Selma

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By the time you read this, I’ll be back from round two of our adventures in our new-to-us motorhome.

I’ve cranked out five blog posts in the course of a day, all the while wrapping up details for a presentation and making sure I have materials for a book festival at the end of the adventures. I like to leave our townhome clean for when I return, a place of peace after our travels. So, laundry was done, sheets were washed, vacuumed and dusted, cleaned out the refrigerator, and tried to wait as late in the day as possible to pack, so as not to freak out our Labrador, Luna.

All the while, I’ve been wanting to get to this last post in reflecting our initial set of travels.

Selma. Selma. Selma.

All-day long thoughts of this experience have been haunting me, making sure I got to this point in my reflections.

Hell, Selma has been haunting me ever since we visited in mid-February.

We pulled into town around 3:30 pm, crossing over the infamous Edmund Pettus Bridge, and making our way to the Selma Interpretive Center. We were greeted by site manager Kenneth L. Williams, who when learning we were from Toledo, announced proudly that he was originally from Cleveland. I was curious as to what brought him down to Alabama, and he graciously shared that his momma had a house and some property in the area, and when she passed, he moved down to the area and loves it.

This short interaction was huge, given what we were about to witness. How times have changed, I thought, that a Black man from Cleveland would love living in Alabama.

Kenneth explained that although the bookstore was open, the exhibit area was not, due to Covid. However, the Lowndes Interpretative Center, 25 minutes away was open, but we had better hurry, he said, because it closed at 4:30.

After a quick stop at the historic St. James Hotel, a brief exchange with a local heading into the property, (“Come back to Selma! You could spend three days here!”) we ventured to Lowndes.

Even though I researched the facility, I’ve learned of poll taxes, literacy tests, the historic march, Bloody Sunday, and Turnaround Tuesday, I was not prepared for the emotional impact of reading the firsthand accounts of the march, of the beatings, of the hate.

I read about Tent City, a settlement on Black-owned property as a result of sharecroppers being kicked off their land because of their roles in voter registration demonstrations and activity. My heart hurt as I read the accounts of senseless violence that occurred there.

The thirty minutes we had was a drop in the bucket to what I would have liked to have spent there. As my husband offered to the volunteer at the front desk, “She likes to read everything.” I guess it’s the nonfiction writer in me. I’ll never know when I’ll have the chance to go back again.

We closed down the place. I felt like I needed more.

So, Brad discovered Prairie Creek Campground, one of many that fall under the Army Corps of Engineers. The campground was just 15 minutes away, between Lowndes and Selma. We decided we both wanted to go back to Selma the next morning.

The campground was the best experience we’d had so far on the trip. Large sites, peaceful surroundings, with woods and water, campfires, families making S’mores, reminiscent of yesteryear with the kids.

Although we didn’t have three days to spend in Selma, we had the morning. We crossed back over the Edmund Pettus Bridge and visited official and makeshift tributes to those instrumental in the Civil Rights movement and March. We poked our heads into the St. James Hotel. We ventured past the sad public housing projects and took pictures of grand historic homes. Our last stop was the Live Oak cemetery, with its beautiful, yet eerie live oaks throughout.

We left Selma feeling sad, yet hopeful.

Everyone should go to Selma. I’m not sure I could spend three days there.

One was enough to remind me of how far we’ve come, but how far we have to go.

 

Psych out

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There isn’t anything much more intimidating than the prospect of playing golf with a sports psychologist.

I know that the opposite should hold true, but not for me, at least at the very start. Brad and I had the opportunity to play with Jon Stabler, co-founder of Golf Psych in Boerne (that’s Bernie for those of us from parts elsewhere) Texas. Brad took Jon’s course last year and played with Jon at the beautiful Resort Course at Tapatio Springs.

Brad wanted to reunite with Jon and play a round at the course he enjoyed so much before.

