So not only did you teach me about writing memoir, you also taught me about reading and thinking about how others write memoir. Thank you so much! Rebecca

Accepting what is to come

You can’t change the direction of the wind, but you can adjust your sails.

Friday, March 1, 2024

Brandy, My Miracle Dog

                                                
            
WHAT'S NEXT, MOM?

        Brandy, my miniature black poodle, rode with his front paws firmly planted on the top of the Honda motorcycle, his little rear end on the seat between my legs as I sped down the farm road. His long ears waved behind him in the wind like two black flags. Together we leaned into the curves and he never once lost his balance.

            My husband Barry gave Brandy to me as a wedding present one week after we married. I should have been aware that the puppy would own me before too long. He was a tiny curly ball of fur, jet black and shiny. Only six weeks old. His face with a pink tongue peeping from his smiling mouth and his two inquisitive eyes should have been a hint that he would lead us on a merry chase as we came to adore him.

            I loved his new puppy smell as I buried my face in his coat.  He licked my face and I knew we were meant for each other. That first night we made him a bed in a box in the kitchen complete with a soft blanket, a ticking clock, and old socks. We went to bed feeling like proud parents. It turned out to be a long night, and in the morning, the puppy was sleeping on my pillow.

            For the first three months of Brandy's life, he and I were inseparable. He ran free in our small furnished apartment and behaved himself surprisingly well most of the time.

            In September I went back to work teaching fourth grade. We left him alone for the first time, confined to the dining room just in case he grew bored or had an accident being left inside for such a long time. Although he cried when I closed the door on my way out, I felt certain he would settle down once he saw I was not coming back.

            To my dismay, Brandy met me at the back door that afternoon. I looked down and saw this tiny dog standing in an explosion of foam rubber strewn from the back door to the living room and all over the kitchen. After a brief survey, it was obvious. Brandy had jumped up on a chair and from there to the dining room table.  From the table, he leaped through the spindles of a wall divider into the living room. That was where he proceeded to destroy three sofa cushions and then to chew each of the legs of the coffee table.     

That escapade was expensive, and we knew we had to do something right away. We replaced the ruined furniture and made a decision that became a turning point in our lives. We moved to the farm where I had grown up and where my parents still lived.

On the farm, Brandy ran free when we were home. He chased cows, and made friends with my horse, although he was somewhat jealous of her. He nipped her on the nose. He was content to be fenced when we were gone.

One Sunday afternoon, Barry climbed up on the roof to repair a television antenna. In a rush to watch a football game, he left the ladder leaning against the house and forgot about it.

Early the next morning, we left for work in different cars. I arrived home around four o'clock in the afternoon. As I drove up I couldn't believe my eyes. Brandy came running, as he always did when he saw me, but this time he was running up on the roof. I clambered out of the car knowing, in his eagerness to reach me, he was going to jump.

My heart pounded. I ran toward him. But Brandy, far more intelligent than I realized at the time, scampered over to the ladder, scurried down, head first, never missing a step until he was three feet from the ground. At that point, he jumped. I heaved a sigh of relief, gathered him up in my arms, and hugged him. I looked up and wondered why he decided to climb the ladder? How long had he been up there? Over the years of living with him, I became aware that Brandy was an unusual dog. We had more to come.

Thursday, February 29, 2024

WHAT'S HAPPENING NOW

As I recover from shoulder surgery, I have had to cancel my ZOOM writing classes. We had six students who were writing and bonding and I look forward to continuing later this year, maybe in April or May.

Meanwhile, I look forward to meeting with writers and poets who knew Raven Chiong, when I return to Hayesville in March.  

In April I plan to read at the Literary Hour at John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, NC.
Our special guest that evening is Scott Owens, a wonderful poet, from Hickory, NC.
The date is April 18, Thursday, 7:00 PM in the Keith House.  





Friday, April 19, Scott will hold a workshop for poets at Moss Memorial Library, Hayesville, NC.

donations requested.






Saturday, January 27, 2024

CONGRATULATIONS TO JOSEPH BATHANTI


JOSEPH BATHANTI 

Congratulations to Joseph Bathanti, friend and poet from Western North Carolina. 

