Hummingbirds greeted me this morning as I stepped outside to retrieve a grilling rack from the lawn. (If you don’t know—the easiest way to clean grill racks is to leave them on the lawn, out of the way, overnight. The dew gives them a good soak and most of the gunk just rinses away. A quick scrub and you’re done.) Five of the little guys fought among my salvia and hyssop. I don’t think I’ve ever had that many hummers in my back yard at one time before, but summer is almost over. Maybe, they’re in a hurry to store up all that good nectar. I know the feeling.
It’s been such a wonderful summer. I feel so much better and the blessing of that is more than I can say. I go to the doctor for my MPGN in about ten days. Labs, this week. I’m anxious for the results, but going by the way I feel, I’m better. Not cured, but better. I’d love a guarantee. I don’t think there is one. And when you really think about it, none of us has one anyway.
As I’ve said many times, I have so much to be grateful for. I’ve been off the prednisone for over six weeks now. Just that is so great. My puffiness is gone, I don’t bruise as easily. I have a bit more energy, though I still get tired too soon.
I had a great walk today. I’m not as sore and a neighbor on the way home joined me—a long-legged man whom usually runs. I wasn’t sure I could keep up with him and talk, but I did.
Last fall I was so full of questions about my writing. I believed I was meant to write. Everything in my life and the way I seem to be made indicates I was meant to write. It hurt that I couldn’t get more things published. I’ve doubted myself, but never as much as the last two years. I grew up believing I was a writer, but that certainty had taken a nosedive.
You know the drill, if I’m doing what I was meant to do, then why aren’t I more successful? So much time was wasted while I was sick, and more time spent as I care for my elderly mother. And this damn little ticking clock—you should be writing, you should be writing, you should be writing, won’t let me be.
An article in my paper today caught my eye—about a nineteen-year-old woman who during the last year of high school took care of her single mom, who had developed epilepsy. Then, her mother died and left her orphaned. She had to deal with the estate, her mother’s death and what she was going to do with the rest of her life.
Nineteen. She said, “You make the sacrifices you need to.” Nineteen, and she knew this already. What a great job her mother did. One of her mother’s friends said, “She stayed true to what she needs to do.” How can anyone do better than that?
Stay true to what you need to do. I think I have. I know I try. Success is so much more than getting paid to write. I’ve come to believe that life takes us where we need to go. With every stumble, setback, failure I have learned something that has affected my life and my writing. Good or bad, it had improved my writing, given it depth. I see clearer why a character might do what he does. I see situations and landscape with a different perspective.
Recession, illness, elderly parents, troubled teens, dirty dishes, lousy housing. It’s all fodder for the writing. And blessings reside there, too. So you make the sacrifices you need to make and stay true to what you need to do, who you are and your writing. See—lessons from a nineteen year old. And I’ll take them.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
William G. Tapply
I just saw on the Writer Magazine online of the death of William G. Tapply. Now, I have never read Tapply. No, not completely true.
Truth was I heard of him first through my mother. She’s a reader of mystery novels. Me, not so much, yet anyway. Mom always warned me that one day I would no longer be as interested in romance and I’d turn to mystery, too.
I’ve been seeing her point more and more lately, but not because I’m not interested in romance but because I am not finding the kind I most love to read. Let’s just say I haven’t been happy with the books I’ve found. So many of my favorite authors are writing romantic suspense and mysteries now. And that’s all right. Not my favorite, but all right, but more I wonder if because I have spent so much time dissecting how to write romance and/of novels it’s harder to really wow me. I know it’s been forever since I’ve found a book that kept me up reading all night.
Back to Tapply. He was one of my mother’s favorite authors and his new releases were few and far between. I spent many a Saturday afternoon at Barnes and Noble looking for his latest for my mother. Now, the criteria in my mother’s opinion for a good book, is good writing. She likes good dialogue and writing that is pitch-perfect. So after looking for his books for her over the years his name became familiar and when I noticed it I paid attention.
He wrote columns for the Writer magazine and they pulled me in. His writing and instruction was exact, clear and accessible. He never stopped writing, though he had been sick for some time, according to a note on his website— www.williamtapply.com . He has five books of fiction and essays coming out this next year and an article in the October Writer magazine.
