. His head limp. His body lifeless.
In the years that followed, Mother forbade us to have another baby chick at Easter or any other time, for that matter.
This is a story of innocence and vulnerability. Down through the years, why is it that my siblings and I are compelled to retell it during family gatherings and at Easter?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
The mercantile store clerk reached down into the large pen and with one unfailing swoop snatched the little chick that was destined to go home with us.
The year was 1959. My five siblings and I ranged in ages from 11 to two. I was in the middle, turning seven.
There were blue, green, pink and purple baby chicks. We chose a pink one. Their feathers were intentionally dyed for the Easter season.
At the time, having a live baby chick at Easter was a marvel to our brood. It was like bringing home a hamster or a gerbil.
We took turns holding "Peep-peep," which is what we named him after his chirping sound. One at a time, we reached down into his makeshift pen, which was lined with Sunday’s paper.
Our bodies quivered while we balanced that fluff ball of innocence in our hands. Our fingers curled ever so gently around his tiny body to keep him from certain death by falling on the hardwood floor.
Some part of having a new creature in our lives was the excitement of holding vulnerability in the palms of our hands.
Looking back, that was a cruel Easter ritual for Peep-peep, but one that brought us collective excitement, second only to having the Easter Bunny himself hip-pity-hop right through our front door.
The baby chick’s pen quickly turned into a playful shrine, which we visited and knelt at, watching for long spells, waiting, wondering even though he never once came around to our caresses or attempted kisses atop his miniature head.
Embedded in my elation was a certain sadness. For our benefit, his body was dyed and then he was removed from his home. His appetite soon gone. The fight in him failed.
We wanted him to play. We wanted him to respond. Maybe that’s why the youngest, Anita, age 2, held on so tightly the morning after his arrival.
At first, she was skittish about how he felt on her skin. Then, she became ecstatic. Her eyes and mouth widened. Her grip tightened while her fingers collected slowly around his neck.
"Let go, Anita!" I yelled; the others joined my cry. "Let go-o-o-o-o-o!" We ran screaming for our mother, leaving Anita alone, frozen on an island of desperate bliss with feathery soft Peep-peep still under her power. His eyes closed. His head limp. His body lifeless.
In the years that followed, Mother forbade us to have another baby chick at Easter or any other time, for that matter.
This is a story of innocence and vulnerability. Down through the years, why is it that my siblings and I are compelled to retell it during family gatherings and at Easter?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or join her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Lusty cooing, Harleys and getting gritty again
Oh, visit the earth, ask her to join the dance. Deck her out in spring showers, fill the God-River with living water. – Psalm 65:9-13 "The Message" Translation
Green shoots wait succulently beneath dusty fallen leaves. Above, the lusty cooing of a morning dove breaks the silence.
A woodpecker "rat-a-tat-tat" for food on a nearby tree while another flutters in flight.
Full-breasted male robins stake out their territory, caroling richly from their high perches. Later, they swoop down to loosen dirt in search of worms, which have not yet surfaced.
Brooks, streams, lakes and rivers break loose from the icy shackles of winter.
Once aggrieved flowerbeds sprout nubs of life.
Overhead, waterfowl, with their piercing cries, power northward, cranking hard on nature’s clock.
The hoarse honking of Canada geese announces the end of winter’s overly serious grip.
The old familiar "gobble-gobble-gobble" of wild turkeys
In the field across the way, the piping of a long-legged Kill Deer dancing around corn stubs and hopping over plow ruts.
A Blue Jay’s sharp warning offsets the melodic song of newly arriving red-winged blackbirds. Birds and more birds join the chorus. Buntings and Finches are not far behind.
We mimic nature. We shed our winter selves. We go outside without coats, hats, gloves.
We move about refreshing our own nests, sweeping our steps, scratching our gardens.
Our hands and faces get gritty again. Bursts of balmy air sweetly wash over us.
We hear the temperature rising in Harleys roaring along the highway. Like uncontained laughter to our ears, their rumbling engines sound as though any minute they may burst.
Children running, skipping, chasing in lingering daylight reclaim the outdoors after emerging from a long hibernation fed by electronic entertainment.
Sleeveless, they bike, skateboard, rollerblade, as though in flight, too. Hollering, shouting, calling, screaming.
Daylight lingers into early evening.
All the while, we talk back to January, February and most of March, which had moved us to such extremes.
Our dread is gone. Full-faced, we roll out hope.
The death of winter is behind us. We are young again. 2009©Copyright Paula Damon.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a popular columnist and freelance writer. Her column writing has won first-place in National Federation of Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. Recently, her work took second place in the South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests. To contact Paula Damon, email pauladamon@iw.net or comment on her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Not so fast – Lenten fasting is serious business
Want to know what I gave up for Lent? Read on....