He has been our featured guest on Netwest’s Zoom programs and our one-day writing conference. Joseph is always so gracious when we invite him. He will be inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame along with Ron Rash and Kaye Gibbons two authors who have written many excellent books and received many awards. There are several more outstanding writers on this list.

Bathanti was the Poet Laureate of NorthCarolina from 2012 to 2014 and has received both the North Carolina Award for Literature and the Order of the Long Leaf Pine. He is the author or editor of more than 20 books of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and criticism. Since 2001 he has taught at Appalachian State University in Boone.

I hope Joseph will teach a poetry class for our NCWN-West poets in 2024. We would all gain so much from having him with us even if on Zoom.

Monday, January 1, 2024

Writing classes for 2024 Instructor Glenda Beall

Classes are taught via Zoom - Register to receive your invitation to participate.



Instructor: Glenda Council Beall

Glenda is a very capable, empathic, and insightful writing teacher, who creates and sustains a safe, warm space for students to learn and become successful writers.

Most of her students are beginning writers, and Glenda wants them to feel comfortable when they share their writing with others. She is a firm believer in encouragement rather than criticism but always finds ways to help writers improve their work without embarrassing them or making them feel defeated. 


Writing Your Memories into Stories for Your Family or for Publication

Tuesdays – 6:00 – 8:00 PM - January 23 and 30 - February 13

Fee: 60.00  for three classes

Online with Zoom

There are reasons why certain memories stay with us. We don’t remember everything that has happened in our lives, but we remember those things that made a difference.

Why are they important to us? 

Who are the people in our lives we want to remember and tell their stories so our children and grandchildren will know them as well?

What do you want your family to know about your life and why? Today young people hardly know their grandparents’ history, where they were born, what they did for work, and what tragedies or successes they had. We don’t sit on the porch and talk like our parents once did. Unless you write your unique story, no one will know it.  

We all have individual stories, and we can learn to write them to inform and enlighten our readers.  You might think your family is not interested in your story, but one day they will be so glad you took the time to write it.

In class, we share our stories and receive feedback from our peers that help us know what is good and what might need some more work. Each student gets individual attention from me with suggestions on how to make his/her story the best it can be.

My classes are for beginning and intermediate writers, published or non-published.

For registration information: gcbmountaingirl@gmail.com 

Saturday, December 9, 2023

Retreats for Writers - The One I Refused

This is the time for writers and poets to enter the NC Writers’ Network contests. Visit the website: www.ncwriters.org to learn about them. If you are a member of NCWN, you receive the information in your weekly newsletter.

I noticed in the most recent communication from the Network that several places are offering residencies for writers who can come and stay in a private house or cabin for a week or two and have time to write! No other responsibilities.

In 2008 I received a letter from Wild Acres, a beautiful place outside Little Switzerland NC. Wild Acres offered a residency which I applied for, and I was overjoyed when I received the letter saying I was accepted for September.

A cabin at Wild Acres for someone who was chosen for a Residency 

But in July, Barry was diagnosed with lymphoma. 

He had a tumor in his leg just above his knee. We had been sent to Emory for a second opinion. The doctors agreed Barry must have chemo and radiation. They seemed to ignore it was stage 4 and he was 73 years old. Barry had the most positive attitude of anyone I had ever seen. But it was obvious he did not want me to go away and leave him for two weeks. I would never think of doing that. I was disappointed that I had to refuse Wild Acres, but I was definitely going to be by my husband’s side during his fight to overcome cancer.

I feared the journey we were facing but had no idea what was going to happen. 

He struggled for a year in and out of hospitals, dealing with doctors at home and in Atlanta. Doctors told me when his pain grew worse and his leg looked like it had been badly burned, that they could give him more chemo. We tried one round of the stronger chemo and it was awful for him. For two days he was on IVs as the poison leaked into his body.

“It will damage his heart and he will eventually die from a heart attack," I was told. He did not have more chemo.