The night before our outing, our motorhome shook and shimmied to the significant wind gusts blowing through the area overnight. I suppose it didn’t help that we were camping at the Top of the Hill campground, prime real estate for wind.

I tossed and turned, my thoughts floating back to a camping trip years before with our kids and my sister-in-law, Gail, in Northern Minnesota, outside of Duluth. I remember holding on to the kids and Brad as we were all piled in the same bed of our pull trailer, hoping and praying we’d all be fine.

All was well the next morning, the winds calmed down, and after taking a hike at a nearby park with Luna, Brad and I headed to Tapatio Springs. After settling up in the pro shop, we headed to the range, grabbing a few clubs to warm up with. Soon after Jon showed up, offering a huge smile and a warm, strong handshake. I suggested that the student and instructor should ride together, and I would hang in my own cart, which they agreed made sense.

The first hole was a par 5 dogleg left (as opposed to dogleg right as I thought). I hit a decent drive, nice second shot, then needed a wedge for my approach shot. I repeat, I needed a wedge for my approach shot. I looked in my bag, then over at Brad’s thinking maybe I’d accidentally put my wedge in his bag after warming up. No wedge in sight. After a quick inventory of my clubs, I realized I’d left three clubs at the range…a first for me.

There’s nothing like the drive of shame from the first green back to the range, making my way strategically past the group behind us so as to avoid disturbing them or getting hit. I checked in with the golf pro by the shop to see if anyone had turned them in, no such luck. Drove to the range and discovered the clubs exactly where I left them.

I sped back to the guys, who were already midway into the second hole, a par 4 with the approach shot over water. I decided I’d just skip that hole. Feeling a little unnerved and embarrassed, I took a deep breath at the next tee, a short par 3, and struck a beautiful shot, which was tracking toward the hole.  An easy birdie putt later, I felt back in my groove.

Hole #12

We had a great time, both Brad and I played well, perhaps as a result of the calming influence of the golf mentor. At the end of the round, Jon gave me a hug and said I “had game” and that it was really fun to play golf with me. I felt the same about the experience and was proud of myself for not letting the mistake at the start of the round affect the rest of the afternoon.

Our Texas time came to an end and made our way the next morning to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where my niece Liz and her husband, Nick live. We had a wonderful evening enjoying their homemade chicken pesto pasta, always a family favorite. Temperatures dipped overnight, and I was grateful for my winter hat for our walk with Liz the next morning.

As we said goodbye, Liz gifted us with frozen salmon and halibut from their adventures up in Alaska last fall. Yum!

One of the many upsides to traveling by coach is the chance to see family along the way. Soon we’d have a quick stop in Atlanta to visit our daughter before heading home.

But, before then, Selma happened.

 

 

This post is brought to you by the letter S

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The Sonoran Desert. Saguaro. Shit. South Mountain. Sixteenth at Phoenix Open. Super Bowl.

This post is brought to you by the letter S.

Did you know that the Saguaro cactus is only native to the Sonoran Desert? As often as I’ve had the privilege to visit this area of the Southwest, I had no idea how limited their range was, much less that these huge, unique plants can live up to 150-200 years old.

As Brad and I hiked in the Casa Grande Mountains on the 2.7-mile East Butte Trail, I wondered about the travelers the cacti had witnessed over time. From Native Americans all the way up to the modern-day mountain bikers, the stories they could tell.

Luna was in her element, weaving her way on the trail, sniffing, enjoying the quiet trail. Until she met up with another cactus…the jumping cholla. The sharp, long needles latched onto her back leg. Shit! Brad was wise to grab Luna’s collapsible canvas water bowl to detach the barbed spines from poor unsuspecting Luna. After removing what we thought were all the spurs, we kept on. Only later that night did we find more needles embedded in her fur coat. Tough bird, she didn’t really even flinch as we pulled them out.

Do not try this at home! Ouch!