Check out his website, there is a wonderful essay called Invisible Writing. I read it before, quite some time ago, but it bears reading again and often. I will miss his instructional articles in the Writer. From reading them I always said, if I could ever do a weeklong workshop, I would want Tapply to be the instructor.
I can’t have that, but he leaves behind over 40 books, mysteries, collected essays on fishing, a book about his father, H.G. “Tap” Tapply, who wrote for Field & Stream. Reading his work ought to be an education, but there is also “The Elements of Mystery Fiction” about the writing process.
In his Boston Globe obituary it mentions how generous he was, how he took time to help young writers. Sounds like a good man, a good writer, a good life.
Truth was I heard of him first through my mother. She’s a reader of mystery novels. Me, not so much, yet anyway. Mom always warned me that one day I would no longer be as interested in romance and I’d turn to mystery, too.
I’ve been seeing her point more and more lately, but not because I’m not interested in romance but because I am not finding the kind I most love to read. Let’s just say I haven’t been happy with the books I’ve found. So many of my favorite authors are writing romantic suspense and mysteries now. And that’s all right. Not my favorite, but all right, but more I wonder if because I have spent so much time dissecting how to write romance and/of novels it’s harder to really wow me. I know it’s been forever since I’ve found a book that kept me up reading all night.
Back to Tapply. He was one of my mother’s favorite authors and his new releases were few and far between. I spent many a Saturday afternoon at Barnes and Noble looking for his latest for my mother. Now, the criteria in my mother’s opinion for a good book, is good writing. She likes good dialogue and writing that is pitch-perfect. So after looking for his books for her over the years his name became familiar and when I noticed it I paid attention.
He wrote columns for the Writer magazine and they pulled me in. His writing and instruction was exact, clear and accessible. He never stopped writing, though he had been sick for some time, according to a note on his website— www.williamtapply.com . He has five books of fiction and essays coming out this next year and an article in the October Writer magazine.
Check out his website, there is a wonderful essay called Invisible Writing. I read it before, quite some time ago, but it bears reading again and often. I will miss his instructional articles in the Writer. From reading them I always said, if I could ever do a weeklong workshop, I would want Tapply to be the instructor.
I can’t have that, but he leaves behind over 40 books, mysteries, collected essays on fishing, a book about his father, H.G. “Tap” Tapply, who wrote for Field & Stream. Reading his work ought to be an education, but there is also “The Elements of Mystery Fiction” about the writing process.
In his Boston Globe obituary it mentions how generous he was, how he took time to help young writers. Sounds like a good man, a good writer, a good life.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Miscellaneous Quotes
Today's blog is basically a comment on a few quotes I found in the back of the September Woman’s Day and how they fit my life.
Yesterday’s rain was a blessing. We’ve had little rain through the month of August here in the West. As things happened, we had a family reunion, of sorts, at a local amusement park. When we pulled up in the parking lot (already an eight dollar expense), it started pouring. We decided to make the best of it. We’d done just that so many times as a family, with my husband always being on call. It is so rare anymore for our family to get together. Scheduling is impossible with all the directions our grown children have gone. Even this day all of the family wasn’t in attendance.
But we forged on through the rain, umbrellas and raincoats in hand up to the ticket booth. We handed over money, got tickets and organized, forged through the gate to get our hands stamped and the rain stopped. From that moment on, we had a blessing of a day. It had been so long and I wondered last year if there would be anymore. It was the perfect day for me.
“One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things. Henry Miller
I have had to fight and struggle so much to gain a few hours a day to write over the years. Of course, my worst enemy is myself. First, I’m compulsive about a clean house and having all my ‘work’ done before I write, but also, I just over think everything. And over worry.
I’ve been a stay-at-home mom all my married life with just a couple years of working outside the home-a stint when first married for about three years at a pet store and six months as a custodian of a movie theatre during another time of a down economy.
I tend to lower my head and plow through what has to be done and forget to enjoy myself in the process. I try hard to fight that tendency, but nine times out of ten, I don’t win. I hear that voice, (Maybe my mother’s, but it sounds an awful lot like the editor in my head, too) telling me I have to get my work done first before I can play. And in my mind, somehow, writing is play. And I tend not to think of it as ‘important.’
But worse, I do the same thing when I’m writing. There’s just so little time for me to write. Anyway, it seems like so little time that when it is my designated time to write I feel like I must have my hands on the keyboard, my shoulder to the wheel and be working (I mean writing).