Finally, in July 2009, the cancer had become a horrible nightmare. His entire lower body became so swollen that it scared us, and no one was doing anything to help him. I knew he didn’t want to be kept alive to suffer, so when Hospice was suggested, I took it. He had turned over his medical care to me. He suffered extreme pain that could not be stopped. We had always agreed that we did not want to be kept alive when we knew we could not be healed.

The oxygen was removed. No meds were given except to try to stop the pain. He slept.

Within three days, his heart failed, and he died. I was devastated and grief overwhelmed me for a long time.

Several years later, I applied again for that residency at Wild Acres but was rejected. It would have been a wonderful time up in the smoky mountains, the green trees, the long walks in the quiet, but Barry came first, and I am happy that I spent all the days he had left with him, and I spent each night, too. 

Big Sur

I drive along the freeway,
cars like inchworms creep.
I visualize a moment
far removed from traffic jams.

High above the scene,
we picnicked on cheese and wine.
The wind swept up the cliff
and kissed my face with droplets
from the great Pacific which crashed
on rocks one hundred feet below.

Wind tossed our words up to the gulls
who shrieked them back at us.
The day was dazzling in its brilliance.
Our love, not young, refreshed, renewed.
We dreamed, made promises.
That perfect day - a perfect place,
away from all the world.
                        --- Glenda Council Beall

Sunday, December 3, 2023

Writing Classes are coming and So is Christmas


Carol Crawford
is teaching a week-long class at the John C. Campbell Folk School in January 2024. Oh, how I would like to be there for that class. Carol is one of my favorite instructors of writing.

The Art of Creative Nonfiction, 
January 14 - 19, 2024, 
on the John C. Campbell Folk School campus.  Here's that link:


She promises to teach some online courses in the coming year and I will definitely sign up for one of those.

I plan to teach on Zoom this winter, January - February. Since I am not in the mountains for a while, I am happy I can take classes and teach online. I will 
give more details after Christmas.

I have a busy week ahead and one of the things I must do is take my car in to get repairs. I bought this pre-owned car a few months ago but I have found out the car had problems in the past that are showing up again. 

I did not know this when I bought this Toyota, and I am going to have to confront the dealership about it. Send me some good vibes, Readers. I don't like to do this kind of thing, but I will.

Beautiful Triptch by Gay Moring is displayed every Christmas

I hope you all are enjoying the holiday season. I used to get excited and anxious with Christmas shopping and guests for Christmas, but now my holidays are much simpler. I miss having family for Christmas dinner and holding the Beall family Christmas at my house. Barry's mother would drive down from north Georgia and stay a few days with us after we built our house. She always bought her homemade chili that was so good, and usually a chocolate cake. Barry's brother, Richard, and his sister-in-law would drive up from Florida for a weekend. I enjoyed them so much. 

Life is different now, but it is still good to be with my family, much smaller now.










Monday, November 6, 2023

Netwest Poet is published in the United Kingdom

One of the best poets I know is MAREN O. MITCHELL who is publishing her poems everywhere. The two below were recently published in the November issue of The Lake a UK publication.

 

 

 

 As They Go, So Go We

 

Being dazzled by June bug iridescence, in June or any other

          month, is beyond my recall, and at least six years have passed

 

since praying mantis youngsters climbed our garden plants

          with their gravity-defying sticky feet. Now wasps only

 

build duplexes, a shadow of their former eave condos

          that extended our roof line; hornets used to hang their mansions

 

in nearby trees, and invade the living room nightly through

          a secret entrance. While outside, they would eye me, hover

 

close, their frequency never mistaken, as I pretended I neither

          saw nor heard them, my only care the poem I was writing. Both

 

threats required diplomacy: move gently, (if at all), don't trust, pray

          quietly. It must be ten years since snakes traveled from the forest

 

to give birth in our shaggy yard, and I barely remember the shadows

          of turtles, their audacious road crossings, their compressed view

 

of life, and the slower snails, now only an occasional dot,

          Buddhas on stems. After my ankles, yellow jackets would chase me

 

down mountains as if they knew I had to stay on the trail to get

          home; fall spiders draped our fall house with softness to shelter egg

 

sacs, their plan for eternity. Yet, gnats still bite me with a dog-like

          clamp down, as though they hold a grudge, and mosquito specters

 

I see too late still inject me with viruses and bacteria. But, most

          upsetting, from bumble to sweat bees, (those little darlings who

 

spelunk into flowers and zap me as I deadhead), drop in less

          and less often. It is getting lonely outside. I don’t take it personally,

 

but eventually, absences will be personal: I like to know

          that unseen ants are aerating earth, I like to fall asleep, windows

 

open to the strum of insect bodies, wake to diamonded webs,

          and be illuminated by bee flight pointing out that I am alive.