After the peaceful morning hike, we packed up and headed up to our visit with our friends, Tom and Margo. They live in Chandler, near South Mountain. We parked Bessie on their street and enjoyed the comfort of their home for several days. We hiked along the base of South Mountain the next day. Fortunately for Luna, she had no further interactions with the jumping cholla cactus. Luna is used to being off-leash and was so amazing as we wound along the narrow mountain trail. I’d put her back on the leash whenever coming across other hikers, and make her sit, pulling her off to the side of the trail. She made more friends than we did on those hikes!

A highlight of our visit was taking in the Waste Management Phoenix Open. Brad and I, along with Tom and his friend BJ hung out at the course all day, taking in the storied 16th hole. The PGA touts it as The Peoples Open. I’d call it the Party Open. I couldn’t get over the massive and numerous hospitality tents, multiple stories high. The 16th hole is the place to be, as crowds cheer on birdies and boo at a mere par. Beer cans flew onto the green a day later, as a player made a hole in one. It was fun to see the change in clientele and attire as we left the course later in the afternoon. Young women, dressed in heels and strapless dresses strolled in with their date behind, dressed in polos and khakis, headed to the live entertainment the course hosts nightly.

We enjoyed golf at Moon Valley Country Club with our friend, Mike. He offered at the start of the round that the course was where Annika Sorenstam carded her historic score of 59 twenty years ago…the first woman to do so. I had a blast but my score was not historic.

Sunday afternoon brought the Super Bowl. Refreshing to have it scheduled at 4:30 pm Mountain Time, two hours before we would typically be viewing back at home. Just as kickoff was to happen, so did the unimaginable for football fans. The power went out. Brownout through the whole neighborhood. Brad, with his ability to think quickly on his feet, suggested we power up the generator on the motorhome and watch it from the outside TV. We gathered up chairs and began to transfer beverages and snacks to their driveway. And of course, just as we were settled in, the power went back on.

Monday morning, we fired up the motor home and started our journey back home.

With a few amazing stops along the way.

 

 

Stopping

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“Stop,” a little voice screamed from behind me.

I turned around, pulling our lovable Labrador, Luna, with me.

There, was little four-year-old Wyatt huffing toward me, as fast as his little legs could pedal his bike with training wheels. I’d met Wyatt, his little sister, Ava, and his parents just moments before while taking Luna on her evening walk. Luna tugged on the leash as we chatted, and I gave in, knowing she wanted some privacy to do her business.

Wyatt loved Luna and wanted more face time with her, apparently.

“I told you to stop, but you didn’t stop,” he wailed.

I walked back to Wyatt, Luna gave him a big wet one on the face and I said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t know you were trying to catch up with us.”

“I was, and I couldn’t,” he said, his voice quivering.

I know the feeling. I felt like I was having problems catching up with myself since taking off on our journey a week before. From driving like crazy people from Toledo to San Antonio in two days, then touching down in San Antonio for two days, dropping into the land of snow (as I now call El Paso), and then on to Phoenix in no time flat, I simply needed to stop.

Our campground, Wild West Ranch, is located in the Sonoran Desert. The ground consists of dust and dirt, evolved from stone and rock. The first night we arrived, under cover of cold, starry skies without a lick of light pollution, we struggled to find the spot we were to camp at. I got out of the motor home and walked cluelessly with my flashlight in hand, trying to avoid flashing neighbors. Using the rudimentary map I had, I found our spot, thinking Nancy Drew would be proud. Luna continued to circle away, trying her best to find any bit of vegetation to relieve herself on. Proud momma moment: this old dog can pee on any natural surface now. Luna…not me. I’m still working on it.

The Wild West Ranch is way south of Phoenix, about 45 minutes from our friends, Tom and Margo, with who we had intentions of getting together as much as possible. It’s surrounded by the Ak-Chin reservation. Ak-Chin translates into the “mouth of the wash.” As we drove up to Phoenix that week, I was amazed at the cotton fields and the irrigation system in place for what I learned to be 15,000 acres of farmland. The United States “gave” the tribe 47,000 acres in 1912. That was reduced to less than half that the following year. But the Native Americans gained water rights to the Colorado River in 1984 and have been successfully farming ever since.