Also, I am a firm believer, cheerleader, advocate, promoter of dreams. If I can give my grandkids nothing else, I want to give them their dreams. I want them to go after them, try them, and work hard to make them happen.
So, as I include the second quote for this blog, I do so with purpose because with all that said, I struggle to remember this. And it is important and even more powerful because of who said it.
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. —J. K. Rowling
Yesterday’s rain was a blessing. We’ve had little rain through the month of August here in the West. As things happened, we had a family reunion, of sorts, at a local amusement park. When we pulled up in the parking lot (already an eight dollar expense), it started pouring. We decided to make the best of it. We’d done just that so many times as a family, with my husband always being on call. It is so rare anymore for our family to get together. Scheduling is impossible with all the directions our grown children have gone. Even this day all of the family wasn’t in attendance.
But we forged on through the rain, umbrellas and raincoats in hand up to the ticket booth. We handed over money, got tickets and organized, forged through the gate to get our hands stamped and the rain stopped. From that moment on, we had a blessing of a day. It had been so long and I wondered last year if there would be anymore. It was the perfect day for me.
“One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things. Henry Miller
I have had to fight and struggle so much to gain a few hours a day to write over the years. Of course, my worst enemy is myself. First, I’m compulsive about a clean house and having all my ‘work’ done before I write, but also, I just over think everything. And over worry.
I’ve been a stay-at-home mom all my married life with just a couple years of working outside the home-a stint when first married for about three years at a pet store and six months as a custodian of a movie theatre during another time of a down economy.
I tend to lower my head and plow through what has to be done and forget to enjoy myself in the process. I try hard to fight that tendency, but nine times out of ten, I don’t win. I hear that voice, (Maybe my mother’s, but it sounds an awful lot like the editor in my head, too) telling me I have to get my work done first before I can play. And in my mind, somehow, writing is play. And I tend not to think of it as ‘important.’
But worse, I do the same thing when I’m writing. There’s just so little time for me to write. Anyway, it seems like so little time that when it is my designated time to write I feel like I must have my hands on the keyboard, my shoulder to the wheel and be working (I mean writing).
Also, I am a firm believer, cheerleader, advocate, promoter of dreams. If I can give my grandkids nothing else, I want to give them their dreams. I want them to go after them, try them, and work hard to make them happen.
So, as I include the second quote for this blog, I do so with purpose because with all that said, I struggle to remember this. And it is important and even more powerful because of who said it.
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. —J. K. Rowling
Friday, August 21, 2009
Swimming Lessons:
From my office window I watch a pair of hummingbirds squabble over “Lady in Red’ and “Coral Nymph” sage, and dart under squash plants searching for nasturtium blossoms.
The vegetable garden is full-blown, flouncy with over-grown plants. Downright messy, is what it is. The tomatoes have taken over the north end completely and the winter squash (supposedly a mini mix with plants and fruit that stayed small) has vined over everything in its path, despite or because of my desperate pruning.
I’ve been thinking about writing workshops and learning. Those thoughts always bring me to the memory of my oldest son and swim lessons. He was one when we started in the moms and tots class, so by the time he was ready to learn rhythmic breathing he was comfortable in the water.
But rhythmic breathing is difficult. It takes coordination, timing, practice, and trust. Trust’s the thing you have to find inside yourself.
With rhythmic breathing, you take a breath at just the right time, hold it and then, blow it out. That’s basically it, except there are all kinds of finesse involved. Your arms and chin and body need to be in the right place at the right time for this skill to work perfectly. When all of those elements are right, then you have to trust yourself enough to take that breath. If your timing is off, you get a mouthful of water.
I watched my son take a breath, push off from the pool wall and swim, but he wouldn’t blow out that breath. He kept taking another breath as he turned his head to the side with his arm right where it should be, but when his face was in the water, he held onto that breath. He wouldn’t blow the air into the water. He held on to it.
He took several sessions of the class and still, he held on to that breath. He held onto that breath until he couldn’t hold on any longer and then he grabbed for the wall gasping for air. He practiced in every way he could. In the water, out of the water, but when he tried to put the technique to work, he couldn’t trust it.