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be. Years ago, I could get away with giving up chocolate or maybe French fries.
Not this time.
Now I do not have the luxury of abstaining from a favorite sweet or snack to observe Lent.
No longer will you hear me say, "I’m giving up ice cream for Lent."
I have replaced such deprivations with the more painful practice of being patient.
Yes, I have given up being impatient for Lent and it has been no easy task. Now, little more than one week into it, and I am about to turn blue.
It is not that I am an extremely impatient person. In fact, I may appear to be the most patient person you have ever met.
However, get me alone in my routine and I turn perilously impatient with myself and with those who are closest to me.
It is a good thing that Lent is a period of prayer and contemplation observed in many Christian denominations, because I am going to need a lot of prayer and a heap of contemplation now through Easter Sunday in order to live up to my Lenten promise.
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be. This other way of observing Lent is an entirely new journey for me.
It makes me yearn for the young innocent days of abstaining from something easy. Take my sunflower seeds and chewing gum, please.
These last eight days since the start of the Lenten season, I have been practicing patience by biting my tongue and counting to 10.
During this time, I have wondered if this is the type of "fasting" that I should have been doing all along.
The term Lent in Old English is Lencten, meaning spring. The Church teaches us that Lent is supposed to be a time of rebirth and renewal.
As Christians, we are called to go beyond ourselves by removing "me, myself and I" from our center of focus.
During these 40 days and 40 nights, we are invited to commit acts of self-sacrifice.
Visit shut-ins or residents in nursing home. Organize a food drive for the local pantry. Give money we would have spent on ice cream, French fries and sunflower seeds to the needy or missions.
We say we do not have time. During Lent, we are to make time.
During Lent, we are challenged to renew our spirits. We are asked to summon our demons and say be gone, good riddance.
In these 40 days and 40 nights, we are asked to compass our God-given purpose. We are summoned to be better people, transformed, if only a little.
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be, at least for me it isn’t.
2009©Copyright Paula Damon
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be. Years ago, I could get away with giving up chocolate or maybe French fries.
Not this time.
Now I do not have the luxury of abstaining from a favorite sweet or snack to observe Lent.
No longer will you hear me say, "I’m giving up ice cream for Lent."
I have replaced such deprivations with the more painful practice of being patient.
Yes, I have given up being impatient for Lent and it has been no easy task. Now, little more than one week into it, and I am about to turn blue.
It is not that I am an extremely impatient person. In fact, I may appear to be the most patient person you have ever met.
However, get me alone in my routine and I turn perilously impatient with myself and with those who are closest to me.
It is a good thing that Lent is a period of prayer and contemplation observed in many Christian denominations, because I am going to need a lot of prayer and a heap of contemplation now through Easter Sunday in order to live up to my Lenten promise.
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be. This other way of observing Lent is an entirely new journey for me.
It makes me yearn for the young innocent days of abstaining from something easy. Take my sunflower seeds and chewing gum, please.
These last eight days since the start of the Lenten season, I have been practicing patience by biting my tongue and counting to 10.
During this time, I have wondered if this is the type of "fasting" that I should have been doing all along.
The term Lent in Old English is Lencten, meaning spring. The Church teaches us that Lent is supposed to be a time of rebirth and renewal.
As Christians, we are called to go beyond ourselves by removing "me, myself and I" from our center of focus.
During these 40 days and 40 nights, we are invited to commit acts of self-sacrifice.
Visit shut-ins or residents in nursing home. Organize a food drive for the local pantry. Give money we would have spent on ice cream, French fries and sunflower seeds to the needy or missions.
We say we do not have time. During Lent, we are to make time.
During Lent, we are challenged to renew our spirits. We are asked to summon our demons and say be gone, good riddance.
In these 40 days and 40 nights, we are asked to compass our God-given purpose. We are summoned to be better people, transformed, if only a little.
Lenten fasting is not what it used to be, at least for me it isn’t.
2009©Copyright Paula Damon
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Welcome to Paula Bosco Damon's Blog
Greetings!
It is great to finally be able to meet on this page. I invite you to share your impressions of my non-fiction writing found at http://www.vermillionplaintalk.com. My weekly columns are in the "Opinion" section. I also wholeheartedly encourage you to share your stories, as well. Use this blog as a journal of sorts to write your stories down.
Write on....
It is great to finally be able to meet on this page. I invite you to share your impressions of my non-fiction writing found at http://www.vermillionplaintalk.com. My weekly columns are in the "Opinion" section. I also wholeheartedly encourage you to share your stories, as well. Use this blog as a journal of sorts to write your stories down.
Write on....
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