So, in the midst of this dust and dirt, lived Ava, Wyatt, and their parents, in their travel trailer. Dad worked at the Intel chip manufacturing plant way being built in Phoenix. The new plant will support over 3,000 new jobs. I have a feeling that the Wild West Ranch won’t feel so wild the next we come this way.

For the moment though, Luna was licking Wyatt and Ava, giggles erupting from their sweet little faces, and I was stopped.

Blissfully stopped.

 

Bessie, Joanie and Frederick

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We pulled into the San Antonio KOA and there she was.

Bessie. That’s what we’ve named our new-to-us motorhome. Not the most original of names for a vehicle, but it seems to fit.

Standing outside our soon-to-be new home were the soon-to-be previous owners, Joanie and Frederick. Joanie was petite, blond, and had a wonderful positive aura about her. Frederick, taller, sported a ball cap, where a long white ponytail flowed out of. His eyes twinkled behind his glasses, a quiet smile from underneath his mustache.

Welcome, they both said in unison and ushered us into the motorhome.

As soon as I made my way up the three steps into the coach and onto the threshold, I felt like this was home. I felt like I belonged here, all the while emotions of having been here before swept over me.

This was to be the third motorhome we traveled in. The first, an all-gold Cortez, brought people out on their porches throughout New England back in 1992. This isn’t the Cortez we drove in, but you get the idea.

I was pregnant with our daughter, Kyle, and little baby Claire spent most of the long travel days snapped into her car seat watching the world go by. My favorite story from that adventure almost was the worst story. Back then, mapping consisted of an Atlas, with dog-eared pages and oily finger stains. A thick campground book served as our guide to sites. Driving along the coast of Maine to our overnight destination, as we passed through a small town, Brad suggested we stop for dinner. I grumbled that I thought we should just keep going. Claire was getting fussy, and I was tired, dealing with a huge sinus headache. I just wanted to be there, wherever there was. The road went from a four-lane highway to two lanes, to something just above a gravel drive. The nearest thing to any dinner was looking like the few cans of beans we had in the cupboard.

We pulled up to the campground welcome stand, not much more than a little hut that kids would huddle in waiting for the school bus. The owner welcomed us and offered a site right along the bay. Claire began screaming on cue, and Brad asked if there was anywhere nearby to grab something to eat. The owner directed us just up the roadway, where she said we’d be in for a treat. It was close enough to walk, so we scooped up Claire and her highchair and hoofed our way to the dinner surprise.

There was a little weathered shack with a deck, right on the water. I set up the highchair and cuddled Claire, trying to settle her. Brad went inside and came out with a huge grin on his face and a spindly lobster, pinchers banded with rubber.

Lobster was the treat. I can still taste the buttery, soft meat from the fresh-caught crustacean. I’ve not had better lobster since.

The owners took us under their wing and showed us their lobster traps on the deck, explaining to these Midwesterners how they worked.

Our second motorhome we purchased after losing our daughter Claire. I was emotional as we met with the owner of the small dealership. This purchase stemmed from our vision of moving forward literally and figuratively after her death. It was a huge investment, both monetarily and with our family. The owner, an older gentleman, pulled me aside and asked if I was okay. He calmed me by offering that what we were doing was “honoring your daughter as well as your other two children. Think of all the amazing adventures you’ll have, the sights you’ll see, together.” He said that we were wise to do it now, for too often he had customers wait until they were older and found it difficult to get around.

Boy, did we get around…to 47 states in the unit.

(Our daughter Kyle filling in our travel map. Note to self: Buy a new one.)