It took two summers before it clicked, before he finally tried the one thing that would work. He had to trust in it and himself.
I think writing and writing classes are a lot like that.
The vegetable garden is full-blown, flouncy with over-grown plants. Downright messy, is what it is. The tomatoes have taken over the north end completely and the winter squash (supposedly a mini mix with plants and fruit that stayed small) has vined over everything in its path, despite or because of my desperate pruning.
I’ve been thinking about writing workshops and learning. Those thoughts always bring me to the memory of my oldest son and swim lessons. He was one when we started in the moms and tots class, so by the time he was ready to learn rhythmic breathing he was comfortable in the water.
But rhythmic breathing is difficult. It takes coordination, timing, practice, and trust. Trust’s the thing you have to find inside yourself.
With rhythmic breathing, you take a breath at just the right time, hold it and then, blow it out. That’s basically it, except there are all kinds of finesse involved. Your arms and chin and body need to be in the right place at the right time for this skill to work perfectly. When all of those elements are right, then you have to trust yourself enough to take that breath. If your timing is off, you get a mouthful of water.
I watched my son take a breath, push off from the pool wall and swim, but he wouldn’t blow out that breath. He kept taking another breath as he turned his head to the side with his arm right where it should be, but when his face was in the water, he held onto that breath. He wouldn’t blow the air into the water. He held on to it.
He took several sessions of the class and still, he held on to that breath. He held onto that breath until he couldn’t hold on any longer and then he grabbed for the wall gasping for air. He practiced in every way he could. In the water, out of the water, but when he tried to put the technique to work, he couldn’t trust it.
It took two summers before it clicked, before he finally tried the one thing that would work. He had to trust in it and himself.
I think writing and writing classes are a lot like that.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Little Things
Today began with a kitty kiss on the mouth. I brushed it away annoyed with being disturbed too early. Then, there was a light tap on the forehead and a soft little “meow”. Finally I opened my eyes to see light coming through my window. I had forgotten to set the alarm and I had to take my elderly mother to the doctor.
Of course, that set my day. I’ve been behind ever since, but it got me thinking, too. About little kisses and pats we try so hard to ignore because we’re just too busy. I got use to stopping and noticing things my children tried to show me. Too often, it was something great. Like a turbulent storm sky, the color of violets with a funnel cloud just over the hill, a shooting star in the night sky, a strange red long-horned beetle I had never seen before.
The world becomes too much and we really need to stop and take more time to just be. And writers need to do this even more. Had I listened to Maddie Rose this morning I’ll just bet I would have been right on time and had much more time to savor the morning.
Still, I got done quickly with the doctor’s visit and the errands, got back home and to my desk in good time. I even got the turkey in the oven and while I type this I am taking a minute to savor the smell of turkey, the sight of Maddie Rose asleep on the bench by my office window with the sunshine glinting over her calico fur. I ought to wake her up, the little stink—for disturbing my sleep, but how can I? She can tell time better than I.
Still, when I write in my notebook tonight, I’m going to include her little kiss with gratitude. I’m going to vow to pay better attention to those kinds of things so I don’t miss the little pockets of wonderful. It’s what makes a great life and it fills my writer’s notebook with just the thing I need for my next story, poem or essay.
I hope for everyone the little things.
Of course, that set my day. I’ve been behind ever since, but it got me thinking, too. About little kisses and pats we try so hard to ignore because we’re just too busy. I got use to stopping and noticing things my children tried to show me. Too often, it was something great. Like a turbulent storm sky, the color of violets with a funnel cloud just over the hill, a shooting star in the night sky, a strange red long-horned beetle I had never seen before.
The world becomes too much and we really need to stop and take more time to just be. And writers need to do this even more. Had I listened to Maddie Rose this morning I’ll just bet I would have been right on time and had much more time to savor the morning.
Still, I got done quickly with the doctor’s visit and the errands, got back home and to my desk in good time. I even got the turkey in the oven and while I type this I am taking a minute to savor the smell of turkey, the sight of Maddie Rose asleep on the bench by my office window with the sunshine glinting over her calico fur. I ought to wake her up, the little stink—for disturbing my sleep, but how can I? She can tell time better than I.
