A Pear Tree For A Legacy?

More than 30 years ago my Dad transplanted a pear tree in the back yard. He was big on organic gardening, planting trees, bushes, nurturing them to watch them flourish. Ten years after we moved from Hickory Valley, Tennessee, he drove the110 miles back to dig up a fig bush he'd left behind. It now grows near the house in the backyard. The pear tree stands 30 yards away..

Daddy lived long enough to enjoy the figs, but passed away in the summer of 1980, years before the pear tree produced. I remember him fertilizing around it and wondering if his toil was for naught.

In the fall of 2011 during my weekly visit to Mom's, I gathered three large bags of the delicious fruit. Mom also called in friends and neighbors to share in the bounty. Still, innumerable pears hung from the tree and dozens were scattered beneath it.

After gathering the fruit that day, I set the heavy sacks on the table, then turned to my mother and asked,. "Do you think Daddy ever considered he might be leaving a legacy behind when he planted the pear tree? I wonder what he'd say if he knew people from miles around wree coming with baskets to gather his pears."

She shrugged. "I don't know, but it has really produced the fruit this year.

"A gift that keeps on giving," to use the cliche'. My dad was a giver. He would be pleased to know he shared pears with his small community. Who can count the jars of preserves that have been made from that one tree?

This gave me food (or fruit) for thought. Does everyone leave a legacy behind? Whether we know it or not, something we say, or some act of kindness we show to another, could become a legacy. Who knows what kind word or deed will change another's life?

My fifth-grade teacher did not live long enough to learn she'd planted a dream in my heart when she announced to the class, "One day, Laurie will become an author."I never forgot her words, but thought it was an elusive. Even so, I hid them in my heart while I married, worked at a toilsome job, and raised a child. It took a few decades before I acted on her words. But I finally did.

My desire is for the words I write to become my legacy. My prayer is the something I've written will influence and encourage my readers in a positive way. The best compliment I could receive would be to hear a reader say, "Thank you. Your story helped me through a difficult time."

And I am blessed to have already heard those words from readers.
                                                                       ****
An update on the tree: The following year, 2012, was another bumper crop for the pears.  In August, before they ripened, we put Mom in an assisted living home. Nevertheless neighbors and friends were invited to gather the pears when they came in, in October and November..

The mystery to me was, the next year the tree produced nothing. It was as if an unseen hand had watched over the tree throughout the years, providing those pears for Mom and the community. But when Mom went to assisted living, that same hand let the pear tree rest because she no longer needed them.

Survey: How Do You Show Characters' Emotions Thru Facial Expressions and/or Body Language?

Authors, we each possess our own style of describing emotions. I seem to be stuck in a rut, overusing "arched eyebbrows" for surprise, a "furrowed brow" for worry, and "pursed lips" for thinking.

Will you share the facial expressions and body language you use for the emotions below? I believe this list will help us as writers to add depth to our stories. Feel free to add extra emotions I may have overlooked.

Answer all or only what you want to. This list reminds me of the names of The Seven Dwarfs. (Except I have Eight) LOL

How do you portray the following emotions? Let the input begin!

1. Anger

2. Amusement

3. Attraction

4. Fear

5. Joy

6. Pain

7. Peace

8. Sadness

Columbus meets Chief Kookamunga

Probably the two questions I'm most often asked are: "When did you start writing, and who planted the first seeds?"



Some writers may not be able to pinpoint an exact event or pivotal point. Not so with me. It was my fifth grade teacher, Miss Mary, as we students called her. She was my catalyst. Otherwise a shy child, I loved to write book reports and read them to the class. Each ended with a cliffhanger, causing several classmates to get into a scrabble over who would get the book next.



One day after I read a book report on a popular mystery, Miss Mary, smiled broadly and announced, "One day, Laurie will be an author."



Those words stuck somewhere in my my. No one had ever inspired me to become anything. I tucked her words away in the depths of my heart and clung to them through the years.



And though Miss Mary was an encourager, she was a stickler for discipline. One day I discovered this the hard way. She assigned the class to write an essay describing the perils Columbus must have endured on his journey to discover The New World. While the rest of the class groaned over the homework, all sorts of creative ideas spun around in my head. Where should I go with this story? Oh, the possibilities!