And the adventures? From a hot air balloon ride in Albuquerque to a seaplane ride in Coeur d’Alene to hiking in Yellowstone, Glacier National Park, and an unforgettable kayak trip trying to beat a storm on Jenny Lake in the Tetons, we did it all.

So, here I was, once again, stepping foot inside our next adventure-transport vehicle. It couldn’t have felt more right, from Joanie and Frederick’s welcome to their generous gifting of many household goods, cleaners, and supplies. We learned in our time together that “Bessie” had served her purpose for Joanie and Frederick, and now it was time to move on.  We’re grateful they have entrusted us to take good care of her.

So now Bessie has a new purpose. Serving us safely as we attempt to continue to explore, learn, golf, and meet people along the way in our travels.

I think she’s up for it. I know I am.

 

 

Starting. Travels Post 1

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My last post left you hanging while my husband Brad and I were getting air inflated into our motorhome’s severely under-inflated tires. Both of us were exhausted, from the anxiety of driving out of El Paso after an overnight snowstorm and having to deal with scraping off ice and snow from the motorhome slide outs. Note to self: Slide outs won’t slide in with snow and ice on them. Luna sat nervously on my lap, panting her anxiousness away. I tried to calm both of us by breathing slowly, in and out.

But…before I move forward, I must go back, back to striking out from Toledo on Brad’s birthday, Thursday, January 27, and driving to San Antonio, where our new-to-us motorhome lived temporarily.

In our planning, Brad and I figured we would drive the 1400-mile drive in leisurely fashion over the course of three days. I should know by now that Brad and leisurely fashion do not belong in the same sentence. Back in the day, traveling in our first motorhome with the kids, we referred to our trips as “Brad’s boot camp.” In all fairness, we’ve always had a dog with us on our travels, and they do tend to wake up in pre-dawn. Brad would throw a pot of coffee on, feed and walk the dog, and off we’d go, on to the next destination.

Since we were a day early on trekking to San Antonio, we had time on our hands, as we weren’t due to meet with the motorhome owners until Sunday, January 30.

Austin was right on our path. It’s a city that has a special place in my heart for several reasons. We traveled there as a family to attend the Texas Book Festival in 2002. We wanted to see the event that inspired Claire’s Day, the book festival we established in honor of our daughter in the flesh. A number of years later, my daughter Kyle and I returned to the city for our first-ever mother/daughter trip. Both trips left us with warm hearts and awesome memories.

This next trip to Austin would offer the same, thanks to the amazing author Meredith Davis and her family.

I’d never met Meredith. We connected after exchanging books through an online forum for writers of nonfiction for children. I won a copy of Meredith’s book, Her Own Two Feet, and in return, I sent her a copy of my biography of Virginia Hamilton. We kept in touch, emailing about our work, our families, our lives. When I told her that Austin was one of my favorite cities, she offered to make sure that if I was ever in town again, to get in touch so that we could meet.

Since Keep it Weird is Austin’s adopted slogan. Meredith didn’t think it weird in the least bit when I texted her and let her know that we were going to be in town and would love to get together…the next day. Meredith and her husband Clay even offered to pick us up at our hotel and take us all (including Luna!) to lunch at one of their favorite spots.

I imagine anyone watching us during that lunch at Polvo’s might have thought that we were old friends, getting together and catching up. That’s how it felt. We laughed, we nearly cried. We ate too much and needed to walk afterward. We wound our way through downtown, admired the new Austin Library (I didn’t get inside…next trip!), and rambled along the Colorado River on the hike and bike trail. It was a beautiful day, the path filled with all ages and stages. Teenage runners with their Air Buds in, young parents with babes in strollers, older couples leaning on each other as they slowly made their way.

At some point, Meredith shared that their son Nate and his band were going to be playing at a club just up the street from where we were staying. “Would you like to join us?” she asked.

Of course.

Austin is known for the food and the music, and we enjoyed a variety of both. It was awesome to witness a live performance again, to let the music flow into our souls and come out our tapping feet. Nate’s band, Everett, were just as happy to be playing as we were to be listening. Their songs and stage presence felt joyful and fun.