Still, when I write in my notebook tonight, I’m going to include her little kiss with gratitude. I’m going to vow to pay better attention to those kinds of things so I don’t miss the little pockets of wonderful. It’s what makes a great life and it fills my writer’s notebook with just the thing I need for my next story, poem or essay.
I hope for everyone the little things.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Writer's Notebook
Several weeks ago I challenged myself to pay better attention, to form the habit of using a journal. I wanted to take more notes describing the things that make up my world. Get more detail into my writer’s notebook or journal for use in poetry and other writing.
I also needed to include in my writer’s notebook emotion. Every detail has an emotion attached to it, whether my own or one of my characters.
As I’ve said before my writer’s notebooks are messy things and worse, I have notebooks all over the house, in my purse, in the car, the truck. Once in a great while I gather them all up and get everything in my computer, too.
That’s what my writer’s notebooks are: a gathering place, a place where I can keep all the thoughts, feelings, sights, sounds that I don’t want to forget, that I know I’ll want to use someday for a poem, a story-whatever. Because the truth of the matter is in every waking moment, in each detail or experience a story, a poem whispers, or shouts, or nags me, anyway.
I need a place to set all the stories down because I can’t carry them around with me forever. They’re too heavy and besides I’d go nuts. (There are those who say I am) I suspect most writers feel this way.
For instance—swap meets. This isn’t just a great place for bargains, wonderful finds and sometimes, an opportunity to buy a treasure. This is a window—a peephole into other people’s lives—stories. It’s a great place to find a story, a poem or a way to flesh out a character you’ve been have a struggle getting a handle on. Make sure you take your notebook along with your money and bargaining instincts.
I also needed to include in my writer’s notebook emotion. Every detail has an emotion attached to it, whether my own or one of my characters.
As I’ve said before my writer’s notebooks are messy things and worse, I have notebooks all over the house, in my purse, in the car, the truck. Once in a great while I gather them all up and get everything in my computer, too.
That’s what my writer’s notebooks are: a gathering place, a place where I can keep all the thoughts, feelings, sights, sounds that I don’t want to forget, that I know I’ll want to use someday for a poem, a story-whatever. Because the truth of the matter is in every waking moment, in each detail or experience a story, a poem whispers, or shouts, or nags me, anyway.
I need a place to set all the stories down because I can’t carry them around with me forever. They’re too heavy and besides I’d go nuts. (There are those who say I am) I suspect most writers feel this way.
For instance—swap meets. This isn’t just a great place for bargains, wonderful finds and sometimes, an opportunity to buy a treasure. This is a window—a peephole into other people’s lives—stories. It’s a great place to find a story, a poem or a way to flesh out a character you’ve been have a struggle getting a handle on. Make sure you take your notebook along with your money and bargaining instincts.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Films We Treasure
Last week in the newspaper, there was an article about the influence of films in our lives. About the films that define us. Films we watch over and over. About the pile of DVD’s we have and which one we actually watch more than once.
This same subject came up as one of my adult son was recouping from a tonsillectomy. There were DVD’s he wanted to revisit. This all got me thinking about my own list of films that I return to over and over. I think everyone probably has two or more lists actually. One for the adult in you and one for the child.
For a writer I think there are hints in the list that could clear up any question about what they should be writing. The reasons for the titles on any given list are varied, but I think it is a window into that person, too.
This list is also a good detail for that character you’re trying to flesh out. What would be on your main character’s list? Why? What does this tell you about the character?
What are your favorite films? What films to you watch over and over and still get something out of?
This same subject came up as one of my adult son was recouping from a tonsillectomy. There were DVD’s he wanted to revisit. This all got me thinking about my own list of films that I return to over and over. I think everyone probably has two or more lists actually. One for the adult in you and one for the child.
For a writer I think there are hints in the list that could clear up any question about what they should be writing. The reasons for the titles on any given list are varied, but I think it is a window into that person, too.
This list is also a good detail for that character you’re trying to flesh out. What would be on your main character’s list? Why? What does this tell you about the character?
What are your favorite films? What films to you watch over and over and still get something out of?
Mine:
- Gone With the Wind (Seen the film over a hundred times, read the book every year.)
- Hanover Street (Love the story and Harrison Ford is in it, after all)
- Hannah Caulder (Love the story and I don’t think Raquel Welch did such a bad job, either)
Tombstone (Can’t watch it without crying because of the brother love and friendship) - Legends of the Fall (One brother does all the right things for all the wrong reasons and the other does all the wrong things for all the right reasons. Love this kind of story.)