I pulled the memory of the essay from the recesses of my mind and filled in the blanks to give you an idea of what my fifth-grade teacher was up against. My version of Columbus's perilous journey went something like this:

Columbus's Catastrophe

Once upon a time there was a man named Christopher Columbus. They called him Chris for short. Chris just knew the world was not flat like a pancake. But how could he prove it was round like a globe? Especially when he couldn't find anybody who would back him, or give him ships and the supplies he needed to cross the Atlantic Ocean, so he could discover the New World.



After traveling to several countries to beg the kings and queens, Queen Isabella of Spain finally gave in. She agreed to give him whatever he needed, but only if he promised to bring her bushel baskets of gold. Chris said he would then loaded the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria with food and water. They couldn't take milk or orange juice since neither electricity or refrigerators had been invented. You see, this was before Thomas Edison was born. And because they didn't have any oranges on board, some of the crew members died from scurvy. That's when you don't have enough Vitamin C in your body. Chris and the others had to toss the dead bodies overboard so they wouldn't stink up the ship.



One night the Nina was destroyed in a raging storm. Waves as high as the Empire State Building struck the ship and tossed it about until it sank. On the morning of October 12, 1492, Columbus Day, a man on deck of one of the other ships spotted sea gulls flying around the ship. Another man saw something green in the distance. He yelled, "Land Ho!" Everyone on board started dancing danced and yelling. The Pinta and Santa Maria soon docked in the bay of the West Indies. (Remember the Nina met her Waterloo in the storm.)



The crew was still whooping and hollering when they docked. The Wakoochie Indians on the island heard the loud commotion and armed themselves with spears, then ran to investigate. Before they reached the shore, Christopher and his men shimmied up coconut, banana and pineapple trees in search of fruit to cure their scurvy. When they reached the treetops, they started shaking them to loosen the fruit. Coconuts, bananas, and pineapples, fell like humongous hailstones, and bounced off the Indians' heads, knocking them to the ground. Some were out cold.
The more fruit that fell, the madder the conscious Indians became, until only six braves were standing. Those six rattled Chris's banana tree until his teeth chattered and he could hang on no longer. His grip slipped and he yelled, "Tim-ber!" before he smacked the ground flat on his back. When he opened his eyes, he looked up into six pair of vicious ones staring down at him. The Indians with red and yellow war paint smeared across their noses grabbed Chris by the arms and yanked him to his feet.



In the meantime, Chris's crew scrambled down from their trees, arms loaded with fruit, and high-tailed it to the ships. With yellow streaks down their backs they pulled up the anchors, hoisted the sails, and yelled, "Ship Ahoy!" Then they pointed the ships toward Spain. A big gust of wind blew them out to sea while a forlorn Chris watched them leave him behind. But he had more pressing problems.



The Wakoochie Indians prodded Chris at spear point toward the village square. One last shove and Chris found himself inside the chief's teepee. Big Chief Kookamunga was a hefty, pot-bellied man. They interrupted him as he finished off a pineapple. The yellow juice dripped from his heavy jowls onto his protruding belly. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Pointing to Columbus, he commanded his natives with one word. "Raka!"



It must have had something to do with fire because the natives found a rope and bound Chris from shoulder to ankle. When the knot was tied, they dragged him to the center of the village and tied him to a stake. A few minutes later while two natives were busy striking flint rocks to start the fire, Chief Kookamunga jostled out of his tee-pee toward them shouting, "Oola! Oola!"



Chris found out it meant, "Wait! I've got a better idea." The chief grunted and pointed to a large cannon a ways down the beach. The Indians pulled Chris from the stake and hauled him to the cannon still bound. They stuffed him inside, feet first and belly down. He struggled and tried protest, but it was no use. They had crammed his mouth full of riped bananas and the ropes were really tight.
The Indians turned the cannon toward the ocean and aimed it up and out. Chief Kookamunga lit the cannon and fired the shot that propelled Chris into the sky like a missile. The other natives stood by and watched him grow smaller with every passing second.



To this day no one knows what happened to Christopher Columbus. We can only guess. So, if on some clear, moonlit night you happen to see a shooting star, stop and salute it, because it might be Christopher Columbus still orbiting the earth. I wonder: Does he knows it's round yet?



By the time I finished reading the essay, the class was in hysterics. The girls giggled and the boys slapped their knees and roared. As I stood proudly, and giggling too, I felt sure I an A+ was coming my way for my rendition of the Columbus story.

Then, a gruff voice behind me spoke. "Laurie!”