The evening went by too quickly, but by 11:30, we were ready to roll. Meredith and I snapped a quick photo, a reflection of our take-a-chance get-together.

The side trip was a lesson that sometimes wonderful things happen when you move too fast…one gets a chance to slow down with new friends.

We left Austin Sunday morning, excited to be meeting the owners of the motorhome that would soon become ours, deflated tires, and all.

Stay tuned for the next portion of the journey…the Wild West.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the Road Again

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Trucks rumble past, their trailers bumping on the rough road surface. A forklift keeps going in front of me, back and forth to service bays. Ironically, Jackson Brown belts out Running on Empty on the radio. I just try to keep breathing, slow inhales and exhales to calm myself as well as our 65 lb. Yellow Lab, Luna, who has decided to become a lap dog, propping half of her load on me, panting away. Brad is outside with the technician, who skillfully manages to pump nearly 70 pounds of air pressure into the driver’s side drive axle tires.

Kind of important to have enough air in your tires.

So begins our first road trip, or rather, return to the road trip, in a motorhome. Our journey really didn’t start with the dishwasher that didn’t run properly (I know, I know, a dishwasher, really???) overnight, or the toilet that refused to flush, the car that didn’t want to engage in neutral to tow properly, the under-inflated tires, or even, to add insult to injury, the door that took some creative manipulation of the hinge to get it to close.

Our journey began over twenty years ago, when after experiencing the death of our oldest daughter, Claire, my husband Brad, and I decided to up the ante in our quest to get our kids to all 50 states. We bought our first motorhome. And we completed our mission.

Memories of those trips often pop up in my brain feed, but even more so since contemplating getting back on the road. I’ll never forget all the purple, Claire’s favorite color, we witnessed on our maiden voyage in 2003, as we traveled to Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Glacier National Park. Those three weeks together as a family, just three years out from when we last said goodbye to Claire, set us on a path of truly living, not merely surviving.

I read Undaunted Courage by Stephen E. Ambrose on our travels, our trip often a reflection of the text. I remember a reference to uncharted territory in the book, which I shared with Brad and the kids. Later that evening, while Ian was walking our dog, Ginger, I got a little nervous about how long young Ian was gone. I used the walkie talkies that came with the unit and radioed him, “Where are you? Are you okay?” His response, “We’re in uncharted territory.”

We’ll also never forget our daughter Kyle looking out on the rolling hills of Kansas, dark shadows cast on the green forests. She couldn’t figure out that the shadows were from the clouds. She was also very concerned about where the cows slept at night, bless her heart.

That motorhome continued to serve us well through road trips, college tailgate parties, and a few empty nest adventures, up until our last to Northern Michigan just months before Ginger’s journey was over.

So here we are, back on the road again, setting out to explore areas of this country we missed the first time around, creating new memories, all the while looking back on those from the past.

I feel incredibly blessed to have these experiences with Brad, in a beautiful, new-to-us motorhome. I hope you enjoy experiencing our trials, tribulations, and new, fantastic memories right along with us. Perhaps in some small way, during a time we could all use a little inspiration, my stories from the road will offer a bit to you.

 

 

Blooming

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Bloom where you are planted, the saying goes.

But, what if we’re not blooming where we’ve taken root? Do we just stay put, confined to whatever or whoever is stifling our growth? Or, do we pick up stakes, literally or figuratively, and try to blossom elsewhere?

My garden provides lessons in this theory all the time. Most of the time I get lucky and place plants and flowers where they thrive under the right amount of sun, shade, and moisture. But, sometimes, despite my best efforts, it doesn’t quite work out. So, I dig the plant up and move it to a different spot. Sometimes it takes a little more work.

The most recent lesson came from a little sweet potato vine. I love the vibrant chartreuse, heart-shaped leaves of the plant. The vines make great accents in flower pots, as they grow and flow around the planter.