- Penny Serenade (Can’t watch it without crying. Every parent should see it, I think.)
- Moon-spinners (In my day Hayley Mills was our Miley Cyrus and this was her first love story. I also love the mysterious plot.)
- The Way West (The wagon train west with all these everyday personalities and story lines…love it.)
- Journey to the Center of the Earth (Original with Pat Boone) (Just fun.)
- The Outlaw Josie Wales (Great dialogue, great character sketch. A good, ‘bad’ man.)
- The Sting (love the dialogue)
- Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (Same here)
- Comes a Horseman (love the story and it is a great character sketch of a woman of the times in that circumstance.)
- Star Wars (all of them) (Great story, adventure so much like the old films and Saturday at the movies.)
- Indiana Jones (all of them) Great story, great seat-of-your-pants adventure, great characters and, it’s Harrison Ford, after all.)
What films would be on your list or lists. Write them down. Think about the whys for your list. Find those old films and watch them again. Do they still do the same thing for you? Do they hold up? I think all this will help your writing and if nothing else it will bring back memories and get you thinking. Have fun.
Friday, August 7, 2009
July Reads:
July has past by too fast. So fast, in fact, I ended up reading only one book. One reason was I was concentrating on my poetry workshop: POETIC PASSION; IMAGE, STORY, LINE & LANGUAGE.
The workshop lasted all month and I was pushed to finish the poetry reading that was assigned and the text pages assigned. Since I haven’t finished the text book and the poems I read were picked from several books, I don’t count them for this month.
That left only time for one book: LIFE LIST by Olivia Gentile. This is a story about a 34-year-old housewife, Phoebe Snetsinger, an intelligent, educated woman. But the times we live in shape our lives whether we want them to or not.
Snetsinger, becomes fascinated by birds and bird watching. After a diagnosis of melanoma in 1985, her fascination turns into a lifelong quest. This is a biography about Snetsinger and more. It looks at a different era and what was and wasn’t accepted for women then, but more importantly it looks at the fine line between passion and obsession. At the dark side of one sightedness.
Frankly, there were times I wanted to just put the book down. I wasn’t enjoying it, yet I had to find out how this woman ended up. There was so much to admire about Snetsinger and yet, so much I couldn’t understand. Yet, I do understand that driving desire to do that thing a person is passionate about. I can see how easy crossing the line could be. I think this is the thing that kept pulling me back to the story. How does Phoebe end up?
In Life List, Gentile seems to ask the questions: What is it to live well? Did Phoebe live well? Die well? Or did her obsession swallow her? And the questions are never completely answered. I think about them still and wonder.
The workshop lasted all month and I was pushed to finish the poetry reading that was assigned and the text pages assigned. Since I haven’t finished the text book and the poems I read were picked from several books, I don’t count them for this month.
That left only time for one book: LIFE LIST by Olivia Gentile. This is a story about a 34-year-old housewife, Phoebe Snetsinger, an intelligent, educated woman. But the times we live in shape our lives whether we want them to or not.
Snetsinger, becomes fascinated by birds and bird watching. After a diagnosis of melanoma in 1985, her fascination turns into a lifelong quest. This is a biography about Snetsinger and more. It looks at a different era and what was and wasn’t accepted for women then, but more importantly it looks at the fine line between passion and obsession. At the dark side of one sightedness.
Frankly, there were times I wanted to just put the book down. I wasn’t enjoying it, yet I had to find out how this woman ended up. There was so much to admire about Snetsinger and yet, so much I couldn’t understand. Yet, I do understand that driving desire to do that thing a person is passionate about. I can see how easy crossing the line could be. I think this is the thing that kept pulling me back to the story. How does Phoebe end up?
In Life List, Gentile seems to ask the questions: What is it to live well? Did Phoebe live well? Die well? Or did her obsession swallow her? And the questions are never completely answered. I think about them still and wonder.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
August Godsends:
- Amusement parks
- Baby quail in the backyard
- Zucchini by the bushel
- Patriot Guard doing their part
- Summer tucked in, breathed in, savored
- County fairs
- School supplies
- First sunflowers
- Cricket songs in the hot summer night
- Picnics
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