 

 

The Theory of Everything

 

Every thing is always busy

becoming elemental elements:

 

red supergiant Betelgeuse of Orion,

is busy living while dying,

 

with irregular contractions

and expansions that were noted

 

by Aborigines and ancient Greeks;

my heart is busy with contractions and expansions,

 

finite beats

that began before I was aware;

 

unanswered phone calls

are busy being unanswered, synchronize

 

with activities of the callees;

insect oscillations fan out through air and earth,

 

and who notes them is a personal matter¾bacteria,

insect neighbors, redwoods, sand;

 

my fears, thoughts and complaints,

always busy¾

 

despite my occasional claim, I am not busy¾

beam out, intertwine

 

with all other busyness, expressions

that slam into paper,

 

but what the messages and what received?

And, as Jack A. Howard said, You're more

 

important to yourself

than to anyone else.

 

   

Maren O. Mitchell’spoems appear in Poetry East, Tar River Poetry , and The Antigonish Review. Three poems have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes.


Her chapbook is In my next life I plan... http://www.dancinggirlpress.com/.


She lives with her husband in the mountains of Georgia, US. 


Read a review of Maren's nonfiction book, Beat Chronic Pain


https://netwestwriters.blogspot.com/2013/04/book-review-of-beat-chronic-pain-by.html




 

Friday, October 20, 2023

Place, one of my main characters in poetry, nonfiction and fiction

There is a great good in returning to a landscape that has had extraordinary meaning in one's life. It happens that we return to such places in our minds irresistibly. There are certain villages and towns, mountains and plains that, having seen them walked in them lived in them even for a day, we keep forever in the mind's eye. They become indispensable to our well-being; they define us, and we say, I am who I am because I have been there, or there."

-- N. Scott Momaday, "Revisiting Sacred Ground," in The Man Made of Words

Many of my memories are piqued by places I have been. I write about my family and the farm where I grew up. I write about people and the place where I remember them. 

I write about Colorado where I have wonderful memories of Barry and our vacations there. That is also where we camped one night outside Estes Park and our kitchen tent blew away in a blizzard that came up while we slept. On another trip, we had so much fun with the college students who worked as staff for a ranch where we rode horses in the mountains. 

My only trip to California with Barry, Gay and Stu, created so many memories that make me smile. We had two days at the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill in San Francisco. I will never forget the thrilling ride in a Taxi as the driver raced down the streets slamming on brakes then speeding away again. It was like a carnival ride over the hills and valleys. 

In New England we laughed so much and although I only remember one or two things we did, that place will remain in my memory as long as I live. The four of us went into a gift shop and walked around looking at the unique items with a seaside theme. After a few minutes, I noticed the woman who had been behind the counter when we came in seemed to be following us. She didn't say anything but stayed nearby. I told my sister, "That woman is following us. I wonder if she thinks we are going to steal something?"  We laughed at that absurd idea and continued to shop.

At the counter, as we paid for the things we wanted, the woman asked where we were from. We told her we were from Georgia. "I knew you were not from here," she said, "when I heard you talk. I listened and tried to decide where you were from."

We laughed later as we realized she was not suspicious of us. She just wanted to hear us talk.

I have written poems placed in hospitals, on airplanes, on ski slopes, in the mountains, on lakes, and in the house where I lived. I ground my writing in places and the place usually becomes an important part of my story.

One of my prompts for my students is to choose a place where they once lived and write down the things they remember about that place. Then note the people they knew or remember from that place. Often many stories come from those notes.

A special place for me, looking off the deck of my mountain home which holds many memories, and stories I will write about