I turned to look at Miss Mary. One eyebrow was arched and she was not smiling. I felt the air deflate from my ego before she said, “I want you to re-write that story. And this time, make it more realistic."



My face burned. I thought the story was perfect. And the class loved it. Besides, I wasn't sure of the meaning of "realistic." But that day I reluctantly added it to my vocabulary. Not that I've used it very often since.



Although Miss Mary spurred my imagination in 5^th grade, she also reined it. No know the power of his or her words, how they will affect another. I credit Miss Mary with planting a seed that would one day sprout into a desire to become an author.
Miss Mary has been gone for decades, but her son made an appearance at a book signing for my first release, Journey To Forgiveness.” In his words: “I had to meet the student who dedicated her book to my mother.”

Have you had a similar writing experience? Post a comment and tell me all about it. I'd love to hear from you. We can all learn from each others' experiences.

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On Conquering the "BIG D"

Have you ever noticed how words of wisdom seep through in the first few minutes after you awaken in the morning? Or have you ever awoken from a strange dream, look at the clock and notice the time is around 3 a.m.? Grab a pen and write it down, because dreams and those words you receive upon waking are elusive. Only last week I awoke with these words circulating in my head. "Without The Author, The Quill Runs Dry." Was God trying to tell me something?

I had never given thought to those early minutes in the day until I heard a certain well-known preacher relate his personal story on television. When he visited Jerusalem several years ago, he noted that many Jewish priests and rabbis would gather at the wall very early each morning to pray in their tongue. When he asked a local rabbi about this, the man replied something like this. "It is a Jewish custom. We believe that God speaks to His people during the 4th watch. In the hours between 3 a.m. and 6.am. the heavens open up and God is more accessible. The prayers reach His throne and He pours out His Spirit upon His people."

The preacher went on to say that he had gone through the Bible and found that Jesus was often up during the 4th watch. Examples are the time the disciples spied Him walking on the water and thought He was a ghost. And the night before His arrest, He prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane in the wee hours when the soldiers came for him.

If this is true, then the first part of our day is the most important. So why do we allow distractions to draw us away from our quiet time with God? If we quieten our minds, write down our thoughts upon rising, we will find a sense of peace and a well of ideas for our writing. So...is something fighting against up to prevent that?

Here is a typical morning at my house. My husband is an early riser. He hops out of bed, jumps in the truck and heads to the local coffee clatch. I sleep a little longer. Then I drag myself out of bed, stumble into the kitchen and peek out the window to see if my dogs are okay. Sometimes I walk out on the porch and hug them. I go back inside, pick up my Bible and a couple devotional books, and sit down on the floor. I open to the Psalms to find one about praise and worship. This leads me into prayer. But wait! I forgot to take that supplement that has to be taken 30 minutes before a meal. I get up and swallow it, then notice a spot on the counter and one on the kitchen floor where my hubby's splattered coffee. Why can't he wipe it up? I know he saw it! Who does he think I am...his maid? Oops! My peace of mind has already been stolen.

The dogs bark. I hear motors humming. The sound grows louder as wander to the window to investigate. Tractors with disks attached, are pulling into the surrounding field, stirring up dust. Oh well, I will try this again. I sit down on the floor, pull a devotional book into my lap and read a few lines. The back door flies open. It's hubby. He's fully caffeinated and ready to aggravate. I look up and greet him with "Hi, how are you?" He's in a teasing mood and I'm still groggy. This usually ends with me speaking sharply, and him fleeing to the garage to work on one of his flea market finds.

I close my Bible and devotional. Now I'm remorseful. If I don't clear this up now, the guilt will eat at me and give me writer's block. Or my writing will fall flat. I find him and apologize for my sassy remark, then re-enter the house to get online and clear out a jillion emails.

The back door slams and hubby dashes to his office. "Have you seen my checkbook?"
We spend the next 15 minutes searching for that, only to find he's left it in the truck.

Have you figured out that the "Big D" is DISTRACTION? So how do we overcome it so we can write? Get up earlier? But what if you've burned the midnight oil the previous night...just to make a small dent in that deadline.

I've decided as recent as this Monday, that I will NOT check author loops or emails UNTIL I have spent at least an hour writing or revising my manuscript. So far, so good.

Distraction is a thief. Some of it is controllable. Some is not. Life is full of surprises. But, if we take charge of the things that we can control...set schedules, timelines, that will free us up to enjoy the people and things that should take priority in our lives.

Does this make any sense? Or is it just another one of MY distractions?