Except in the case of this one little sweet potato vine I had in a planter on my deck.

It simply refused to grow.

I watered it, trimmed it, and turned the planter.

But, it refused to grow.

I even filled its little pores with music from the speaker on my deck.

Still, it refused to grow.

So, I gave in, capitulating to forces beyond my control. I considered throwing the plant out, but those of you who know me well, are aware that along with refusing to kill any living thing, I’m also pretty stubborn.

Instead, I dug a hole by the base of my steps, beside a dwarf butterfly bush, and tucked the little shy vine into the ground. I lovingly patted the dirt on top of the newly transferred Ipomoea batatas, sprinkled some water on it, and hoped for the best.

Virginia Hamilton, the most honored author of children’s literature did just that. As a young writer, she was encouraged by one of her professors to leave Antioch College in Yellow Springs, to learn from another instructor at The Ohio State University. The professor there encouraged her to spread her wings and head to New York City. It’s what a writer did back in the 1950s. While there, Virginia’s writing not only flourished, but she also met the love of her life, poet and teacher Arnold Adoff. The couple eventually moved back to Yellow Springs, but the roots of Virginia’s writing deepened after transplanting herself to a new environment.

My little sweet potato vine is also a reflection of my personal journey. For a time, I found myself committing to opportunities that although they were very fulfilling, didn’t seem to reflect my purpose. Eventually, I felt as though I was living a life that was taking me in a direction other than what I felt entirely comfortable with. I was beginning to feel stuck and going through the paces based on others’ expectations.

As life came to a crossroads, a dear friend of mine offered great advice. “Jules, look in a mirror, and ask yourself, what brings you the most joy,” Susan said. Before the conversation was over, I knew the answer to the question. Writing, researching, and sharing inspiring true stories with children is my jam. And, I can do this anywhere.

So, I transplanted myself. Always longing to live along the banks of the Maumee River, my husband and I found the perfect home for us. While I work in my office, I’m inspired by the sights and sounds of nature, from fox stalking the banks, to the screeches and squawks of six juvenile eagles who soar above. New writing opportunities continue to develop and present themselves, and my soul feels at peace. I’m thriving.

Maybe if you’re feeling stuck, if people or circumstances in your life are holding you back, you might want to consider uprooting, physically or emotionally. Try and find the conditions that are just right for you to grow and flourish.

It doesn’t have to be a huge effort, sometimes even the smallest measures make a difference. Take a walk in the sun, dance in the rain. Nurture your soul by calling a friend you haven’t talked to in a while.

Just like my little sweet potato vine, sometimes a little change is good.

 

She was a gift to All

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I had a wonderful time recently sharing the life of Virginia Hamilton, sponsored by Ohio Humanities and hosted by the National Afro American Museum and Cultural Center.

We had over 100 participants who joined me as I walked them through Virginia’s life journey, from her adventures as a little girl growing up in Yellow Springs, Ohio to her college years at Antioch College and The Ohio State University, to her beautiful love story with Arnold Adoff, which began in New York City.

The city proved to be an inspiring start for both Virginia’s writing career as well as Virginia and Arnold’s family life. Virginia’s first novel, Zeely, was written while living in New York, and their two children, Leigh and Jaime were born there.

But the call of home, of extended family, was strong and Virginia and Arnold eventually resettled back in Yellow Springs, on a plot of land carved from her family’s original farm. Virginia and Arnold built their dream home, where they raised their children, all the while creating stories and poetry from their respective workspaces. Virginia’s study was on the main floor, and as she looked out her windows beyond her desk, the 100-year-old hedgerow served as a daily reminder of her history.

Virginia was a natural-born storyteller, influenced by the yarns that swirled around her, spun from the hearts and minds of her elders. Virginia drew upon these stories, to craft her own. Virginia referred to these recollections as her “Rememory” which she defined as “an exquisitely-textured recollection, real or imagined, which is otherwise indescribable.”

Virginia wrote forty-one books in her short lifetime. She won EVERY major award extended to writers of children’s literature. Sadly, she left this world all too soon, after quietly and bravely battling breast cancer for ten years.

Virginia is still revered in the world of children’s literature, and her legacy continues through the annual Virginia Hamilton Conference on Multicultural Literature for Youth held at Kent State University. Virginia’s works live on, in libraries, schools, and private collections around the world.

Now, five of Virginia’s novels for young readers are being re-presented by the Library of America. Virginia Hamilton: Five Novels is to be released on September 14, 2021. You may preorder your copy here.

As a final note, I’d like to thank all of those who subscribed to this blog as a result of my presentation. And, the winner of a copy of Virginia Hamilton: Five Novels is Susie Loik.

Ms. Loik offered these kind words upon being informed of her prize, “Your work to bring Virginia Hamilton’s contributions to light are commended. I am learning so much that I wish had been deemed relevant during my years of formal education. She was a gift to All.”

Virginia was indeed a gift to All.

Anonymous

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“For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” -Virginia Woolf

I discovered this quote while doing research for my latest proposed biography for young readers. My subject, even though she has a significant place in history, is unknown. This woman was the first to serve in her role. This woman stood toe-to-toe with men and held her own. This woman dared to buck the system to accomplish what she believed is right. This woman’s story has never been told.

I hope to change that.

I recently took to Twitter to begin an ongoing campaign to promote women in history. I searched through various online portals, such as “this day in history” and “this day in women’s history.” My campaign ended after three days. The ratio of noted accomplishments by men outranked women’s significantly. It is as if we’ve taken the root word of history literally. HIS story.

I hope to change that.

I’ve been blessed to share the life journeys of three amazing women, who have made their own mark in the world.

For years, no one knew that Carolyn Keene was not the actual writer of the Nancy Drew Mystery Stories. There is no Carolyn Keene. The original author of the teenage sleuth stories was none other than Mildred Wirt Benson. As the very first ghostwriter for the series, Millie was indeed anonymous until her role was made public through a lawsuit. The legal action was filed by the former publisher of the series, Grosset & Dunlap, when the creators of the series, the Stratemeyer Syndicate, made a business decision to contract with Simon & Schuster to publish future Nancy Drew stories. When Millie showed up at the trial in New York City in 1980, Harriet Stratemeyer greeted Millie with a curt, “I thought you were dead.” Nope, very much alive, and no longer anonymous.

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Virginia Hamilton was the most honored author of children’s literature ever. EVER! Virginia was the first African American, male, or female, to receive the Newbery Medal, in 1975 for her groundbreaking novel, M.C. Higgins, The Great. Virginia’s 41 books for younger readers garnered every major award established for authors. Virginia was the first children’s book author to receive the MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, otherwise known as the “Genius Grant.” Her body of work was recognized through the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award and the Hans Christian Andersen Award for Writing. Yet, her books have been buried among the stacks in libraries, her stories rarely shared with today’s young readers.

As a 22-year-old intern with the Miami Herald, sports journalist Christine Brennan made her way through the doors of the locker room of the Minnesota Vikings. It was previously all-male territory, even though a federal judge had ordered TWO years before that female journalists should have equal access to locker rooms. Christine continues to make her mark in the world of sports journalism, often the “go-to” whenever there is controversy or significant news with athletes. Yet, for all the doors that Christine has opened during her years as a sports reporter, a columnist with USA Today, and commentator on ABC News, her story was buried as a lead.

We are on the brink of Women’s History Month. Why just a month when we collectively try and create awareness of amazing female scientists, writers, artists, civil rights activists, educators, and business leaders? Why is there only a month to pull back the curtain on these anonymous makers of history?

Why not make every day a chance to share HER story?

I hope to change that.